#she's too cold and not quirky enough for the usual suspects to like her | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

glassworkspiderlilies · 5 years ago

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a blade of honey between our shadows

Kimetsu no Yaiba | Kochou Shinobu, Tomioka Giyu | AO3 Summary: The truth is, she doesn’t hate him, and they are more alike than they seem. Notes: i’m in, and i’m in deep. i love the idea of these two, and it’s a shame that they don’t interact that much, because the interactions they do have are great!!! it’s neat that giyushino has more fans/content than i’d expected--pls take this offering to the tag lmao

She doesn’t hate him.

Shinobu suspects that Oyakata-sama knows this, and thus pairs them together most often when Pillars must band together. They’re of the few pairs with the least complications, after all. But she isn’t quite lying when she says that Giyu is hated—considering how little he interacts with others, he’s certainly one of the lesser-liked Pillars.

But Shinobu herself—well. She doesn’t hate him. She respects him, admires his sword techniques and Breath style, and doesn’t find his personality particularly off-putting.

And—she thinks she understands him. They both wear the haori of the dead, after all. She could tell when she first met him—the meshing of two patterns, carefully stitched together despite their clashing colors, and the way he wears it so naturally, so adamantly. The others don’t bother questioning it, mostly chalking it up to quirky fashion taste, but Shinobu knows.

She doesn’t know for certain if he can tell with her—he’s so inscrutable, after all. But his eyes do go to her haori when she walks forward to shake his hand, though it may be because of its iridescent coloring.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” she greets, and his hand is cool, his grip firm but gentle. Like his Breath, she supposes, offhandedly.

He merely inclines his head as a response instead of returning the formality. He gets chided by some of the other Pillars because of it, but Shinobu doesn’t mind. She smiles and laughs a little and her gaze lingers on his back as he walks away, leaving the group behind without another word.

He’s her opposite—calm like still water, expressionless and undisturbed. Shinobu, for all her outward pleasantries, has grown familiar with hiding her anger—her anger that is constant, buzzing like clouds of bees and flies and locusts in the recesses of her heart.

She doesn’t hate the man.

If anything, she thinks—though she might be loath to admit it aloud—she feels camaraderie, and a slight bit of envy for someone who hides what they are feeling so well.

It’s funny how animals hate him, she thinks, when he’s really not a bad person. Perhaps it’s because he is so blank—if you can’t sense anything from anyone, then that registers as a threat. Shinobu has to refrain from laughing when she sees him getting bit by dogs or hissed at by cats and he still insists on trying to pet them. The man is persistent, if nothing else.

Of course, Shinobu is well liked by animals. On occasion strays have followed her and made their homes at the Butterfly Mansion. That’s funny too, that they trust her so much with no basis. It was Kanae who was deserving of that unrestrained loyalty from animals—she was gentle and kind and far more pure-hearted than Shinobu. She doesn’t understand why they like her so much.

“You should really stop, you know,” Shinobu says one day, as she watches Giyu battle with yet another dog.

Predictably, he doesn’t respond, but she sees his manner become more obstinate when the dog bites his hand and doesn’t let go. He shakes it to no avail, and Shinobu watches for a while before she sighs and approaches.

“Come, now,” she says to the dog, which calms in her presence. She lifts the creature up, and it lets go of Giyu’s hand without protest. It still growls, but after a few pats from Shinobu, it turns its gaze away from the Water Pillar and settles down in her arms.

Giyu doesn’t look at her, just rubs his hand absentmindedly. He still says nothing—not thank you, not a word of anything relating to the situation. His expression remains closed, but as Shinobu turns away, she has to hold back laughter.

Since when did she become able to read him, despite how little his expression changes? The man is sulking. The dog that was so hostile towards him is an absolute darling in her arms. She can understand why he’s pouting, even if he’s not physically doing it.

“Well, I suppose you will do what you will,” she says, half-turning back, mirth slipping into her voice despite trying to hold it in. “Good luck, then, Tomioka-san.”

Giyu turns away, and this time, Shinobu has to raise a hand to her mouth to stop laughter from escaping. If he wasn’t before, he’s definitely sulking now.

For a brief moment, she finds him almost cute.

The man is frustratingly elegant in battle—efficient, quick, and clean. Rarely does he get injured more than a few bruises and scrapes, and he emerges from tough battles as if he’s done nothing more than take a leisurely stroll, even if he is splattered in blood.

Like water, he is. Truly.

To be fair, he’s not the only one. Shinobu conducts herself in a similar manner, and she’s rarely blood-coated because of the nature of her executions. Muichiro and Obanai are also quiet and efficient. But like their Breath styles, it seems more natural, a byproduct. With Giyu, it seems the result of careful cultivation.

Like her, she thinks. Ah, another similarity. Her mouth twists in a partial, bitter smile.

Giyu glances at her as they fly past trees, navigating the depths of a forest in search of a nasty demon from various reports.

She glances back but offers no explanation, and he doesn’t ask, of course.

Giyu cocks his head at a sudden sound and within seconds both of their swords are out—his, slicing neatly through the neck of a lesser demon, and hers, piercing one’s eye. Shinobu has to smile at their coordination.

“Seems like we’re getting close,” she says. He doesn’t respond, as she expects, and his eyes roam their immediate surroundings, his shoulders taut with anticipation.

“Ah, yes, yes, go on ahead,” Shinobu says, reading his body language. “There’s something here I want to be sure of, anyway.”

He doesn’t have to be told twice. With a single nod, he’s off, and Shinobu thinks that quality of his might be something she appreciates, too. Is it trust, or just his usual independence and lack of interest in others?

