#what am i at this point. some sort of homophobia detective? | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

mamacesawrites · 3 years ago

Text

The Duke of the Bay: Part 8

[Spotify Playlist] [Youtube Playlist]

First Part, Ao3 Link, Next Part (Coming Soon)

Story Warnings: Guns, threats, alcohol, violence homosexual slang used pejoratively and positively, internalized homophobia, ask me to add any if need be

Chapter Warnings: This is a heavy chapter. Violence is only implied, but the implications have a heavy impact. Read with caution.

Chapter Word Count: 3839

Summary: Patton O’Hearty was a great detective. Most people didn’t take him for one at first glance, especially when he dressed casual. He was abnormally chipper; he thought everything was the cat’s pajamas. He had a smile for everyone he met. He was always tipping his hat at the dames and gents when he walked the streets of the Bay Area.

The only person he could never catch was the leader of the planted mob in Emeryville, nicknamed The Duke. The Duke was good at hiding his dealings and joints well, and he rarely had a snitch in his ranks. The few who tried, well, somehow they disappeared before they could give the police any substantial information. He was well hidden, but popular among the residents of the town. People talked boldly of his rambunctious parties, never revealing the locations though. He was hard to catch, to say the least.

So what happens, when instead, the detective is the one that’s caught?

The dawn came as it always did- a soft gray and orange haze streaking in with the marine layer over the water of the San Francisco Bay. Roman de Rossi had a lovely view of it from his family mansion on San Pablo Avenue. A mansion that felt too big lately, with too high of a price to keep.

Roman rolled over to get out of bed when he bumped into something hard and stiff. His heart skipped a beat when he heard his wife cry out.

“Jeeze, Ro, trying to be the first at the breakfast table again?” Rosalie’s voice was gruff. She rubbed the spot on her back where Roman had bumped. “I already got one slugger goin’ for my kidneys.”

Roman rolled his eyes, though he was relieved he hadn’t hurt Rosalie. “Rose, why aren’t you in your bed?”

“Because I needed the warmth and comfort of my husband.” she mumbled sarcastically into her pillow, already on her way back to sleep.

All exhausted bitterness left him at the sound of her snores. At the beginning of their marriage it had been incredibly overbearing for him-to the point they shared separate beds- but with the rising threat of the gangs, he never knew when he’d see the last of his wife. After yesterday, there wasn’t even a certainty that he’d make it to see the birth of his twins.

Carefully, with a hesitation that seemed to become all-too-familiar, he rested his hand on Rosalie’s belly that was under his blanket. Rosalie hummed in response, but kept her eyes closed still. Roman tried to feel for any movement from the twins, but they didn’t. He tried to think that it was because they were also sleeping. It had nothing to do with the fact that every time he tried to feel for their movement he would get nothing. He ignored the tightness in his throat, he disregarded the burning tears, and prayed to God silently that he would make it through this trying time long enough to at least hold his children once.

The thought was an unwelcome intrusion since that fateful telegram from the Duke’s right hand man two months before. Shoving the bitter memory of that message aside, he got himself ready in the dark with a swiftness, already wanting the day to be done. He couldn’t tell whether his need to stay home was due to his anxieties of being a father, his weariness of having more caseloads of rising crime, or his paranoia about criminal eyes spying on him. He watched his large wife turn about in her sleep as he dressed; she was unable to find a comfortable position. He couldn't blame her. Something he wished he’d have considered before the pregnancy was getting a large family bed so they could share it. Even if she snored like a boozed up bear.

A lock of her thick black hair fell out of it’s wrap and was caught in the light from the hallway behind him. Her lips were pushed out in a half pout, half pucker. The gown she was wearing was a large blue cotton dress with flowing sleeves. Her eyes were closed, not restful, but crinkled under her worried brows. Her face had gotten wider in her pregnancy. Her cheeks were flushed with red with elevated temperature from the warm room. She moved her hand to hold under her head as she laid on her side, facing Roman and the door.

She was beautiful, and Roman took this moment to appreciate her beauty, for he didn't know if this was the last time he would see her. He’d never know from now on.

"I can feel ya starin', darling husband," her teasing tone was muffled by the pillow and her sleepiness. "Get to work so I can sleep."

He quietly leaned over her, just as he always did, and kissed her.

He’d never know that his tired wife had noticed the despair in the extra moments their lips were met.

“Send for someone right away if anything happens, alright dear?” he asked while brushing a stray curl aside.

“Sure thing honey…”

His walk to work was dim in the early morning as the fog was thick as wool. The only light guiding his way was a soft orange desperately clinging to the lampposts. The fog was dense with the promise of the coming autumn season for next month. It wasn’t smart of him to have left so early. There was no one on the street. No vagrants, no Jezebels, and no wayward orphans. Just him, the mist, and the sound of his shoes on moist stones. Still, just because he couldn't see anyone, it didn't mean that he didn't feel like he was being watched with eyes capable of seeing through all sorts of darkness.

It was soon enough in his hurry that he made it to the precinct. He ran his hand through his somewhat damp hair as he took his hat off at the entrance. He was early, earlier than normal, and the shift-changing deputies milling about by the entrance desk stood up straighter when they saw him.

“Hey, Cap’n. How’s the missus? Ready to burst just yet?” the old man at the desk asked. His name was Reggie, and if you called him a secretary you’d get a busted lip. He was the nicest-and oldest- member of the force.

“Oh, she’s fine. Doc says it’s gonna be any day now ‘til they’re here. I think she’s more excited than I am for it to be over. She’s been complaining about her feet being so swollen she can barely stand,” Roman laughed. The use of the word ‘complain’ was only polite. Rosalie’s ‘complaints’ about her pregnancy would make sailors blush.

Reggie guffawed. “Yeah, I remember when Ethel had her first. She was cursing so bad near the end you’d think she was a drunken sailor in a brig!”

“Women have a way with words, don’t they Reg?” Roman commented as he made his way around the desk. He wasn’t really waiting for an answer as he kept walking away.

Reggie must have been in a nice mood, since he didn’t point out the Captain’s distracted behavior as he walked off. Roman appreciated that. He was already in deep enough trouble with his reputation as a younger force captain.

Roman was grateful that he was going to be able to take some leave soon. He didn’t like being away from his pregnant wife all day. Especially now, with everything so changed. He sat down in his rolling chair with the force of a thousand anvils. He opened the folder on his desk, knowing there’d be no change in it since the last time he filled it a month ago with the ‘tip’ Logan and Patton got.

Case Number: 103625 - Open - “The Duke”

He sighed to himself as a heavy headache formed behind his eyes. It was a new day, which meant new trouble, which meant he seriously needed some coffee. He reached for his announcer when-

“Captain, there’s a visitor here for ya.” A fresh faced rookie announced while walking into the office. His voice was a bit too anxious-to-please for the captain’s liking in the morning .

Roman’s voice imitated distant thunder - a warning, a looming threat - “Haven’t you heard of knocking, boy?”

The young man was smart enough to appear embarrassed. “I apologize, sir.” He stood at attention as he had been trained to do. His badge gleamed in the light of the office as his chest puffed out.

Roman felt guilty for snapping at him. He didn’t want to be an angry, bitter leader, like his predecessor. Or like his father had been. Those old men were so hardened by stress that they felt no regard for those beneath them. He refused to be that way, no matter what. So he forced his body to relax as he imagined the darkness in his heart being swept under the new rug of his office.

“I understand. I was a rookie like you once upon a time. What seems to be the trouble?” Roman forced a smile on his face, as though it was drying cement to keep in place.

“You’ve got a guy saying he’s here for a meeting, a...Mr. Doris? Fella has a scar right here on his face." The officer took his finger and motioned on his face as an indicator of his description. Obviously the young man’s mind was wandering to stories about the nastiest criminals known to man.

Roman nodded, cleared his throat, then told him, "Bring him in."

The young officer disappeared, and in one breath the enemy had walked through the office door as if he owned the place. Roman sighed in defeat. It wasn’t ‘as if’ he owned the place, it was that he practically did. Especially now that the detectives weren’t ever going to ‘catch’ the bad guys like they should have ages ago.

“What brings you in so early, Mr. Doris?” Roman asked. He stood up, smoothed down his tie, and held his hand out to shake his visitor’s gloved hand.

The visitor smirked. “I like the new you, Roman. Straight to the punch without any frivolous small talk. Such a change from the last time we had spoken.”

The memory sat between them. A smoked out room, sweaty foreheads, two guns between two young men, a kiss- a stalemate.

Roman gulped down the anxious sensation and forced himself to speak. “Well, I haven’t had any coffee yet, so I’m not feeling patient enough for chit chat.”

Mr. Doris’ laughter sent chills down Roman’s spine. His voice was dry and raspy, like a lizard. “I see. Well, the good news is that your two lead detectives are good at their jobs.” He slammed his fist down onto the desk as his eyes peered into Roman’s. “The bad news is, they’re so good at their job, even you don’t control them anymore.”

“That’s not true!” Roman exploded. The force of his anger pushed him out of his seat so he was practically nose to nose with his guest. “I just suspended Logan Smith for admitting he’s working with one of your men! Detective O’Hearty is too personable to be focused on investigating your precious boss! Hell, he’s probably going to be too busy sidetracked into chasing wild geese from that stunt Logan pulled. And another thing-”

“That’s enough, Roman.” Mr. Doris covered Roman’s mouth with one of his gloved hands. “You’ve told me all I needed to know.”

It’s too easy to play you, dear Roman, Doris thought to himself. I knew something was up with Virgil Vitale. He couldn’t keep the grin off of his face at the thought of finally teaching the little punk a lesson.

Roman shook the hand off of his mouth. His breath was shaky. “What do you mean?”

“Oh, I won’t tell you, dear,” Mr. Doris hummed. He walked to the doorway without any explanation. It was time to take business into his own hands after all. No more time to waste. “I’ve gotta run. Say hi to the missus for me.” He looked over his shoulder to make sure the unspoken threat hit its target.

Roman was left standing in that position. His hands wouldn’t stop shaking. His hair laid out of control around his face, his heart pounding, and the sense of impending doom- as if he just sentenced an innocent man to death.

----------

Alice woke up to the sound of the radio downstairs playing some German concerto. It was a slow morning for once. She hummed to herself, pleased that she was able to wake up slowly to beautiful music as opposed to the sound of harsh knocking at her door. Yet as she turned over in bed her peace was interrupted by the brightness of the sun shining through the window. She groaned at the disruption to her dreamy haze.

Alice hefted herself out of the large bed and made herself to the large vanity-much nicer than the one at her apartment- and started working on her hair. Once she was done making sure she looked presentable she made her way down the grand staircase to meet Logan wherever he was at. Which, knowing how large the house was, meant that it could be a proper while before she would find him.

The smell of sizzled meat wafted through the large hallways. Instead of looking for Logan, she decided to make her way towards the dining room from the night before. It’s rude to check in and hover over a cook’s shoulder, she reckoned. No matter how curious it was to her that Logan didn’t have any help at all.

The moment she sat down she heard the door from the kitchen open. Logan was pushing a dining cart forward on his own. He had a white rag placed over his shoulder and a stained white apron tied around his waist. He was whistling an unfamiliar tune to himself as he set out the platters in front of Alice. She couldn’t help but laugh. She was enjoying this bright version of the detective.

“What’s the occasion, detective?” Alice asked once he sat down with her.

Logan struggled to hide a sheepish grin, “It’s just been a long while since I’ve had any sort of company over. I don’t get to go out much with my line of work.”

“Aw, didn’t wanna bring any wayward souls home for Christmas?” she teased.

Logan rolled his eyes at her. It was good that he was loosening up around her humor. Alice wondered if she could get away with cursing around him yet, but decided not to push her luck, given that they had a long day ahead of them.

“It’s gotta be more than me, come on.” Alice waggled her eyebrows at him. “What’s with the shift in the wind?”

Logan ignored her prompts. Instead, he lowered his head. Alice rushed to set her fork down so she could follow suit.

“Father God, I ask that you bless this food and those who consume it. We thank you for providing for us. We ask for you to sustain our spirits as well as our bodies. I ask that you help us in all of our endeavors today, and I thank you for bringing me someone to share this meal with. Thank you for providing me such youthful company. Amen.”

“Amen.” Alice echoed. She tried to keep her questions to herself. Logan’s prayer wasn’t one she had ever heard before.

Alice lifted the cover to reveal her breakfast. There was sausage, eggs, and toast with powdered sugar. It smelled amazing.

“Thank you, Logan, this looks delicious.” She immediately went for the eggs. It had been so long since she’d had eggs for breakfast. Not since she left her farm home nearly two years ago.

They sat at the table with only the sounds of the radio in the living room occasionally drifting in through the doors. Alice was enjoying her meal so much, she jumped when she heard the fancy telephone in the hallway ringing.

“Excuse me, Alice.” Logan muttered. He wiped his hands on his apron and swiftly walked on his long legs to the hallway.

It was irritating, being called in the morning. Especially when his meal was being interrupted. He lifted the earpiece off of the ringing box and greeted the operator quickly. Who would be calling him now that he’s suspended?

“Logan? Is this Logan Smith?” a partially familiar feminine voice asked over the receiver.

“Yes. Who is this?”

Her words were spoken in rushes with pauses sounding like heavy breathing. “It’s Rosalie...Rosalie de Rossi.-” she took in a deep breath ”-I’m your captain’s wife!” After that she let out a bone-chilling moan.

The captain’s wife? He had only met her once at the Independence Day party at the Captain’s new mansion. Why was she calling someone like him?

The woman on the line hissed. “God fucking dammit! It hurts!”

“What hurts? What’s wrong? Where are you?” Logan threw his questions at her quickly as he reached for his notepad.

“My my,” a slick, whiskey smooth, masculine voice answered. He tutted. “Not very clever, Detective Smith.”

“Where is Mrs. de Rossi?” Logan asked. He felt as if the air around him was heavier. There was a weight settling into his chest. He ignored the familiar sensations and made a note that someone else had taken the line.

“She’s still alive. And she will stay that way, if you do everything I ask.” The man’s words were drawn out. Almost as if he were bored, or stalling.

“What do you want?” Logan hissed. The million questions he had were shoved aside when the man answered.

“I want your lover, Detective. Bring that filthy, grimy, Italian punk to the fisherman’s market in San Francisco after dark. Or I’ll just have to do something to your boss’ beautiful broodmare.” The voice chuckled at his sick comment.

This man was evil. The most evil he'd ever come across. Logan felt like he was going to topple over. “What makes you think I’ll come alone? That I won’t go straight to the captain?”

Laughter as dark as water at midnight bled through the receiver. “Oh Mr. Smith, that’s what I want. Give me a reason to pluck those sweet babies out of his missus.”

Logan heard a scream in the background. A string of curse words that he didn’t doubt were justified.

“Please don’t hurt her. Be reasonable. Why did you call me? I’m on suspension, I don’t have access to the resources-”

“Because your lover's family declared war, my boy!” the man roared. Logan identified his accent-Irish, or Scottish perhaps. “I’m going to get what I need outta him. So lock your brunette bitch away, grab your buddy and your faggot, and get your ass to my docks when the sun sets. Or-” another blood curdling scream from the woman in the background “-the captain’s dear wife and her babies drown.”

Just like that, the phone call ended. Logan didn’t have time to stand in the shock. Instinctive training responses immediately took over his body. He didn’t go back to the dining room and instead ran to get himself dressed. No other thoughts intruded. His head was empty of everything other than the fact that he needed backup.

He needed Patton. He needed to gather his resources. It was still nine in the morning. He had maybe eight hours before it was sunset, then two hours to cross the bay into San Francisco to the fisherman’s market. His mind was fixated on trying to create the quickest itinerary possible and how to notify the captain without the mysterious caller knowing. He seemed to know much more than Logan was comfortable with.

Logan was tying his shoes as he thought. He hadn’t told anyone about the night with Virgil. No one knew. He figured Alice may have suspected, but she hadn’t been able to talk to anyone. Not that she would. She was just a kid. She was just caught up in all of this business out of desperation and survival. Alice was just a pawn in a twisted game. She wasn’t a main player.

Patton was too wrapped up in his obsession with the Duke to even notice. Still, he was very angry towards Logan now that he knew Virgil was involved. Who knows what the captain and Patton talked about after Logan was dismissed. He remembered the knowing look at the Lion’s Den last month. His partner said then that he accepted everybody. Could he have been saying that to blend in?

Then there was the fact that this was the captain’s wife. Why kidnap her to get to Logan? He didn’t know the woman at all, only that the captain loved her very much. She was pregnant when they had met, and from the sound of the call she still was.

“Logan, where are you going?” Alice asked from the doorway of his bedroom.

“There’s an emergency. I need to go.” He pushed himself past her and rushed down the staircase. “Please stay here. Don’t leave.”

“Will Virgil be back to nanny me again?” she asked indignantly.

The question struck him through the heart. He couldn’t leave her unattended. She was defenseless here. The Duke's men could come looking for her. No doubt one of them was behind this in the first place as a way to distract them.

“No. No, I-” he turned to her. “There’s trouble. I need to move you somewhere safer. You can’t be alone.”

Alice’s face seemed to grow ten years older. “I understand. Let’s go.”

They both grabbed their hats from the hook and walked out the door. Logan made his way to his car without another word. Alice felt in her gut that they were running into something more dangerous than she had ever known.

“Where are we going?” Alice asked after climbing into the carriage seat. Logan saw that she had withdrawn into herself. The silly child that he was starting to get introduced to had left her body.

“To Patton’s. I don’t think he’ll have left yet. We need his help.” Logan pulled out onto the street. “I’ll tell you on the way.”

Before the pair had shown up to Patton’s house, he had just drank his coffee. He didn’t need to go into the station today. All of his caseloads were closed except for one. Today was a day of regrouping and hitting the pavement. It was time for some good old fashioned talking to people again. The best way to find someone was to ask their friends or neighbors politely. Give them a smile and such.

He took his time getting ready. Trying to find the man that he used to be before this craziness started. The man who was able to walk down the street with faith in his heart. The detective who could solve everything with the right words someone needed to hear. That man was nowhere to be found as he pulled clothes from his closet.

It was a new day. He knew he would make progress today. No one was going to get the drop on him again.

When he sat down in his armchair his eye was caught on something on the end table. A piece of paper that didn’t seem to be from any of his notepads. It wasn’t there when he had gone to bed the night before.

A familiar delicious thrill rushed through his body. Part of him thought to call on the locksmith soon, though it might not do much good. Carefully, as if the note were an explosive and not a simple message, he lifted the paper.

It was no simple message.

You’re in danger, dear detective. There are worse evils than I. Don’t do what your colleague asks. Come to me at the Lion’s Den instead. -The Duke

Before he had time to react, there was rapid knocking at his door.

A/N:

Hello there! It's been nearly a year. There's a reason for that.

I work very, very hard when it comes to my stories. This one has a very important place in my heart. I had to take a break from it because the last thing I wanted to do was make rush decisions or half-ass everything.

In doing so, it meant that I had to wait until I had the time to give it the attention it deserves. I recently had a lot of my life change this past year, mostly losing loved ones. So this fic didn't get much of it's deserved time at once.

That being said, I swear this has a direction. While a lot of it is up to interpretation, this has a very direct sequence of events. That's why it's important for me to be able to pay extra attention.

That being said, I'm making a new normal. This fic goal is to be updated every 3 months, maybe less. My practice is to edit 3 times at least before I post.

Let me know what you thought of this chapter. Tell me your theories about what will happen next! I love talking about this story with anyone who will listen.

taglist: @deceits-left-glove

let me know if you want to be on the taglist for this or any other ship/story

check my pinned tumblr post for more of my work

22 notes · View notes

inevitably-johnlocked · 4 years ago

Note

I'm sorry if you already have a rec list for this but Tumblr sucks and I can't find anything so: do you have fics about their first time together? bonus if they're longer, and I'd love some good smut even if you don't get around to posting this I wanna say thank you for all the work you do, I wish every fandom had a you, you're a treasure! sending love from Italy xx

Hi Lovely from Italia!! :D <3 I’ve always wanted to go there, hee hee!

Ah, thank you for your lovely comments!! I am so happy you enjoy your time here! <3

Super excited because your ask gives me an excuse to clean out my First Kiss/Time List collection again with a Pt. 3 list! <3 I’m using any excuse right now because I’m SO FAR behind on Pt 1 lists so if I have a nice backlog I’m not as stressed hee hee.

ANYWAY, as per usual, my Lovelies, please add your own here!! <3

(NOTE to the Nonny who asked for “First Kiss”: wanted to post this list first, yours is coming soon!)

FIRST TIME Pt. 3

See also:

First Time || [MOBILE]

First Time Pt. 2

Virgin Sherlock

Virgin Sherlock Pt. 2

There's So Much Labour Just in Breathing Lately by Susan (E, 12,708 w., 1 Ch. || Post-TRF / Mentions of S3 Events, Romance, Angst, Grief/Mourning, Grieving John, Mutual Pining, Meddling Mycroft, Therapy, Ambiguous Hopeful Ending, Infidelity) – The dreams he hated most – the ones that left him a sweating, shaking mess when he woke – were the ones in which Sherlock was just Sherlock. Laughing or drinking tea. Sitting across the table from him at Angelo’s eating pasta. Trailing his open hand behind him on the way to the bedroom. “C’mon, John. I’m about to have my way with you.”

The Invocation of Saint Margaret by Ewebie (E, 15,831 w., 1 Ch. || POV John, Crossing Timelines, Light Angst, Fluff, Series 3 John / Series 1 Sherlock, The Matchbox, Mushy Romance, First Time, Bisexual John, Pining John, Bottomlock, Love Confessions, Sensuality, Emotional Love Making, Snippets of Time) – When Sherlock Holmes opens the matchbox from The Sign of Three and John finds himself years in the past, back to that first dinner at Angelo's with a much younger Sherlock Holmes. Is he dreaming?

Division by MrsNoggin (E, 19,542 w., 11 Ch. || Coffee Shop AU || First Kiss/Time, Fluff, Barista Sherlock, Clingy Sherlock, POV John, John’s Limp, Bed Sharing, Fluff, Sleepy Cuddles, Sensuality, Touching, Virgin Sherlock, Insecure John) – John likes mysteries. And every morning he dips into the local independent coffee bar with his newspaper and ponders another... one Sherlock Holmes.

Insanity in the Middle by DotyTakeThisDown (E, 28,010 w., 8 Ch. || Equestrian Sports AU || Alternate First Meeting, POV John, Pining John, Bottomlock, Clueless Sherlock, First Kiss/Time, Passionate Kisses, Hand Holding, Caught Making Out, Bed Sharing, Spooning, Blow Job) – John is a world-class eventing rider with a gold medal and several four-star wins to his credit, but he's never won at Rolex. Sherlock is an up-and-coming rider taking the sport by storm.

A Goose Quill Dipped in Venom by Polyphony (M, 52,748 w., 16 Ch. || Celebrity John AU || Alternate First Meeting, TV Host John, Supermodel Mary, Character Death, Mystery, Romance, Case Fic, First Kiss/Time, Meddling Mycroft, Drug Abuse, Doctor John, PDA, Deductions, POV Sherlock, Toplock, Sexual Tension, Angry/Rough Sex, Hopeful Ending, Asperger’s Sherlock) – Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective, is called in to a very ordinary although brutal murder. Something is badly out of tune with the whole scenario and Sherlock finds himself becoming more and more obsessed with the crime - and also with the victim.

Isosceles by SilentAuror (E, 56,609 w., 7 Ch. || Post-S4, POV John, Original Male Character / Sherlock Dates Another Man, Love Triangle, Jealous John, Virgin Sherlock, Sexual Coaching, Angst, Romance, Domesticity, Unrequited Feelings, Miscommunication, First Kiss/Time, For a Case, Friends With Benefits, Bottomlock, Love Confessions, Spooning) – After solving a case for a major celebrity, Sherlock gets himself asked out. When John asks, he discovers that Sherlock has no intention of going, at least not until John agrees to coach him through whatever he might need to know for his date...

Lunar Landscapes by J_Baillier (M, 57,046 w., 21 Ch. || PODFIC AVAILABLE || S3/TAB Fix-It, Slow Burn Angst, Drama, Hurt/Comfort, Confessions, Drugs, Pain, Medical, Injury, Sherlock Whump, Mental Health Issues, Panic Attacks, Romance, Secrets, Tragedy, Trauma, BAMF John, Doctor!John, Drug Addict Sherlock, Injured Sherlock, Grieving John, Idiots In Love, Protective John, POV John Watson, PTSD Sherlock, Sherlock is a Mess, Medical Realism) – An accident forces John to face the fact that Sherlock's downward spiral had started long before his flight to exile even left the tarmac.

Gold Rush by ShirleyCarlton (E, 71,783 w., 17 Ch. || Post S3 / No Mary, Friends to Lovers, Mentions of Past Sexual Abuse, First Kiss, Case Fic, Slow Burn, Alternating POV, Switchlock, Angst with Happy Ending, Marriage Proposal, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Abduction, Anxious/Insecure Sherlock, Miscommunication, Emotional Lovemaking) – John has divorced Mary and pops round to 221B one evening to find Sherlock in the middle of a case. As Sherlock tries to find the identity of a young woman’s stalker, John realises he can no longer deny his feelings for Sherlock – which then, to their befuddlement, turn out to be mutual. Shy kisses and tentative embraces ensue. But will Sherlock be able to cast off a shadow from his past that he thinks might prevent John from wanting to stay?

