Dollhouse fic: It Is Well with My Soul
Feb. 19th, 2009 08:57 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
seriousficTitle: It Is Well with My Soul
Fandom: Dollhouse
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 252
Author’s notes: Spoilers for episode 1x01 Ghost
Characters/Pairings: Topher, Eleanor Penn
Summary: Topher knows no one appreciates his art.
There was a subtle artistry to mixing memories that Topher knew people didn’t appreciate. The perfect girlfriend, for instance, was a really hard blend of Madonna and whore. Virgin enough for that first love sweet without the cynicism of bad break-ups, but slut enough to know what she was doing. And boyfriends? Forget it. Alpha wolves with sensitivity and a certain paternal charm. It was exhausting, but with no real artistry. Women were the masterpieces.
His latest artwork was Eleanor Penn—the slightly masculine name was his idea. Standard ball-busting negotiator, but this blend of book-smart and boobs wasn’t for the boardroom (Topher changed her middle name to B, for obvious reasons). Hostage negotiation was a little used skill set, but he measured it out and mixed it in. Now all she needed was motivation. Perhaps some good old-fashioned heroic tragedy. He looked under the victimization subgroup. He was an old hand at those. Lotta people willing to pay for fear that wasn’t faked. He thumbed through the well-worn catalog of human misery redeemed by art, like Horatio Spafford turning the death of his four daughters into a beautiful hymn. He had to tone down on the drunken, abusive fathers for male engagements. It was getting to be a motif. Maybe a pinch of lost love instead. The ladies responded well to brooding.
And there she was, Eleanor Penn, picture of womanhood in all its strength. More perfect than life could ever do. Heroines really weren’t born. They were made, by him.
Fandom: Dollhouse
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 252
Author’s notes: Spoilers for episode 1x01 Ghost
Characters/Pairings: Topher, Eleanor Penn
Summary: Topher knows no one appreciates his art.
There was a subtle artistry to mixing memories that Topher knew people didn’t appreciate. The perfect girlfriend, for instance, was a really hard blend of Madonna and whore. Virgin enough for that first love sweet without the cynicism of bad break-ups, but slut enough to know what she was doing. And boyfriends? Forget it. Alpha wolves with sensitivity and a certain paternal charm. It was exhausting, but with no real artistry. Women were the masterpieces.
His latest artwork was Eleanor Penn—the slightly masculine name was his idea. Standard ball-busting negotiator, but this blend of book-smart and boobs wasn’t for the boardroom (Topher changed her middle name to B, for obvious reasons). Hostage negotiation was a little used skill set, but he measured it out and mixed it in. Now all she needed was motivation. Perhaps some good old-fashioned heroic tragedy. He looked under the victimization subgroup. He was an old hand at those. Lotta people willing to pay for fear that wasn’t faked. He thumbed through the well-worn catalog of human misery redeemed by art, like Horatio Spafford turning the death of his four daughters into a beautiful hymn. He had to tone down on the drunken, abusive fathers for male engagements. It was getting to be a motif. Maybe a pinch of lost love instead. The ladies responded well to brooding.
And there she was, Eleanor Penn, picture of womanhood in all its strength. More perfect than life could ever do. Heroines really weren’t born. They were made, by him.