Probably the latter.

She comes to a stop in the middle of a clearing. It’s quiet—too quiet. Shinobu breathes in deep and exhales, preparing her body for her next move.

“Now then,” she says, as eyes appear all around her, the presence of a greater demon filling the air with tension, “Come.”

Shinobu shudders and clicks her tongue as the demon’s body finishes disintegrating, still feeling the weight of its many eyes on her skin. Demons sometimes have preferences on what kind of humans they like to eat—and this was one of the ones that liked young girls, hence why she told Giyu to go ahead.

“Now then,” she mutters to herself, stretching briefly. She readjusts her haori before taking off to find Giyu. Based on the reports, she’d had suspicions that two demons were working together, and she thinks the one she just defeated was one of them. But how they were working together she doesn’t know yet, and she frowns as she tries to track down the Water Pillar.

When she finally finds him, it’s just in time to see a demon extending its nails and puncturing a hole through his shoulder.

She goes cold, then hot, at the sight of Giyu’s blood. He grits his teeth, eyes narrowing in pain, but he makes no noise. She can see his hold on his sword weaken, but he struggles not to drop it. The demon doesn’t pull back, forcing Giyu to stay where he is, and raises its right arm to skewer its prey even further.

Shinobu descends.

Her blade goes through the demon’s wrist as she lands on its left arm, feather-light. The demon roars, swiping at her with its right, and she crouches low to avoid the blow. She meets Giyu’s eyes head-on, and he lets go of his sword—Shinobu lunges forward and kicks the hilt, flipping it into the air, then backflips off of the demon.

With his uninjured side, Giyu catches his sword and slices horizontally, beheading the demon in one clean stroke. Its head makes a wet noise as it rolls, and it murmurs something as it disappears.

“Tomioka-san.”

Shinobu sheathes her sword and turns to the Water Pillar, who turns to meet her eyes. He looks pale, paler than usual, and as she opens her mouth to speak, he beats her to it.

“You’re injured.”

Her eyes go wide, and a peal of laughter escapes her as she brings a hand up to her cheek. Yes, she does have a shallow cut that is bleeding from the demon’s earlier swipe. It seems that she did not dodge it as well as she thought.

“Is that really something you should be saying to me, Tomioka-san?”

He gives her a look, as if to say that he isn’t wrong. She resists the urge to roll her eyes.

“Let me see the wound.”

He half-turns his head away, and Shinobu takes a step forward. He makes to take a step back, but she snaps a little then, irritation bubbling to the surface.

“Let me see the wound. Don’t make me repeat myself again.”

Giyu relents at her expression and sits, allowing her to approach. His features are smooth as she unbuttons the top of his uniform and pushes it down, inspecting the puncture. She has some supplies with her, but not enough, and it seems as though that demon had a bit of poison in its nails, as the skin is beginning to purple and turn an unusual shade. She gives him a shot to counteract the basic components of demon poison until she knows how to neutralize it completely.

“So you do bleed after all,” she jokes, as she moves back from his shoulder, though she is still holding gauze to it. In all honesty, the sight—disturbs her, somehow. He’d always been so pristine, and yet…

How dare the demon sully that image. It’s like marring a painting, and Shinobu knows she’s being irrational. It’s not her place to be angry at something like this. She doesn’t quite understand it herself.

When she turns her head, she’s startled to see that Giyu is observing her closely.

“…So do you,” he says, as he reaches out a hand to wipe the blood from her cheek.

She blinks at him.

“…My. It’s impudent of you to touch a woman’s face like that.”

He doesn’t smile, but the corners of his eyes crinkle ever so slightly. She’d undressed him and her hands are still on his bare skin, after all. The Demon Slayers have a bit less compunction over the strict gender roles of the era, but, well. They are still aware of them, at least.

“You’re angry. Why?”

Shinobu freezes at that, her body tensing before she consciously relaxes it. He doesn’t mean about him touching her face, she knows. Giyu says nothing else, only waits for her to respond.

Why should she respond, when he never does? Why is he even asking, in the first place?

A part of her wants to ignore him, to be petty. But she is not so immature.

She wishes she wasn’t, at least.

“Perhaps I am,” she acknowledges, forcing the words out of herself. She can’t meet his eyes. “You’re hurt. We’re demon hunters, and Pillars at that, so it isn’t new or unusual. But perhaps it is because it was new to see you injured. I’m ashamed at my own delusions. You are only human after all. Like all of us.”

Giyu observes her in silence, and she wraps a length of gauze around his shoulder before knotting it in place. She wishes he would say something. It’s embarrassing to admit your own weaknesses and have the other party not respond. Kamado Tanjirou is an exception—an especially kind and empathetic boy that one can easily and comfortably reveal themselves to. But Tomioka Giyu is not such a man, and Shinobu is, for some unfathomable reason, giving an opening that she knows he won’t take.

“Why?” Giyu asks again, after a long moment.

“What do you mean, why?” Shinobu says, through clenched teeth. Really, it took her more than she wanted to answer at all, and didn’t she explain herself rather well? And he asks why? Is he just being facetious?

“Why are you holding me in such high regard, when I’m not the one worthy to stand among you as Pillars?”

Shinobu feels everything go quiet around her. She can’t do anything but stare, her mouth hanging open, at this incredible admittance. She remembers several instances when Giyu had replied, “I’m not like you” when the Pillars had gotten together for some occasion or another and insisted he join in. Every time it was taken as disdain and superiority. Tomioka Giyu, never joining in with the others, difficult to go on joint missions with, always making a point to be alone, to walk away from others.

