laura (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
appliances) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
dumbshow2018-03-25 04:55 pm
appliances) wrote in dumbshow2018-03-25 04:55 pm
the critically acclaimed open post
assorted shitty people
☆ @ the muselist |
optional prompts/ideas
☆ caught in the rain meme ☆ little steps meme ☆ affectionate physical contact meme ☆ picture prompt also acceptable but link them so it's tidy ☆ AU ideas: soulmates AU, reincarnation AU, Bad End AU, canon divergent/roleswap AU, dorky college AU, crossover AU, super indulgent high fantasy AU ☆ melodrama is ultimate tier ★ SHIPPING AND FILTHY THINGS: ☆ non-fluffy relationship types I'm down for: codependent, master/servant power imbalance type ships, "we're bad for each other but worse for anyone else," other things I am failing to think of tbh ☆ things I won't rp: noncon (includes "dubcon"), incest, tsundere shit if your tsundere is just verbally abusive, gratuitous torture porn, you'll probably have to ask me about harder kinks and they will vary by character ☆ I don't have a kink list so pitch me an idea if u thirsty ☆ if you would prefer a locked post I can also make that happen |
rooftop: scenic, time: dusk, melodrama: out
Not a comfortable routine, the way they live, but a routine nonetheless. Abbacchio has never vied for the position of leader, or even tried to bully Fugo out of the sort-of-second station he filled for a while, as he's never wanted it... but he's the oldest, and somehow the most level-headed in a crisis (he says), so it falls to him to keep the kids in line when Bruno is away on a mission of his own. This role he did actually bully his way into, but they listen to him when he tells them that Bruno being away for a few extra days isn't anything to worry about; that the short communication that could express only that, and even that too vaguely for comfort, is nothing to worry about. That the routine breaking in such a dramatic way is... just fine.
And naturally, when he's finally left alone and the others have... whatever it is they do to keep them busy, he smokes like a chimney and drinks most of a bottle of wine by himself. He does it on the roof of the apartment building they've holed up in in this town after telling the others he's going out somewhere, because he doesn't need the rest of the gang getting on his ass about his absolutely blatant lies.
Because Bruno being absent for days longer than predicted is absolutely something to worry about. The panic coils in Abbacchio's chest like a snake constricting around his heart, and with each passing day he wonders if the next morning will be the one where a message arrives, impersonal and with Further Instructions, telling them their leader has unfortunately been murdered and dumped in a canal somewhere they'll never see. Days turn to hours to minutes, and so Abbacchio leans his elbows on the ledge surrounding this rooftop and drinks straight from the bottle, watching the street, waiting.
It's not to say his stomach lurches every time he sees a dark-haired figure in the street below. It doesn't. Surely not. He doesn't look over his shoulder every time the wind makes something on the rooftop creak like the door opening, aside from every time he does.
He surely does not do any of that, but if he did, it would be better than letting his mind wander away to what will happen to the rest of them if they're left suddenly and tragically alone. He, personally, will probably will find a hole to crawl into until he dies—
It is at this point that the wind blows over some ancient construction materials left up on the rooftop which clatter away loudly enough to startle Abbacchio into spilling the rest of his wine. Now, he is only focused on all this adult grape juice he just spilled down his own leg. Great!!] —Fuck.
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No. No, it won't be all of them. Narancia will fuss, but he'll quiet down if everyone else tells him not to worry. Fugo will have his suspicions and quiet anxieties, but ultimately he'll follow Abbacchio's lead. And Abbacchio . . . he thinks he isn't worth much, but he's a good second in command. He'll keep them calm and shoulder the burden himself, terrified and furious, taking it out on everyone and not ever saying the real reason why. It'll fester and boil within him, growing heavier and heavier, worse and worse, until something breaks.
These past three days must have been hell for him.
And in light of that, it feels selfish to think that the past three days have been hell for him, too, but oh, it's been exhausting. He's wearied down to his bones, bruises splattered over his body, zippers here and there betraying how severe his injuries had gotten. He'll heal, but he hadn't expected that kind of delay. He hadn't expected that kind of resistance, but marveling over it won't do any good.
But now he's home. He's home (home being defined as wherever his gang resides) and he doesn't smile as he hears that curse, but still there's something endearing about hearing it at all, because it means that he gets to hear that familiar voice. It reaches into his heart, and something in the line of his shoulders relaxes. Hearing Abbacchio curse means he's home, and oh, god, but he's missed being home.]
If you're going to yell at me, I'd prefer you to do it up here.