Kintsukuroi by sussexbound (E, 91,823 w., 20 Ch. || S4 Compliant / Post-TLD, Grief / Mourning, PTSD, Internalized Homophobia, Therapy, Past Abuse, Alcohol Abuse, Nightmares, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Depression, Anxiety, Bed Sharing, Love Confessions, Cuddling, Suicidal Ideation, Masturbation, Minor Character Death, Sexting, Frottage, Inexperienced Sherlock, Rimming / Anal / BJ’s, Emotional Turmoil, Finding Each Other) – “I love you.” Sherlock sees the words hit John with almost physical force. He reels back a little, jaw twitching and eyes filling. “I love you,” he repeats, a little softer, a little more gentle, as earnest as he possibly can. Because they’ve been teetering on the brink of this thing for years, and it had become painfully obvious over the last few months that they were at a tipping point. This had to happen. Now it has. Now they can see where they end up. The tears in John’s eyes spill over, and he wipes at them angrily. “Do you even know what that means?”

Against the Rest of the World by SilentAuror (E, 151,714 w., 20 Ch. || PODFIC AVAILABLE || Post-TRF, Hiatus Fic, POV First Person Sherlock, Present Tense, First Kiss/Time, Big Brother Mycroft, Escaping from Capture, Soft Sherlock, Toplock, Insecurity, Infidelity, Travelling, Introspection, Pining Sherlock, Depression, Fantasies, Yearning for the Past, PTSD Sherlock, Suicidal Ideation) – Sherlock has been away from London for nine hundred and twelve days and counting, and has no idea what sort of reception to expect when he finally returns.

#steph replies #johnlock fic recs #my fic recs #e-rated fics #first times #Anonymous

84 notes · View notes

ultfreakme · 4 years ago

Text

Akashi’s horribly portrayed DID

KNB is a good show for the most part, but the overt homophobia by one of the main cast, the caricaturized representation of black people and the horrible, horrible portrayal of mental illness, very specifically Akashi’s condition, is just- No. That’s all I can say; No.

I want to ensure fic writers do not follow in those footsteps and hopefully do better than Tadatoshi(the bar is in hell).

Disclaimer: I am not an expert in Dissociative Identity Disorder, I am not diagnosed with it, neither do I have any friends diagnosed with DID and it’s pretty much consensus that anyone without DID will never be able to get it right without extensive research and actually talking to people with DID. But I do want some semblance of accuracy and want to motivate people to research so I’m writing this. Also it’s about a 99% guarantee that all of us will get the portrayal absolutely wrong unless we do some intense research and retcon some canon stuff.

Now, let’s start with everything KNB got wrong about DID, or fell into stereotypes to describe it.

1. The Eye Colour changing thing

Yes KNB is unrealistic as fuck about basketball with streaks of lightning come out of people’s eyes but Akashi’s eye colour changing is actually a portrayal of a huge stereotype/myth about people with DID. Eye colours do not change fr for people with DID.

2. Akashi Emperor Eye ‘powers’

Emperor Eye borders on supernatural as a skill, honestly all of Akashi is portrayed more like a supernatural entity than a high school boy. Emperor Eye falls into the “Alters/parts have superpowers” stereotype. They don’t, but I guess it’s a little dismissable because all of GoM have ridiculous supernatural b-ball skills. If you are writing Emperor Eye, please write it the way you write Kise’s copies or Midorima’s 3-pointers, it’s just another skill and not a side effect or rooted in Akashi’s DID.

3. Alters are not violent

This one sucks because Akashi’s introductory scene is him trying to stab Kagami. Alters are not predisposed to violence or inherently violent. Alters have reasons for their actions. They don’t just go around threatening people and being imposing to strangers. If, IF you want to show this, make it have purpose and give it real good cause.

4. Alters are not ‘other selves’

Alters/parts of individuals with DID are note different versions of the ‘original’(inaccurate term btw). They are whole people by themselves. Write alters like you do regular people. They have their own likes, dislikes, hobbies, preferences. They also have different sexualities, gender, etc.

5. It is almost impossible for people to detect that a person has DID

Most likely you will never be able to tell if something is wrong with a person with DID, especially that they have HAVE DID. The disorder develops as a way for individuals to make it through life more easily so if the disorder is causing lots of trouble with living, then it defeats the purpose. People will notice that something is off about the person, but they won’t ever be able to tell what’s up.

Added to that; switches are mostly never dramatic, you won’t be able to tell when it’s happening. You’d probably barely notice it as an outsider.

6. DID development

It happens with repeated and consistent trauma during childhood and develops around 4-9 years of age. Any older than that and it is probably not DID. So Akashi must have had this disorder even before middle school and it went undiagnosed(in canon it’s still pretty much undiagnosed). We know Akashi grew up in a very harsh environment with his dad constantly expecting perfection, so it makes sense. But falling behind in b-ball was probably not what....’started’ it. Midorima does note there was something up with Akashi even before, There’s no...set point of time where there’s a dormancy and there isn’t. DID just exists. The match Murasakibara might have acted as a trigger but it wasn’t the only thing.

I think I touched upon the major points?

The biggest problem with Akashi’s DID when writing for it in fics is that we never ever get a concrete label for it. It doesn’t fall into DDNOS but it isn’t exactly DID either so we have to work with what we have. One thing that we all probably need to address is that we should stop calling Akashi-gold-eyes as the ‘other self’ or ‘other Akashi’ because alters generally have different names or identities. They can be very similar to the host’s name but from what I’ve seen, they’ve never shared a name.

Bokushi and Oreshi doesn’t work as different names because that’d be like calling someone named, let’s say ‘Oscar’, as I-scar and Me-scar.

(I tried to give them more distinct identities by giving who the fandom calls ‘Bokushi’ the name Seiichi but idk, I’m just trying here and it’s difficult to portray this disorder.)

One thing that was sort of gotten close to correct was Oreshi referring to Bokushi as his brother.

Another important thing is people can't just switch on request. There's minimal control over who fronts.

One advice I do my best to stand by when writing Bokushi is I write him as if he were a different person. Write Bokushi the way you write Kuroko, Kagami, any of the GOM, etc.

Do not take just this as anything useful but use this as a starting point to learn about DID so we could all just do a little better. Here’s someone who has DID with a channel dedicated to educating people: They are DissociaDID and they are so freaking informative but also calming and genuinely entertaining to watch.

https://www.youtube.com/channel/UC6kFD5xIFvWyLlytv5pTR1w

Let’s all try to do better.

Update: Someone in our fandom did do a comprehensive run down of Akashi’s DID: Links’s here: https://akashi-obsessed.tumblr.com/post/173473977394/an-analysis-on-akashi-seijurrou

#knb #kuroko no basuke #akashi #akashi seijuurou #knb akashi #I might do something longer and more elaborate in the future based on what I've learnt because this only touches the iceberg

26 notes · View notes

blazingstar29 · 4 years ago

Text

No Room For Ghosts

Trigger warning for child abuse, self harm, homophobia

“My father died this morning,” he whispered but Sherlock heard it. He heard it very clearly and looked up.

John's abusive father dies opening the flood gates to some long forgotten trauma

-----------------------------------------------------------

John walked silently up the stairs without meaning to. Usually his heavy military walk announced his presence wherever he went but today he was too numb to do much more than shuffle.

Sherlock was lounging in his chair, in his hands was a note left by the killer in Lestrade’s pigeon hole at the yard. Somehow the killer had got in and left the Yard without being seen by man or computer. He didn’t notice John lingering absently in the doorway for quite some time. Then the floor creaked and it was like Sherlock remembered he was there.

“John you’ve been there for a while, what do you want?” He said vacantly. John broke from his trance and stepped in the room, gravitating towards his arm chair and sinking heavily.

The silence continued, stretching and sickening. John couldn’t stand it, so he broke it.

“My father died this morning,” he whispered but Sherlock heard it. He heard it very clearly and looked up.

“I, John, I’m very sorry for your loss. I can’t imagine how you feel,” he said sincerely. John couldn’t help it, he laughed.

He laughed loud and hard, but it was stiff with emotion.

“I don’t understand, John?” Sherlock leaned forward to settle on one knee next to John, resting a hand on John’s forearm.

“Nor do I. Sherlock, I’m, I’m glad he’s dead. I’m so fucking happy he’s gone, he’s...he’s,” John started crying and his breathing disrupted as he wheezed.

“He’s oh god he’s, I’m terrible. I shouldn't.”

John was working himself up into a mess. Sherlock didn’t comprehend it, usually people were deeply upset when their parents had died.John was in obvious conflict about his emotions.

“John, I need you to talk to me, what’s wrong,” he tried again to get through to the doctor.

“It’s me, I’m what's wrong,” John cried out. “My father is dead and I couldn’t be happier.”

Sherlock frowned, “there’s some plausible explanation for this. Some sort of trauma…”

Then John slid to the floor and sunk against Sherlock, loudly and violently sobbing. He clung to Sherlock which the detective hesitantly returned and after a moment his grip firmed supporting John.

“John please talk to me,” Sherlock whispered desperately. John was lax against his body and still crying heavily but the horrific sobbing had stopped. John couldn’t find it in him to care; he was essentially curled up against Sherlock’s knee, his head resting on the man’s thigh.

And neither did Sherlock.

“He kicked Harry out when she was seventeen. She came home with Clara one day and said she was in love with her. I knew, I knew she was gay. Had for a long time. It’s when it all started to go to shit y’know?” John whispered, his voice croaky. “He was always yelling and breaking things, yelling at mum and me an’ Harry. But it was the straw that broke the camel's back.”

John’s desperate wheezing had reduced to sniffles now. Sherlock had laid back and John’ head had gravitated to rest on his stomach. Without realising it Sherlock was carding his fingers through John’s hair.

“I um. When he told Harry to leave I swung at him,” John tilted his head and pulled up the hair at the base of his skull. It revealed a thick white scar, “Got that for my troubles but it got Harry time. Got Harry and mum both time to grab what they needed. Me and dad were on the floor hitting each other with whatever we had. Then they were gone, I saw Harry at school. She was thriving, checked on me but didn’t...”

“But she didn’t see what was happening. You couldn’t tell her because she’d come back,” Sherlock said. It wasn’t the way he normally said his deductions, it was quiet and passive, not trying to prove a point.

“Yeah. I never told him I was bisexual. I’d be dead. He chased my family away, I was fourteen. I wanted to die. But Harry got to live, I think she would have died had she stayed. One way or another she would have. As soon as I could I left. No way I could afford medical school, so I joined the army.”

John sat up to look at Sherlock with watery brown eyes, “am I wrong? Is it wrong?”

“What is?”

“That I’m glad he’s dead, I’m not going to the funeral. I don’t think there will be one.”

Sherlock sighed, sorrow filling his usually bored eyes, “no John. You owe that man nothing. You surrendered yourself to be the sole target of his anger. You did an honourable thing. You owe him nothing.”

Without thinking Sherlock had to know the answer to something, so he tenderly reached for John’s arms and pulled down the sleeve of his jumper of his right arm. It was clean. With the apology on Sherlock’s lips but John pulled the collar of his jumper down over his upper arm and shoulder.

Straight white lines, over and over and over.

There were five pink cuts, scabbing. No more than a few hours old.

Sherlock grabbed John close. They were eye level now as they hugged, quiet sniffling coming from John. Spontaneously and without cause Sherlock lowered his head and kissed the pink cuts softly. And then kissed the white ones. John turned his head away, embarrassment flooding his face but Sherlock pulled him back.

“I’m sorry you had to see tha-”

John was cut off as Sherlock leaned closer and kissed him softly on the lips. John showed no resistance and even with salty tears leaking down his face he kissed back.

“Don’t appologise for who you are,” Sherlock said firmly.

John smiled thinly, “I don’t want to be that person anymore. I tried so hard to not do it but I couldn’t stop myself. I rang Harry afterwards and told her. She said she was coming over but I was already in a cab here.”

The pair stayed on the floor for a while. When John dozed Sherlock thought about a case when he was awake they spoke softly. Sherlock would tell a story of his adventure growing up with Mycroft or John would tell more of his own life story.

In one of those times when John was in a deep doze, Lestrade rang.

“Quadripple murder outside the Hyde Park. The vics are clawed to death.”

“Not interested,” Sherlock said dully with his quiet voice.

“Not interested? Thought that'd be right up your ally. We need to prove it’s a murder not some random lion. What’s with the quiet voice anyway?” Lestrade responded with heavy confusion at the consultant’s hesitance.

“I’m not interested. I’m with John, I can’t come in.”

Lestrade was close to begging, “bring John. We need you down here Sherlock. Anderson’s back at the Yard.”

It was tempting, but now wasn’t the time.

“I can’t come down because of John. I’ll come this evening but not now,” Sherlock snapped.

Lestrade was even more confused and was losing patience, “Sherlock. Stop playing games.”

Checking John had completely dozed off Sherlock raised his voice an octave, “this morning John Watson’s abusive father died. He came back home this morning from God knows where, distressed and a danger to himself having cut himself this morning. I will not leave him until he wakes up and I can properly assess his well being until then do your own bloody job.”

Sherlock hung up and slid the phone across the floor.

Sherlock did go to the crime scene later that evening after feeding John some take-away and putting him to bed.

Lestrade was extremely apologetic but Sherlock quickly brushed him aside.

“How is he?” The DI asked sincerely.

“He’ll be okay but I’m sure you understand my hesitancy to leave him. He’s currently asleep and I hope he remains that way.”

John slept deeply through the night and woke late in the morning. He felt heavy and his eyes still stung. Sherlock’s violin drifted throughout the flat from wherever he was playing. He rose from his bed and ventured down into the kitchen resuming his normal routine like any other day.

Until he broke a plate.

Until the soft strings of the violin stopped abruptly.

Until Sherlock shouted “John!”

But it wasn’t Sherlock who John heard shouting his name, it was his father’s voice booming. Without thinking, fueled on fear, John fled the flat. More shouting filling his ears and no ability to differentiate where it came from.

When Sherlock came to the kitchen it was empty aside from a shattered plate and thes street door wide open.

John was gone.

Sherlock called Greg instantly. He had to repeat himself every few sentences because he was talking too fast.

“John’s gone, he’s gone, he’s run. He’s not on the street, he. Lestrade we need to find him now ,” Sherlock pleaded with an unfamiliar tone.

“Sherlock, I can’t send out units to look for him, it’s not my jurisdiction,” the D.I admitted softly. “I’ll put Donovan on this case, wait where you are and I’ll be there in twenty.”

For those twenty minutes Sherlock phoned John thirty three times before realising that John had left his phone at the flat.

“What happened?” Greg asked as he bolted up the stairs. Sherlock was close to distraught, still in his pajamas.

“He’s not in his right mind Lestrade. He self harmed yesterday, his joke of a father died yesterday. He is extremely unstable, when he broke the plate he fled as soon as I called out to him. He needs to be found now ,” Sherlock all but yelled. Greg nodded, the severity finally surfacing.

The D.I reached for his radio and spoke briefly, “all patrols in the City of Westminster look out for a man, five-foot-seven, Doctor John Watson is unstable, approaching calmly.”

As soon as the report went out Sherlock calmed slightly.

“What are his bolt holes?” Greg asked whilst moving to clean up the broken plate. Sherlock sighed and rubbed his face.

“I have no idea, he doesn’t. He doesn’t bolt, he freezes that’s…”

What Sherlock doesn’t know is that the Army taught John to freeze. Stop, assess, react.

John was a bolter, but Sherlock hadn’t met him when he was like that. He still had hidden bolt holes all over the city, he could be anywhere.

“Harry,” Sherlock suddenly shouted. “His sister!”

Sherlock rushed to snatch John’s phone and returned to the kitchen. He quickly broke into the phone, opening up the contacts list he rang Harry.

“John?” Harry’s voice rang down the line.

Lestrad snatched the phone before Sherlock could say anything.

“Harry Watson? I’m Detective Inspector Lestrade from Scotland Yard. I’m here with your brother's flatmate Sherlock. John bolted from the flat about half an hour ago after an incident. We believe he is unstable, is he with you?”

Harry was silent for a moment, fear coursing through her, “no, he’s not with me. I, I know where he might have gone.”

An hour later Sherlock, Lestrade and Harry were combing their way through woodlands on the outside of London. The once popular trail had been visited less and less over the years but the path was still there.

“John!” Sherlock shouted once more, his voice had steadily become rougher as he shouted for his friend over and over. Harry was sniffling quietly as she combed the undergrowth for her brother.

“John it’s me, Harry. Harry the raging fucking lesbain please. Please tell me where you are, “ Harry cried out. Her breath hitching with a laugh at the inside joke but she continued to cry. “John please. I’ve lost a terrible father today, I won’t lose my brother as well.”

Lestrade and Sherlock said nothing. After another fifteen minutes of searching they came across an open field. In the middle was John, lying facing the sky.

“No!” Harry shouted but Lestrade grabbed her around the waist before she could charge into the field. Sherlock sprinted ahead, begging whatever higher entity people normally believed in for John Watson to be okay For John Watson to be alive.

And he was. He had tear tracks down his face and his arms hard crescent shapes all along them.

“Oh John,” Sherlock whispered, clutching the man close. Together they cried, clinging to each other. Clinging, clinging. Harry was there too, she hung off John’s waist as she sobbed and sobbed and they were a mess all three of them. Even Lestrade was wiping a few tears of relief away as he embraced John at the edge of the clearing.

John slipped and he fell.

Sometimes he could lay there for hours and sometimes he got up in an instant.

Sometimes he couldn’t get up at all, not by himself.

Sherlock would find him broken on the living room floor or having an anxiety attack in the bathroom over the spilt water.

Mycroft once said to him it was no point crying over spilt milk.

One day John did. It was arduous finding an equilibrium to remembering and forgetting. There would be days when he was in the middle of a case and a memory would resurface beneath all the suppression.

Those were John’s worst days.

It was all well and good dealing with something he knew, but when the panic was clawing up his throat and he was choking on air and hands were ripping into his neck from some long forgotten ghost...That’s when John would break.

He would break hard, shatter.

John would break so hard he was scared Sherlock wouldn’t go get the sticky tape. That the detective would falter and wonder why he was still doing this.

Why would he want to look after John Watson?

But he never did, he never faltered and even if Lestrade and Molly were talking him threw a panic attack through a mic in his ear. Well, John never knew. All he knew was that his friend was there.

His over half was there.

And when his over half was there, there was no room for ghosts.

#sherlock #fanfiction #johnlock #love #homophobia #tw #self harm #child abuse #john watson #gay #angst #hurt #comfort #fuff #lestrade #harry watson

38 notes · View notes

cthulhuliet · 4 years ago

Text

my high hopes (are getting low)

3.9k words [total 13k words] (part one) (part two) (part three) | AO3 Link | warnings: homophobia, use of slurs, dubious morality, completely unnecessary religious references, implied/referenced self-harm

'Cause my High hopes are getting low because these people are so old The way they think about it all If I tried I would never know

Light Yagami's world view is shifted after a conversation with his father concerning L's sexuality. Anger in his veins and unconfessed feelings bubbling to the surface, Light and L enact a plan of revenge against the homophobic views of the task force.

Out of the task force headquarters for the first time in months brought him a certain amount of joy, an extreme weight of his chest- or rather weight off his wrist. With his memories back, himself and Misa cleared of any suspicions thanks to the fake rules he constructed in the Death Note, Light had won.

Of course, there was still much work that needed to be done. This roadblock had lasted longer than Light wanted or anticipated, but no matter. To achieve everything the world needed was going to take time and effort- time and effort that he alone could commit to. He needed to be rid of L as well. Foolish, stupid Misa forgot his name, so that was simply another obstacle he would need to pass. But no matter, tonight was for celebration.

The celebration at a bar only miles away from task force headquarters is not exactly where he would have chosen, but Ryuzaki insisted that if the task force were going out into the public to to celebrate they were to not stray far from headquarters. Light idly looked around the lowlights of the bar, shaking his head into his beer. He wouldn’t be surprised if L had every shop within a 5 mile radius littered with cameras and bugs.

“Attention everyone,” Soichiro stood up, hold his glass out to the detectives, “I would like to make a toast: this is to all your hard work, the long hours, the uncertainty of tomorrow, the progress we made, and-” He pointedly looked at Light , “To the clearing of names.” He raised his glass, “To Light!”

“To Light!” The detective’s echoed, Matsuda softly clapping, and Aizawa giving him a sock to the arm.

“How’s it feel to be a free man?” His father asked, eyes shining behind his glasses.

Light chuckled, “Father, this is the best I have felt in a long time,”

“Here, here!” Mogi agreed.

“Fresh air, sun on your face,” Matsuda mused, “Boy, that Ryuzaki really doesn’t get out much, does he?”

“Can you imagine him coming out to a bar like this, or even a restaurant or gym?”

“No wonder he is so skinny,”

“And pale,”

Light shook his head, “Hey now, no need for any of that,” He took a quick sip of his beer, “You guys may know him, but I was chained to Ryuzaki, ok? Talk to me when you get kicked in the face by him,” The table roared with laughter, Light smirked to himself. “Might just get a kick of PTSD when I eventually do get to cuff Kira,”

Soichiro shook his head, smiling, “We are closer than ever, I can feel it. The real Kira is in our grasp, now that we are all cleared,”

Light huffed dryly, “Well, some of us aren’t fully in the clear,”

Soichiro sighed, resting his chin in the palm of his hand. Light looked into his father’s eyes: determination but exhaustion were swimming behind his pupils- Light hates L for causing his father so much stress. Even the hardest working, most respectable men need time stress free. God himself created a day of rest for a reason.

“Ryuzaki will come around, I am sure of it,” He idly scratched the stubble on his cheek, eyes on Light but mind elsewhere, “I am not exactly sure what more proof he needs… The young man’s pride is getting in the way of his deductive skills,”

“He did say at one point he did want Light to be Kira…” Matsuda chimed it.

“Precisely,” Soichiro took a long drink, “He will come around, I am sure of it. I mean, look at us now. Even a few weeks ago, and outing such as this was completely out of the realm of possibilities,”

“I am more surprised Ryuzaki himself didn’t come with us just to keep tabs on what we are talking about,”

“Matsuda, you are insane if you believe that he wouldn’t find out some way or another,”

“Ahh, yeah. A small part of me wishes Ryuzaki would come out with us, though. I do have to admit that I am mildly curious as to what he would drink,” Matsuda shrugged.

Soichiro grunted, shaking his head, “I am sure each of us wishes that we knew Ryuzaki just a little bit more. We simply have to make our own interpretations based upon the small bits of information and hints he drops us,”

Light nodded, a small smile on his face, “That man would probably be an even longer investigation than the Kira one,”

The table nodded, but Aizawa drummed his finger on the table, “You guys say that, but I already know everything that I need to know about that little freak,”

Aizawa took a long sip of his whiskey, the detective’s eyes narrow and angry. It had been obvious to most of the task force that he never liked Ryuzaki: Aizawa’s short temper and L’s aloofness often clashed, but there also seemed to be something else bubbling under the surface- and itch that needed some sort of external validation to be scratched.

“What do you mean, Aizawa?” Light probed the detective. If he for some reason and somehow got more information about L…

Aizawa looked around, now holding the full attention of the table in the palm of his hand. He rubbed behind his earlobe, his voice sharp and intense, “I was talking with Wedy and Aiber after the arrest of Higuchi. Just idly chatting. I was curious about their history with Ryuzaki. What kind of criminal would endear themselves to the most prolific detective? When did they even get close enough to be on call for him?” Aizawa idly cracked his knuckles, looking down at the stain wood of the table, recounting the events from that night, “It seems as though those two know Ryuzaki better than we do,”

Light’s skin felt as though it was on fire. He had never had much interest in the detective, but his attention was solely focused on Aizawa. Whatever it was, whatever Aizawa found out from the two con-artists, he simply had to know, his need and curiosity were going to burn him alive if the normally straight-forward cop didn’t speak faster.

“What did you find out,” Soichiro frowned, “Like, his history or name or something,”

Light wanted to scream.

Aizawa shook his head, sipping the brown liquid, “No. Nothing like that, just some taboo information that our good friend Ryuzaki opted not to tell us,”

Matsuda frowned, “Taboo?”

“Yeah,” He scoffed, tapping the glass with the palm of his finger- eyes hard and jaw set. His eyes quickly darted from one side of the nearly empty bar to the other, now staring down his whiskey. “Let’s just say,” He spoke in a low voice, “I am certainly glad Ryuzaki doesn’t go to the gym. I would pity any man who had to share a locker room alone with him.” Aizawa threw the rest of his drink down his throat and loudly set the empty glass on the table, the silence thick and palpable.

No one said anything for a long time. No one moved their drinks or spoke. Light looked down at the table, eyes hard, waiting for someone to break the silence; someone had to release him from this torture, and he couldn’t be the one to speak up.

When Soichiro scoffed, picking up his glass, all eyes turned to him, “Well. I can’t say I am surprised,” He grumbled. The rest of the squad nodded in agreement, all going back to their idle actions.