Not because he thought himself better than everyone else. Because he thought himself beneath them.

Giyu looks like he regrets telling her, already. She knows the feeling, but she can’t seem to school her expression. If he feels inferior to the rest of the team, then he also feels inferior to her.

Her, when she’s been envious of him all this time.

He makes to get up, pulling up the top of his uniform, but Shinobu grabs onto the hem. She looks up at him from beneath her long eyelashes.

“We are more alike than I thought,” she whispers, barely audible, but she knows he hears her. They are both silent before she also stands, and reaches over to do up his buttons. It’s difficult to do with one hand, and they don’t have time for him to struggle with it.

“You’ll come to the Butterfly Mansion after we report. I need to work on neutralizing the poison in your body, after all,” She tells him as she finishes his last button. She looks up at him, waiting for his answer. He inclines his head slightly in acknowledgement after a moment, and she smiles.

Shinobu looks to his shoulder again, debating whether or not she should ask if he needs support on the way home. Truth be told, she won’t be able to provide much of it. She’s not very strong. Just very skilled.

Giyu, whether he has an inkling of where her thoughts are trailing or not, makes the decision for her. He jumps up into the trees and leaves first.

She takes a moment to chuckle softly to herself before following.

He’s running a fever by the time they make it back, so she sends the crows ahead with their report instead. Giyu’s stoic expression is holding up remarkably well despite how ill he must feel, and Shinobu walks into her home all business.

“I’m back!” she doesn’t neglect to call, smiling at Kanao, who is first to appear to greet her. “I’ve got Tomioka-san as a patient. Please prepare the guest room. I’ll be seeing to him in the lab, for now.”

Kanao nods once, and Shinobu smiles and pats her on the head before she leaves. Giyu sways a little on his feet, and his eyes are unfocused though he is trying to do otherwise.

Shinobu takes his wrist and guides him to her laboratory. Despite its scary-sounding name, it’s a pleasant enough room. Her tools tend to be locked away, and otherwise there are hanging plants and terrariums that make it look almost like a greenhouse crossed with a sitting room, minus the bed in the corner.

She guides Giyu onto the bed and he lays down without much protest. She prepares a basin of cold water, wetting and wringing out a cloth. She wipes the sweat off of Giyu’s face, and he murmurs something she can’t understand as she does so, struggling to keep his eyes open.

“Sleep, Tomioka-san. You’ll recover faster that way,” Shinobu says back, her voice and expression gentle.

His eyes slide over to look at her one more time before they close.

She takes a blood sample before giving him another shot of wisteria extract, and then gets to analyzing the components of the demon poison.

About two hours later, she has the antidote.

“Excuse me,” she murmurs, as she finds a good vein on Giyu’s arm and injects it.

He’s still asleep, his expression vaguely troubled. His forehead is still warm, but the wisteria has done a good job of neutralizing what it can, and the new antidote will kick in soon. Still, Shinobu knows well that anything can change within a split second where demons are concerned, and so she stays in the room with him.

Giyu wakes sometime late into the night. Shinobu doesn’t notice right away, busy grinding herbs by moonlight. She spends a lot of nights like this even though she should be sleeping, but she hasn’t slept well since her sister’s death. If she’s going to spend time being awake anyway, she might as well make medicine. It’s therapeutic, and also necessary. The Demon Slayers can never be overstocked with supplies.

When she does realize the Water Pillar is awake, she turns to see him scrutinizing her. That he’s not embarrassed to be caught and only continues to do what he’s doing makes her want to frown, but she decides against it. Instead she smiles and tilts her head to greet him.

“You’re awake now, I see,” she says. “How do you feel? As your doctor I demand to know your state, otherwise I can’t do my job properly.”

“…Better,” he says, and Shinobu almost rolls her eyes at the lacking response.

She walks over, checking his temperature, inspecting his wound, taking another blood sample. The poison does seem to have burned out completely—it wasn’t particularly strong, nor was it in his body for long since she had more or less given him the wisteria immediately, but it’s better to be safe. She gives him a small bag of pills to take for the next week, but otherwise gives him the okay—the shoulder wound will require standard R&R, but that’s not something he has to do here if he doesn’t wish to, and Shinobu can’t imagine him wishing to.

“It’s late, so stay here for the night. A room has already been prepared for you,” Shinobu instructs, going back to her medicine. “And the baths are open for your use, as well.”

Giyu makes to get up, but then pauses.

“And you?”

Shinobu blinks at him, at this show of consideration, and she smiles to herself as she turns back to work.

“I’ll be here for a little longer, I think. I’m not particularly tired.”

“…Bath.”

Giyu gets up after that simple statement, and Shinobu points him in the right direction, letting him know where his room is as well. Extra towels and clothing should have already been laid out for him there, and he should be comfortable enough. She expects that she won’t see him again until their next meeting or mission.

To her surprise, though, he comes back after his bath, steam rising off of his skin and looking much better with color in his cheeks.

“Oh?” Shinobu says, blinking up at him. She’s not sure what to ask—the question of why he’s here is evident.

But he doesn’t say anything, merely rummages around until he finds extra sheets for the bed here. He replaces the ones that he had been lying and sweating on earlier, then lies back down.

Shinobu really doesn’t know what to say, but it isn’t like he isn’t allowed to sleep here. She stares for a minute, but once it seems like he truly intends to stay, she goes back to her work. The sound of the mortar and pestle is the only interruption of quiet for a while, but eventually she finishes grinding and moves onto mixing and compounding and distilling.