[He very much means that. But there's something quiet in his voice. He isn't scolding. What he means, what his tone is truly saying, is: hello, I'm home, I missed you.]
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Not great. Not really even good; but better. He remains something of a mess, something fractured into pieces and put back together incorrectly. Sure, he functions - he breathes and walks and gets through the day, somehow, but he doesn't ever feel right without Bruno beside him. Or at least—at least nearby, at least somewhere Abbacchio can see him and feel his presence and grasp onto that little modicum of peace.
It isn't something he can express in words, not good ones; but even he knows it's fairly obvious. It's obvious now, when instead of turning around to look Bruno in the face he stands there with his hands on the roof's ledge, knuckles white, staring at the street below with his shoulders hunched and oh, god, it's been three days. Abbacchio takes a deep breath.
And then he turns around, and he's scowling as per usual, but something in his eyes softens for just a moment as he, too, feels like he's come home. God.]
Fuck, [he says again, and he's still a tiny bit drunk but that's mostly three days of anguish talking, packaged neatly into one word. For emphasis, he adds,] Fuck you in particular. What took you so long?
[Besides the obvious - the usual? Whatever. Despair filtered down into anger he has nothing to do with still seeps through Abbacchio's very footsteps as he moves away from the ledge toward Bruno, one of his hands raised before he's fully crossed the distance to land squarely on Bruno's shoulder. The other, more tenderly, brushing his cheek.
So it's been a long three days and he kind of smells like his very own liquor store, but besides that: finally.] You look like shit, you know.
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i couldn't resist gomen
Vienna Teng
i give you....the most annoying trust fund baby
But. And there is, in fact, always a but in these situations—Ling is a man on a mission. He has a head full of dreams and pockets lined with gold, and surely, this time, surely he'll find the simplest, surefire way to rocket the Yao branch up to the head of the family. He'll sit in the big chair instead of halfway down the table, unimportant, shouted over and shuffled off to be kept busy with mindless social gatherings that the house staff insist to him are important.
(He climbed out the window of the third floor to get away last time and showed up the next morning still in his dinner clothes, scuffed and dusty and very nearly put on house arrest for a month afterward.)
Still, he insists again, with one leg over his bedroom balcony railing before he disappears and leaves his personal staff shouting after him, he's the only one with the guts to take their family branch at high as they can go! It's entirely up to him, as first born, to make something of them—and himself, in the process.
There's only one problem (well, there are several): Ling is absolutely, without a doubt, terrible at planning. He has ideas, he has endgames, but he has no skill when it comes to starting out and connecting point A to B and so on until the end.
So it's been slow going, his quest to elevate the Yao branch. Many have tried to gently tell him it's a process, it isn't a one-step ordeal, nothing like "Ling finds the miraculous solution and then they've won!"—and he doesn't listen.
Once, the first time, he'd insisted getting familiar with the grittier parts of the city would lead him to the answer. He'd wandered downtown still dressed to the nines, oozing money and unworldliness, and it's a wonder- and credit to his only actual hobby, combat training- that he didn't wind up mugged in an alley. That was the first time.
That was six months ago, and he's stumbled into the Devil's Nest bar (and sometimes grill) several times after that, to... well, loiter. He's rattled off half his life story to most of the staff and a few of the regulars, and no one has tried to follow him out and hold him at knifepoint lately, even if the staff generally treat him like an endearing mascot more than anything, and it's fun! He has fun. Then at the end of the night he goes back home to his million-dollar bed and sleeps without a care in the world, besides the one. He'll figure something out for the Yao branch eventually!
So he's not everyone's favorite, around the neighborhood, just like he's not everyone's favorite in the social elite circle. It's fine, he still has a good time—even when he buys a drink like he's super good at alcohol and doesn't touch it at all, like tonight. He's done his usual, disappearing the moment the staff take their eyes off him at home, and now he's rocking his bar stool back dangerously far before clunking the legs back down loudly, in the all but silent room.
This he does intermittently for five whole minutes before he speaks up, leaning halfway over the bar to look all the way down it to the bartender at the other end. Hi, hello, it's Ling again.]
Slow night, isn't it?
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Ling Yao, belonging to the Xing family, and he thinks himself so very subtle, but the truth is, Greed had known who he was the moment he'd walked in. That first night he'd wandered in here Martel had been at Greed's elbow in an instant, her gaze subtle but absolutely hungry. Later that night he'd had to dissuade her and all the others from following the kid out and robbing him blind.