“I mean, I always had my suspicions,” Matsuda said, “He is a pretty weird guy and something always seemed a bit off when we were alone together. I just chalked it up to Ryuzaki being Ryuzaki but now that I know- like I know ...” He shifted uncomfortably in his seat, hand coming up to rub the back of his neck, “Uck… I need to go home and have a shower,”

Soichiro then locked eyes with Light, “Light, if that Ryuzaki ever made a pass at you or made you feel-”

“Father, I promise you everything was fine,” Light muttered, responding to his father but his head was elsewhere, “I never even knew, or considered it a possibility, actually,”

Aizawa frowned, tapping the table harshly with his index finger, “With the chain, when you had to shower, or use the restroom, what did you even-”

“There was a hook in the bathroom, so there was at least some semblance of privacy,” Light opted to keep the fact that there were cameras covering every inch of the bathroom to himself.

Soichiro seemed unsatisfied with that answer, “I was never a fan of that chain situation, none of us were, but we all trusted Ryuzaki. Now- now that I know my son was chained for months on end to some pervert…” He steady his rising voice but Soichiro was gripping his glass so hard, Light was worried it would shatter under his hold.

“It is just wrong,” Aizawa chimed in, Mogi nodding along, unenthusiastically, “Morally, completely wrong.”

“Here, here,” Matsuda echoed, cheerlessly. “Those are the kinds of people Kira should take care of,”

Light’s eyes widened, shaking his head, “Matsuda, don’t talk like that,”

Aizawa shook his head, a short emotionless laugh was followed with an omission from the other detective. “This may just be the whiskey talking, but instead of FBI agents and business men, maybe Kira could work on keeping those kinds of people out of society. I don’t need queers around, I have 2 kids,”

Soichiro nodded, “It is a pity. Can’t imagine how Ryuzaki’s parent’s must feel. Maybe they know and that’s why he is the way he is,”

“Pity the pair of them,”

“Yeah,”

Light said nothing. Soichiro continued, “Glad I don’t have to worry about that. Sayu talks about that Hideki Ryuga on too many occasions to count, and that Ms. Amane is more than treating Light here well,”

Eyes hard set on his Father, Light asked his dad a question that had been on the tip of his tongue since Aizawa’s information had been revealed. “Father, what would you do if-”

Cutting him off, Soichiro looked at Light seriously, “If that happened, I wouldn’t need some magical notebook. I’d take my marksman training and deal with it myself,”

Light smiled, chuckling, “Of course, Father,”

Light’s fingernails were gripping the inside of his palm, the force at which was nearing the point of drawing blood. He was doing his best to remain cool and collected, but the more the men talked the more his anger was becoming all consuming: a threat that was rearing its ugly head and threatening to crawl out of his throat with an ear splitting cry of rage.

“I think I need the restroom,” Light stood up stiffly, 4 pairs of concerned eyes on him. He gave them a curt nod, “Gentlemen,” And walked quickly to the other side of the bar.

The restroom was a unisex single stall that Light opened with more forced then neccesarry and locked the door. He stumbled over to the sink, switching it on the coldest setting. Balling up his fists, he slammed them down onto the dirty ceramic, a frustrated cry erupting from him.

“Son of a bitch!” Light choked out. Neat fingernails gripped the sides of the sink, chilling water splashing and threatening to soak the edges of Light’s expensive button up, but he barely noticed that fact, as he was mentally steeling himself to not allow the hot tears he felt bubbling to spill. Crying in any capacity was wasted energy, and even more so, he didn’t want to have to explain the tear tracks on his cheeks to any of his much older colleagues.

“Geez, you look like a mess,” A gravelly voice phased. Light looked in the mirror in front of him and saw Ryuk’s wide eyes staring back at his reflection.

Light scoffed, looking away from the mirror, “Welcome back, where have you been, Ryuk?”

Ryuk floated closer to the sink, casually wiggling his fingers, “I was nagging some cherries from the bartender. Not as good as apples but I’ll take what I can get,”

“Does fruit even taste different to Shinigamis?”

“Oi oi, what is that supposed to mean,” Ryuk frowned. Light shrugged his shoulders, sighing. Ryuk put a thumb to his chin, “It is clear I missed something. You going to fill me in, Light?”

For the first time since entering the bathroom, Light felt about 7% calmer. He took a deep breath, studying the brown eyes of his reflection. Still rimmed with red, but not nearly as dam breaking as before. He turned around to face the Shinigami, casually leaning against the sink, arms crossed.

“Aizawa just told me some information,”

“Eh?”

“Information about L,”

Ryuk laughed wildly. Flipping himself upside-down, he continued to cackle, “Isn’t that just interesting. What did he say? Is your plan going to be a little easier?”

Light crossed his arms, refusing to look at Ryuk’s animated movements, and instead inspected a cracked tile in the otherwise pristine floor, “No. Aizawa told me that L is gay,”

“Eh?” Ryuk flipped himself upright and stood on the floor normally, curiously looking at the human, “Well, I suppose that is fine… Though I guess that means it isn’t with you. I didn’t realise that you were uh, what’s the human word for it...” Ryuk scratched his hair, and Light quirked up an eyebrow, “Oh. Didn’t know you were homophonic,”

Light frowned, “What?”

“Homophonic. You don’t like gay people,”

Running a hand through his hair Light sighed, “It is homophobic, not homophonic. Homophonic has to do with music,” Light turned back to the water that was still running and rolled up his sleeves, idly washing his hands, “I didn’t think you would get this much stupider after being away from me for so long,”

Ryuk defensively put his hands up, talking to Light’s reflection, “Hey, don’t look at me. You humans are the weird ones, making up gender and sex and all these words we don’t have in the Shinigami realm. It’s confusing sometimes, ok?” Light didn’t respond as he pulled some paper towels from the holder and dried his hands, “Either way, I didn’t know you were homophobic. Hyuk, probably makes you want to kill L more, doesn’t it,”

Light’s eyes flashed red, and in an instant, he kicked the plastic bin across the room in a blind rage of fury, “Of course it doesn’t!” Dried towels littered the ground, Ryuk slapping one away from himself as it floated onto his shoulder, “But apparently if you don’t fit into the perfect straight mold that we have been told, all morals go out the window!” His back hit the wall, and Light sunk down onto the floor, Ryuk still standing in shock, “All of the detectives out there said that they would want to rid the world of anyone who was different. No matter how hard working, or what they do, or how much they are worth to society, if you don’t fit that mold, you are better off dead. They said they L would be better off dead, that-” He paused, picking at a loose string on his pants, tugging on it and idly throwing it away, “My own father said he would kill me,”

Ryuk stood next to Light in stunned silence, only a couple times before had he seen the man lose his temper and each time he was unsure of how to respond to it. He began picking up the towels littered on the ground, “So, Light, are you saying that you’re…”

Chuckling dryly, Light shook his head, “I thought this kind of thing didn’t matter to Shinigamis?”

“No, but it matters to you humans. Besides, this is very interesting,”

Light rested his head against his knees, staring at the crack in the tile again, “I don’t want to label myself, not really. Like you said, it is a dumb human thing.” Biting his thumbnail, Light thought for a moment about what he wanted to say, “I was about 13 when I realised I couldn’t relate to my friends. I thought I was smarter than them for not caring about kissing girls and spin the bottle. I pretty much wrote off relationships altogether. It wasn’t until Misa that I realised what was wrong,”

“Eh? Misa?”

“Yeah, I know,” A rare smile formed on Light’s face. Rare because he was talking about Misa, someone who he regarded as one of the banes of his existence, “She was rambling on one day, and told me that she also likes girls in the way she likes me. Granted, she immediately went on to say she would never leave me, and we were soulmates, but those words kept me up because I never even realised it was an option.

“I did some research and some of the greatest minds on Earth were also queer in some capacity. Alan Turing, Julius Caesar, Ihara Saikaku- all great people who made waves in history. And yet,” Light made fists with his hands, “Some people, some idiots would believe they were better off dead just because of who they choose to lay with.

“I may have a personal bias, but if the Gods never cared about gender and sex, then why would I when passing judgement? You said it yourself, Ryuk: it is merely a human constructed concept. I am far above viewing people as just that. It is simply an aspect of yourself, not who you are. Your actions are far more important. Be a useful, moral member of society and why does it matter who you sleep with?”

Ryuk finished cleaning up the towels and sat on the floor across from Light, “Heh, and the detectives don’t share that same sentiment?”

“Yeah,” Light’s voice dripped with venom, “They told all of us multiple times to not pass judgement off of one action, and yet my father said he would put a gun to my head and if I kissed a boy he would shoot me dead,”

Ryuk tilted his head to the side, “Guess we finally found the greyness in your morality,” He cackled wildly, but Light was not amused.

Light sat up straight, looking Ryuk straight into his eyes, “I don’t need those kinds of people in my world,” He spoke with finality, and tapped open the secret compartment of his watch, the small corner piece of the Death Note blank and ready for him.

“Light, wait,” Ryuk’s eyes widened and he took a couple steps towards him, towering over Light. He frowned, red anger brewing in his pupils, “I am not supposed to help, not really, but please think, ok? For one, this is your father we are talking about, you can’t-”

“Ryuk, he said he would kill me!” Light stood up and shouted, all care for staying calm left him, “He said I would be better off dead, how am I supposed to take that?”

“Alright,” He responded, the almost 7 foot Shinigami felt very small all the sudden, “What about this? You and the task force leave headquarters for the first time in months. You disappear to the bathroom and all the task force is dead except for you. What conclusion is L going to draw from that, hm?”

Light threw his pen across the room, hitting and marking the wall it connected with, “So what should I do, then, huh? Just let them all walk around, making judgements about those who didn’t do anything?” He made fists with his hands, not paying any attention to pain, fury and rage was all Light felt now. Drops of blood trickled down his palm and under his nails- he finally broke the skin. “They don’t deserve any of that, so why did my father say that? Why do they get to decide what is moral? Where is the justice for them!” His breath got more and more ragged, to the point of hyperventilation. Light suddenly felt very, very dizzy.

When he was a young child, after he just learned how to swim, Light would go off the diving board and teeter at the edge of it, testing gravity. Challenging it. He wanted to fly. He thought he could cheat it somehow. If he ran quick enough, if he closed his eyes, if he acted casual as he stepped off the board, but everytime the wind on his face and the unforgiving coldness of the pool water let him know that Light had failed. Getting the Death Note was the closest he felt to defying gravity. Light could step off the board now and simply float; floating high above the gravity that pulled him down, and high above the water that wanted to engulf him.

However, for the first time since he got the Note, Light was no longer floating: Light was drowning. Gravity was forcing him underwater, suffocating him. It was filling up his lungs and choking him. Is this the grim misfortune that Ryuk said to him? Is this how it feels like to be held underwater- thrashing and crying and begging for the element to relent? To release it’s hold and breathe? Light can’t imagine the real thing feeling any other way.

A knock on the door brought Light back to land. He stayed silent as he listened to the voice outside the door, “Light? You doing ok in here? Your dad is worried about you and…”

Matsuda trailed off. Light paused for a moment, and walked himself to the other side of the bathroom, raising his voice, “Yeah, I am ok. Just, uh, the drink I had before the beer was pretty strong, and I didn’t eat beforehand so, uh, y’know,”

“Oh, are you ok?”

“Yeah,” Light struggled to keep his voice even.

“Something always seemed a bit off when we were alone together…”

“I am all good, Matsuda,”

“Uck… I need to go home and have a shower…”

“I appreciate your concern,”

Matsuda stayed silent for a minute before responding, “We are about to head out. Do you want us to wait or-”

“Go on ahead,” Light responded immediately, “I’ll get Watari to call me a car or something,”

Matsuda sighed, “As long as you are sure, but just let someone know when you get back. I’ll tell Soichiro you aren’t feeling well,”

Light listened to the detective’s retreating footsteps. He closed the lid on the toilet and put his head in his hands, “I want to kill them,” Ryuk cackled wildly, causing Light to look up, “What? Unless you have something helpful to contribute I-”

Ryuk floated, spinning himself above Light, “You could kill them, that is easy. Killing is like breathing to you, Kira,” He laughed again, “But trust me when I say that there are much more creative, much more fun forms of punishment,”

Light’s interest was piqued, he looked at the Shinigami with curiosity, “What exactly are you thinking?”

Shrugging, he began to phase through the wall, “I am not going to tell you what to do, that is all up to you, Light. However-” Ryuk’s head was all that was remaining in the room, a smile even more wicked than his usual one plastered on his face, “-maybe you should talk to your pal, L, about what you learned today,”

Cackling, Ryuk left the room, but Light alone with his thoughts. It didn’t even take 3 minutes for Light to come up with a plan.

#death note #light yagami #l lawilet #lawlight #my writing #dn #death note fanfiction #I am actually really excited about it!!#kind of proud of myself ngl #I hope you guys enjoy!!! pls let me know!!!#there is more to come

11 notes · View notes

noxstellacaelum · 5 years ago

Text

No, it’s not just because the guy is hot ... and other BS about a female fan base (Looking at you Veronica Mars and Shadowhunters)

So, I suck at Tumblr. I changed my name and suddenly all of my links are broken. A friend asked me to repost this when she could not find it, so apologies for round 2.

I wrote recently about how filtering female characters through the male gaze can cause a project’s “center of gravity” to shift away from the agency and autonomy of female characters. This is how we end up w/ stories where women are there (narratively) to be pretty arm candy, or objects of sexual desire, or romantic partners (half a ship) vs characters who shape their own romantic and life choices. This is how we get female characters subjected to endless, pointless pain and trauma — usually sexual assault/ rape narratives (GoT, Veronica Mars). Or female characters who sacrifice endlessly and forgive every transgression, so that a man can be redeemed/ understood/ forgiven. (Why else would Buffy forgive Spike?) As I said, I don’t think every silly, guilty pleasure TV show or movie has to be a feminist icon story. Men can tell good stories about women. And give me flawed, complicated, nuanced characters and relationships any and every day of the week. I prefer truthful storytelling, not a kind of hagiography w/a side of feminism for my female characters.

Still, I had to just shake my head — after gagging on my coffee — when I saw the recent TV Line article quoting a senior executive at HULU as saying that the negative reaction to the ending of S4 Veronica Mars was A-O-K b/c it was a testament to how much people love the show. And, that the end was all part of RT’s super-well-thought-grand-plan to make VM into a noir detective show where Veronica solves random mysteries in random places and has no friends, no family, no relationships — having been an asshole to everyone in S4. Never mind S4 Veronica’s questionable detective skills, as evidenced by her failure to figure out who was behind the bombings until it was too late. Yeah. Whatever.

Of course, I didn’t stop at the article. I had to look at the comments. The official RT fanboy line appears to be that people who hated the ending are basically weak, stupid (heterosexual, I guess) girls who are upset that we won’t get to look at Jason D’s abs anymore. Apparently, we just don’t understand RT’s art and vision. Sad, really.

And so it goes. Once again, female fans are reduced to unthinking, stupid, crying hordes upset when we don’t get our happily-ever-after.

This is such complete and total bullshit. I hated all of S4 Veronica. VM in S4 is an unrecognizable asshole. She mocks Logan for seeking help for his PTSD. She misses or ignores her dad’s health crisis. She’s casually racist. She randomly uses drugs w/ strangers. She’s terrible to her friends (Weevil). And she’s the worst detective ever. Killing Logan off as some kind of suffer porn for VM was just one more piece of the shitty story telling that was S4. Especially since there was zero narrative explanation of how or why smart, gritty teenager Veronica fell into the abyss of self-loathing, self-absorption and cruelty that defines her in S4.

To my mind, though, the mansplaining from HULU, RT and crew is one of many examples of how Hollywood dismisses female fans along with female characters. In addition to Veronica Mars, I’ve written about how Shadowhunters TV betrayed both its female characters and many of its female fans. And, just as happened w/ Veronica Mars, when people objected, the show runners and their shills told us that we didn’t understand the showrunners’ art or storytelling; that we were upset bc not all of the couples got a wedding, that fan fiction could sort out the narrative mess left after the finale. As if completely sidelining the protagonist and her romantic partner, then tacking on a rom com meet cute at the end, made it all ok.

It wasn’t OK. It was BS. And, depressingly, not a surprise when one examines how the show treated its female characters and fan base all along.

- Cassie Clare, the author behind the six book series, has hinted on her Tumblr blog that from the very beginning, the male producers and show runners behind the TV adaption did not value her heavily female fan base. The show even added a lot of computers/ tech (explicitly NOT canon in the Shadowhunters universe), and made a character a police officer (not a bookstore owner) when it launched to attract an older male audience according to Clare. (Apart from the non-canon aspect of computers, stereotyping much on who likes tech?).

More importantly, the storytelling around female characters, and the treatment of their sexuality, showed the lack of regard the show had for female characters and their fans. Where to even start:

- The show aged-up the characters — which I am totally on board with — but then cast an actor who is only six years older than Matt D. (he played Alec) to play Mayrse, Alec’s (and Izzy and Jace’s adoptive) mother. 6 years!?! There are plenty of skilled, age appropriate performers one could have picked. Don’t tell me that casting decision was the product of anything other than the male gaze.

- Book Mayrse is a complicated and not always likeable character. Totally cool. Show Mayrse exists in S1 of SHTV for the sole purpose of being bigoted and homophobic re Alec (with a side of slut-shaming for her daughter Izzy). Then, in S3, she exists solely to punished (w/ a random de-rune-ing) and then redeemed for her homophobia by becoming “captain of the Malec ship.” S3 Mayrse seems to be entirely unaware that she has other children. Not Izzy. And not depressed, and suicidal Jace. A more richly observed character who is a mother would not act this way.

-Book Izzy is sexy and body positive. And a formidable warrior. Awesome. Show Izzy is often reduced to slutty eye candy in S1. She’s turned into a drug addict in S2. And, then, in S3 and the finale, she’s charged w caretaking duties for Jace (bc the show ignored the parabatai bond bw Alec and Jace and Mayrse was absent, as noted above). And, in the climactic fight scene, she’s disarmed by Clary (who had been training for a couple of months at that point) and needs to be saved by Simon, her non-Shadowhunter soon to be boyfriend. Simon is hugely heroic in the books, as is Clary, but their heroism is not at the expense of, or in place of, Izzy’s strength and heroism. (Or, maybe it’s that show Simon saves show Izzy from show Clary that’s the problem: book Izzy would not have been bested by Clary, book Clary never would have attacked her friends and chosen family, and the dark Clary made zero narrative/ emotional sense.

- Clary, the protagonist, is wholly sidelined in 3B and the finale. I won’t go down this rabbithole again, except to say that the show’s decision to strip Clary of her entire narrative arc — her mother, her father figure, her memories, her magic, her identity her chosen family, and her love — deeply, deeply betrayed the character and her fans.

- And, as I’ve written before, the dark Clary storyline seemed more about putting Kat M. In sexy clothes and having her act in a sexually aggressive way toward Jace (let’s call it what it was - the show hinted that she went down on Jace in a club while Jace was distraught over losing Clary and basically roofied) (bc sexually aggressive women are either slutty or evil on SHTV, I guess.). It made no sense.

-The whole Climon storyline was cringe worthy, and her weird shame-y commentary on Jace’s past sex life made no sense either.

- Maia hooking up w/ Jace behind a bar, and forgiving her attacker.

The list goes on and on.

I am sick and tired of Hollywood reducing female characters and female fans to unsophisticated, silly, shallow people looking only for the love of a (generally straight white) man. I am sick of shows sacrificing female characters and their fans to tell stories about other characters, even when those stories are worthy. (We shouldn’t have had to choose between, say, Magnus, Alec and Malec, and Clary, Jace and Clace.). I am sick of characters and fans serving as a mirror or vehicle for other characters’ stories.

Female fans watch TV. We buy movie tickets. We participate in fandoms. Stop telling us that we should be content w/ scraps from the storytelling table.

#SHTV #clary fairchild #veronica mars #veronica mars season 4 #mayrse #Jace Wayland #Clace #cassandra clare #tmi #shadowhunters

101 notes · View notes

headoverhiddles · 5 years ago

Text

Grotesk Burlesk - Hans Landa x Marilyn Manson [Smut]

Synopsis: Colonel Landa finds himself a fish out of water as a patron at a racy club in Berlin, but his affections are stolen by a tall, dark and mysterious performer who is more than meets the eye. This fic is also available on ao3!

Notes: Special thanks to @ninavantastisch for saving me with the German translation!

This is the song performed in this fic, and this is the style in which it is performed. Give it a watch/listen before you read. Also, warning for mild period-typical homophobia and accidental misgendering!

Tagging: @blueinkblot @daughterofdesire @wingsy-keeper-of-songs (and @skin-slave you might like this!)

Everything had been getting on Landa's nerves. The job, his subordinates making even the slightest mistake. He was on edge, moody, and short-- this is how he came to visit Das Haus des Gold during his time off, a nightclub not typically frequented by those of his social standing.

"Schöner Laden," (Lovely place) Lt. Schmidt observed, as his fellow lieutenant grinned widely at a passing waitress dressed in a black corset.

"Ein bisschen klein aber in Ordnung," (A little small, but alright) Captain Von Wolff nodded, narrowing his eyes, and turned to Hans. "Wenn es Ihnen nicht zusagt, Oberst dann können wir auch woanders hingehen." (If this does not please you, colonel, we can find another place.)

“Ich denke es ist schon in Ordnung,” (I think it is alright) Lt. Orlock said, still watching the young lady in black, and earned a quick smack to the back of the head from Von Wolff.

Hans thought about this. It was obviously not an establishment he would have picked out. It was filled with dada-esque low art, which would normally disgust him. Still. Was this such a bad thing? Art is to be appreciated in any form, and Landa knew that better than any in his company, being a man of culture himself. Furthermore, it was to be expected of every member of the army that they, in their recreation, find something on the side to amuse them, keep them in good spirits. But Hans, he could hardly bear the idea of getting too chummy with his fellow officers in a place like this. He was an authority figure to be feared, not "one of the men".

That really wasn’t any reason to turn down a nice night on the town, however. It was better than another night of interrogation of those dim-witted enough to believe they could outsmart him.

Von Wolff took Landa's silence as apprehension, and began to back them away to the door. "Ich hätte Schmidt nicht die Planung, für diesen Abend, überlassen sollen…" (I shouldn't have let Schmidt plan this night...)

"Nein," Hans put up a hand with a small smile, "Nein. Es ist ein schönes Établissement." (No, no. It is a fine establishment.)

“Aber, Colonel Landa—”

“Das klingt schrecklich nach einem Kapitän, der die Entscheidung seines Vorgesetzten in Frage stellt. Oder bin ich nur empfindlich?” (This sounds an awful lot like a captain questioning his superior's decision. Or am I just sensitive?)

“…Nein, Herr Colonel. Natürlich nicht.” (No, Colonel. Of course not.)

The three entered the nightclub, and were seated.

A young blonde lady in a small black dress came over. Landa could see her garter belt, and gave her a once over.

"Was kann ich Ihnen bringen?" (What can I get for you?)

"Nur ein schönes, kaltes Glass Milch für mich. Danke." Hans smiled warmly at her. (Just a nice cold glass of milk for me, thanks.) If she was at all confused over his order, she didn’t show it, as the rest of the men ordered tall beers. She departed to promptly to fill their orders.

"Die Damen hier sind reizend," Landa commented. (The women here are lovely.) Just then, the black curtains drew, and the lights dimmed. Two girls shimmied out onstage, bound together as Siamese twins by a stitched up straight jacket. Interesting visual display. They started to play piano, a dark, sexy melody, and a tall figure came out.

She was dressed in heels, long smooth legs running up to black pantyhose and a small black dress covering what could not be left to the imagination. She had a bowler hat down over her eyes, but her lips were luscious and deep red, contrasting against her vampirically pale skin. Strands of short black hair protruded from beneath the hat as she reached up with fingerless gloved hands to move the hat up. Long faux eyelashes were revealed, as they barely dusted the crystals that adorned her cheeks. She lifted her chin, and with a sultry little spin, began to sing.

"Well our monkeys have monkeys, we drive our death crushed diamond jaguar limousine... we're not fantastic mother-fuckers, but we play them on TV..."

Hans was lost in the sway of her hips, her deeper-than-most voice, and the provocative movements of her body. She came to the front of the stage, saluting while parting her long, slender legs. "It's a dirty word, 'Reich', say... what you like, it's a dirty word, 'Reich', say... what you like." She winked the officers' way with that line after noticing their uniforms, and launched into a chorus that was just as sexy.

"We're the low art gloominati, and we... aim to depress... the scab-aret sacrilegends, this is the golden age of grotesque..."

She got up on a platform of sorts, and began to grind her hips against the microphone stand, something that got a considerable rise out of the crowd.

"I got the jigger to make all you bigger, ladies und gentlemen... so drop your piss room bait and make sure you're not late you tramps and lunatics." She held up a finger gun to her forehead, and licked her red lips as she looked directly at Hans.

"Cause the trick... 'sgonna make you.... click."

Landa readjusted in his seat, hoping his men couldn’t see how affected by the performance he really was. This performer was absolutely beautiful. Oh, what those red lips could do around him. Where those slender fingers could touch. This was true art, no doubt in Landa's mind, not Goebbels' drivel propaganda he peddles to the Fuehrer for praise. Landa may be an officer, but he wasn’t blind. This singer could enthrall the entire country with a look alone.