Once she reaches a point of just waiting for things to run their course, she looks in on Giyu. He really did fall asleep, Shinobu observes, despite all the noise she was making. The man barely moves—if not for the rise and fall of his chest, he could pass as dead.

Shinobu brews herself some tea and sits, leaning her back against the soft edge of the bed. She watches the wind rustle the trees for a moment then closes her eyes, listening to the sound of Giyu’s even breathing.

Oddly enough, she feels at peace.

It isn’t long before her mind wanders, and she subconsciously matches her breathing to Giyu’s. Of course, she falls asleep as a result.

The next morning, when she wakes, Giyu is gone and she has been laid out in his place. She knows it was him, and she feels only slightly embarrassed at being caught vulnerable like that. She can’t believe she didn’t wake up when he lifted her onto the bed.

For once, Shinobu is grateful for that aloof attitude of his, because it means she won’t have to thank him.

It shouldn’t surprise her that Giyu loves seafood, but every new thing she learns about him is at least a mild surprise because she doesn’t really know anything about him. She has her suspicions and guesses, but she never knows for sure until Giyu confirms them himself.

It’s not often he does it outright; Shinobu wonders if the man really does hate talking, or if it’s an ingrained habit from his training. Possibly both, with the latter leading to the former. But Shinobu watches and takes note of everything around her out of habit, and so as time goes on, she comes to know a fair amount about Tomioka Giyu.

His favorite food is salmon daikon, and he prefers noodles over rice when given the option. He prefers cats over dogs, despite the fact that both hate him. He’s a morning person, though like all Pillars, has trained himself to work at all and any hour. He trains with his sword relentlessly. He brews a perfect tea. He’s a stickler for cleanliness.

If there’s anyone in the world left that he loves and respects with his entire being, it’s Urokodaki Sakonji.

A mission brings them near the former Water Pillar’s mountain one day, and Shinobu suggests that they stop by to visit. She herself doesn’t have someone she can call “Master” or “Teacher”; it was Kanae who had had taught her the Flower Breath, and then Shinobu developed the Breath of the Insect on her own when she couldn’t adapt to the Flower Forms. Kanao calls her “Master” with both a touch of shyness and great pride, and so Shinobu imagines that even after time has passed, a student would want to look in on their teacher

“There’s no need.”

Shinobu looks at him with surprise.

“But he’s your mentor—shouldn’t you pay your respects? Or do you visit him regularly enough that it would actually be troublesome to visit without notice?”

“No.”

Shinobu stares for a moment, gauging his reaction, then makes the decision for him. She’s meddlesome when it comes to him, after all, and he knows it. As they jump through the air, she kicks him off-course, planting her feet on his chest and dropping all of her weight on him to push him towards mountain.

“Oh my! We’re all but here already, Tomioka-san, and you’re not in the best of shape. We’ve finished our mission splendidly and night will be falling in but a few moments, it would be more reasonable to pay our respects to Urokodaki-san, impose on him for the night, and be on our way tomorrow morning, wouldn’t you say?”

Giyu sighs and turns his body as they descend; Shinobu flips with trained grace, and the both of them land safely.

They stand in silence for two heartbeats, an argument waiting to happen between them, until the crack of a branch interrupts their stand-off.

“Giyu.”

Urokodaki Sakonji comes down from the hill, a basket full of wood on his back. Shinobu smiles, pleased with this turn of events. When she glances at Giyu, though, her eyes widen—the Water Pillar looks a mix of things, and Shinobu has to wonder at the complicated mass of emotions he is projecting. But he schools all of it quickly, and Shinobu takes a step back, feeling as though she is intruding on too private a moment.

Urokodaki seems to understand.

“Giyu,” he says again. “Welcome home.”

The former Pillar envelopes Giyu into a hug, and after some hesitation, Giyu returns it. It’s brief, but Shinobu feels his tension drain away—at least a little bit. Ah, she thinks. It’s good that he has a home to return to, even though it doesn’t seem like he does so often. It’s good that he has someone to return to.

“Forgive my lack of manners,” Urokodaki says, turning to her. “You must be Kochou Shinobu. I am Urokodaki Sakonji, as you must already know. Thank you for…convincing Giyu to visit. I saw the two of you from the sky.”

“My, how embarrassing,” Shinobu says, even though she doesn’t mind that much. “I suggested the idea, since we were so close, but Tomioka-san declined, and I merely thought it would be too rude if we were to just bypass you. That being said, I am afraid we will be imposing on you for the night.”

Urokodaki ruffles GIyu’s hair.

“I will gladly host the two of you. I hardly see this child—he’s always been like that. The last letter I received from him was two years ago, when he sent Tanjirou to me. Meanwhile, that boy sends so many letters I wonder how he has the time.”

Shinobu holds a hand over her mouth to hide her amusement. Giyu looks like a child, having his head patted, but he doesn’t seem to mind. He’s even quieter in his mentor’s presence, but he seems at peace.

It relieves her, in the end, that he has a place to return to. That he isn’t as alone as he appears or wants to be.

Urokodaki prepares a grand feast for them, insisting that he had a good harvest recently. Shinobu enjoys it greatly, and Giyu beams at the meal close to the way he does at salmon daikon. The ingredients are so fresh, it’s hard not to smile while eating.

There’s only one guest room, so Shinobu and Giyu will have to sleep side-by-side, but Demon Slayers are often used to this because of traveling. For the two of them especially, the setup is too familiar and commonplace to be considered anything else. The bedding is all laid out and Shinobu thinks about retiring early so as to give Urokodaki and Giyu privacy to speak, but she is overfull from dinner, and opts for a walk instead. When she leaves, sliding the door shut, the two of them have their heads bowed, their voices solemn.