Because, see, that'd be a path to some quick riches, but some even quicker retaliation. Rich brat gets a taste of the rough side, he goes crying back to his daddy and suddenly they're all out a bar. And while they could undoubtedly make their way back up, Greed rather likes this spot. His life has settled into an easy rhythm. He has his little gang and his staff (and some are both, it always pays to have a few clever people around the upstairs), and he has customers he enjoys, and it's not really something he wants to disrupt.
Right now, anyway. He's not going to be a bartender forever.
But the point is: Ling Yao is much more useful as a friend than an enemy. So Greed lets the kid stay (flashing around that shitty fake ID, it's pathetic, he's lucky he hadn't been tossed out the first night) and serves him alcohol and watches how much he drinks-- not because he cares, really, but if he dies of alcohol poisoning because he wanted to be a big man, it'd be trouble.
Actually, he hasn't ever once consumed those drinks. (How rich he must be, to buy a drink and not even bother to drink it!). Which is good, Greed supposes; one less sin on his admittedly flimsy conscience, never got a kid drunk, well done Greed, truly a saint.
He's growing on the staff, honestly. Martel scoffs at him, but it's gone from a disgusted scoff to something more endeared. Roa finds him exasperating, and Dolcetto is of the opinion that they'd still be better off robbing the kid blind. Bido's just happy to be paid attention, poor bastard, but all in all, Ling's managed to (perhaps intentionally) worm his way into their group.
Greed's in the middle of trying to decide if it's worth it to even try practicing mixing drinks when the kid speaks up. He's been fussing for the past few minutes in a blatant attempt to get attention, but it hasn't worked so far.]
Tuesdays usually are, no matter where you go. 'S why they put the ugliest girls on during Tuesday nights down at strip clubs.
[A little bit of trivia for him to ponder over! He wonders vaguely if Ling's ever even seen a girl without clothes, and then dismisses the thought. No, probably, because he's too sweet to hire someone and too hungry for something interesting to wander around his social circle.]
You could buy a second drink, you know, if you ever finish your first. Really get things going around here.
[It's a joke, see, because Ling never drinks. But still Greed comes over, leaning his forearms against the bar, bored enough to come talk to the kid.]
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AJR
You forgot what you like / And come hang out / Don't you leave us behind / But I'll be there next time / I'll be there next time
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Life isn't really "in the moment" anymore, since retirement. Teaching—living is hard work, and he's doing it; he isn't giving up, the way he'd carelessly thrown his life around all those years after Nighteye's prediction. He isn't. But the adjustment period between being All Might, number one hero, Symbol of Peace, and All Might, retiree, civilian is... longer than he'd like.
It's little things: a colleague offers to help him carry a stack of books and papers and he finds that he needs the help because his lung just isn't what it used to be; the hours drag on and on, with no allure of heroics and spotlights and saving anyone to get him through the longer, lonelier parts of the day. All Might has never considered himself a lonely person, despite his lifestyle—he has all the people, everywhere to bolster him, after all, and besides that, going it alone is the path he chose.
But now it's different. Now he has to pass that torch, and he hasn't gone out with a blaze of glory at all—he's just... there. He just is.
It makes him restless. He taps his pens too much and Aizawa snaps at him in the otherwise quiet staff room; he gets up to make tea too many times and the same thing happens. All Might can't shake the feeling that Aizawa has been more... what is it, critical of him? Readier than ever to snap at him, lately.
But he gets snapped at for apologizing, too, so he politely gives up on that. The man is impossible...!
And as luck would have it, it's another late night, and All Might slides open the door to the staff lounge only to find he isn't alone. How is he supposed to moodily contemplate the students' futures like this, with Aizawa in the room...?]
Ah, Aizawa, my man- [BUDDY. PAL. go home.] You're here unexpectedly late! And still awake, ha ha!
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But he isn't alone. And that, really, is the whole crux of the problem.
There isn't a hero out there who doesn't have problems in one form or another. Villains don't play around, not anymore (especially not nowadays). Heroes are in and out of the hospital, their bodies failing before they hit their thirties (if they're lucky). They're forced into retirement not from lack of desire, but lack of ability; pushed to the limit again and again, their muscles and bones simply cannot keep up. And each of them has to find a way to cope with it.
And oh, that's not even accounting for all the emotional shit they each of them go through. Sidekicks or students, interns or a whole class, there's not a hero out there who hasn't gone through that sick swoop of terror, that hideous feeling of helplessness when you realize that you, a symbol of peace, a marker of justice and righteousness and heroics, just didn't cut it. That there's a body in a coffin and it's your fault, because if only you'd been just a little stronger or smarter, they'd be alive.