"We sing la, la la la... la la la, we sing la la la la la." The dark haired beauty smirked, tipping that bowler hat back. "La, la la la... la la la, we sing la la la, la la..." She finished off her song with a little bow, and a kiss blown out to the audience. Landa toiled during her next number, a song she introduced as Doll Dagga Buzz Buzz Ziggety Zag. Watching her dance, he narrowed his eyes. There's something about that performer he couldn’t shake. Something different, something... secret. And make no mistake, there was no better man in the country at detecting secrets than Hans Landa. He sat, frozen in reverie as she went on to her third and final song, something about a mobscene.

"Sie ist unglaublich!” (She's incredible!) Schmidt whispered, “Tiefe Stimme, aber.... wunderschön.” (Low voice, but… beautiful.)

Hans wondered what it could be that he was picking up on with this singer. Usually he was better at figuring out what people are hiding. It could just be the fact that one of her eyes was white, while the other was dark… that could be throwing him off.

Interrupting his contemplation a few minutes later, the music picked up a little to a raunchy jazz number, as a curvy, radiant black haired beauty came strutting onstage in a glittery dress and top hat. She winked at the crowd as she shrugged off her feather boa to the music, and began to unzip her dress from behind.

"Was für eine Art von Club ist das hier, Schmidt?” (What kind of club is this, Schmidt?) Von Wolff demanded, though he was unable to take his eyes off the stage.

"Meine liebste Art!” (My favourite kind!) Orlock answered for him, clapping for the girl and laughing. Though this one was beautiful too, Landa simply could not get the mystery and allure of the last performer's eyes out of his mind. As the brunette began to strip, Hans excused himself from his officers, and slipped backstage. He searched around for a moment, then found who he was looking for. The captivating singer from the stage.

"Guten abend, schöne Fraulein."

"I don't speak German," the performer said, taking down one of the stockings on a long, pale leg, "My songs back there were in English, in case you didn't notice."

Hans adjusted his speech accordingly. "Your music still, is very much influenced by German culture, is it not?"

The singer began to lift up the little dress past their undergarments. "Yeah. You're right about that."

"So. An American out of his comfort zone."

And a man, so it would seem. So that's what they were hiding. Hans' gaze lingered for more than a few seconds.

"I wouldn't say I'm out of my comfort zone," the crossdresser tilted his head, "I've got you in the palm of my hand in a small dressing room, small enough for me to either suck your cock or stab you with my hairpin. If I stabbed you, I could go home a war hero." He reached down to unlace his g-string, then looked up, raising his shaved eyebrows. "Mind if I readjust my crotch?"

Hans smiled slightly at the man's blunt language, finding it refreshing. He held up a hand to show he did not mind, and steered the conversation back. "What is stopping you from using... what did you say? A hairpin, to murder me?" Hans smiled. He was rather enjoying this man already. The performer pursed his painted lips.

"I don't get involved in wars. I just do what I do best. Drink expensive absinthe, look pretty, and perform."

"You do certainly do the last two well, yes," Landa nodded, "Do you have any proof of the first point?"

Manson smirked, realizing what the man was asking. He reached behind his vanity, and pulled out a thin bottle. He took two glasses, pouring a bit in each.

“What is your name?”

“…Marilyn.”

“It’s a beautiful name. Is it your real one?”

“Nothing in this world is for real.” He pulled out some distilled water, and added that to both glasses, watching the liquid go a milky green. "Here. Sorry, no sugar spoons around."

"Oh, I prefer to drink milk, thank you."

"You went through all the effort of finding me backstage. Now you have to drink what I drink."

Landa reluctantly accepted the offer, mainly because he was a curious man by nature, but also because the man offering it to him was ridiculously good looking. "Hm. Very well. Do you mind at all if I smoke, to enjoy the drink with it?" Landa asked.

"Go ahead."

Landa lit up a German cigarette, offering one to Marilyn, who declined. Then Landa takes a sip, and marvels at how strong the drink is. Odd flavours dance across his taste buds, and he feels his head begin to swim almost immediately.

"It's different from being drunk," Marilyn commented, cutting through the haze as he took the generous sip of a seasoned drinker, "It's like you can lose your body, but not your mind."

"I see what you mean," Landa nodded, rubbing his chest, "Exquisite taste, however. I’ve never experienced anything quite like it."

Marilyn took another sip. "It's alright. You can say it tastes like herbal acid. It only tastes good when it's pretty much all you drink." He gestured to himself. Hans chuckled, set his drink aside, and carefully cleared some makeup off of a stool. "Eh, may I sit down?" The performer nodded, and stared for a second at the curiously benevolent officer.

"…You don't care that I'm a man, huh?"

Hans mulled this over. "I will not lie, it did surprise me. But then, why should I care?" he shrugged, straightening out his uniform, "You put on a beautiful performance, and you are a beautiful person. There is no reason to shy away from that fact."

"You liked the show?" Marilyn asked, not immune to a little praise.

"It was magnificent. You took my breath away." The man didn’t let the officer see his smile-- he turned away to finish taking down his other stocking.

"I only ask, cause... a lot of men like you see my show, get all hot and bothered, come back here like you did expecting a nice happy ending, then they blame me for seducing them when they find out I'm not the pretty little German woman of their dreams. Makeup only covers up so many black eyes, so I've started warning people before they, uh... bunch up my skirt."

His smile was joking, but his eyes conveyed a weariness only someone as sharp as Hans could detect.

"I'm not complaining, but… why do you continue to perform then?" the German asked softly. "Your performance is art, and so are you. You should be treated as such."

"Yeah, well contrary to popular belief, I don't perform to fuck people," Marilyn said, an undertone of sarcasm present, "I actually do enjoy the art of getting up onstage and putting on a show that'll get people talking. Make people think about how they respond to my art. Fucking attractive people is just a bonus." He undid his corset in front of the mirror.

"Here. Allow me to assist you," Landa said, and put out his cigarette before getting up. He was shorter than the performer, but their eyes still met in the mirror as Landa unlaced the contraption one whalebone hook by one, slowly, deliberately down his back. Shivers ran down Marilyn’s spine, the officer's gaze penetrating. Landa's finger grazed down Marilyn's back, down and up again to unlace the final hook.

A bubbly brunette strode in from the stage. She was the charming burlesque dancer who had gone on after Marilyn.

"You were fantastic," she said, leaning in. She was topless from her striptease—Hans admired the freedom of it all, a breath of fresh air from the stuffy officer’s life he led. It was like being in a whole different world, the exciting underbelly of the artist’s hideout. She and Marilyn shared a European kiss on both cheeks, and she tucked a strand of hair behind his ear. He smiled.

"So were you, Dita."

"Gotta run, honey. I see you're indisposed, anyway." She shot off a wink, waving playfully at Hans, and hurried off to her own dressing room, breasts bouncing with every poised step.

"She is charming," Landa commented, shaking his head. "She is American too?" Manson looked back to him, suspicious of the question. He didn't give a fuck about himself, but when it came to the people close to him... Landa smirked. "I am not in the business of turning over American burlesque dancers to the Fuhrer. I am simply curious."

For whatever reason, Manson believed him.

"Dita and I came here to Berlin from Los Angeles to perform. We brought along a couple others to support our shows. We felt like we belonged here more than we did there, with all the uptight, patriotic isolationist nonsense in America." He changed the subject. "You wanna give me your name too, or is that breaching German military code?"

"Colonel Hans Landa, of the SS."

"Colonel," Marilyn nodded, "I'm impressed." He did not seem impressed. Landa gave him a look of amusement.

"Would you rather I be a general?"

Manson sighs, sucking in his cheekbones and powdering his face with a large fluffy powder puff. "I'd rather you be pulling my hair and shouting whatever the f word is in German repeatedly, but wishful thinking gets me nowhere. Especially not with some SS colonel who had the audacity to drop into my boudoir." Landa raised his eyebrows. Watching the performer's graceful limbs and trailing his gaze down to admire the black lace contrasting against Marilyn's backside, Landa started to work the night out in his mind, examining how this could look from all angles. In order to keep his credibility (and his reputation) he'd need to think up an elaborate story that would get the both of them to a spot safe to carry out any fantasies that begged to be indulged. He had to convince Marilyn of it too—he couldn’t risk any slip ups.

"I have the authority to go anywhere I like in this country," he said, smile still on his face but quickly contorting into something ominous, "I hope you know that, my pretty American." Marilyn hesitated, picking up on the sudden shift in the mood, but thought nothing of it as he continued to undress. "I must confess, I have not been entirely truthful with you tonight," Hans went on, folding his hands in his lap. Marilyn tucked his hair behind his ears, inspecting his reflection.

"No? You gonna tell me you're a woman?"

Despite himself, Landa chuckled. "That situation would make for a good stage play, would it not?" His smile slowly ebbed away, as he replaced it with a cold gaze of sinister intent. "Do you know what they call me?"

"I can't say that I do."

"They call me the Jew Hunter."

"I'm not Jewish."

"No. But you are American. An allied country, and an enemy of the state. What you have told me here tonight, and the simple fact of you being a crossdresser by profession, gives me the authority to take you and keep you in holding until your identity has been confirmed by the embassy of the United States of America." At this, Marilyn turned around sharply, dropping his red lipstick with a clatter. "Ah," Landa put up a hand, "There's nowhere for you to go but with me, unless you wish to be shot down like a dog in the street."

Marilyn tried to escape anyway, dodging past him in an attempt to warn the others. Landa however, was too fast. He grabbed the taller by the bicep, and dragged him in with strength unbefitting of a man of his physicality.

"If you run or make any noise at all, I will have the lovely Miss Von Teese kept here as not only a prisoner of war, but a comfort girl. How would she like to strip for the Fuhrer? Hm?"

Manson ripped his arm away as he realized there was no way out of this, snarling. "Fuckin' bastard."

Landa's mouth twitched up. "If you'll be a good boy and cooperate, we can do this the easy way, without a scene." He leaned in. "Remember. What is it you said on stage? Be obscene... not heard."

Marilyn resisted the urge to growl again, and let Landa lead him out from backstage. Dita was busy in her own area, and none of the other performers took his departure on a stranger’s arm as particularly out of the ordinary. Tim Sköld, a Swedish man Marilyn had met in America who had followed his company out here, watched after him lazily, grazing the arm of one of the Siamese twins who was currently staining kisses all over his face.

“There he goes again,” Tim murmured, and took one of her fingers into his mouth.

Landa approached his men again, who were now about three drinks in and having a good old time at the table.

"Ah, Landa!" Orlock laughed, red in his puffy face from too much schnapps, "Da sind Sie ja wieder! Sie haben es verpasst-- Schmidt, der verdammte Narr, hat die Bardame zum Wetttrinken herausgefordert. Hat gesagt, wenn sie verliert, dann zeigt sie ihm ihre großen Brüste! Natürlich hat er--” (Rejoined us at long last! You missed it-- Schmidt, the damned fool, challenged the pretty barmaid to a drinking contest, said if she lost, she'd have to show her big tits! Of course he--)

"Wer ist das, Landa?” (Who is this, Landa?) Von Wolff asked, cutting in with a stern glare.

"Don't you recognize our costumed friend?" Landa asked in English. Marilyn looked up with a sneer, and the other men noticed his lipstick, his clip on earrings, and the sultry shadowed eyes all three of them were unabashedly admiring an hour ago.

"Sie war ein Mann?!” (She was a man?!) Von Wolff growled, “Schmidt, du Narr! Du hast uns in einen entarteten Club gebracht!” (Schmidt, you fool! You brought us to a degenerate club!) Schmidt looked notably sheepish, which made Landa question why he hadn’t clued into the young lieutenant’s predilections sooner; no matter now. Lt. Orlock got up, fist at the ready. Marilyn for his part, didn’t shy away.

"Yeah? You wanna fight me, you pieces of shit?" he blurted, breaking free of Landa's grasp for a moment, "Come on. Come on! Why don’t you teach me what it's like to be a man?!" Landa put a stop to Marilyn's antagonistic behavior by grabbing his arm again, tighter this time.

"And the queer is American," Von Wolff mentioned in English, giving Marilyn the dirtiest look.

“That’s me, everyone’s favorite American slut,” Marilyn sighed. Orlock threatened to punch him again, so Marilyn spat in his face. This had the same effect as waving a red flag in front of a bull.

“Ah ah,” Von Wolff growled, holding Orlock back. “He will get what he deserves behind bars, Lieutenant. He is a person of interest, especially having broken the law in such a… repulsive, lewd manner.”

“I think it’s repulsive and lewd how you’re gonna jerk off later thinking of my ass,” Marilyn mouthed off, and Landa yanked his arm roughly in warning.

"No doubt he is of interest to us," Landa nodded slightly, "I could tell instantly the moment he stepped onstage."

"Bullshit," Marilyn snapped, and that finally earned him a hard slap across the face from Landa. The colonel kept his expression hard, but cringed a little inwardly. He didn't mean to hit the younger man that hard. Marilyn though, shut his mouth, the sting of the slap sending a wave of arousal through him. Perfect. Now he had an inappropriate erection to deal with in his lacy little panties, on top of being taken to see goddamn Adolf Hitler over a little drag performance. Let's go to Germany, Dita said. It'll be fun, she said.

“Und wieder einmal,” (Once again) Von Wolff said, bowing his head, “Ihr Talent Dinge zu erkennen sucht seinesgleichen, Herr Oberst Landa. Ich werde ihnen versichern dass in weniger als fünf Minuten ein Wagen bereit steht und sich um dieses Schwein kümmert.” (Your talents of detection are unmatched, Herr Colonel Landa. I will ensure an automobile for you in less than five minutes to take care of this swine.)

Landa nodded, and escorted Marilyn outside. He kept a firm grip on the performer's arm, and prompted him to get into the car first. Landa then closed the door, keeping his expression calm. They were driven to Landa's private residence in the automobile, the place where he conducted some of his higher profile interrogations.

On his side of the car, Marilyn was mentally kicking himself over being so goddamn naïve. Years of experience, and he still hadn’t learned that not every man or woman that throws a compliment or two his way and seems like the sweetest thing to walk the earth was trustworthy. Maybe he had had too many unrequited affairs—unrequited in the end, that is. He gave affection-starved a whole new meaning… but affection wasn’t all he wanted in this case. Being this close to the Colonel was warming him up... he recalled the gaze he met in the mirror, what was behind it. It was as if the Colonel had been undressing him with his eyes. Could that really have all been an act after all to lure him in? If so, this Landa guy was very good at what he did.

“So. You believe in your cause here?”

“I thought you didn’t like to get political.”

“Well I just figured, before you kill me, I wanna know that it means something to you.”

Landa looked out the window of the car. “I am a part of this organization by uniform only. I am an opportunist. Not a fascist slave.”

“Huh. You sound more like an American than I do.”

The decoration of the old mansion was ornate, beautiful, and Marilyn tried not to get too distracted by it all. At last, Landa followed him in and shut the front door, the two protected by the privacy of his own home. "You can rest easy. I am not holding you prisoner, or murdering you."

"Then why the fuck did you kidnap me?!" Marilyn demanded, rubbing his arm where Landa had had it in a death grip.

"Don’t be so dramatic. I did not kidnap you, I merely removed you from our primary location. Do not forget, I still have jurisdiction in this region to select anyone whom I deem to be an enemy of the state in hiding, to question them and to kill them at my bidding."

Marilyn huffed. "You really want to kill me?"

"No. I do not want to kill you."

“Nah, you wanna fuck me first.”

“Will you learn to speak with better etiquette?”

“Just because I say fuck, doesn’t mean I don’t have better etiquette than you. You’re actually the first man I’ve met in a long time I can carry on an intelligent conversation with.”

Hans considers this. “Your intellect is prominent, I will admit.”

“The only difference between you and me is a little lipstick, and the fact that I say what I mean.” Marilyn strutted in to tug Hans’ tie. “I’d like to get my lipstick all over you, though.”

Hans tugged his tie loose, swallowing. “Red was never my colour.”

“It will be tonight.”

“Scheisse…”

Marilyn looked down and inspected his nails. "Anyway. I don't know why your friends were all so shocked to see I was a man," he muttered, "You military guys might wanna check the part of town they’re spending your evenings in next time you go out and decide to have a good time kidnapping performers for the glory of the state."

“Watch your tongue.”

“You watch my tongue, it’ll be all over your body in a second.”

Hans got pinker in the face. "I've told you, this is not kidnapping, and that was all a show that was necessary to move locations," he sighed, locking his door.

"You couldn't have just fucked me there, in my dressing room?"

"Of course not, it was an open dressing room, there was no door! I will not risk my reputation for that, good god."

"Awww... I'm not worth it?" Marilyn asked, and Landa clenched his jaw.

"Do not push your luck."

"I've already done that, Herr Colonel."

Landa was affected the name, and melted into the touch as Marilyn started to undo his pants, getting between his legs. The same fantasies from earlier swirled in Landa's head, imagining the taller man’s red lips closing around his cock. This fantasy would evidently come true. Marilyn dropped to his knees, and finally got him out of his pants. His false eyelashes blinked up, and he gave the head a kitten lick, before obscenely taking the whole thing to the back of his throat.

"Oh, meine liebe, you have a talent..."

"Keep talking."

He went back down on Hans, his tongue working magic on the Colonel. Hans admired him. "Look at how beautiful you are... you are gorgeous."

"If I run my mouth about it, I gotta have the goods to back it up." Marilyn grinned and hollowed out his cheeks, moaning a little and getting off on being used. “Slap me?”

“For what?”

“I like it. Like you did earlier, slap me in the face while you’re face fucking me.” Landa bit his lip, and Marilyn looked up, fire burning in those mismatched eyes. “Did I stutter? Now!” The slap was sharp, and echoed in the large house. Marilyn went even faster on Landa’s dick, his pale cheek immediately taking on the pink imprint of Landa’s hand. “Again.”

Another slap hit him, and Marilyn licked back to Landa’s balls, grazing his perineum and making the German hiss. After a second, he started to feel Landa throb, and popped off, standing up. Marilyn put a slender hand on his arm. He then leaned in, and connected their lips in a chaste kiss, gently working a little deeper until Landa's mouth was open and gasping. Marilyn pulled back, smirking down at him. "My lipstick looks good on you after all."

Landa ran his tongue along his bottom lip, and felt his cock throb. He didn’t want to ask it...

"What's on your mind?" Marilyn asked, voice soft and smooth as the green velvet cabriole he was lowering Hans onto. "Never slept with a man?"

"No," Landa said, "I have." They continued to kiss heatedly, and Marilyn wandered his hand down between the two, pressing on Landa's erection. When he snapped his hips down in a purely instinctual thrust, Landa dropped his head back, mouth falling open.

"You want me inside you," Marilyn realized, trailing his fingers down Landa's heaving chest. "Don't you? Hm? You wanna feel my big cock pounding your ass, don't you, you dirty motherfucker?"

"Ah, scheisse," Landa muttered again, and reached down to touch his aching erection. Marilyn slapped his hand away, and replaced it with his own.

"Nuh uh. That’s all mine." Marilyn stood, smirking. “This what you want?” Hans lay back against the couch cushions, eyes hooded as Marilyn snapped the fabric of his panties against that porcelain skin. “You want this cock, pretty boy?” He teased his thinly veiled erection in Landa’s face, rubbing himself slowly through the black lace. Landa wanted to reach out and touch it, but Marilyn danced his hips away every time he did. “Is this what you want me to do to you…?” Marilyn turned, as if giving Landa his own private strip show, and slid two fingers between his asscheeks, moaning a little as he played with his entrance for a second. “You want me to play with your hole like this, Herr Colonel? You want me to---ohhh--- touch you like this, fuck you like this?”

Landa could barely breathe. The sound of the taller man’s voice alone did things to him that no other had before. Marilyn turned back around to lightly bump his cock against the German man’s face, grinding it so close to his lips, daring him to try and touch. When the performer was good and satisfied with how well he had trained Landa, he smugly relented, crawling back between his legs.

Landa watched the man on top of him, watched his long lashes blink, his crimson lips part to make way for his tongue to swipe. He really was beautiful.

"You're so fucking beautiful," Marilyn whispered against his skin as he leaned in again, echoing Landa's unspoken sentiments, "I'm gonna wreck this body so hard." Landa let out a strangled moan, and Marilyn looked around. "Please say you have something I can lube up with. I have two morals. One, never make music that confuses strippers like me, and two, never go into a guy dry—the blood is impossible to get out of lingerie."

"The oil is over there."

"Mm." He grabbed the oil, and started to gently prepare Landa, watching him writhe. "You finger yourself often, Colonel? You get the girls you bring back here to fuck you with their fingers? Big strap-ons? Do they go running their mouths all over the place, telling everyone how Hans Landa the cockslut likes taking it up the ass?"

Landa couldn’t respond... he could only clench his jaw. Marilyn jerked his cock a few times, and used the oil to cover himself generously. He then turned Landa over onto his stomach, giving his ass a good smack before sinking into him.

"Take this dick, Landa," Marilyn growled, "You're a powerful man out there. But in here you're my little bitch, aren't you?"

"Oh," Landa moaned. He was already approaching his orgasm, golden hair matted to his forehead and lips pink and stained.

"Close already? Huh? Imagine if you were fucking me. Hm? You'd leave me hard, wouldn't you? You'd just cum in my ass right now, wouldn’t you?"

"I- I can't..."

"Useless. You're fucking pathetic, you can't even last five minutes."

Landa gasped, trying to contain his moans. He never mentioned anything about humiliation being something he was aroused by in bed, but Marilyn was right—intuition is a part of being good at this, and Marilyn was good at this.

“I’m…” Landa couldn’t finish his sentence. He stifled his next groan in his arm, breath hitching.

"Nah ah. I want you to moan like every bit of the slut you are. COME ON, let me heat it! I want all of Germany to know it.” Marilyn’s voice rose until he was practically screaming himself hoarse, tugging Landa’s hair back roughly. “I want the whole fucking world to know it, goddamnit, let me hear you!"

"Scheisse, scheisse, bitte!" Landa cried, feeling himself tip over the edge. With his brutal pace, the performer hit his prostate, and Hans finally came in Marilyn’s fist. Marilyn waited for him to finish, then pulled out, jerking off onto him with his fist a blur. Hans felt Marilyn's cum paint his back, and bit his fist. The performer then sat back on his heels, wiping his brow.

"All you military men have great asses."

Landa, regaining his usual confidence with his breath, scoffs at this. "And how would you know this beyond your experience with me?"

Marilyn gave him a look. "Dita, Tim and I have done nothing but drink and sleep our way around Berlin for the past few months. We have enough experience.”

Landa sat up, doing his shirt buttons up to his lower chest. "I thought you said all the other officers would beat you for 'seducing' them."

"Doesn't mean I can't look at their backsides after they beat me."

Landa shook his head, a small smile playing at his lips. "You really are something, Marilyn... eh, what was your last name?"

"That will remain a mystery. I’m not giving you any more than you need to know after... all that."

"It was a happy ending for the both of us," Landa protested.

"Sure, after a big fucking hassle. I don't even know if it was worth it."

"Remember," Landa growled, "I can still have you arrested if I choose to."

"Right," Marilyn whispered, sauntering over to him to help him do up the rest of his buttons, "While you’re feeling like a big man again, let's not forget who made you moan like the little whore your men think I am ten minutes ago." He kissed Landa's cheek tenderly, grazed his hand down to give the German's clothed cock a pat, and smirked as he walked off to Landa's bar in search of more absinthe.

“Well,” the Colonel sighed, smoothing his hair back to a respectable style, “What is that American expression? You can’t judge a book by its cover.”

Das Haus Des Gold would most likely be his nightclub of choice from now on... but next time, Landa would be sure to attend alone for, perhaps, a more private show.

29 notes · View notes

wereallsaloonaticshere · 5 years ago

Text

Matthew doesn’t think before he speaks.

Fandom: Eddsworld, saloonatics

Word count: 10963

Summary: Matthew doesn’t want the bandits to be hanged so he convinces the others to bring them to England, and accidentally gets them sent to the dungeons.