The night air is crisp and cool, the moon bright, and Shinobu wanders. A couple of butterflies flutter past; the creatures always seem to find their way to her, and on a whim, she decides to follow them. Eventually, she discovers a huge boulder, a sealing rope around its circumference though she cannot feel any malicious energy from the stone. Curious, she makes her way around it once, then decides to jump up on top of it to see the view from greater heights.

The moment her feet touch the stone, she hears the ring of a bell, and she turns her head to meet the large, guileless blue eyes of a young girl with black hair. Shinobu blinks, and the girl, who had been leaning close enough to touch Shinobu’s nose to her own, moves back a few steps. With a bit more distance, Shinobu is able to take in her pink flower-patterned kimono, and the fox mask hanging off the side of her head, two blue flowers painted onto its cheek.

“How unusual,” the girl says, her tone airy, “You’re not one of Urokodaki-san’s disciples. Yet you have the faint feeling of water about you. Who are you?”

Shinobu has a hand on her sword, but if the girl had wanted to kill her, she would’ve done it already. Shinobu can’t sense anything from this girl, which unsettles her, but the girl has made no threatening moves, nor does she have a weapon on her.

“My name is Kochou Shinobu,” she offers. “I’m a guest of Urokodaki-san. I use the Breath of the Insect, derived from the Breath of Flower, which draws from the Breath of Water, so perhaps that’s where your feeling of water comes from.”

She doesn’t let incredulity creep into her voice; though there are many derivatives of the Breath of Water and Breath of Fire, to tell the root of someone’s Breath straightaway like that is…rare. Impossible, more like, but the girl has just done it.

“That makes sense,” the girl says. “I’m Makomo. I’ve never heard of the Breath of the Insect, how fascinating. And you’re quite strong, aren’t you, despite your physique? I admire that.”

Shinobu tilts her head, caught between discomfort to have how petite she is commented on, but not taking offense because of what followed—and because Makomo herself was of similar stature. But before she can respond, a more masculine voice sounds from behind her.

“She’s a Pillar.”

She does draw her sword then, just in time to block a downward swing. Her sword may be thin, but it is still a Nichirin Blade and doesn’t break so easily from impact. Still, her style isn’t conducive to more traditional forms of swordplay.

She looks up at her assailant, only to meet the painted eyes of a fox mask with a jagged scar running down the cheek, a shock of unkempt peach-colored hair framing it. Again, she doesn’t sense any malicious intent, but the boy seems to be intent on testing her skills.

“Sabito,” Makomo says with a sigh.

“My, aren’t you rude,” Shinobu says to the boy with a smile, as she leaps back and dances around him. “Forgive me, but my Breath isn’t quite meant for sparring.”

“Then show me what it is capable of,” the boy—Sabito—says, and goes on the offensive.

To his credit, he’s very skilled, and his skill surprises her a little. She dodges and dances and weaves in and out of the patterns of his blade, and despite her infrequent counterattacks she can tell that he is enjoying this. Her Breath is, of course, meant to inject poison into demons and kill them that way; she is a calculated executioner. Shinobu has gone through traditional sword training—you must know the foundations and rules first before breaking them, after all—but she knows Sabito isn’t interested in that, and surely he has her beat in that regard. So she humors him, putting her Breath into play, but watching his actions with a discerning eye. If he doesn’t evade quite fast enough, she pulls back her sword and kicks him instead.

Makomo watches with great interest, but after some time she yawns and calls out to them.

“Come, now, this has gone on for long enough. Sabito, don’t wear Urokodaki-san’s guest out too much—you’re not training her.”

Shinobu allows their blade to clash one last time out of respect before Sabito steps back and inclines his head.

“It’s been awhile since I was able to spar like that, even if it was unconventional,” he says, and she can hear the smile in his voice. “Thank you.”

Shinobu laughs and sheaths her sword.

“I confess that was more amusing than I thought it would be. But I’m still quite in the dark as to who the two of you are, and what you are doing in the forest—”

Her eyes land of Sabito’s clothes, then. Namely, that familiar yellow-and-green pattern on his kimono. She hadn’t had the opportunity earlier to take note, too busy as she was with the battle.

“Oh,” Shinobu whispers, her tone a bit strangled, and Sabito reaches up to take off his mask. He has a kinder face than his mask, voice, and actions suggest, even despite the scar marring his cheek.

“We were Urokodaki-san’s tsuguko,” he says, his gray eyes gentle.

“I see,” Shinobu murmurs. “But you…you’re Tomioka-san’s…”

She doesn’t know what word to use, doesn’t know who they are—were—to each other, but Sabito’s eyes widen at the name.

“Giyu,” he says, a slight smile turning up the corners of his lips. “He’s—?”

“The Water Pillar,” she replies, choosing her own answer for what he doesn’t know to ask, and Sabito smiles grows just a little.

“He made it out then, and even further beyond. Good.”

The three of them are silent, though Makomo has already relegated herself to the background while Sabito and Shinobu converse. It’s only now Shinobu notices the amount of butterflies in the area, their wings almost glowing in the moonlight. Makomo looks at one as it perches on her finger, and Sabito and Shinobu stare at each other, waiting for something to break.

“Should I…tell him that you are here? I don’t…understand how this is possible.” Shinobu asks haltingly. The fact that they’re ghosts seems too…unreal, though what else do you call apparitions of the dead? She fought Sabito, clashed very real swords with him, kicked his very solid body.

Sabito looks wry and shakes his head.