Of course, being the Symbol of Peace, capital letters and title and all, comes with a heavier burden. It isn't just his students, but rather the whole world that All Might feels he's obliged to. And Aizawa would be more understanding of that, he would, but--
The fucking man just doesn't let up.
He never rages. He never curses or shouts or throws things. He doesn't even throw himself into his work, not really. Oh, he tries to teach to the best of his ability, and god knows he's studying and training, but he isn't doing it to try and force himself into a new chapter of life. Rather, there's the feeling of going through the motions, like he's just killing time before he boards a plane and resumes his life proper.
And oh, the self-pity! The restlessness, the distracted tics, the way he oh-so-nobly blames no one but himself for his failures . . . it's exhausting. It's also the right way to self-destruction for any hero, and sometimes Aizawa wonders if that's what he's truly after: to go out in one last blaze of glory, dying at some villain's hand instead of growing old and facing facts.
And tonight . . . ah, perhaps Aizawa's being more snappish than usual lately. He knows he has, frankly. But it's been an exhausting day (week, month, year, take your pick). His eyes are aching and his entire body is tense and he just . . . he can't take anything right now. Grading essays is all he has the energy for, and even then, he's scraping the bottom of the barrel, getting through them only because he knows he has to.
Add any kind of factor, and suddenly the entire pyramid of cards comes tumbling down.
(But see, the factor isn't just All-Might. Or rather: it is, but not entirely in the way All Might likely thinks. It's . . . it's a lot of things, and he's too old for some of those things, not in terms of ability or capacity but simply energy).]
So are you.
[Blandly. Just pointing out the obvious. His eyes flit up and down All Might's form (so enormous, god, the man is like a barn), and then he focuses back down on his laptop.]
Why are you here?
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...
the one where a student crushes on a new pro-hero
Studio Killers
the one where their age difference isn't over 20 goddamn years, too
It's always like that; All Might is a mystery, despite being a household name. Who he is out of costume is unknown, as are the specifics of his quirk-- for a man so popular that he can't appear on the scene without immediately commanding everyone's attention, no one can keep hold of him long enough to get any answers. His face is on every paper in the city almost every day, he hasn't stopped trending on social media for weeks, and there are just as many questions as thank yous dedicated to him out there.
That's how he likes it, of course; a man with a name and address and trivia to put on fan sites is just that, a man, but a hero who can't be held still or tracked down is closer to the symbol he's aiming for. He never intends to change his ways, no matter how many times Gran Torino tells him to reconsider or the few people from UA who know his secret ask him if he's really sure. Of course he is! Of course. This is what he has to do.
The other thing he has to do is... less glamorous. Stupid, really. All Might is already a famous hero, but Toshinori Yagi is- was someone who stood out in school thanks to his extraordinary physical ability. Someone who got his picture taken a lot. The public can know All Might attended a hero school, they can even know it was UA-- but he'd rather they not know it was Toshinori Yagi, all this time.
So.
After hours, out of costume, looking for all the world like an ordinary civilian (and One For All gives his appearance just enough subtle alterations for him to get away with this, most of the time, because people really aren't attentive), he's in a particular UA hallway, peering into a particular display case. Class pictures - that's what this case is for, celebrating and honoring the graduates of UA who've gone on to all kinds of hero work - and then there's All Might, no, there's Toshinori standing in front of it now, squinting, running his finger over the glass as he peers at pictures from a few years ago.]
No, no... Am I here? [A few more mutters, and then,] Ah! I am here! Now, how am I going to move this...?
[He just can't turn the catchphrase off. Here he is, an idiot, oblivious to being visible in the middle of this hallway.]
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username ideas for young all might: smallmight .... anyway give me mirio
With a Quirk that primarily involves calling upon a strange spirit to heal the wounded for you, it probably surprised no one that Josuke chose to intern at Recovery Girl's clinic for his summer vacations over the years. Would have liked a more action-packed internship, befitting of his delinquent-like image? Probably. However, his teachers have advised him to focus on honing up his healing skills rather than his physicality. That can come second; there's nothing more useful to the Hero community than a healer who can be on the field. So, he's here, he's been helping out on and off through school, and everyone's been saying he's practically the next successor. (They also still call him 'Recovery Boy' when he's been adamant in telling people his Hero name is 'Prince'. It's not kewl.)