TW: Violence, torture mention (it doesn’t actually happen don’t worry), transphobia, homophobia, ask to tag

~~~

It all looked very unlike the typical princely posture everyone around him was accustomed to. With his hands on his knees, leaning his face against the cool concrete of the jail wall, he panted, face a blotchy, sweaty red. He looked unfit to don the layers and layers of purple and gold he had yet to take off.

“How...do any of you...” He took a gasp, “survive in this hell?” He looked up and blinked. He must’ve taken a wrong turn somewhere, because he sneered and said, “Oh. Well, I’m terribly sorry, fellows-”

“Are you okay?” Juan, the shortest bandit in the cell, interrupted, “I ‘member your skin bein’ a different shade of pink before.”

The prince sucked in a quick breath, and it wasn’t due to the temperature.

“Well, my apologies if I’m not used to being on fire. You will all soon, I’m sure, understand the feeling.” He turned on his heel, and walked towards the door. He jerked his hand away, though, when the metal burned him. He pulled his sleeve over his hand and twisted it that way, opening the door. He heard a whisper then a laugh behind him, and spun around to face the sound. “Who said that?”

A few more bandits laughed, including Juan.

“As your-” He cleared his throat, “As a prince, I demand that you tell me. What is so funny?”

“Who’s askin’?” Another bandit straightened his shoulders and glared a hole through the prince.

“Uh...” He swallowed in response, his eyes falling upon Juan. He was quite passive, wasn’t he? “Juan, was it? Tell me now.”

“U-um.” Juan stuttered, everyone staring at him, “I...they were sayin’ it was weird how you can’t stand any heat.“

“Well,” The prince huffs, “in England we don’t have quite the same weather. Now, if you’ll excuse me.” He turns on his heel and walks out the door, ignoring how his hand burnt when he touched the handle.

Eduardo flicked Juan upside the head, “Idiot.”

“Hey!” He rubbed his head, “I only told ‘im so he wouldn’t be upset!”

“Why would you care about his comfort?” He crossed his arms, a stance he often took.

“Because...” Juan bit the inside of his lip, “well, I feel bad for him, I guess.”

“Bad? For him?” His eyes were wide, “Why? He’s a prince. He’s rich, he has everything, and most importantly, he threw us in jail.”

“The sheriff threw us in jail, technically.” Juan muttered, “And without the detective-”

“God, Juan, you’re such an idiot.” Eduardo ran a hand down his face, “he got out! He escaped, and with him, our possibility of making a profit.”

“He was a person, though,” Juan said, “y-you really shouldn’ta done that to him, we-we should’ve stuck to bank robbin’.”

“Me? We all helped!” Eduardo gestured in a circle to Juan and Marco, the latter pretending to read in the corner while he listened in on the other’s conversation. “And that includes you, so don’t pretend you weren’t a part of this just so you can have a pity party with yourself.”

“I had no say in it!” Juan stood up straight then backed down again once he saw the crease in Eduardo’s eyes, “You two brought the prince in and forced me ta keep watch! I never knew nothin’ ‘bout it ‘til he was already unconscious!”

“Still! You could’ve always just said no and left,” he threw his arms out beside him, “that’s always been an option.”

“No, it hasn’t, because then where would I live?” Juan couldn’t keep the bite from his voice, “I joined our group thinking no one would get hurt, and then when I had ta hurt someone, I was already trapped!”

“No one ever trapped you!” Eduardo’s voice suddenly boomed around the small jail. Everyone turned to look now, “so shut up and stop acting like a baby!”

“I’m not acting like a baby! You know what you would’a done if I had refused to watch over him! I wouldn’t get food, or a share of the gold, or-or,” Juan found it hard to hold back, but he suppressed his urge to yell, “or you might’ve made me sleep in the stables, like last time I didn’t do whatever you said!”

“Juan-” his voice was a warning, sent through gritted teeth.

“Or maybe all that wouldn't’ve be enough for you. Maybe you’d leave for a week without telling me, so that I’d think you’d died! Or you’d make me be the one to kill the lame horse, even though you knew I loved him! Wasn’t that a fun little punishment for, what was it again? Oh, right; having a conscience?” Tears pricked Juan’s eyes, as they often did when he was mad, but he barely felt them.

“Juan, shut-”

“So yeah. I think I did feel a little trapped. In fact, I think I’ve felt that way since the day I met you-”

“Shut UP!” Eduardo punched Juan in the nose, and now the tears were really flowing, as he fell to the cold, hard floor with Eduardo on top of him. “I SAVED you! You would’ve starved to death if I didn’t take you in!”

“I could’a found someone else! Or made it by myself!” He defended himself. “I didn’t need you, or anyone!”

Eduardo’s eye twitched.

“You sure did need me when your parents died though, didn’t you?” Eduardo glared knowingly at him, and Juan’s sweat turned cold.

“My parents might’ve died when I was young,” Juan said with startling steadiness, “but at least they didn’t beat me while they were alive, like yours did.”

Eduardo blinked and shook, betrayal evident in the way his fist slowly curled around Juan’s collar.

The two men glared at the other through two different cells, separated so they wouldn’t make good on the threats they whispered under their breath.

“Now, are you two going to continue to act like children, or am I going to have to confine you to separate rooms?” Sheriff Thompson said, looking tired and fed up with the two bandits.

“’S not my fault Eduardo took it too-”

“You’re the one who-!”

“Stop! Stop it, both of you!” He shouted, and rolled his good eye. “I have half a mind to put you two in the other rooms. You’re disturbing the other prisoners.”

“Yeah, Juan.”

“Oh, would you-”

“That’s it.” Thompson unlocked Juan’s cell and grabbed his arm, pulling him out, “I’m putting you in a different room by yourself.”

“Wha-what?” Juan tried to pull away, “Why not Eduardo?”

“...Eh. I was closer to you.” Thompson shrugged, “And you’re beaten up pretty badly. The other cell’s lock is harder to break, so he can’t hurt you more if he happens to get out.”

“Oh, great.” Juan sighed as he followed Thompson to the other room, which took a different key to open.

“Good riddance.” Eduardo glared, but Juan refused to look back at him.

“Yeah,” Thompson said, setting the sweating glass of celebration-whiskey back onto the counter, “he looks like his head was bashed in. A split lip, two black eyes, the works. We even had to put him in a different cell in a different room.”

“The blood was hell to clean up off the floor,” The bartender nodded, cleaning what looked like to be the same glass as yesterday.

“The other guy didn’t come out too good lookin’ either,” Thompson said. “Didn’t know he had it in him to fight like that.”

“He did strike me as sort of a meater as well, but I suppose looks are often deceiving.” Edward said offhandedly as he scribbled onto some paper.

“Whatcha’ writin’?” Thompson asked, leaning over to see.

“Oh, just about how we saved the prince and that I’m okay.” Edward pressed his lips together as he scribbled out a misspelling on quite an easy word, “He, my brother, worries quite I deal, you see.”

“Really? You didn’t tell me ya had a brother.”

“I’ve only known you just under a week, and while the prince was captured my brother wasn’t exactly the first thing on my mind.” Edward smiled, “but no, his name is Eddins.”

“Really? What’s he do?”

The prince swirled the whiskey in his glass, watching the ice melt. His distorted reflection raised it’s curved eyebrow. “Got his face ‘bashed in’, huh?” He smirks at his glass, “I simply wouldn’t be able to handle it if any of those heathens were to lay a single crooked finger on me.”

“Yes, I know,” Edward looked away and sipped his glass, picking up his pen and writing again.

“I mean,” He turns to Thompson, “can you imagine? This face? Worth more than any gold.”

“Yes. It would be a travesty.” Edward said, writing faster.

“I mean, not to offend you two or any of the lovely people in this town, but,” Edward squeezed his eyes shut as Matthew spoke, “I triple in value in comparison.”

“Of course you do.” Edward said, visibly cringing.

“I simply can’t imagine my face getting even a scratch.” He put a hand to his forehead, looking both earnest and shockingly over-dramatic.

“Well, it wouldn’t be that big a deal,” Thompson pointed out, “it happens to all of us.”

“No, no,” Matthew shook his head, “I’d have to leave forever, since there’d be nothing else for me to do. There’d be no point in going on.”

“...That’s really sad, Princey.” Thompson sipped some of his drink, looking over the other with a concerned eye.

“It’s supposed to be.” He put simply, taking a slightly longer sip that usual, “as much as I loathe that little man, I pity him. Hurting one’s looks is the greatest sin of all.”

The bartender laughed a little. “I thought the greatest sin was murder.”

“Yes, yes,” He rolled his eyes, “that to. Murder, then hurting my face.”

“What about torture?” Edward said smugly, deciding to play the technicality game.

The prince sighs loudly, “Murder, torture, than my face, those are the greatest–wait–no! Not my face, hurting my–”

“HA!” Like a burst of energy, Thompson laughed.

“Your face,” Edward said between laughs, “is the worst sin of all humanity. That is just–that is great.”

“’S all makin’ sense now.”

“Oh, shut up!” He huffed and crossed his arms, “My point–”

“I don’t think you’re that good looking,” The bartender shrugged, “I mean, of course I don’t, but I can’t even see how others might think you are. Under that makeup, I reckon you look rather plain.”

The prince looked as if someone had shot him. “You don’t think–you can’t–plain-”

“Why are you overreacting like this?” The bartender smirked, “Who cares what I think? You don’t even know me.”

“I-it’s the principal of it!” The prince exclaimed, “How could someone think that about me at all?”

“You’re being kinda childish right now,” The bartender shrugged.

“I am not!” He slammed his fist down onto the counter, and regretted it immediately. Patrons turned to stare and, once they realized what happened, started to laugh. He bit his lip and ran out of the saloon, with Edward and Thompson chasing him down.

They don’t need to run far, because Matthew took refuge just behind the bar.

“Prince Matthew?” Edward knelt down in front of the prince who was sitting on the ground, “Are you quite alright?”

“Yes, I’m just feeling rather...” He shakily breathed, “You think I’m good looking right? Objectively?”

“Um...” Edward squinted, “do the ladies fawning all over you every chance they get not enough to convince you? Trust me; you look good. Some bartender in a nothing town–sorry Thompson–doesn’t change that.”

Matthew pondered this, then sighed, “I suppose.” His eyes were downcast.

“Well, hey,” Thompson laughed to lighten the mood, “at least you’ll always be better lookin’ than that bandit.”

“That’s setting the bar rather low,” Matthew scowled. “Saying I look better than someone who recently got their head bashed into concrete isn’t much of a compliment. But you’re right...hey, I have an idea. I could go see how that man looks in person! That’ll surely boost my confidence!”

“...Um,” Edward said, “maybe you should go with one of us? For safety reasons–that is one of the men that kidnapped you, you know.”

“No, no, I’m not a child,” He stood up and wiped the dirt from his clothes, “I can handle myself, thank you.”

Edward looked to Thompson.

“Eh...sure. I trust ya.”

“Will you excuse us, Matthew, while you stay right here?” Edward turned and walked a few paces with Thompson so that Matthew wouldn’t hear them, “are you insane? I didn’t come here by boat for months just so that you could jeopardize his safety again!”

“’Tective, you’re bein’ too over dramatic,” he waved him off, “like he said, he’s a grown man, he can handle it.”

“Oh...” he looks back at Matthew already walking towards the jail with a determined step. “alright. But I’m blaming you if anything goes wrong.”

“All I’m saying is that you are the one who first mentioned parents,” A high-ish voice said, sounding strained like they’d made that point more than once. Matthew had his hand on the doorknob but then he froze and leaned closer to the door, (he didn’t press his ear to it because he didn’t want to dirty his face), to try to hear better. “You kind of started it.”

“God!” Eduardo shouted, and the sound of steel bars rattling like they were tumbling out of a brown bag rang through the jail, “what he said to me was way worse!”

“You shouldn’t have started it! Then it wouldn’t have happened at all!” She responded, “honestly, I think you should both apologize to each other.”

“What!” He yelled, “I shouldn’t have to!”

Matthew sighed as Eduardo recaps what he just said again, and eventually opened the door.

“Hello, I’m going to see Juan,” Matthew said, realizing as he walked in that he didn’t know which cell he was in. “Er...where may he be?”

“...Why do you care?” Eduardo seethed, “what, is he the talk of the fuckin’ world now? Is he just so great you just have to see him? What, you-you gonna fall in love with him too?” His voice breaks at the end.

“I am not in love with him!” A woman said, the one with the high-ish voice, “And even if I did, you’d have no right to complain!”

“Not to interrupt a lover’s spat,” Matthew coughed, “but where is he?”

“He’s over there, you pansy.” Another bandit nods to a room on the left and Matthew squares his shoulders and walks towards it, thankful there was steel between them.

The two people resumed their arguing, but it was barely audible when Matthew closed the door. Half the room was behind bars, where Juan sat on a lone concrete bench. The other half was connected to the door, with a mirroring bench on the same side.

Juan perked up at the door, and blinked through deep purple-rimmed eyes when he saw the royal, clad in violet coats, gold earrings, and ginger hair that clung to his sweaty forehead.

“What are you doing here?” He asked, and lightly scratched a bloody mess where a perfectly ordinary nose might have once been.

“Uh...” he swallowed, not expecting him to look this bad. He didn’t need to convince himself of his look’s worth. Especially not when the person he was comparing himself to was worse–looking than he could ever be, or so the prince hoped. “I’m not sure I remember, actually.”

“Oh.” Juan sayed, “well, stay if you want. I’m kinda lonely.” He awkwardly laughed, looking away from Matthew’s eyes. It got quiet for a few seconds, and he started to walk out. But as his hand went to the doorknob, he paused.

“Why...” Was there any reason to ask him? What would he say? What did he expect him to say, anyway? Still, closure sounded like a comforting thing at the moment, when he was standing next to the only person who even had a chance of giving an honest answer, so he asked, somewhat softly, “why did you do it?”

“I didn’t even want to!” Juan shouted, “I just didn’t want to be thrown out for not doing what they say!”

“...So you’re blaming your partners?” He crossed his arms, “You didn’t have to do anything. You have free will.”

“No! I don’t! And I never did!” Juan wiped his eyes harshly, “If I refused to look over you, or talked back to them, they’d get mad! You don’t know what bandits do when they’re mad!” He slammed his fist down at his side.

“You’re right. I don’t.”

“A-and I,” Juan wiped at his eyes again, “I’m so sorry. I’m sorry for being such a fucking coward.”

“...” Matthew opened his mouth then closed it. “Why did you start a fight with him if you were scared of him?”

“...I guess he just went too far.” Juan sighed, and rubbed his face, then jerked his hand away with a muttered ‘ow’, “but looking back on it, I wasn’t too nice myself.”

“I take it something happened to your parents?” Matthew asked.

Juan squinted at him. “How did you…”

“Oh, I heard some women and Eduardo arguing about it, saying that he mentioned parents first, so it wasn’t entirely your fault,” he clarified.

“Fern said that, right?” Juan said, “she usually takes my side, yeah.”

“What’d she do to get in jail?” Matthew asked offhandedly.

“She tried to break Eduardo outta jail and got caught.”

“That fast? You’ve only been here for a day or so.”

Juan shrugged and looked away, “she’s loyal to a fault. Most’a the time.”

Matthew took a seat on the bench that mirrored Juan’s, “so...what got you into being a bandit, anyways?”

Juan paused for a while, picking at the frayed seams on his bluejeans, “my parents died, and I had to make money somehow. I wasn’t any good at farming, or anything like that, and...I dunno. At the time, it felt so much easier. I wish I never started, though.”

Matthew nodded, and at the lack of anything to add to the conversation, seeing as both his parents were alive and it was just now dawning on him that other people lived very drastically different lives than him, he decided to be polite. “I’m so sorry for your loss.”

“Thanks.” Juan said, slumping even further into his chair.

“...You’re not as awful of a person as I thought you’d be,” Matthew said.

“Thanks.”

“...How long until they put you back into that other room, with the other criminals?”

“I doubt I’ll be sticking around long enough to know.”

“What does that mean?”

“I’m part of a gang of thieves, Matt,” Juan glared weakly at the knees that showed through the torn parts of his pants, “we’ll be hanged.”

The nickname startled Matthew, since only his younger sister had ever called him that before, and even that was just when they were alone. To hear it shortened so casually was...odd.

He shifted in his seat, “that’s...too bad.”

“Yup.”

The air in the room had turned heavy, and Matthew got up and headed for the door.

“Goodbye. I hope God has mercy on you; you don’t seem bad at heart, just weak.”

“Bye.”

Matthew didn’t know where he wanted to go. There weren’t many places to choose from in such a small town, but he figured there had to be something other than the bar or the prison. He decided to head to his hotel room.

It was cooler inside, since Matthew got the only room with air conditioning on account that he was a prince. Though it did nothing to counteract the light beating down on him from the open window. He shut the curtains and lied down on his bed, facing the ceiling. There was still enough light for him to easily see, but he closed his eyes, and pretended he was back at home, hearing the rain crash against his window in the black pitch of night.

He rested his arm over his eyes, wondering what he was going to do next.

Juan hadn’t been mean to him when Matthew was captured; on the contrary, he had tried to make conversation and make the place as comfortable as possible. He did something rash as a child and got stuck with a bad group, but he did seem like he had the potential to be something good. Maybe everyone had that potential.

“Ugh, what am I doing?” Matthew said aloud to himself, rolling over so he now faced the wall, “that man doesn’t deserve to die, he was merely,” he rolled his hand above his head, “a victim of circumstance. I mean, if I had to choose between my own well-being and that of someone I didn’t know, I’d probably choose myself to–”

“Er,” Edward coughed outside the door, “may I come in with your suitcase?”

“What are you talking about, my things are already in here,” Matthew asked, his embarrassment for being caught talking to himself overshadowed by his confusion.

“No, it’s an empty one. You’re leaving tomorrow, did no one tell you?” Edward said, opening the door and walking in.

“Oh, um, no, actually,” Matthew said, sitting up, “no one told me.”

“It’s for the best, you know. We can’t have you staying in an unsafe environment for any longer.” He set the suitcase on the floor, “be up and ready by sunset, then we’ll head to the docks.”

“Alright. See you then.”

“Make sure to get some sleep.” Edward said, “your father wanted you back home as soon as possible, so you’ll be disguised as a normal person on a regular boat.”

“What?” Matthew jumped off the bed, “I’ll have to sleep where everyone else does? And wear what everyone else does–act like everyone else does?”

“Well, yes,” Edward said, “truly, it isn’t that hard.”

“But what about the way I talk? Or the way I stand?” Matthew squared his shoulders for emphasis. “Or what about my face? As the most attractive of England’s princes, people will recognize me.”

“Not if you’re in plain clothes and make even a minute effort to conceal your face.”

“But-”

“Prince, stop!” Edward glared, then softened his expression as he realized his harsh tone, “I...I am only delivering your father’s orders. You are to come back to England by boat as a commoner so as not to arouse questions until we get everything sorted out. And I won’t hear anything else about it.” He set the empty suitcase down and opened the door to leave.

“Wait!” Matthew said, “what will happen to Juan?”

Edward blinked. “Who, pardon?”

“Juan. One of the bandits that kidnapped me.”

“Oh...” Edward said, “um...I assume he’ll be hanged in a few days, why do you ask?”

“Oh, well...” Why did he ask? There was no real reason for him to care about one of the bandits who kidnapped him, even if he did have a decent-enough reason for doing so. But something about the look in his eyes when he was talking to him, the clear regret that he shouldn’t have let his mistake go this far...it jerked at his chest. He deserved a second chance...

But how to convey that to Edward?

Matthew had to be able to get Juan out of the jail so he wouldn’t be hanged, that was obvious. And Matthew could do it by...

“Since the crime was so personal to me,” Matthew started, hoping an idea would form as he spoke, as it sometimes would, “I would like to have Juan come back to England with me, so I could...throw him in the dungeons in England, on my own turf.”

“...” Edward blinked again, “you...okay. I suppose we could find a place for him on the boat, but...weren’t there three criminals?”

“What? Oh–oh yes, that’s what I meant. I simply only remembered Juan’s name.”

“Oh. Okay then. Bye,” Edward waved and left the room.

As Matthew sat in his room, alone once more, he thought about what he said. Juan being in the dungeons isn’t going to help him become a better person...maybe he’d just have to break him out? Or...maybe he’d insist on being the one to ‘torture’ him, when they’d really just talk together, both safe and completely unharmed? He’d think of something, but as of then one thing was for sure–Juan wasn’t going to get hanged anytime soon.

Thompson unlocked the door and walked into the cell, putting handcuffs on Juan, and began to walk out.

“Hey, wait!” Juan pulled back on Thompson’s grip, “I don’t want to go back to the cell with Eduardo, he’ll kill me!”

“Calm down,” Thompson rolled his eye, “you’re not going back to that cell, you an’ your friends are goin’ to a different cell on a boat to England. You’ll be separated there and on the ride there, ‘a course.”

“Huh?” Juan said as he was escorted out of his cell and into the larger, main cell.

“What’s going on?” Fern asked Juan as she saw him.

“How would I know?” Juan asked.

“Because if it’s a boat to England, than it prolly has something to do with the Prince, who’s also boardin’ a ship to England. Who you talked to just a day ago.” She crossed her arms.

“Oh...” Juan tried to think of exactly what Matthew told him, “I don’t think he said anythin’ ‘bout this.”

“Hey, what’s the meaning of this!?” Eduardo shouted from outside the jail. “Where’re you takin’ me!?”

“Shit-” Thompson ran outside, pulling Juan with him, “what’s goin-”

“Juan! Did you do this?” Eduardo yelled, with Edward holding him in handcuffs.

“No!” Juan said, “I don’t even know what’s goin’ on!”

“If I get hurt in any way cause’a you, I swear.” Eduardo glared with all his might.

“We’re both gonna get hanged no matter where we are, so save it!” Juan glared right back.

“Y yo, no me olvides.” Marco rolled his eye as he was lead onto the carriage that would bring him to the docks. Then he added, more quietly, “Aunque sé que lo harás.”

“Okay, well, either way you three’ve gotta go,” Thompson turned to Edward, “have Eduardo sit in the other section, since Juan doesn’t have any problems with the blond one.”

“Why do I have to be alone?” Eduardo asked.

“Because I was already alone, now we have to switch! Plus, you don’t even like Marco!” Juan said.

“El rubio? De Verdad?“ Marco said.

“Shut up!” Thompson shouted, “ya’ll er’ actin’ like a buncha’ schoolgirls, I swear! You’ll get in there, sit where we tell ya to, and wait ‘till we get to the docks! Then, when ya do get there, you damn well better follow orders. Understand?”

They all nodded.

“Good,” Thompson sighed, “Edward, ima go back to my office; think you can handle the rest?”

“Of course.”

“Well...it was nice workin’ with ya.” Thompson held out his hand.

Edward took it, “I won’t forget to write. But goodbye for now.”

Thompson nodded and walked off towards his office. Edward watched him go for a couple of seconds.

“Okay, you get in here,” he told Juan, and Juan climbed in, sitting next to Marco. Then Edward turned to Eduardo, “you’ll be in this part of the—”

“It’s stupid I have to be the one in the separate—”

“Would you like to sit in a small room with a person you hate for the next few weeks, or be alone?” Edward glared at Eduardo as he walked.

Eduardo said nothing until they got to where he was supposed to go. Then, as he was climbing in, he said, “Maybe this isn’t the worst arrangement after all; now I won’t have to hear Juan’s dumbass voice every fuckin’ secon—”

Edward closed the carriage door, and walked to the front of it, sitting next to the coachman.

“I take it we’re headin’ to the docks?” The coachman asked.

“Yes.” Edward nodded, as he picked up a book from his luggage and opened it. It was about a sheriff in a small town who could see three days into the future. Edward thought about how Thompson might like it.

After the long boat ride, Matthew stepped out onto the British soil. Or, rather, the British wood of the British docks.

“Am I allowed to go change into more suitable clothing or will I forever have to suffer in these rags?” Matthew huffed, as he fell into step next to Edward.

“You’re dressed in the clothing of a very wealthy man, so it could’ve been worse,” he suppressed an eye roll, “but yes, you will be able to change, just as soon as we arrive at the hotel.”

“Ugh!” Matthew loudly exclaimed, attracting a few stares from passersby, “I can’t believe this.”

“Soon, it’ll be over,” Edward said, “hopefully.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“This isn’t terribly fun for me, either, you know,” Edward stared ahead as he walked, “hearing you complain so bloody often.”

“You have no right talking to me that way!” Matthew said, “I’m a prince!”

“I’m aware.” Edward nearly growled, then took a deep breath, and said, “just...know that it will be over soon, okay?”

Matthew looked over at the boat they just got off of, then the skyline, anything but Edward’s eyes.

Edward sighed, “we’ll get on another carriage and ride until sunset, then we’ll stop at a hotel called the 'Knight Inn’. I hope that’s to your liking, because it’s the one your father already paid for.”

Still Matthew said nothing.

Edward continued, “once you settle into your suite, we can discuss the matter of those bandits.”

“Oh, yes, them,” Matthew had been ignoring what he was going to say about them. He didn’t particularly care about what happened to the two who weren’t Juan, since they were the ones who actually kidnapped him, but he worried what would happen to Juan himself. If he was going to the dungeons, he would surely be tortured, but Matthew couldn’t bear the thought of that. At least Juan was nice to him while he was held captive, he didn’t deserve to get punished as harshly as the others. Maybe he could... “about them.”

“...Yes?” Edward asked, “what about them?”

“Well...uh...” Matthew trailed off, nothing to say coming to mind.

“...I was going to say that we would discuss what would happen to them. Did you have anything to add?” His tone wasn’t rude, but curious or confused.

“Yes, um, you see,” Matthew searched his brain for something to say, “I, uh...wanted to send them to the dungeons, um, myself.”

“...You mean, torture them yourself?” Edward squinted, something unreadable in his eyes.

“Yes, exactly!” Matthew said, relieved he finally found a point, “it was very personal to me, you see, so, I’d like to deliver them their punishment myself.”

“...Alright, then.” Edward said.

When the carriage rolled up to them, after 20 or so minutes of walking, they climbed in, and didn’t speak until they arrived at the hotel.

The Knight Inn was almost like a small castle, which made Matthew all the more excited to arrive there. It had murky, still waters in the front that reflected the many levels and windows of the tall building. In the sunset, it was all painted red.

“One hundred shillings, please,” the coachman demanded as they pulled up to the hotel.

“What?” Edward asked, “that’s a preposterous amount!”

“Why are you angry, it’s the king’s money,” he shrugged.

“I could have you arrested for treason!” Matthew said, glad he could finally throw his weight around again.

“No you couldn’t.” The coachman smiled and held out his hand, “and it’s 120 shillings now.”

Edward grumbled as he paid it, and watched the man drive off.

“Coachman? More like a go-out, I swear.” Edward said to himself as they walked to the hotel check in.

“Yes, he was simply atrocious. Taking advantage of innocent people.” He stopped when he got to the desk where the hotel worker was.

“Yes, hello, we have-”

“Oh, yes, your room is ready!” The man shot out of his seat and ran up to escort them to the stairs, “the suite is on the top floor, I hope it accommodates to your every need.”

“I’m sure it will,” Edward read the man’s name tag, “Wilson.”

“May I take your bags for you?” Wilson asked.

“Oh, of course!” Edward handed them to him, and they began walking up the stairs.

When they finally arrived at the royal castle a few days later, he was met by his mother enveloping him in a hug.