“Better not. He wouldn’t be able to see us, anyway. Makomo and I trained Tanjirou—his nose is keen, but so is his empathy, and we think that allowed him some sight. He has since defeated demon that killed us, and thus rid us of the regret that tethered all of us apprentices here, but Makomo and I...well.”

“We love Urokodaki-san,” Makomo supplies easily. “We prefer to stay, until he too must pass beyond.”

“We sometimes can take other forms—foxes, butterflies, birds on occasion. But he will not see us as you or Tanjirou do. Urokodaki-san doesn’t, either.”

“But—me? I’m no Tanjirou-kun. And I’m merely an outsider in all of this—I hadn’t even met Urokodaki-san until today.”

Sabito shrugs.

“You have an affinity with butterflies,” Makomo says, as if this is an obvious explanation. “They carry our souls. If you’ve never seen the dead before, then, well…perhaps certain other conditions were met tonight. But I wouldn’t know what they were. We were curious, though, when we sensed you. So perhaps the butterflies were doing us a favor.”

Shinobu has nothing to say to that, but she feels—almost desperate. Here she is, convening with the dead so clearly, and she cannot involve the ones they mean the most to. Would Giyu or Urokodaki believe her, if she told them? Would it make things worse, knowing that this sort of thing was possible, even if only to specific people?

“He wears your pattern,” she says to Sabito finally, sadness in her eyes. “Half of it, anyway.”

Sabito smiles again, but shrugs.

“You don’t become a Demon Slayer without losing at least one thing. But so too must you hold onto at least one thing so dearly you devote your life to it. That’s how you survive, and keep surviving.”

A small laugh escapes Shinobu’s throat.

“You sound a little like Tomioka-san. Or perhaps Tomioka-san sounds like you. I see, now.”

Sabito folds his arms, looking ever so slightly smug. “We were the same age, but I did always feel a bit older. So he sounds like me, huh? I wonder if I was able to impart anything else.”

She shrugs, her expression a bit apologetic.

“I wouldn’t know. I’ve had an easier time reading him as of late, but Tomioka-san hates talking and doesn’t reveal anything about himself if he can help it. He’s a very closed-off person.”

He looks melancholy at that.

“Ah. He was more…talkative, back then, and smiled often. But I suppose…after his sister’s death, he was prone to depression, and after my own death, well…I suppose it was impossible for things to remain the same.”

So he had a sister too, Shinobu notes. A sister that was killed by a demon.

She doesn’t know what kind of expression she was making, but Sabito comes close, and peers intently at her face. She blinks at him, and he smiles again. Makomo looks amused, but says nothing.

“After what happened, I’m sure it was difficult for him to create bonds again. I’m glad you were able to become his friend,” Sabito says, and Shinobu’s eyes widen at this sudden declaration.

“I—”

“Please take care of Urokodaki-san, too,” Makomo says softly. “He may not show it, but he gets lonely sometimes, too.”

The sky darkens as clouds pass over the moon, dousing the clearing in darkness. Shinobu blinks, the clouds float past, the moon shines bright again, and Urokodaki’s fox children are gone.

“What a strange night this has been,” Shinobu murmurs to herself.

After a moment, she jumps back onto the boulder and sits down, staring up at the moon, ruminating on what happened. She doesn’t know how long she sits there before Giyu comes to find her. He jumps up next to her and doesn’t say anything, but Shinobu can imagine why he’s here. It’s late and she’s not native to the forest, and they should be sleeping now. She won’t flatter herself to think Giyu was worried—it was probably Urokodaki-san who had sent Giyu to find her.

“Have strange things ever happened to you here?” Shinobu asks, and she feels rather than sees Giyu’s eyebrows furrow.

“Aside from Master’s training, no.”

Shinobu chuckles.

“Yes, I knew you would answer as such.”

Giyu looks at her, the retort of then why did you ask? implied.

Shinobu turns to meet his eyes, and the two of them stare at each other for a while. Giyu’s eyes look especially blue in the moonlight, and she reaches out to take the patterned part of his haori in her hand. He watches her, curious, and Shinobu is caught between telling him what she experienced not too long ago or not.

“Are you going to tell me?” he asks finally, after the silence becomes prolonged, and a delighted laugh bursts out of her. He wants an answer from her! How proactive and rare!

“No, I don’t think I will,” she decides, indulging in a moment of pettiness. He never tells her anything, after all. But the truth is, she hasn’t figured out what she wants to say yet. How can she bring up such a thing? How does she talk about something so close to his heart that she’s not supposed to know, and was probably never supposed to know? “Not right now, at least, Tomioka-san. What a shame—I do believe this is the first time you’ve ever wanted something from me! I think I will tell you another time, however. ”

He looks exasperated, and Shinobu thinks he’s being rather expressive tonight. But she lets go of his haori and stands up, motioning that they should go back. There is no more conversation between them for the rest of the night.

They sleep and rise with the dawn; Urokodaki-san sees them off with wrapped rice balls for the trip back.

“Have a safe trip,” he says gruffly, and Shinobu notices that he doesn’t say come back soon, though she thinks it’s not because he doesn’t want them to. Makomo’s words echo in her mind.

“I’d like to come back sometime, Urokodaki-san, and have a proper talk with you,” Shinobu says with a smile. Giyu glances at her, and she bumps his arm with hers. “And I’ll make sure two years doesn’t go by again without you hearing from this one.”

Urokodaki chuckles and inclines his head in acknowledgement.

“You do that. Get going, now.”