It was in their first year that he met Mirio, a boy who came in from time to time with various injuries because his permeation quirk wasn't doing quite what it wanted him to. It's silly to get a black eye from slamming into a wall, but Mirio is silly; he's a riot to be around, and he's got a smile that can light up the whole room. Of course Josuke was drawn to him from the start. It's hard not to be. As time went by, Mirio's progress was palpable, his advancement in school noticed by all, and as Josuke watched him, his attraction also grew. It was a real pity that this improvement also meant Mirio would be coming into the clinic far less (though he wouldn't want to wish an injury on the guy either).
It takes time, but eventually, Josuke bites the bullet and asks the guy out. As Mirio prepares to leave after the yearly checkup that all students need to go to, Josuke stops him, posing an awkward question. ]
So ... You doing anything Saturday night? Just wondering.
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Aizawa had forgotten, honestly. Oh, he'd always known All Might was number one because he was first and foremost a brilliant hero, but between all the fame and commercialization, that fact had slipped to the back of his mind. Even after the USJ fight, he'd forgotten, in no small part because he'd been unconscious for most of it.
But against All for One . . .
He was magnificent. Breathtaking. And so incredibly, stunningly heartbreaking, as the fight had raged on and he'd suffered setback after setback.
Somehow he'd won. Even now, Aizawa isn't entirely certain how, but it doesn't matter. He'd won, and now--
Now, All Might lies in a hospital bed, his body broken and his quirk somehow used up. Aizawa doesn't understand it, not fully, but he's never needed to before. I can only assume this form for three hours or so, he'd explained on the first day, and of course, being All Might, he'd apologized and bowed and acted as though it was some grievous offense that he couldn't be the celebrity they were all so used to seeing.
It's not that he's ever minded seeing this version of him. He prefers it, if he's being honest, if that opinion matters in the least. But it's frightening, looking at that narrow chest rising and falling slowly, listening to the erratic beeps and murmurs of the machines around them that tell him that things really aren't all right.
At least he'll live. That's something, Aizawa knows, and it's definitely better than nothing, despite what All Might might or might not think when he rises.
Speaking of which . . . once again he glances around, but it's only him in this hospital room. Surely someone else should be here? Friends, or-- does All Might have family? A partner, children? God, he has no idea. He's never bothered to ask.
To be fair, he's never bothered to ask, say, Vlad either, but it feels different somehow. Maybe because he knows the other teachers really do have people, even if he himself doesn't know the specifics. Thirteen will talk about a nephew, and Ectoplasm definitely has a wife, and Mic and Midnight have, well, him, and--
Well, the point is, surely All Might has someone. Anyone. He's so personable, so friendly, so damnably eager to talk . . .
For the first time it occurs to Aizawa that perhaps he's that way in no small part because he doesn't have anyone.
Ugh. He groans softly, rubbing a hand over his face. Whatever. He isn't going to be caught up in some stupid web of guilt for something that isn't his fault. Whatever All Might's current situation is, the fact of the matter is that Aizawa is the only one here right now. He's been here for nearly three hours, alternating between absently grading papers and watching All Might, waiting for him to wake up.
It's five in the morning. He has a vague idea the nurses think he's someone related, or maybe they just don't enforce the rules that strictly when the person in the bed just saved all of Japan.
It's probably the former.]
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Because they must know, right? How could they not? All Might speaks to the camera for Midoriya, for that boy upon whose shoulders he's placed this most terrible of burdens, and all the encouragement and training by the sea cannot prepare a young boy for an enemy like All for One, who knows, who knows—
All Might blacks out then; sways on his knees and feels someone catch him by the shoulders, and then it's dark. He stirs just once in the back of an ambulance and thinks he hears Gran Torino's voice, before the dark beckons him away again.
Part of him does not expect to wake up. His body is broken; a shambling, skeletal thing permanently now, bloody and heavy with the weight of forever. All Might does not anticipate good news, assuming he wakes again to receive any.
How can there be good news? One for All is finally extinguished in him— to defeat All for One he's sacrificed all that was left that made him who he is, that made him All Might in the first place. For all intents and purposes, All Might is over and done with. Sure, people depend on him still - Midoriya, the other students, the UA staff and the people outside... but how long can they humor something so pathetic shuffling along, trying to convince himself as much as the rest of them that he's still something needed?
Mercifully, at least, he does not dream; twice he stirs this time, lying there, and twice he doesn't open his eyes. His entire body aches from the inside out, screaming at him for how hard he's pushed it and threatening to shatter if he so much as twitches a finger before someone shoots more painkillers into his veins. Twice he stirs and pretends he hasn't, and he can hear the murmur of doctors the first time, hushed voices in awe of him, and he wants only to go back to sleep and escape it.