“Oh! I was so worried!” She kisses him all over his face, “my little baby boy! My angel!”

“Thank you, thank you,” Matthew tried to lightly push her away, “I missed you too.”

“Oh, I’m never letting you leave this castle again, for fear of something happening to you!” the Queen pulled back and looked her son over, just to make absolutely sure he was real, and hugged him again.

The rest of the day was barely memorable. His father came down to teach him in the ways of battle strategy and economics. Matthew would’ve thought his father had actually forgotten about him getting kidnapped if he hadn’t added something extra to his homework notes- “please be more careful the next time you travel out of our sight. We don’t want to lose you.” It was a sweet gesture, and it resonated with him in an odd way.

His father was never the type to verbally tell him that he had done something good, or that he was proud of him, or even that he loved him. He just never said it. But at least this showed he cared, in some small way.

Matthew suddenly wished his mother were there to hug him.

He rushed to his room and set his papers down on his desk, collapsing onto his bed. There was a knock at his door.

“Yes?” Matthew asked, reaching a hand up to smooth his hair.

“Detective Edward Gold said you wanted to torture the bandits yourself?” John, one of Matthew’s best butlers, asked, “they’re here now, and your father’s going to teach you how to-”

“Oh!” A small sweat appeared on his forehead. How to convince him that he didn’t want to actually hurt them? “I can do it myself, but tell my father I said thank you for the offer.”

“Uh- are you certain, because-”

“Yes, yes, of course!” He sat up and opened the door, “are they already in the dungeons?”

“Yes, your highness,” John said, with his arms placed politely behind his back. “Would you like me to show you to them?”

“No, thank you, I’ll be alright-”

“Your father insisted,” John said, stopping him from walking past him with one hand on his shoulder.

Matthew looked back at him. He was already going against his father’s—the king’s—wishes for him; he could go along with this.

“Of course, how silly of me. Go on,” he said, letting John lead him down to the dungeons as he fell into step behind him.

As they were walking, taking nearly nonsensical twists and turns, Matthew silently was grateful that John had stopped him and became his guide.

Sometimes, like when Matthew was little and he and his sister would play tag or cops and robbers or some other childhood game, he found the vastness of the palace that he lived in quite astounding. It truly felt like anything could be accomplished in the mystery of unopened doors. Now, however, as they arrived at the downward slope of stairs that led directly into the dungeons, he couldn’t help but find it daunting. It was like a big prison, with many rooms and decorative dead ends. Not to mention the fact that since he was royalty someone would always be following him, under the guise of ‘showing him the way’. And while that was reassuring when he was a child, it felt rather off-putting now that he was an adult, like a shirt he once loved but had since outgrown, but still had to wear, no matter how much he thought about just clawing it off, blood stains and all.

As John took a torch off of a nearby wall to light the way, Matthew wondered if he could maybe run past him, loose him in the darkness, and walk the rest of the way there himself. But even if he did succeed in that, John would tell his father, and he’d get lectured about safety and respecting authority. Plus, they were almost there, anyways.

Matthew coughed into his elbow.

“Getting sick, your highness?”

“No, no,” Matthew said, “it’s that smoke; do you have to keep it so close to my face?”

“It’s not nearly close enough to burn you, and you have to see,” John explained, “besides, there’s no need to worry, seeing as we’re about to arrive.”

They came up to a thick black door, with many thick black locks attached to it. John took out his keys and opened each lock except for the biggest one. Right as his key was poised to go in, he turned to Matthew.

“The first one holds a man named Juan, whom you’ve apparently taken a special interest to? Or at least that’s what Detective Gold said. And at the far right corner of that room lays a door, which holds the other man, and so on with the third.

“They are already tied to a chair, and should be awake by now. I don’t think he would’ve been able to get out of the ropes, but you never know with newcomers. So, even though you’ve requested to do this alone, I do want to check and make sure-”

“No,” Matthew said firmly, “I’ll be fine, thank you.”

John looked down at the key in his hand. He sighed to himself, unlocked it, and pushed it open, peering in to see the bandit on the other side of the room, still sleeping.

“As you wish, your highness.” he turned and handed him the keys and the torch, stepping aside so he could walk in, “but if you happen to change your mind-”

“Thank you, sir,” Matthew took the keys and walked in, shutting the door behind him.

As he gets closer to Juan, each step creaking loudly and echoing against the high walls, he notices a table a few yards away. On it laid razors and hammers and pliers and all sorts of things that made Matthew’s stomach crawl. Swallowing something down, he placed the torch above the table on the latch.

He turned towards Juan, and suddenly wondered what he’d gotten them all into. No doubt Juan was scared out of his mind when he was told he was going to be sent...here. If he was even told at all. Maybe he was meant to be surprised when he woke up and found himself in a pitch black room, surrounded with nothing but bloody contraptions and rotting gore.

Matthew quickly thought about all the other people in the dungeons, most of whom he’d never met, and all of whom certainly didn’t deserve to live out the rest of their days in a place like this, but immediately pushed the thought away. He had to focus on the matter at hand, on talking to Juan about how they were going to get him out of there. Matthew leaned back and looked up at the tall ceiling, shrouded completely from any light. What if something happened one day and a guard walked in and noticed they all looked completely normal? Or if his father decided he wanted to check his son’s handiwork?

Everything would fall apart. And the worst thing about it was that he wouldn’t even be able to explain why he’d done it. His father already looked down upon him for always doing poorly in his studies, so telling him that he only accidentally sent them to the dungeons because he didn't want them to die would only further his disappointment. And Matthew was already so worried he’d disappoint his father...

Matthew looked down back at Juan. His neck was curved forward in an uncomfortable looking angle and his shoulder length hair completely covered his eyes. He was still sleeping, undoubtedly.

Since Matthew only had a limited amount of time to spend there, he snapped his fingers in front of Juan’s face. He blinked at the sound and his eyes focused groggily, then he pressed his body against the chair as hard as he could.

“Ugh...” He said, voice hoarse from lack of water, “don’t...” his eyes drifted over to the most illuminated place in the room, the table full of tools. “Don’t...”

“Oh, Juan,” Matthew said, as tears began to bloom in the Juan’s eyes, “you’re not-”

“Please, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to-” Juan burst into tears, the rest of his words getting caught somewhere between his dried throat and his sore eyes.

“I’m not going to-” Matthew said, and Juan jerked away from his hand as he tried to wipe his tears away, “you don’t have to fear me! I’m not going to hurt you.”

“So you...why am I even here?” Juan asked.

“Because, though you are a coward, I did not believe you deserved death.”

“So...I’m just gonna stay here for the rest of my life, doing nothing?”

“Well...perhaps I didn’t think it through as much as I could have, but it is better than dying, right?”

“I mean...” he shrugged, “I guess.”

A silence passed through them for a short time.

“How long have I been here?” Juan asked.

“Oh, I’m not sure, but if this is the first time you’re waking up, it’s probably only been a day.”

“Are you ever gonna break us outta here?”

“Uh...” it was a good question, “I’m not sure how I would do that, in all honesty.”

“So we’re really just stayin’ here forever?” Juan looked deflated.

“Well...” Matthew decided to go back to his usual method- talk first, think later. “Perhaps I could find a way.”

“Really?” Juan perked up.

“Indubitably.” He smiled, trying to mask his doubt.

“That’s great! When?”

“...I will let you know when it happens, okay?” Matthew’s mind raced for a plan, but there wasn’t one. There were people bustling to and from every hour of every day, there would always be someone just over their shoulder…how could he find a time to sneak them all out of there?

“Thanks! I hope it’s soon, it looks like it gets really lonely here. And dark.” Juan’s eyes flickered over to the torch, still burning with a fervent heat. But all things die out.

“Ah, that reminds me, I have to go,” Matthew turned and reached for the torch, then retracted his hand. Might as well let him have light, if only for a little while. He’ll be able to see well enough to find his way back.

“Oh? Right now?” Juan asked.

“Er, yes, I have to, uh, plan for your escape,” Matthew nodded, smiled, and speed-walked back to the door. Sweat began to pool in his collar as he headed towards his room, the long trek giving him time to collect his thoughts and ideas on how to get them out of there.

At some point, though, he got turned around, and found himself in a vaguely familiar hallway. Before he could really think about where he was, his sister walked by, looking down at the floor dejectedly.

“Hello,” Matthew gave a quick glance over his shoulder, “Adelia. Why do you look so stressed?”

“Oh,” she fiddled with the cuffs of her shirt, “just another ‘lesson’ from father. Apparently I’ve been choosing too many ‘loud and feminine’ colors for my clothes lately.” Her shoulders were slumped, “sometimes I think he suspects something…”

Matthew held out his arms for a hug, which Adelia accepted. He patted her hair, a short mess of curls she got from her mother.

She pulled away, and sniffled, “I’m just worried-” her gaze flickered to a butler, looking at them from across the hall.

The man jerked his head away, and pretended to be fully engrossed in a painting on the wall.

“...Let’s talk in your old room.” She whispered, and they walked into it, the name ‘Matthew’ engraved into the door with beautiful calligraphy. It would have every right to be seen by royalty except for the dust and scratches that made it bedraggled.

Adelia sat down on the bed, at the other end of the room, while Matthew closed the curtains.

“I’m worried...what if he finds out about me?” Her lip quivered as she felt water prick her cheeks, and she buried her face in her hands, hunching her shoulders so they nearly touched her ears and shuffling to the very corner of the bed.

“Oh, sister,” he put emphasis on the word as he moved to sit next to her. He wrapped his arms around her and very softly swayed, and it reminded both of them of when they were children. They’d run down these halls, try and climb their bed frames, anything they could think of. It was before their responsibility, before their confusion, and before their fear. “I’ll always be here for you.” He enunciated each word clearly.

She laughed dryly through her sobs, “not if he disowns me.”

“No, he wouldn’t do that, it would be far too big a scandal.”

“He would,” she responded without hesitation, “I’m not the eldest. There would be another to take the throne.”

“...You’re my sister, Adelia. And...I’d abdicate with you.”

Adelia pulled away, and stared at him, confused, “...surely you know you don’t have to say that.”

“Oh, but I’d want to,” he continued to look her in the eye, “you’re my sister, Adelia. I love you. Plus, lately I’ve felt rather...disillusioned with our family as of late.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean I’m not sure I want to continue protecting the family name.” He said, resting his forehead on his palms, his body slumped forward.

Adelia’s eyes were wide, “pardon my manners, but where did this come from? Whatever happened to staying here for our safety? It’s not like other places will accept us more.”

“But it’s the principle of it!” Matthew raised his voice and slammed a fist down on his knee, “we’ve stayed in the dark too long! I want to be able to love whomever I choose, and for you to be who you are! Their practices have gone on far too long!”

“Brother, this is all very impulsive-”

“No, dear sister, it is long overdue!” His shoulders relax but he somehow looked more stressed, “I...I went to the dungeons earlier today. And...people are there.”

“...Why were you in the dungeons?” Adelia asked.

“Well…” Matthew explained what happened, “and when I walked in there I could hardly take it. I just...don’t want to be a part of a system that does that anymore. And also...I see you every day, when someone calls you by that certain name or title, and I know you could be so much more. You’ve waited far too long, and you deserve to not have to wait anymore. And I deserve it too.”

“...That’s quite a speech,” Adelia said, calmly, “but we could never survive on our own. Where would we live, for instance?”

“You could live with me, I wouldn’t mind sharing a room with you! It could be like when we were children!” Matthew smiled, “we could get a little cottage in the forest with a library and a museum, and everything would be marvelous.” He put his hands on her shoulders, “I could buy you dresses, you could shave, and everything would be perfect.”

“Now where would you get the money to do that?”

“Well, uh…” now that he thought of it, he didn’t really have too many skills that would qualify him for a job. He’d had extensive war strategy, economics, and etiquette lessons his whole life, but what job would have those qualifications other than being king? The only thing he really had going for him was his looks, or at least, that’s what Matthew always figured, since it was really the only thing he was ever complimented on. “I’d think of something.”

She sighed, “that wouldn’t work. Neither of us could survive without them.”

“I could ask my friends for help!”

Adelia squinted at him, “you mean the duke of Italy?”

“What? No, Edward Gold! The detective who rescued me! We’re on excellent terms and I have a hunch he’d help us.”

“Really? Why do you think that?”

“Well…” Matthew thought back, and didn’t really have any evidence that Edward would be supportive of his sister being born a male. “I know a very big secret of his. If he doesn’t help us, I could always threaten to leak it to the press.”

“No, no, then I’d feel awful,” she shook her head, “I couldn’t do that to him.”

“Well...then we could move in with his brother, Eddins! He’s a successful poet, and I’m sure he’d help us if we needed it!”

“How do you know that?”

“Well, one time when I was talking about something father was telling me, about how he wanted to crack down on crossdressers, Eddins rolled his eyes and said he should just leave them be, and that they weren’t doing any harm.”

“I’m not just a crossdresser,” she said, quietly, “it’s more than that, you know.”

“I do. Trust me, he’ll respect you.” Matthew assured her, “he’s really quite open minded, you’ll find. Honestly, I should introduce you to him regardless of whether or not we go through with this.”

“Oh, I don’t think I could,” she said, “it would be too much of an undertaking, we’d have to hide, if-”

A knock sounded on the door, and they both froze. They shouldn’t have been talking so loudly, they shouldn’t have been discussing this at all, it was foolish of them and, no, of course it would never happen again.

“A telegram for Prince Matthew, your highness.” The voice sounded even, not angry or shocked.

“Coming!” Matthew got up and opened the door. “Thank you.”

The man saluted and walked away.

Matthew closed the door and read the telegram aloud as he walked back to his seat.

“Dear Son, Matthew, I heard you wanted to take responsibility and do the dirty work yourself. While I’m glad you finally decided to take initiative, it is imperative that you never again make a decision that big without my permission. Tomorrow at 6am sharp, after a good night’s rest, we’ll go down to the dungeons and I’ll teach you how to do it the right way. Do not arrive any later. Love, your father.” Matthew gulped. “Oh no, we have so little time!”

Adelia sighed deeply, “well...I think I might have a way to finally put all this talk into action. Though if it doesn’t work...do you really want to risk everything for these people? One of them may not have been as bad as he could’ve been, but they still...weren’t the best people overall.”

“I do. I can’t just let them be tortured! Even if they are criminals, they still don’t deserve that.”

“...You’re right, but what if we fail? What if we fail and we still have to fulfill our duties? What if we fail and people no longer like us, or attack us? What if we fail and we still have to sit down with our parents for dinner, and face that silence.” Adelia had a few unshed tears in her eyes.

Matthew squeezed her shoulder, “we won’t. We’ll get them out, we’ll live alone, and we’ll be self-sustaining. Live as our true selves. It’ll be perfect, trust me.”

“...Alright. I’ll help you,” she smiled and said, “now, we have some shift schedules to study.”

After a few hours spent looking over the schedules of the people guarding the dungeons, they found a man who owed Adelia a favor. They sent him a note saying that he and his wife, a woman who was the head of the royal family’s laundry services, needed to go back to their house for the rest of the week. And without the woman to give the other laundry workers orders, everyone in the laundry department decided to leave early that day, figuring they might as well.

When they were sure the two would be gone, they broke into the laundry room, and changed into worker clothes.

Adelia looked between the male uniform, a white shirt with black tie and pants, and the female one, a brown dress with a white apron around it.

Matthew handed her the dress as he buttoned his shirt, “it’s okay. You deserve it. And trust me, sister; you’ll look smashing.”

Adelia smiled and threw the dress on. “Come on, let’s go.”

“Of course.”

Adelia scooped up three outfits and put them in a large purse, and they began running to the dungeons.

It took them about half an hour, but they arrived at the dungeon. Matthew took a deep breath, pulled out his key, and opened the door.

As they walked closer to Juan, he picked up a torch from the wall and held it out in front of them, leading the way through the darkness as the torches grew fewer and farther between.

“M-Matthew? Is that you?” Juan said, the new light piercing his eyes, the old torch beside him having already died out hours before, “who’s that?”

“My sister Adelia,” Matthew said firmly, offering no argument, “We’re going to break you and your friends out.”

“Oh?” Juan looked Adelia over. After a second, he smiled, “thanks ma'am! Or- your highness?”

“Ma’am for now, thank you,” she said, making sure her voice was as high as it could be. That paired with her dress made her feel very giddy indeed.

“Okay!” Juan said.

Matthew took one of the blades off the table and cut the ropes that bound him, replacing the old torch with the new one on the wall to free up his hands.

Juan stood up and rubbed his arms, stretching them above his head in a circle.

“Right, well, where are the others again?” Adelia asked.

“I think they’re in the rooms behind that door,” Juan said, pointing to a door in the corner. “And, um, how much time do we have, exactly?”

“About four hours if I remember correctly,” Adelia said, “so put this on quickly.” She hands him a laundry worker’s outfit.

“O-oh, you’re welcome!” Juan smiled as he rushed to put on the clothes, “and thank you! I never thought I’d meet a princess!”

Matthew picked up the torch from the wall again. “Let us go, then.”

Juan’s stomach growled as they walked over to the second door. He wrapped his arms around it, crossing them tightly.

The same key worked on the second door, thankfully, and it kicked up a heavy layer of dust.

A shadowy figure could be seen the farther they got into the room.

“Who-who are you?” Said a shaky voice, no longer commanding. “Don’t come near me!”

“It’s alright, Eduardo!” Juan said cautiously, walking behind Matthew, “we’re gonna leave, okay?”

“...Juan…?” A sniffle.

When they got close enough to define his features, Eduardo squeezed his eyes shut, not wanting them to see the stains of tears that drenched his cheeks.

“Oh, Eduardo,” Juan bent down and hugged him, “it’s gonna be okay.”

Eduardo, still being tied to the chair, simply leaned into Juan, pressing his eyes against his collar to soak up his tears.

Matthew set the torch in the latch and began working on cutting his binds. There were more here than there were for Juan; he must’ve struggled.

Juan pulled away so Matthew could have an easier time doing his job.

“Oh, thank you, Juan,” Matthew said. “Adelia, could you go into the third room and, uh,” Matthew looks up and tries to see the door. He does, and it’s in the middle of the wall next to them, maybe 50 yards away, “cut the binds of the third one?”

“Of course,” her voice dropped a few octaves since she wasn’t thinking about how her voice would sound, and she cringed internally. But she was used to it, so she placed some clothes next to Eduardo on the floor and began to walk to the other room.

“Hey, why’s that dude wearing a skirt?” Eduardo asked Juan, lowering his voice so she wouldn’t hear.

“You will refer to her as ‘she’.” Matthew said, scraping away at the rope more roughly.

“...Okay,” Eduardo rolled his eyes, “I just don’t see why I should.”

“Eduardo,” Juan rubbed his neck, “she doesn’t have anything to do with Laurel, okay? Don’t be rude to her just because you can’t get over things.”

“That’s not-”

“She has nothing to do with this, okay?” Juan asserted, “They’re only similar because they’re both...a little different from most people. Just because that reminds you of Laurel having to move away doesn’t mean-”

“All done,” Matthew stepped away as the ropes fell to the ground.

Eduardo shakily stood up, having to rely on Juan for support. “...Thanks.”

“You’re welcome. I’ll go check on Adelia.” Matthew said, and walked to the other room.

“...Sorry for talking about your parents,” Eduardo mumbled.

“Huh?” Juan said, “oh, way back then? Eddie, it’s okay. It was weeks ago, and I wouldn’t still be mad at you after all this.” He reached out and held Eduardo’s hands.

“...Thanks,” Eduardo nearly whispered, giving Juan’s hands a light squeeze, “but...when we were fighting...you did have a point. And...look, I’m just really-”

“Not to break up anything personal, but we really do need to be going,” Adelia said, walking out with Matthew and Marco, “we not only have to be out of the palace in three hours time, but also far enough away to get a headstart on the guards.”

“The guards?” Juan asked, walking over to Marco to stand next to him.

“Yes, they’ll surely try to capture us.” Adelia said as she began to head out, “especially since Matthew is first in line for the throne and we haven’t officially abdicated yet.”

“Why would you two even want to do that?” Eduardo asked, quickly putting the clothes on.

“I’ve been thinking about it for some time now.” Adelia said, voice more tired than the shadows of the halls that surrounded them.

When Eduardo finished, they began walking.

“Well, what about you?” Juan abandoned Marco to walk next to Matthew, “why do you want to leave your position?”

They walked through the door, “I’m not leaving my sister alone to fend for herself.”

“Aw, that’s sweet a’ you,” Juan said. “Have ya thought about where you’ll live yet?”

“Er, well,” Matthew started as they walked through the other door and out into the open.

Adelia blew the torch out and continued to lead the way up the stairs.

“Let me do the talking, Matthew,” Adelia whispered to him, “your voice is too recognizable.”

Matthew nodded, making a key turning motion in front of his face.

When they eventually got to the main exit, a guard stopped them.

“Too many workers have already left today,” he paused to cough, “you’ll need to stay here unless you want the laundry to really pile up.” His grizzly voice was a deep baritone, and his tall red guardsmen hat stood straight atop his head. His eyes were sunken in, and he had the kind of cough you could hear a mile away.

“Today is a holiday, sir.” Adelia spoke, her voice sounding almost nothing like her normal one, except for a little nasally tinge, “why did you think all the others went?”

The guard squinted at her, “I wasn’t made aware of any holidays.”

Adelia stood tall, and said firmly, “well, my friends and I simply wish to celebrate with the others.”

“Watch your manners, girl,” the guardsman glared, keeping his feet planted.

“Hm?” Adelia furrowed her brow.

“Um, excuse me sir,” Juan stepped forward, “but it’s a kind of party you might enjoy yourself.”

“Oh?” The guardsman asked, giving a smug look, “what kind of party is this, now?”

“Well,” Juan began to sweat, but still leaned in as he spoke softer, “it’s to discuss our pay. It’s not the same, you know.”

“Well, it shouldn’t be, not entirely.” His voice was still stern, but he kept it quiet to, “my job’s certainly harder than yours.”

“But for us laundry people,” the guard raised his eyebrows when Juan said that, “we hardly get paid enough to both afford rent and food at the same time. Not even mentioning how hard the women have to work for less pay.”

“...You know,” the guardsman scratched under his hat, “it has been getting harder and harder for all of our children to eat every night. My wife has to work too, and after we pay the nanny and all other expenses, sometimes there’s hardly enough money to buy bread.”

Juan nodded empathetically, “‘M sorry to hear that. But we need your help especially. The more friends we have higher up, the easier it’ll be to negotiate. So, will you let us go to the ‘party’?”

“...Of course.” The guardsman stepped to the side and let them pass.

Chill air smashed their noses as they left the palace. “How’d you do that?” Eduardo asked.

“Do what?” Juan asked, wishing he had a coat to tighten around him.

“Convince him to let us out?” Eduardo said.

“Si, fue realmente impresionante,” Marco added.

“It was nothin’, really,” Juan shrugged, “I could tell he looked tired, an’...I dunno. I figured it was a safe guess, I guess.”

“...” Matthew had his hands in his pockets, eyes glued to the floor as he trudged along behind the rest of the group with his sister. “Adelia?”

“Yes?” Her voice had the same quiet tone.

“Did our parents ever have to struggle for food? Or for anything?” He knew the answer.

“No. No I wouldn’t think so.”

Matthew sighed. “I…we...what are you going to do first, when we get our own house?” He smiled at her to go along with the change in topic.

“Oh, I don’t know…” Adelia grinned up at the stars, “maybe I’ll learn how to sew my own dresses. Or get some pets, finally!”

“We have pets.”

“No, I mean like mutts, dogs that are allowed to go outside and play in the mud!” Adelia nodded, “I’ve thought about it for awhile, and I think I want a big, brown dog, as big as a horse, with short fur so it won’t shed too much, and so it’ll be easier to clean after it goes outside!”

“Well, I’m not washing it,” Matthew said, “I do not like dirt.”

“Then I will, considering how it’ll be my dog.” Adelia said, “oh, it’ll be like how I always wanted. Mostly.” Her smile turns a bit bittersweet.

Matthew wrapped his arm around her shoulder, “I’m sure we could find a doctor who’d-”

“Um,” Juan turned and said, “where are we going to sleep tonight?”

“Uh…” Matthew looked to Adelia, “I’m not...I didn’t really…”

“You said something earlier about Edward or Eddins being okay with helping us out?” Adelia remembered.

“Well, yes, but I’m not quite sure they’d love having five new semi-permanent guests rather than just two.”

“It would only be temporary,” Eduardo pointed out. “Trust me, I don’t wanna live in someone else’s house any longer than I have to.”

“Yeah! I wanna get a job as soon as possible and get a place of my own,” Juan said.

“Wait, that reminds me,” Matthew said, and began in a more serious tone, “you ex-bandits aren’t going to go back to your old ways right after you get settled, are you?”

“Never!” Juan crossed his heart.

“No después de todo esto.” Marco shivered, still shocked he even managed to get out of that situation.

“Yeah, sure,” Eduardo laughed, “why not give it a go?”

“Eduardo…” Juan looked expectantly at Eduardo, and when he got nothing, he continued, “I want you to promise you’ll turn your life around.”

“I already said I’d try.” He rolled his eyes.

“Just do it for me, okay?”

“Ha! Why should I do it for you?” He crossed his arms.

“Because...because I won’t help you if you decide to go back to stealing.” Juan said sternly, “I don’t wanna do it anymore. So...I won’t. Even if you do; I won’t follow you.”

Eduardo searched Juan’s face for a second. Finally, he looked away to the ground and said, “yeah. Yeah, alright, I’ll be good.”

“Really? That’s great!” Juan hugged him. While this startled Eduardo, he decided to pat the other’s shoulder lightly and awkwardly, before shoving him away.

“...So, where is Edward’s house anyways?” Adelia asked Matthew.

“Uh…” Matthew said, “I suppose we’ll simply have to ask some coachmen or something and hope they don’t recognize us.”

“They probably won’t, since that guard didn’t.” Juan said.

Adelia sighed, full of relief, “isn’t this like a dream? Soon we’re going to be just existing as ourselves, free from rules or restrictions. Sure, we might have to lay a bit low for a time, but still! It feels like the beginning of a new chapter, or an entirely new book in a series! Isn’t it going to be wonderful?”

“You know, sister? I think it just might be.”