Shinobu and Giyu bow their heads, and they’re off like a shot. From the sky, as Shinobu looks down, she sees a pair of foxes looking up at them before running off.

She smiles, and Giyu looks at her.

“It’s a good home, this mountain,” she says.

“…Yes. It is,” Giyu responds after a long moment, and though he turns his face, Sinobu thinks she sees the corners of his mouth turn up in the semblance of a smile.

Shinobu is used to a lot of things.

Holding in her anger and her hatred for demons, though the Kamado siblings have thrown that that into a bit of a disarray. The grueling hours and labor of being a Pillar. The fact that she stands apart from the other Pillars, because she cannot cut off a demon’s head. The extra responsibility of being the Demon Slayers’ chief doctor and pharmacist, and the research and trial that goes along with it.

Shinobu knows how to endure. She knows how to hide behind a smile. She knows how to make the most of what she has and what she’s been given. She knows how to function on very little sleep, so as to keep pushing and pushing and pushing.

Sometimes, though…sometimes, it gets just…a little...tiring.

The rain pounds down on her, and both her body and blade are a blur as she stabs demon after demon. Hoards are uncommon, but they do occur, and here she is in the midst of one, alone. It’s bad luck, all of it—her in particular against so many enemies, the pressure of the torrential rain, and the fact that she can barely see because of it. She doesn’t know how long she’s been at it and she doesn’t dwell on it—at times like these, she must give herself up to instinct. Her crow has also left to request backup; all Shinobu has to do is endure until then.

Endure, endure, endure. Because she is the smallest swordswoman amongst the Pillars, because she is not strong like them, and will never be strong like them, no matter how much she trains. She is still skilled and respected, it is true. But at times like these, where a more traditional Demon Slayer could have executed them in a flurry, Shinobu must pay attention to each one in order to inflict her poison. Mitsuri could have done this so much faster, Shinobu thinks, with her whip of a sword.

Focus, Shinobu scolds herself, though her lungs are beginning to hurt. Think of this as training. She cannot participate in the regular trainings because her Breath is designed to kill. Not that the others’ styles aren’t, but—not like hers.

Move, move, move—she has to be faster, more vicious, deadlier. She is a butterfly, a hornet, a centipede; she channels the anger and grief she felt when Kanae died. Here she is alone, her only friend her fury, and though she is pushing her body to every limit and earning her Pillar rank all over again, it feels slightly cathartic. She sucks in a breath, the air feeling like needles in her lungs, the rain streaming down her face, and aims at the next demon hurtling towards her—

Only, her sword meets another, and she swings again without thinking, her body still conditioned to attack. Once more she’s blocked, and the ringing of steel against steel clears her head. She blinks the water out of her blurry eyes, trying to focus.

“Kochou.”

“Ah, Tomioka-san,” Shinobu sighs at the voice, dropping her sword arm. Yes, of course it’s him—who else would it be?

Giyu goes to stand behind her, pressing his back against hers, and she takes advantage of that by leaning against him.

“You’re late,” she says. “I’m exhausted. Take care of the rest, will you?”

She doesn’t watch, her head drooping like a wilted flower, but whatever demons are left are wiped out without him moving away, and then it is quiet, save for the rain. Shinobu doesn’t move for a few more moments, and Giyu’s voice is a soft rumble.

“You did well.”

She smiles bitterly, the rain plastering her hair to her face, running rivulets down her cheeks.

“Don’t patronize me.”

She feels him turn his head, and she pushes off his back to look up at him. He looks genuinely surprised, and the derision drains out of her.

“Why would I do that?” he asks.

“…Yes, you’re not like that, are you?”

She sucks in another breath and stumbles over to the cave she saw earlier; now that the demon hoard has been taken care of, it should be safe to shelter in. She sits heavily against the cold stone wall, and Giyu squeezes water out of his haori before joining her.

“Don’t you ever get tired, Tomioka-san? Of keeping your emotions in?” Shinobu asks. She’s too tired to banter like usual, the forwardness slipping out of her.

“…We are Pillars, and so we must provide the support we stand for,” Giyu says after a moment, and Shinobu laughs hollowly. It’s not the answer she wants, and she doesn’t think he quite understands, because the control over his emotions is so integral to his Breath. It’s probably never a matter of being tired, for him. It’s just how it is.

“I envy you, Tomioka-san.”

He looks surprised again.

She gives him a dry smile, drawing her knees up and leaning her cheek against them, her joints popping with the movement. She is sodden with water, but right now she is too tired to care.

“You said, a while back, that you don’t have the right to stand beside the Pillars. Sometimes—I feel the same. I won’t say that I haven’t contributed. I’m proud of my achievements and I’m proud of what I can do. And I will continue to make strides in my own way. And yet—I cannot help but feel envious of the rest of you, who can do all the things that I cannot.”

Giyu is silent for a long time, and Shinobu almost falls asleep. But when he speaks again, his words chase the sleep from her body.

“When I took the Final Selection,” he begins, “There was a boy named Sabito.”

He tells his story: Sabito, how he saved everyone in that year’s Selection, and how he was the only one who died. It took a long time for Giyu to get back on his feet; Sabito’s death sent him spiraling into a deep depressive period, too soon after his sister Tsutako had died protecting him when she was supposed to be married the next day. Giyu never should have become the Water Pillar—not when he didn’t defeat a single demon during his Selection, not when Sabito should have been the one to survive. Giyu is just a placeholder for the true Water Pillar, and continues to remain so, since it seems Tanjiro’s Breath is evolving.