The second time he hears only one person, shuffling something around- papers?- and he assumes it must be Gran Torino, who has his own injuries to worry about, but nothing like the number All Might has done on his body.
The third time he stirs he feels whole enough to take stock of himself, mentally, and the pain is still there, but somehow— different. Somehow less, and not because of the painkillers; it takes him a moment to put his finger on it, and if he could fill his lung with enough air to cry, he might.
It's the absence of One for All. He'd told Midoriya months ago that the quirk can't control itself, that it's raw power that tears through any vessel that can't handle it, and it's been six years since his body was a suitable enough vessel for the power, even in its limited state. Without it now he feels empty, hollow— but a stress on his body has been lifted, and he can't help but be relieved about that.
It makes him feel guilty, which is stupid. Nana would laugh at him for it and he would feel worse, because she—
Not now, he thinks, shakily lifting the arm that isn't weighed down in a massive cast to put a hand over his face. Not now, he can't think...
It's only then that he notices someone else in the room, staring with one eye out from under his hand at—]
Aizawa— [or at least, he tries to say it, but his throat is bone dry and it comes out barely louder than a breath. He manages, with great effort, to tilt his head to look at the alarm clock perched on the table beside his bed.
Ah. It's late. Or is it early, since when has Aizawa been here, he surely has other things to attend to after everything—]
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I hate this already.
Keith should be focusing on getting his name out there to millions of new people across Japan, which he does because he would never let his company down, but the real highlight is the after party. There are so many new faces! The amount of heroes for a country severely outshines the number needed for one city, even one as large as Stern Bild, and this is only a small selection of popular heroes!
The most popular being the legendary All Might, of course. To think he agreed to take time out of his schedule for this program! Some of the younger heroes (and Kotetsu) might be intimidated by the Stardom but there's no way such a prolific hero could be a bad guy in Keith's mind. So greetings are in order.]
Konnichi wa!
[Would a bold Hello! be more thematically appropriate? Yes. But All Might is actually from Japan so isn't it polite to greet him this way??]
That rousing speech you gave earlier was amazing!
[He is, of course, wearing a suit and his costume helmet. Sorry, this is an official function even if it's an after party. Please question how he is attempting to drink this champagne.]
They are both holding drinks they can't drink
The after party is even worse, considering he can't drink and does not know how to socialize. Keeping up the boisterous All Might attitude(tm) when he's like this is exhausting, so after a handful of private interviews he's taken to loitering on the sidelines with his untouched glass of champagne. He can't drink it, but he panicked and couldn't refuse...
The Stern Bild heroes are fascinating, at least; commodifying hero work in the way that they have is objectionable to a lot of the Japanese pro heroes here, All Might can tell, but he is of the opinion that as long as they're doing good, the points don't matter.
Then again, his face is on several different party supplies in this very room (fancy party? All Might's face better be on a coaster), so maybe his perspective is different from the other pros to begin with.
The abrupt greeting almost startles him, and he turns to see... this one. The King of Heroes, if he recalls correctly from just a helmet, who is very much not great at basic Japanese—]
Thanks! [don't do it all might do not do it--] And thanks again, isn't it? Haha!
[in this corner: a black hole of Positive Heroism]
it's only polite
is it tho.
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i'm calling this one "the maltese dick"
In Amestris there's only power in the dark. Sometimes power shouts, like it does in Xing, and sometimes it whispers— Amestris is the latter case, and Ling Yao hasn't yet decided if he really likes it. When the Yao family branches out (and honestly, sending him to Amestris is probably some kind of punishment for his many indiscretions, but whatever), it's a lengthy adjustment period to how business is conducted here. He's uncertain - yes, there are less outright attacks on him and his people here in Amestris, but at least in Xing no one smiles at him before going for his throat. It's simpler when people are honest with each other, he thinks.
And that's only half of it. The other half he expects, being a young leader in a territory that is very much not his own, it's a bloody mess he's forced to carve through the underworld to place the Yao family on top and stay there, comfortable—as much as they can be, in this life. Amestris underestimates him and his family, and he's shown time and time again that that just isn't going to work out for them, and yet it keeps happening...
The good, upright citizens leave him mostly alone. He knows Roy Mustang has two reputations: the model citizen and the deadly dangerous man, all of his people are the same. They have an understanding after a crisis that forced them to have each other's backs, and Ling is happy to let it stay that way. The government goons are more annoying and more persistent, although none among them are a real threat except for the handful of psychopaths that are allowed to wander around the city instead of being locked up for life. Ling's people know to give up and get the hell out if someone so much as breathes the name Kimblee, because the only thing more dangerous than being in that animal's path of violence is listening to him talk.