~~~Fin.

#ew fanfic #my fanfic #stuff i made #i forgot what my fanfic tags were rip #saloonatics #eddsworld #fanfiction #honestly i kinda hate this #but maybe thats because it took so long to write and now im lowkey sick of it lol #ew oc adelia #ew oc eddins #tw violence #tw torture mention #tw transphobia #tw homophobia #if theres any tags i forgot just tell me and ill add them #the word count might be a few off but nothing big enough to really matter #Matthew doesn't think before he speaks

18 notes · View notes

bat-lings · 6 years ago

Note

Hey, you mentioned in an earlier ask any Damian that Tim was also low-key sexist and tbh I'd love examples cause I feel like this has never been brought up and it's interesting??? Anyway, thanks Ur stuffs super interesting and insightful!

Thanks for your interest & nice words!

Let’s be clear tho Anon (I assume it’s the same Anon both times?), you are 200% entitled to disagree with me. Yes I am unapologetic about my opinions and write looong paragraphs of questionable pertinence to give arguments but like. The goal is to explain “why I think what I think,” never to tell you “why you should think what I think”. You’re very much welcome for the Damian post btw

Now I think Tim, precisely, shows internalized sexism. Doesn’t change the end result all that much though.

Random sequences

Let’s get the most straightforward stuff out of the way.

[Robin (1991) #1 || Robin (1993) #43 & #179 || Detective Comics (1937) #687]

Dunno about you but the first two are particularly cringey for me. That and the agenda section.

Okay to be fair: He does attempt to defend Lynx (first example) beforehand, throwing the on-point “she doesn’t have to go with you if she doesn’t want to” line. All is good for five seconds and then he goes “maybe she likes that treatment”.

We may have different sensibilities but the mere fact that that went through his head for even a second is the perfect illustration of what’s internalized sexism imo. Conscious thought & action level: A+ behavior (being able to identify a visibly wrong situation and taking action against it). Unconscious level: blatant sexism (”maybe she likes it” aka a less visible/more subtle manifestation of bigotry).

He has a… pretty specific way to regard women’s agenda. And is overall patronizing to straight-out disrespectful.

Tim’s treatment of Steph is a well-known fact but this is a call-out post so have a non-exhaustive bunch of examples:

[Robin (1993) #4, 41, 35, 44 || Batgirl (2009) #8]

On we go and see how there’s absolutely no ill-intent on Tim’s part in the next examples, yet I have a big problem with how he’s considering the ladies’ agency:

[Robin (1993) #182 || Red Robin #10]

Notice how it’s all about him whether the lady obeys him or not. His failure to impose the necessary authority or his failure to give the right directions. The girls’ choice/independence just doesn’t factor in. It’s a cop and a vigilante we’re talking about, not some civilians caught in the crossfire.

((btw it’s disputable but his apology in RR#10 is too little too late as far as I’m concerned. Tim gets a pass since Nicieza has him referring to his dumbass traitor!Steph arc but he doesn’t deserve any additional credit either. Okay no I’m being mean, he gets kudos for making a step in the right direction with Steph. Tiny kudos. It’s a tiny step.))

[Red Robin #5]

Tam? Okay. She’s the civilian who got embarked into this crazy story, she is in need of saving. But Prudence? Maybe don’t automatically assume that the assassin needs you to pat her on the back to even consider pursuing her own wishes, Timmy.

Tim can be arrogant to everyone yeah (more on that later), but I don’t remember him negating a man’s agenda like that.

[Robin (1993) #25]

Yeah the kid who will feel betrayed when Bruce tells his identity to Steph just elected to tell her name to Connor whom they both don’t know well yet. While talking in her place rather than letting her answer for herself (something he’s done on several occasions). Then he attempts to decide for her whether she has a right to participate, again. On that note: thank you Connor for putting Tim in his place, that sure doesn’t happen often.

[Robin (1993) #6 & #28]

Uh, yes you can. Give the adult woman who’s been handling Gotham’s streets since before you were born some credit, Tim?

As for Helena, the scene in itself is… well, not okay exactly. He’s basically dismissing her wish to handle a personal matter alone, which could imply he doesn’t think the other adult woman who’s been handling Gotham’s streets since before he was born can handle the case.

I’m just putting it with his constant attempts to keep Steph from participating, often to cases that concerned her directly, and how he tends to take it personally when she doesn’t obey… but he casually brushes off Helena when she’s saying she’ll handle a personal case alone. Double standard? Maybe I got too specific a reading but. I don’t remember that sort of thing happening between Tim and male characters– do call me out if I’m remembering wrong though.

And then there’s the “another vigilante” remark.

Anyway yes Tim can be arrogant towards both men and women. Much like Damian being antagonizing to everyone didn’t negate the possibility of him being sexist, Tim being generally arrogant doesn’t negate that possibility for him either.

Plus the only male characters I’ve seen him be that patronizing with are Chris Kent in World’s Finest #3, and Damian. The ten-year-old who’s regularly antagonizing him and does deserve to be put in his place. Oh yeah, and maybe Dodge, another brat. So yeah I do think there’s a slight difference between Tim’s treatment of men and women, if only in frequency. (and in intensity tbh.)

Yes, he’s been consistently disregardful to his girlfriends.

Anon, you say very rightfully that we shouldn’t automatically assume it’s due to them being girls. Please believe it’s not a conclusion I’ve come to automatically though:

A) While I realize that Tim only having canon girlfriends is due to heteronormativity & homophobia rather than a conscious writing intent to highlight any character trait, assuming that he wouldn’t have behaved better with boyfriends is pure speculation– aaand I am totally speculating he’d behave better if only because he’s never that patronizing or that dismissive of his peers’ agency (examples above) when they’re men. that’s part of why I ship tim/kon more easily than tim/steph.

B) Like with everything I brought up on this post I’m not considering his behavior with his romantic partners separately. It’s a character fault that could take its roots in several things, but Tim’s global characterization makes me think the root is sexism.

C) I understand why you’re thinking there’s no reason to conclude his disrespect is due to them being women; in the same vein I think there’s no reason to conclude it’s not. It’s kind of a stalemate and both conclusions are valid.

Skipping Tim’s habit to break up by letter or by phone, ‘cause that’s not cool and obviously disrespectful but even I think it’s more due to cowardice/inadequacy than sexism.

I don’t think I need to speak about Steph again. Let’s go with Ari. Who Tim casually cheated on by kissing Steph on several occasions.

Being a cheat is, in itself, a distinct character flaw that doesn’t always takes its root in sexism. Plus it’s something I have my reasons to assume Tim has grown out of.

It’s his reaction when he learns about Ariana “"cheating”“ on him (she went ice-skating with another dude once in the 87 times Tim stood her up) that ticks me off. Btw and unlike Tim who didn’t seem to feel all that guilty, Ariana did try to tell him about it but he fell asleep during her confession.

[Robin (1993) #15 & #17]

Two things bother me here, a lot more than the cheating in itself: the possessiveness and the hypocrisy. You really don’t have a right to go all “My Ariana” and to chew her out for the grand treachery that is ice-skating when you’ve been casually kissing Steph, Timbo. What those panels prove is that there’s a double standard in Tim’s head. Which one exactly is up to your interpretation and that’s probably where we’ll end up disagreeing. I read it as the “proper girls don’t get close to several boys at one time, but boys who get close to several girls are either ladies men or boys being boys” double-standard, hence Tim’s blatant lack of self-awareness here.

Btw and the thing that solidified my opinion here: Tim, as a rule, tends to be pretty self-aware, at least retrospectively. He puts himself into question and has no problem admitting when his judgment was clouded. I dunno take YJ #55 or Robin #119 for example (I even selected examples that both have Tim recognizing he wronged a girl!)

So if he’s generally self-aware, but doesn’t see anything wrong with his own behavior in the specific situation where he’s cheating on his girl then chewing her out? I explain it with the above double-standard. He internalized a mindset that keeps him from realizing how hypocrite he’s being in this situation. Also he doesn’t confront Ari immediately, he had time to think about it, it wasn’t a spur of the moment thing. That should’ve been enough to allow him to step back and evaluate himself but he just. Didn’t.

Bonus: Jack has been hinted to be sexist, and contrary to Tim it’s safe to assume that was totally intentional.

[Batman (1940) #441 || Robin (1993) #122]

Only two occurrences in decades of canon arguably don’t make for solid basis but they still allow me to build a coherence since our parents do influence us without us realizing. And given how much Tim loved his dad (he said himself how much he got from Jack), it sure isn’t an element that could plead against him being sexist.

There’s a bunch of other sequences that I low key read as sexist, but that I’m more mitigated about or in which I gave Tim a pass for various reasons so I didn’t include them here.

All in all when I take a solid look at Tim’s global behavior, I see sexism. While it may not be a “solid canon fact” since it surely wasn’t intentional on the writers’ part, I really don’t think it’s an unreasonable thing to infer from his very canon behavior. And tbh writer intent doesn’t excuse much. Factually speaking that portrayal has been there since Tim’s early days,he’s been consistently dismissive & disrespectful of his female peers and/or of their wishes and agency. It’s part of him & his history.

It’s not incoherent with his character either– Tim has always been intended to represent a normal boy/teen (dude was legit marketed around the fact that he’s relatable). It’s not baffling or coming out of nowhere that a random teen just so happened to have internalized sexism. It’s pretty damn common, even. It’s not like Tim being sexist was a brutal turnaround that contradicted what makes the core of his character to the point of making him unrecognizable (*cough* Talia’s current characterization *cough*).

Hope this explains that.

Thanks for the asks!

#tim drake #dc comics #stephanie brown #batfam #batfamily #meta #red robin #timothy drake #tam fox #asks #zae chatters #my stuff

123 notes · View notes

phoenixwrites · 7 years ago

Note

1) I think the reason people are so up in arms about the reboot is because they're afraid of what it represents, almost? I highly doubt that it's got anything, really, to do with a fear of diversity or a fear of new material for the canon - some of the comments about how it's a reboot and so they should honor the old canon probably hit the nail right on the head regarding the fears and angst of the fans. I'm not referring specifically to Charmed here (because I, like you, am at least optimistic)

2) but for a lot of shows, when they reboot or revamp the universe, or update it for a modern audience, there’s an almost unconscious air of “oh, but isn’t this better? look at how much better this is than what you were watching before. it matters so much more than what you loved and what influenced you, and you’re stupid for wanting us to at least acknowledge the thing that was massively influential in your life”. This isn’t always in dialogue - sometimes it’s a visual aesthetic or an episode’s plot - but regardless I think the real fear is that The Thing I Love Will Be Erased And Called Not Good Enough. And as optimistic as I am about this (and I am excited, too, that maybe more people than white girls will get to have that representation we got in the 90s) I kind of get it - I’ve been dealing with a lot of that thanks to the new Star Trek content (both AOS and Discovery) and it’s exhausting and saddening to no longer feel welcome in what used to be your own house. I feel like the obvious solution is to try and avoid that condescension, because it is possible, and maybe the path to that solution is to avoid the inevitable promotional tone of “Look at how UPDATED and MODERN this is! Look at how GOOD it is now!” and instead to try and draw in everybody based on the quality of the property? Anyway. I’m reasonably sure that’s where the angst comes from at least in part. There’s probably some unconscious racism and homophobia, but I doubt that’s all of what drives it.

I mean…I can’t completely agree with all of this. I don’t see how this new reboot doesn’t honor the first one and I don’t see how the showrunners are bragging about how “modern” they’re being when all they’ve done is release a casting call that points out one of the sisters is a lesbian in a relationship with an Asian detective and another sister is a physicist and they’re looking for all ethnicities. It’s really hard for me to believe that this isn’t about racism or homophobia.

Pointing out that the original Charmed, while amazing as it was for a lot of women who had either a feminist/sexual/witchy awakening, wasn’t completely perfect doesn’t mean you’re not honoring the original series. And acknowledging now that 2018 has been a time where people have been DEMANDING representation–no longer asking, no longer pointing out, but DEMANDING–is honestly kind of great. The fact that showrunners and producers are taking a step back and going, “ooh, our demographic has gotten way more vocal, let’s try and make the show more diverse so we can get brownie points”–I mean, that’s a positive step forward.

There are a lot of problems with mainstream/corporate activism or diversity initiatives, but in a lot of ways, they also represent a shifting of cultural consciousness.

And hey, I get that with Star Trek–but that’s sort of my point. I remember the fanboy OUTRAGE when Captain Janeway appeared on the scene and hardcore Star Trek fans STILL harp on it being the worst of the Star Trek incarnations, which, in my humble opinion, is utter hogwash. And I think Janeway being a woman has a lot to do with that.

Not to say Voyager was perfect, it wasn’t. Lots of problems with it. *looks at every Chakotay episode* It’s my favorite, it always will be, but being a critical fan means acknowledging that while Janeway was amazing for me to see as a little girl, Sonequa Martin Green and Michelle Yeoh are amazing for other little girls to see. You can acknowledge that Star Trek has always represented a form of progressivism dependent on its time period–but because of that context, has made missteps.

So too with Charmed. Again, I have yet to see how the new reboot doesn’t “honor” the old Charmed canon and how making the new trio more diverse is such a terrible idea.

#absynthe--minded #Charmed

5 notes · View notes

justasmallbloginabigklainefandom · 7 years ago

Text

From Grey, chapter 6

Temperance_V: So this is a special blog post featuring a guest blogger, which I've never done before but it seemed like a pretty fun idea since *basically* we talk more than enough to do this without going out of our way anyway. So, this week the blog is in the form of this chat log between me and Paleanghostly, who's mostly active over in the 'ghostlanx' fandom.

Paleandghostly: You have to put the scare quotes around it to remind people that I basically devote my days to looking at pictures of superheroes like a fourteen year old, of course. TV: I think most of your gang spend more time staring at their butts than most fourteen year olds do, P&G. P&G: You might be surprised. I remember being fourteen. TV: Anyway, we met a while ago now when P&G commented on my blog to insult my taste in whiskey and was somehow sort of charming about how stupid I am, and we ended up chatting. Now we play chess over the mail. P&G: Actually over the mail, on actual paper. It's a thing. TV: I genuinely look forward to the letter sneering at my last move once a week. So we're here to discuss something we've already been talking about anyway but it's been a *particularly* interesting chat, so we thought we'd share some thoughts with the wider internet. So this discussion got kicked off by the fandom reaction to this photograph of the Ghost and Phalanx from I think three weeks ago now? P&G: They'll remember the fandom reaction. It's the kind of wank that's so much bigger than the incident that caused it ever could be. TV: I'm not actually in the 'ghostlanx' fandom, btw, I should put that disclaimer out for anyone who's reading this *from* that fandom. If I seem like a n00b, forgive me. P&G: Please god stop putting it in scare quotes. Temperance usually blogs about anything interesting in the media and reactions to the media, for those who have followed *me* from phandom, and it was during one of her posts on Mad Men that I found it necessary to educate her in what we drink and what we use to clean toilets with. And it's *whisky*, please tell me you are actually drinking the stuff that is worth drinking and is not overpriced rebottled mouthwash by now. TV: Moving on. The photograph is a candid caught behind a police van, and shows the Ghost and Phalanx in conversation with a police officer - in suit and tie, so I'm guessing a detective but he looks a little young for it. No-one appears to be trying to arrest anyone. You'd think that would be have been the main point of discussion, P&G? P&G: *snort* Have you *met* fandom? Get to the interesting substance of the issue? No! We want exactly what we want and we want it exactly when we want it, anything deviating from this is a cause of deep personal offence to me and the *entire internet must stop and feel my pain!!* TV: So, it wasn't the crime scene they *weren't* arrested at that most people were talking about (though presumably, the 'enemy' you actually face on the streets you have more in common with than you do your own boss in their high rise office; if I was police I think I'd think we had bigger problems than superheroes too). P&G brought the discussion to my attention via the medium of much swearing, because she has a lot of feelings about these things. P&G: Oh please do make me sound like one of them. The reason I drew Temperance's attention to the response was - well, threefold. One is that in terms of gender politics and misogyny and homophobia amongst those who claim to not be bigots it was *fascinating*. Slash depressing. Two is that it was an eyebrow-straining example of the fandom entitlement complex. Three is that it gives us a very interesting insight into their identity and how very un-black-and-white that is - because people are more complicated than their labels, always. TV: Let's deal with gender first, though these issues do run through each other. This all came about because of the Ghost's posture in the photograph. He's standing quite close to Phalanx, who's facing and speaking to the police officer - I'm sorry, is that police officer really tall or is he actually that short? It's kind of adorable. P&G: He's like the Swiss army knife of superheroes. Flexible crime fighter, folds into your pocket afterwards. TV: Phalanx is speaking, standing with his feet apart, hands apart, gesturing - something, to what he's saying. Possibly just emphasizing a word. No-one even mentioned how Phalanx was standing? P&G: No. Because the Ghost was innocently standing next to him. TV: The Ghost is standing with his left arm crossed over his chest - his cloak makes it a little hard to see, but he's probably supporting the opposite elbow with his hand, because his right hand is held up loosely at shoulder height, as if propped off a desk. And he's got his hip cocked, and his head tilted the other way, it's a great photograph actually, his posture's like a da Vinci composition. P&G: I knew I liked you for a reason. It is a great picture. It's just enormously aesthetically pleasing, Phalanx standing sort of open and easy, the Ghost a longer but narrower zig-zag of angles, eyes on him. Both the Ghost and the cop are looking at Phalanx; the Ghost's expression, as much as you can make it out under the hood and mask, looks attentive and relaxed. Like you would look at your lover, mid-sentence. What fandom chose to cry and cause wank over is, Jesus fucking Christ, the way he's standing. TV: It's not the most masculine posture in the world. P&G: Why the *fucking* hell should it be? TV: Let's go through this in bite-size chunks so it's not just a string of expletives again. Why, as succinctly as possible, did fandom start a flamewar over the Ghost standing like that? P&G: Because they, the idiot ignorant children, fetishize homosexuality in the most contorted and disturbing way possible. Because they're fine with him being gay - happy that he's gay, since they can use his name and form for all their little m/m fantasies on a whole different level of appropriation now. But how dare he, human being in his own life, how *dare* he not conform to strict gender stereotypes at the same time. He's perfectly well allowed to be gay, as long as he does it the 'right way'. God forbid he be any kind of queer that disturbs them, though. TV: There was a lot of negativity. P&G: They don't want to see a male hero stand in a 'feminine' pose. It demeans him. It makes him less heroic. TV: Because to be female is to be less, and to be a male imitating a female is possibly the worst thing it's possible to be. Some of the responses were genuinely unsettling, I read some of your replies to them. P&G: I might have been angry, but I do not disown a single word of what I said. Disgusting self-absorbed ignorant little shits deserved it. TV: But not everyone was so negative about it. P&G: No. Some of fandom is actually populated by feminists and not by people who think that they know what that word means but have never actually thought it through. And then some of fandom is populated by people who further fetishize his femininity in again the most contorted way possible. We kind of had perfect storm conditions for the wank after that. TV: You posted a short piece of meta about it at the time. P&G: I posted a rant, please don't dignify anything that happened during that shitstorm with a respectful title. I hammered out at my keyboard my undying rage that these people were treating him like a doll to dress up how they pleased, and then throwing tantrums when he failed to live up to what they'd dressed him up as in their heads, or subsuming him under the further homophobic, misogynist, *the opposite of accurate* image of him as a swooning 'heroine' in need of big strong Phalanx to 'rescue' him. TV: Little strong Phalanx. P&G: I sense some favoritism developing. TV: He's really cute now I've *looked* at him. Look, I'm not in this fandom, this is not my war to step into. But it *is* interesting. Because, obviously, there's a lot of misogyny involved in campophobia - even in the queer community, the feminine man is despised. P&G: Yes. A loud part of the queer community, weirdly, strives for heteronormativity. We focus on gay men and women as being 'normal', the way straight men and women are 'normal'. Possibly just because it makes us less threatening to straight people, or helps us deal with internalized homophobia, I don't know. But that 'normality' is a lie whether the person in question is gay or straight, these categories are weird, and troublesome, and some of them are actively steeped in hatred and lies. The only thing to do is let it go. 'Normal' has only ever been an illusion. It is all so much more complicated than that you would not *believe*. Let gender be whatever it will be, and stop trying to shame people into going about it the way you're comfortable with. People are who they are and they love who they love. No-one should ever have to sit in a labelled box that someone else nailed the lid down on. TV: Fandom's largely female and yet we still perpetuate the weird misogyny wrapped up in all of this. P&G: Fuck the patriarchy that lives in our own heads most of all. TV: And the weirdest part of it is, everyone knows who he is - he's a hero. There is so much photographic evidence of his extremebamfery that it was a struggle to narrow down which gifs to illustrate the point with. P&G: He haunted New York on his own for five years before Phalanx showed up. Criminals are terrified of him, there's enough documented evidence of that. He can take down a dozen guys all bigger than him and then stroll away when the cops arrive, the last man standing and still unarrested. He kicks so much ass and we've always admired that. He also just copes with what must be a frequently distressing and draining occupation - most of what he deals with on any individual night could be completely traumatic to many people. I admire his strength and bravery utterly. And somehow people cannot square that strength, bravery, and bamfery with the image of him standing with his hip cocked *like a girl*. TV: Because, really, the two just aren't connected. They literally have nothing to do with each other. It's not that either should make the other difficult, there is no logical inconsistency in his not being traditionally masculine and his simultaneously kicking lots of ass. P&G: No. It was never his testosterone-fuelled uber-manliness that kicked ass. It was him. Exactly as he is. He's the same person kicking ass as he is standing next to Phalanx, in what is to him an unconsciously comfortable position - it's only since Phalanx came along that he's started relaxing like that, btw, *that* is clearly what's comfortable to him, not that wary cloak-covered hunch he always wore before. And it says so much more about fandom, about *people*, than it does about *him* that people somehow cannot make the image of the butt-kicking man who stands 'like a woman' sit right. TV: Because - what, heroism is manly? Girls don't kick ass *like that*? Because like you said, there are those who emphasize and fetishize his femininity, and in so doing they often fail to capture the bamfy aspect of him. P&G: What this links in to is the fandom entitlement complex. TV: Go ahead, I can feel your need to preach. P&G: I have a rant brewing, if that's what you mean. The fandom entitlement complex links into fandom sexism in a really strange and powerful way. Because fandom feels like it *owns* its figures of fetishization; they are what they are because we made them that. There is an enormous sense of ownership, like they're just the scaffolding, *we* construct who they are. And of course, they can't live up to that. They're real people, not our dolls. And when they fail to live up to our particular construction we either ignore the facts and go on as before or else we get *really fucking angry*. How *dare* they be actual human beings. They're supposed to be *my doll*, not any real person. Especially not any complicated real person! They should be as simple as possible because I can't conceptualize more than three personality traits in my head at any one time, I am *actually* that dumb! TV: Ahem. Plus we live in a patriarchal society and we construct our dolls along the strict and misogynist gender lines given to us, which oversimplifies them in very dangerous ways. P&G: That's what worries me about many of the people who make the Ghost out to be 'girly' - they're often people who obviously really *identify* with the Ghost, and they still make him out to be weak. So what does that say about the psychology of some women in this world, that society taught us to hate ourselves so *effectively* that we even want our *heroes* to just be rescued, that when we use him as a stand-in for ourselves in *fiction* we still *make him weak*? Because the fic and meta where the Ghost is effeminate *and* is the still the strong, life-saving hero - well, I've rarely found it under the sheer mass of 'basically all the Ghost really wants is for Phalanx to *save* him' fic. TV: I mean, ouch, but yeah. It explains the bizarre popularity of misogynist romance fiction written for women by women, after all. P&G: Mm. So we construct our dolls as manly male heroes, and then throw a shitfit when the queer man actually turns out to be *too* queer. Or we construct them as weak and flimsy *caricatured* women with dicks, who angst and cry and need a more masculine partner to 'rescue' them. The entitlement complex is so strong that we either write over them with our own images - rewrite the Ghost entirely, forget that he kicks ass, forget his *strength*, because a 'girly' man could never be strong because *girls aren't strong* - or we rage and scream about all our butthurt that the hero turned out to not be a cardboard cut out MAN. The part where he's a hero - do I actually need to remind people that he stopped New York being blown up? (with Phalanx; they are partners, after all) - who is both 'feminine' and 'masculine', because we all are, because those labels fix to characteristics and not to people, *that* part gets forgotten. We want them to be what *we want them to be*. We forget that they're not obliged to be a damn thing for anyone except themselves. And often people in writing their definitions of other people do want to wipe queerness out. They want us to go back to that gender dichotomy. They either want him to be a 'man' (caricatured) or to be basically a 'woman' (caricatured) in male form, but they can't *stand* that he's actually just a human being, and human beings are difficult. TV: No middle ground? P&G: Are you shitting me? This is fandom. TV: So tell us how to fix this, great wise Ghostly. P&G: I appreciate your sarcasm so, so dearly. There is middle ground, I was being facetious. There was a small, feminist, pro-queer faction fighting this corner as loudly and rationally as they could. And Blackbindings - one of the fanficcers in the ghostlanx fandom - wrote a piece after that photograph was published called Graduation, which tried to actually ignore the wank and deal with what the photograph *did* teach us about the relationship between the Ghost and Phalanx. Because all that wank is nothing like the most interesting part of that photograph. In this fandom, *everyone* should have responded to that photograph how Blackbindings did, but unfortunately she's the only one with the brains to see what's actually important. TV: I haven't read the fic. P&G: It's a meditation - all of her fics are strolls around a subject, giving you new angles and a wider perspective to actually *see* something from, I swear she makes me realize I have my eyes *closed* half the time. It's a meditation on the balance of 'power' in their relationship. What power means, and doesn't mean, and how it doesn't have to dominate, those who have power can *share* it. We think of it like it's a limited resource but why can't everyone be powerful, if it's the right kind of power? It's about their teacher/student relationship. TV: You're going to have to explain that for those of us who aren't in the fandom. P&G: Tell me what you think it might mean from looking at that photograph. TV: I don't know. The Ghost is standing slightly behind Phalanx's shoulder, relative to that cop. It could just be that the way Phalanx is gesturing has knocked their shoulders out of alignment. It could be that Phalanx has *put* himself between them. It could be that the *Ghost* put Phalanx between them. It could be that Phalanx is taking the lead and the Ghost is happy with that. It could be that the Ghost is watching over him . . . P&G: Yes. It could be all of those things. And not one of us mentioned it because we were just too fucking busy screaming about the Ghost standing like a girl. The Ghost was there first, and it's pretty long been assumed by many that they had a teacher/apprentice role - the classic superhero/sidekick relationship. But it becomes obvious in that photograph - and when you look back, there's a lot of other pictorial evidence for it - that it's really not that simple, and maybe it never has been. TV: You know I love it when you elaborate. P&G: I'm sexy when I'm verbal. When you look back through gifs and photosets, whenever they're dealing with crime victims, the Ghost tends to be in front. His attention is all on the victim and Phalanx is looking at *him*. When they're dealing with criminals they're usually side by side and their attention is focused on the threat. But whenever they're dealing with anybody else - cops, reporters, fans, bystanders - usually Phalanx is the one in front and talking, and usually, the Ghost isn't looking at who they're dealing with, his gaze and his posture are orientated towards *Phalanx*. The Ghost often isn't even fully visible in those situations. Look at that photograph again; Phalanx is standing very at ease and in control of the situation, very relaxed being the one talking, and the Ghost is looking at *him*. This is not a hero/sidekick relationship. They have strengths and weaknesses and they complement each other. They actually are, in every sense of the word, partners. TV: That's quite sweet actually. P&G: If you're contemplating joining the fandom I advise you not to, it's populated mostly by cretins and children. Blackbindings is special. Very special, actually. She does cryptic crosswords for *shiggles*, I don't know if you've ever looked at one but they are torture for the mind. But it affects her brain in interesting ways. She called it 'Graduation', because partly the fic is about how they educate each other, empower each other (of course education is empowering: in her fic, knowledge elevates). But the fic is also very steeped in color terms. It gives it a really physical, sensual, *there* atmosphere, almost close enough to touch, and it was only when I remembered her twisty-turny cryptic little brain that I realised that 'graduation' is only a letter away from 'gradation'. It's the sort of thing she'd notice and play on, cunning little creature that she is. The way hues run into each other. There is no dividing line. The labels are a lie. Strictly, once you realize how difficult drawing a line between colors is, there aren't any *colors*; there's just *color*, and we fumble through labelling instances of it as best we can, pretending that the labels create real categories. They, the Ghost and Phalanx, are so much more complicated than anything we can paint them. Their identities are human identities and the labels are a *lie*. It's not that the labels aren't labelling something real but that they're only labelling *parts* of people when they are *wholes*. They are complex. They live in a world of gradations. They're not superhero/sidekick except for when they are, but who is which is a very blurry thing. Isn't it for all of us? TV: I can't tell if you're a fan of ghostlanx or of Blackbindings right now. P&G: Probably both. Sometimes I just contemplate that her mind exists and give a satisfied sigh that the world *must* be a reasonable place after all . . . TV: We should probably get back to the wank we were discussing. Did you have any closing thoughts on the subject? P&G: Just that being a fan is a very peculiar thing. We never know the person that we 'love' so much, though I do think that that love is often very sincere and fierce-felt, but we only actually know the doll we made of them in our own heads - with masked heroes the problem intensifies. And what we should do is be relaxed, and accept that people are always more complicated than we think they are - this has wider implications than fandom alone - and discuss these things in a way such that we can *learn* from it. Because learning, and the openness to strange new things that learning requires, empowers. The close-mindedness that treats people as characters to be owned by us, that demands simplicity where simplicity is an act of psychological aggression, that sense that we're entitled to special access to their identities almost more than they themselves are - all those things harm both them and *us* in thinking like that. And if people could not be dicks about gender norms that would also be really cool. TV: Indeed. The sheer scale of the meltdown is something to be appreciated, I dabbled in to take a look and - whoa, basically. P&G: It's a big fandom, when we make wank we make a *masterpiece* of wank. Still, most people did stay out of it. The sensible majority who just duck their heads and reblog gifs whenever the shit starts flying. TV: And do you have this week's move ready yet? P&G: It's in the mail, and you really should have seen it coming. TV: We'll see. So next week I'll probably be discussing US remakes of other countries' movies and TV shows, unless something more interesting happens in the meantime. P&G: Oh god, don't even get me started on that bullshit. TV: And it looks like you'll probably see Paleandghostly in the comments section next week too, ahem. Thank you for your contribution this week, P&G, couldn't have done it without you. P&G: You're more than welcome. I hope it was educational, at least insofar as discouraging people from irritating me quite so much. TV: See you guys next week, signing off!

#lb 2017 #this was so good #paleandghostly #atog grey

1 note · View note

mamacesawrites · 5 years ago

Text

The Duke of the Bay: Part 5 2/2

If you want to be put on a taglist for this please let me know!

[Spotify Playlist] [Youtube Playlist]

First Part, Ao3 Link, Next Part

Story Warnings: Guns, threats, alcohol, homosexual slang used pejoratively and positively, internalized homophobia, ask me to add any if need be

Chapter Warnings: None that I can think of, let me know if I need to add any!

Chapter Word Count: 3803

So what happens, when instead, the detective is the one that’s caught?

Mr. Doris never failed. His job was, simply put, to make sure things would run smoothly. He was the one who oversaw all the operations. He kept an eye on the booze shipments. He set the meetings for people who wanted to speak with the Duke. He did everything around the Bay Area for the most part. The footprint that the Duke had in the town of Emeryville was his own creation. He wouldn’t say it out loud completely, but he thought of himself as the true boss of everything.

However, this time he did fail, and he didn’t want to fess up about it to his boss just yet.

Virgil wasn’t mad when he had seen the man on his doorstep. He just seemed disappointed. “What are you doing here? Thought you had some broad to dump in a river or something.”

“As fun as that sounds, no,” Mr. Doris smirked, “Just thought I’d treat you to some…” he pulled a small flask out of his jacket’s inner pocket, “Fun?”

Virgil sighed to himself. He shook his head in disbelief. “It’s not even noon yet, you sneak. Get in here.”

Mr. Doris grinned slyly as he entered the house. Virgil Vitale lived a pretty nice life. He was the Duke’s cousin. Once upon a time he was going to be second in command. However he gave the position to Mr. Doris for some reason. Something along the lines of how he didn’t want to work too much. It was a big deal in the family at the time. Though over the next few years Mr. Doris had proven himself to be a good enough replacement...until now.

“Why are you hiding from the Duke, Janny boy?” Virgil teased as he poured himself some coffee in the kitchenette. He was doing his best to act calm in front of his unexpected visitor. However his hands were tense in their task.

“Don’t call me that, Vitale!” the short man hissed. He then continued with mock innocence, “Plus, who said I was hiding? Can’t a man pop in on his pal without it being work related?”

Virgil scoffed as he sat down in his chair. “You’re not a man, Doris. You’re more like a, uh, a slimy snake.” He smirked to hide the urge to bite his lip with nerves.

Virgil Vitale was a handsome young man.Though over the past month his wavy black hair had gotten too long. It was falling over his face, nearly hiding his steel blue eyes. His lips were angular, and almost always in a half smile or a frown. His skin was a somewhat darker tan, showing off his Italian heritage boldly. That was the only clue that he was even a part of the family in general, though his skin was also the darkest-but not by much.

It was a great shame, Mr. Doris often thought, that he didn’t want much to do with the family business. He served his purpose where he was obligated. He had proven his loyalty time and time again. Most of the family just saw him as an independent man trying to make his own way in the world after the Great War.

All Mr. Doris was able to see was a slacker who didn’t even last one year on the battlefield.

The visitor bared his teeth as he crossed his arms. He was questioning his decision about avoiding the boss. The host was being more brusque than usual. To give him benefit of the doubt, though, they were both pretty worn down from tailing the two detectives their leader had his black eyes on.

“If you must know,” he answered. He turned his nose up and sniffed. Virgil held back a grimace at the gesture as his ‘friend’ continued, “I may have been chased off by that pansy cop.”

Virgil choked on his drink. “Pansy? Really?” There was no way in hell Mr. Doris would have been able to find out. Virgil had only just learned the night before when-

“Well, if the noises he was making with the boss in his office were any indication,” the serpent-like man winked at him. He wiggled his eyebrows for emphasis.

Virgil’s brow crinkled in confusion. When had Logan been in the Duke’s- oh. Mr. Doris was talking about the other one. Patrick or whatever. The one he didn’t have to keep tabs on.

“Well, I don’t see what him being...ya know...has to do with anything?” Virgil looked at the rim of his mug as he sipped. He didn’t want to be talking about this at all, however getting this info would be beneficial. Even if it was only gossip. He could find a way to give the information to his...accomplice.

“Well, nothing, obviously, but-” Mr. Doris waved his gloved hands around as he spoke. He was sick of this unnecessary distraction. “This whole deal has been a disaster. I wish we hadn’t gone through with this plan. You know, if I was boss-”

Virgil slammed his mug down. He shouted out, “That’s enough, Janus! I may not be the boss but I’m still his blood. You’re already on thin ice,” Virgil lowered his voice to a threatening growl. “Don’t tempt me to let him know that you’re talking like that. Especially after you messed up on teaching a lesson to that doll, uh, what’s her name?”

“Alice Beauregard,” Doris mumbled. All of his bravado had been pulled inward. He looked like a child who had been caught digging into the cookie jar with how red his face turned. He hated when Virgil called him by his first name. He opened his mouth to say more, but Virgil’s telephone started to ring.

“One moment,” Virgil stood up to answer.

It was good timing. Mr. Doris didn’t want to keep intruding. Especially if the man was going to be so touchy. He had to go see the Duke anyways. No use putting it off for too long. He waved at his friend as he walked out the door.

He tapped the steering wheel of his car nervously. His favorite pair of sunflower yellow gloves stood out among the black aesthetic. He found peace in the memories that came when he looked at them. Wearing them was akin to a child carrying their security blanket everywhere. With the safe cover of the soft material hugging his fingers, he grabbed a hold of his nerves as he arrived at the Lion’s Den.

He walked in to see that the Duke was standing at the office window. The boss had his hands clasped behind his back. Today he was wearing black slacks, forest green suspenders, and a light green dress shirt. The man had such a preference for green that it was sort of...queer. He had told Mr. Doris it was because green was the color of money. Money was all that flowed through his veins. That was what he claimed, at least.

“Hello, Mr. Doris. How’d it go with our dear Miss Alice?” he asked calmly. The soft tone of his voice was foreign to Doris’ ears.

“Well, she didn’t have the cash,” the subordinate hedged. He sat down at the seat in front of the large wooden desk.

“I see. Did you take care of her?” the Duke was still eerily calm. The quiet before a storm. He didn’t seem upset about the monetary loss. Mr. Doris suspected that the questioning was formal. Maybe he was off of the hook.

“I didn’t kill her,” Mr. Doris answered again. It wasn’t a lie.

“So, where is she?” Mr. Doris didn’t see the Duke’s tight grip on the windowsill in front of him.

“Somewhere far away…” the shorter man trailed off. He couldn’t handle one more question without spilling the beans. He crossed his fingers and hid them in his lap.

“Mr. Doris, one more question,” the Duke’s tone was void of any aggression. Well, no obvious aggression.

Why did Mr. Doris still feel like his entire body was already drowned in the cold waters of the bay? “Yes, boss?”

“How...stupid do you think I am?” The Duke still kept his voice calm as his body started to shake. The cool facade was dropping rapidly with each second.

Mr. Doris stayed quiet. He didn’t have a word to say that wouldn’t technically be a lie. Plus he could already see that he was in trouble. He gripped the arms of the chair as he braced himself for the explosion.

The Duke spun around wildly. He slammed his fist on the table. “I don’t know where you were mulling around, but in the meantime I got a call from the damn captain telling me his top two detectives left on a call to a girl in distress then disappeared. He’s bugging out, sayin’ that he’s been exposed. I had to offer him even more money, which means more cash lost because of this damn child!”

His eyes were nearly throwing flames towards his companion. His lips twitched in annoyance. Mr. Doris felt that the black rage being radiated towards him wasn’t all because of this small mistake. His boss had been more touchy as of late. This was about more than just his failure to bring the girl in. It was about who disrupted the job in the first place.

Ever since the detectives showed up for the party a month ago, he noticed the Duke was antsy. Mr. Doris was surprised that the cops were given so much time to decide, even though it was a formality. Frankly it was confusing. Why was the Duke even exposing himself like this to these detectives? Especially since it was all for show? There was no point in sticking his business out to their enemies.

Mr. Doris decided to placate the raging man for now, though. “Sorry, sir, I’ll be more careful. I’m going to find her-”

“No, I’m going to find her. I have a feeling I know exactly where she is.” The Duke started to put his things together. He opened the bottom drawer of his desk to grab his gun. His movements were loud as he got ready.

“Where?” The second in command felt nervous about not being involved. It wouldn’t be good for business flow if he was cast aside. The Duke needed a handler when he went out on business.

The Duke grinned softly as he shrugged on his trench coat. “Where else? With my dear detective, of course.”

-----

“Alright, you got the plan, Logan?” Patton asked his partner as they parked the car.

“Uh huh,” Logan answered vaguely. His eyes were unfocused a majority of the time since they left Alice at his home to wait for his friend.

“Hey!” Patton snapped his fingers towards his partner. “I can’t have you leaving me, Lo!”

“Sorry,” Logan shook his head. His face turned a bright pink at being caught lost in his thoughts. “One more time, Pat?”

Patton gripped the steering wheel. He felt so close to getting this over with, and now Logan was the one losing his marbles. Still, he wouldn’t let his frustrations blind him again. He rested his palms on the wheel and took in a deep breath. His fingers felt like they were buzzing at the thought of being the one to put the cuffs on the Duke. He smiled at the image in his thoughts of that.

Patton spoke quickly, “We’re going to go in and say that the girl didn’t want to file a report. Since backup didn’t see her recognize us, that might be believable. If the captain asks why we still didn’t bring her in for questioning, we say she was hysterical,” Patton shared a smile with Logan at the thought of Alice being hysterical.

“Right. Then we mention that we suspect a plant, using your theories-except the part where you suspect it’s him,” Logan’s face hardened, “I really hope it’s not. He has a child on the way.”

Patton’s excited grin fell. He hadn’t had time to think that his captain, his boss, his superior-was also his friend. Captain de Rossi was a kind man. How had he forgotten? The man was stubborn at times, some may even say eccentric. Yet he had done good for their station. He’s the one who sniffed out the Duke’s gang in the first place for them.

He leaned back in his seat. He felt a bit of guilt at the thoughts he was having about doubting the captain. He looked at Logan, who also seemed to feel ashamed. Logan’s eyes were cast down at his hands. His mouth was frowning downwards that it seemed the gears in his mind were slowing. He whispered, “What if we’re wrong, and we doom his family to having that accusation on their heads for a long time?”

Patton bit his lip. “What if we’re right, and it ends up getting so ugly his kid ends up on the bad side of things?”

Logan was silent. He scrunched his eyebrows in thought. His gears were starting to speed up again. He looked up and nodded at Patton. “Alright,” he confidently stated, “Alright, let’s clean up our station.”

The two got out of the vehicle quickly. Neither of them wanted to prolong the inevitable. Patton still got a nasty feeling in the pit of his stomach. It was starting to weigh in what would happen to his friend’s family. Moreso, what would happen to the town? The captain was likable by the citizens. Would it crush their hearts?

He asked himself, for the first time since he met the Duke, how much he was willing to sacrifice for the capture of one man?

He and Logan hung up their suits. He noticed that the other cops weren’t there. For a split second he feared that the captain was out too, until he heard yelling from the man’s office.

“No, you don’t understand! My wife is due to have our kid soon and if you think-”

The yelling stopped as Logan burst into the office. The captain’s head snapped up. He froze as he saw Patton follow in shortly after. His wide eyes made him look like a deer caught on the road.

“I’ll call you later,” he told the anonymous voice on the line before carefully hanging up. He cleared his throat. “Good to finally see you guys,” he forced a cheerful tone in his loud voice as he spread his arms wide.

Captain Roman de Rossi was a handsome man. Despite his Italian features, he was able to quickly climb the ranks to get his position as captain of Emeryville Police Department. He had vibrant brown eyes that were nearly black. His black curly hair was magically tamed most of the time, though the past few weeks he hadn’t been able to manage it with his nervous habit of rubbing his hands through it. His skin was tanned, though it wasn’t so dark that most of the time people were shocked to learn of his Italian heritage.

He was tense. Patton could see it in his grin. His chin was tilted down, his jaw was taught, his clothes were wrinkled. He looked like a mess of a man. If Patton hadn’t known better, he’d say he looked like some of the drunks he’d brought in over the course of his years working at the station.

Logan shared a glance with Patton before responding. “Apologies about the delay, captain. We had some trouble with the last call.” Logan’s voice was smooth over the lie. The only tell he caught was Logan’s refusal to look straight at the captain. Patton could barely see that Logan was covering his anxiety.

Roman nodded then sat down. “Sit, gentleman, tell me what happened.”

The detectives sat down cautiously. Neither of them knew what to expect, and if they could read the captain’s mind, they would have known they weren’t alone in their nervousness. It was a standoff-except they didn’t know they were on opposite sides of what was good.

Roman’s face morphed into a serious expression. His professional persona that he reserved for serious cases overtook his body language and face. Patton resisted the urge to flinch at the severity of that glare. “Well, sir, the girl-”

Patton stuttered at the raised eyebrow the captain gave him. He looked at Logan to save him.

“Naturally, after the perpetrator got away, she blew into hysterics. We both decided it was best to take her home to help her get calm,” the younger detective answered.

“She also didn’t want to file a report,” Patton chimed in. He felt his old confidence return. He smiled warmly at the captain, trying to ignore the jitters his boss was throwing out.

“I see…” Roman muttered. He looked over to Logan directly, “What happened to the perp?”

Logan gulped. He hadn’t been prepared for that question to be so direct, and filled with tense focus. “I-he-”

“He got away, didn’t he?” Roman asked aggressively. His voice was starting to raise.

“You two are good cops. I thought I could trust you to take down this gang.”

His face was getting red. He looked down at his desk, “I trusted you two to be a force for good.”

Patton reached out to touch his friend’s hand. He didn’t care in the moment that the captain was likely in on the crimes being committed. They were still friends. How could he have forgotten that?

“We’re sorry. We underestimated them.”

Roman looked at the detective’s hands resting on his. Such a soft action. He was still reaching out to him. Patton was a good detective. He had a love for everyone that was immeasurable. The captain swallowed. His face told them only a hint of the storm brewing in his mind from the contact.

“Sir, I have a theory that may help us with the case,” Logan broke the silence. His face was full of regret for what he was about to say. His words were nearly a whisper, yet they were loud with their implications. “I think there may be a plant. I suspected with the anonymous tip we received a month ago, and I know so now.”

The captain sucked in a breath. Patton watched his reaction-looking for any sign of deception or a clue of his betrayal. He continued to watch while Logan explained in slow, calculated words.

“I regret to inform you that my suspicions were confirmed when the Duke…” Logan straightened his posture to deliver with a confident voice, “When he sent one of his lackeys to my home last night.”

Patton turned his head sharply at Logan. His shocked expression was match for match with the captain. Logan was going off script. Patton met his partner’s apologetic eyes briefly before they were interrupted by the captain’s rage.

“You had a chance to capture a criminal, and didn’t call it in?!” Roman roared, shooting out of his chair. “Not only that, you let another one get away after attacking a young girl! I have half a mind to-”

Patton stood up. He held his hands out in peace. He saw what he needed to see about their captain. He hid his heartbreak well enough at the betrayal that was confirmed...by both of them.

“Fellas, please, let’s talk this out calmly,” his voice betrayed him by cracking, “I’m sure Logan was trying to-”

“Put the blame on someone else! He’s pointing fingers!” The captain slammed his fist on his desk. Patton looked at Logan.

The younger detective stayed steady. His face was resigned against the fire being thrown at him from his boss. Patton wanted to figure out what his deal was, but first they needed to get out of there on calm terms.

“Captain,” Logan spoke slowly. His voice was monotone. He was devoid of all emotion. “I think you’re too tired to think clearly,” the angry man’s face fell into a darker expression. Logan continued, “I hadn’t had time to notify you or Patton, it’s been a fretful day.”

“Logan, you just made a big mistake,” Roman growled out. Patton’s heart fell as he watched the exchange-helpless, like he had been every time he got close to something that would help him catch the Duke.

Roman stood tall, and Logan followed suit. They both seemed in the know about what was going on. Patton shook his head back and forth at them. He wanted to shout to clear the tension, but his throat was closed. His words had escaped his mind as soon as Logan implied he was working with-

“Detective Logan Smith,” the captain’s voice was rigid, “You have withheld vital information to the investigation from me, and your partner. You are hereby suspended for two weeks. Please,” Patton was held in place by his surprise, “Hand over your badge and weapon.”

Patton felt a cry settle on his chest. He bit his tongue so hard he tasted blood. He couldn’t believe his ears. The captain was really suspending someone like Logan?

Logan took it well, it seemed. He didn’t beg. He didn’t cry. He didn’t shout. He didn’t even try to defend himself like Patton wanted to. He removed his gun from his belt, along with his badge, and handed it over to their captain with no emotion in his body.

Logan nodded at the still-fuming captain behind the desk. He turned to Patton and offered his hand. Patton gripped it tight as he shook it. He choked down his emotions while he was painfully aware of the captain’s eyes on them. He looked into his young partner’s blue eyes; was that mischief?

Logan saluted them both when he reached the door and left. He stood tall. Roman deflated into his seat as Logan left. Logan had been right. The captain looked tired for sure. Patton wondered to himself what this was going to mean if he was going to capture the gang leader that plagued his every thought.

“Detective-Patton, you’re still on the case. Please make sure you don’t make the mistake Detective Smith did by hesitating to report new information.” Roman waved to the door, covering his face with his hand as he leaned on the edge of the desk. “You’re dismissed.”

Patton walked out, though he didn’t feel the ground beneath him. His limbs were not attached to his body. His head was dizzy from the quick exchange that had just taken place. The weight in his stomach was crushing his guts. His mind was swimming with questions. Questions about the captain, about Logan, about the Duke...about himself.

The sun was bright in his eyes as he stepped outside. He looked around for Logan, though it was futile.

The deed was done. Patton would have to find the Duke alone.

Taglist: @deceits-left-glove

LET ME KNOW IF YOU WANTED TO BE ADDED TO THE TAGLIST FOR ANY SHIP/STORY!

1 note · View note