It's a precarious balance, life in Amestris' seedy underbelly, creeping into the polite world above. Loyalties shift at the drop of a hat, and honestly, Ling is getting tired.
This place. For fuck's sake.
But it's business as usual lately and mostly quiet, aside from the pesky knowledge whispered in his ear that some young upstart is trying to knock over his clubs, and repeatedly. Ling knows he doesn't like that; it's rude, first of all, and means he has to spend extra time fixing the things these rambunctious nobodies keep messing up, which is tedious at best. No one can seem to give him any answers about this little group (it would be insulting to call them a gang, few as they are), either; who are they? What do they want, other than to annoy him?
Why aren't they dead yet?
It happens only a few times; a club is hit and there's a fight, guns and knives drawn, and yet his secret admirers escape with flying colors. It occurs to Ling too late that they're definitely doing this to get his personal attention; there are more valuable things to get in the way of than his clubs, so it has to be about the spectacle.
But fine. If it's one more person out there who wants to test his mettle, so be it. He hasn't gotten to do anything interesting in a while, so when Lan Fan finally produces verifiable information about one of this group's hideouts and whispers of a plan to strike the next club, Ling goes straight for the dramatics. He empties the club, first, leaving the place looking like it'd been deserted mere minutes ago for the little rabble-rousers to find and wonder about.
Then he strolls down to their hideout and makes himself comfortable, putting his feet up and waiting.
(He overshoots by about an hour and spends it sagging in the chair he's chosen, groaning to nobody about how bored he is, but he recovers in time.)
When someone finally comes back, Ling is playing idly with a pen from the shabby desk he's claimed, flipping it over his fingers and glancing up, unconcerned. He's a sight to behold in this dirty, windowless den, all shined shoes and polished buttons, coat hung up on a nail sticking out of the wall behind him, wearing just enough crisp, expensive fabrics that it almost seems like a challenge, a "come and mess me up if you can!" He starkly does not belong there, and that's part of the show, too.]
Evening! Busy night?
is that what you called your final paper
i did write 6 pages about a cigarette being deeply homoerotic, so more or less yes
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ipad really wanted "gangsters" to correct to "gagsters" so ig that's a goal
they just do zany jokes, it's really pathetic
the two stooges
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Just a MHA au nothing to see here
There had been some commotion he avoided on his way home from the hospital. Nothing he'd want to go gawk at, not on a rainy night. Adjusting his umbrella, Silas looked at his phone to see what the fuss was. Face illuminated by the screen, he turned down a dim alley that short cut to his house. The news said it was a tussle between All Might and an unknown villain, that they had the criminal in custody. He jolted out of his reading focus at the sound of something heavy landing not far away and echoing in the ally around him. Silas blinked to make out some kind of sizzling noise and rushed towards the sound.
About the last person he expects to find collapsed there is a familiar man from the local grocery. A man Silas would even dare call a friend.]
Sir! Toshinori, what ever are you doing in such a place!? [it's obvious the man is hurt when he's closer, reaching for him with much more concern in his tone] You're bleeding, quite badly...
here it go
So it's a strange and jarring feeling when, after collapsing in a heap of limbs and steam behind the nearest looming building (and a dumpster, not very glamorous, thank god the cameras didn't see where he went), to cough wetly and coppery into his hand and hear a familiar voice. Ah—]
Oh, shit— [he says in English, and then remembers this is his English-speaking foreigner friend!! and waves his other hand hurriedly, ignoring the pain that tears up his side as a result.]
It's fine! Th-This is nothing... [he's only a good liar when it comes to being All Might, so this is pathetic.]
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[Alucard made it a point not to smell his human companions. It was a point of politeness. He could, of course, in the same way he could theoretically let his eyes linger on the curve of Sypha's backside or the swell of Trevor's thigh, but he didn't, because he was raised better than that. He kept their scents in the back of his mind, should he ever need them, and then he kept himself to himself.
But there were some scents he could not ignore. Blood-- thick and cloying, iron tangs and delicious heat-- reached into the back of his mind and yanked his instincts to the forefront of his mind. He could stifled them during battle, but when all they're doing is sitting around a campfire . . .
He's tried to ignore it. He really has. He's sipped at their shared bottle of whiskey and chatted aimlessly and gotten them more firewood than they'll ever use, but nothing works. His fangs have been out from the start of the night; he runs his tongue against one, exhaling harshly in agitation.]
Trevor.
[It's a low rumble, his golden eyes darting up to stare intensely at the man across the fire.]
Your health is your own concern. But you're continuously bleeding out. You won't make it to dawn. Kindly attend to it one way if not another.
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You know, he's been better, but he has enough whiskey in him to dull the ache in his chest from the gash sliced open there, hastily bandaged and deemed good enough. He's got the bottle halfway to his lips when Alucard snaps at him, making him pause and raise an eyebrow.]
I have "attended to it," thank you. [......wait; he looks down at his shirt, which has not yet bled through, meaning—] Don't sniff me, Alucard.
[Now he takes a swig of the whiskey, grumbles, and tugs his shirt out to stare down at his own chest. He's fine... surely...]
I've had worse, you know.
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do i have icons, no, am i doing this anyway, yes
It's fitting it begins, sort of, on a bus. There's something very transitional about buses, Crowley thinks. The Bentley, darling car though it is (and oh, how he's missed it), would reek too much of him. Here, now, sitting side-by-side with Aziraphale in a dirty old bus beneath flickering fluorescent lights and a bus driver who doesn't really realize he's headed for London feels . . . normal.
They don't talk about it. It, emphasis and all, because they talk about plenty. Small talk, idle things, things to pass the time that shock neither of them because they've long since learned the ins and outs (literally now, ha ha) of one another. It's a way to pass the time, nothing more. And when they fall silent, he stares out the window, marveling in a quiet sort of way at how ordinary it all is.
He never thought he could marvel at the sight of someone vomiting up their liquor into the city gutter, but here they are, and he is. Delighted by what it represents, if not the sight itself. Of what is, and what so narrowly might not have been.
He isn't anxious. He's never really anxious, or so he would say, but that sick pitch in his stomach that he normally got when they got close to this topic is gone. It isn't that he's as confident about what's to come as he pretends (because he has no idea what's to come, frankly, he hasn't idea), but all his fear is spent. Satan himself could make a reappearance and Crowley imagines he'd still regard him with a dull sort of reaction.
The bus pulls up at his apartment because it's been that sort of day, and they deserve spoiling. He unlocks the door with a wave of his hand, and leads them up, boots clicking lightly against the stairway. His apartment is as it ever was, clean and immaculate and stylish, the lights turned out. There isn't even a trace of eau de Ligur, never mind a stain.
That's nice. It doesn't mean he doesn't have to think of those down Below and up Above, but at least he doesn't have to do it right away.
Nice, too, the liquor is restocked. That's most certainly something they'll need tonight, he thinks, and heads for it, although he pauses as he takes the first bottle. Hesitates, and then turns to face his companion. Takes a breath, and then, tiredly:]
Bed or couch, angel. It's your choice.
oh hard same
That isn't entirely true— no, it isn't true at all, there are a good few things he wants more than a bookshop right now, with its first editions and his particularly good vintages in back, those many material things he lists off for Crowley on the bus while he's lamenting their absence. None of those quite reach the feeling the shop carries, which is what he's going to miss. The comfort, a space that was his... a place to go home to.
So when he falls silent towards the tail end of their bus ride, it's a sort of melancholy rather than a worry about what it is they may be facing soon. Undoubtedly their respective head offices need some time to pretend no rather large embarrassments have just transpired, and so— surely, everyone will be taking this particular night off.
He's thinking about the bookshop, and home, and only realizes at the last moment, with a lurch, that being with Crowley is all the home he's ever needed. It's ridiculous; only a momentary surprise because of how vigilant he's been in refusing to let himself think anything like that for, oh, decades. So, realistically, it's the ease at which the thought comes to him that makes him miss a step and stumble off the bus onto the sidewalk with a hasty gesture of no, no, I'm fine.
He's been inside Crowley's apartment before. Not, you know, a lot, not after he said something nice to a plant and it bloomed too readily for Crowley to allow him to come back and ruin the atmosphere, or whatever his issue had been. But he remembers where everything is, more or less, so while Crowley goes to fetch his liquor, Aziraphale lingers in the middle of the room, not going anywhere.
Give him a minute. He had a very nice thank-you-Crowley-this-means-a-lot-to-me-you-know speech planned, but instead...]
Oh, I don't want to impose, [he says, stupidly, and wills himself to cross the room and peer at the bottle in Crowley's hands. Let's talk about alcohol instead of Aziraphale's myriad ways to sidestep any and all implications.] What do you have to drink?
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i don't have a single icon that isn't goofy, and yet
we're doing our absolute best but god i gotta find smut fanart soon
i'll resort to weird symbolic crops of candles next
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