“But we must do the things we can do,” Giyu says, “Because one of us will never be able to do everything. That is why we are an organization, why we move behind the scenes. And because we must keep moving, we cannot let ourselves be bogged down by what we cannot bring forward with us. Even as we cannot forget it.”

Shinobu listens quietly, amazed at the amount he has spoken, and the depth of what he’s told her. She’s solemn as she stares at him, and he stares at his hands, curled into loose fists on his legs. She chuckles, and raises her head up halfway.

“As usual, you make such complicated statements, Tomioka-san.”

Always so duty-bound, he is. But his words do take a load off of Shinobu’s chest. Her moment of pity is allowable, but she has her own responsibilities that she must see to, her own differences to make. This, she must remember.

She glances over at Giyu; he’s staring and she stares back, and she thinks he deserves to know, after he made her feel better.

“I met him, you know. Sabito. And his partner, Makomo, when we were at Urokodaki-san’s residence that time. Don’t look at me like that, I could hardly believe it myself. But there are already strange things happening, like demons who are friendly, so spirits shouldn’t be too far of a stretch.”

She murmurs this half lidded, watching a myriad of expression flit across his face. The side of her mouth quirks up; she forgets, because he does it so well, so naturally—he may be good at tempering his emotions, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t feel them just as keenly as she does. He’s become less guarded around her, surprisingly, despite their clash in personalities at the beginning.

“He seemed happy you became Pillar,” she says. “That you made it out, and even beyond just a regular Demon Slayer. You say you’re just a placeholder, but does that not still make you the Water Pillar, taking the place for both you and Sabito?”

His eyes grow a fraction wider, and he turns away, inclining his head in deep thought.

“Even after everything…we continue to struggle, and perhaps that is the symbol of a good life,” Shinobu murmurs sleepily, echoing something she’s said to him before. But her own words also apply to herself. She must continue struggling.

“Rest,” Giyu says, his voice already faraway, “I will wake you when the rain stops.”

He’s true to his word. Shinobu doesn’t feel particularly well rested when he shakes her shoulder, but sleeping in a cold cave in wet, bloody clothing wouldn’t be good anyway. Her body is stiff when she tries to get up, and she hisses softly.

Giyu turns and offers her a hand. She takes it without thinking; it feels natural, as if it’s always been this way, and she looks up at him.

“You should take a bath when you get home,” Giyu says, and Shinobu barks out a laugh.

“Goodness, Tomioka-san, what are you trying to tell me? How rude. This is why you’re disliked.”

He rolls his eyes at her and she laughs again.

“I’m not disliked,” he says, rising to her bait, and she opens her mouth for another teasing remark, but he holds her gaze pointedly. He’s become much less cold, nowadays, she thinks. Or is it because she knows him better, now?

She smiles, the words she’d about to say dying on her tongue.

“No, I suppose you’re not,” she concedes, and heads out first.

Shinobu takes a break from hunting—well, as much as a Pillar is allowed to do so. She must tend to her stockroom and return to the medicines. While she’s at it, she should continue training everyone, as well. Naho, Kiyo, and Sumi have shown aptitude with the healing arts. Aoi is skilled at running the Mansion in Shinobu’s absence, and she has done particularly well cultivating the herbs. Kanao too has been changing slowly, and Shinobu owes time to her tsuguko.

There are several things to do around the Butterfly Mansion that she has pushed off to the side, and it’s about time that Shinobu restore the order that she herself had laid the foundation of.

It feels good to be home.

Oyakata-sama approves, and Shinobu is grateful. She thinks, however, that he must know—the Demon Slayers must always be making preparations, and Shinobu especially has much to prepare for. She’s made up her mind long ago, even though she’s had pockets of despair and self-pity. There’s a demon she’s determined to kill most of all, and she’s willing to pay the cost. Even though the cost is high, and no longer involves her alone.

Eventually, though, she is called upon for a mission. All the Pillars are there when she arrives at the Ubuyashiki Mansion, and Shinobu feels her blood tingle. The gears have already been turning since the Kamado siblings have been brought to attention. Now, they seem to be turning ever faster.

“Giyu. Shinobu. You two will investigate if an Upper Moon is truly in the West villages,” Oyakata-sama says.

“Yes,” the two Pillars chorus.

“Mitsuri. Obanai. I’ll have you two go to the East…”

When the meeting is over, the lot of them mingle in the outer garden to discuss what is upcoming. They’re a mix of nerves and excitement, but underneath it all, there’s a knot of utter seriousness. They’d all known that their ranks would inevitably change, but…the fact that it has already, in such a short amount of time, is more damaging than they’re willing to admit.

“But man, Shinobu, you really keep getting stuck with the short end of the stick, eh?” Sanemi sneers, as Giyu tries to escape the discussion, as he tends to do.

Shinobu glances over to the Water Pillar, and lets out a soft laugh. Some time ago, she might have agreed.

“He’s not so bad,” she says, and Mitsuri’s eyes light up even as Sanemi and Obanai’s eyes widen.

“Oh? Shinobu-chan, how interesting!” Mitsuri says, peering closely at Shinobu’s face. “I think you should come over to my place soon to talk!”

“I shall take you up on that offer once I return,” she says, and the Love Pillar squeals in delight. She looks like she wants to invite Giyu too, but the Water Pillar keeps his back turned to her, and Mitsuri is perfectly satisfied with just having a girls’ night.

“You’ve changed, Kochou,” Obanai says, his eyes narrowed in suspicion.

“As we all must,” she replies, with a smile.

“Shinobu.”

All of the Pillars stiffen at the sound of her name—at the sound of her name in a particular voice. Even she can’t believe what she’s hearing, and she turns, her eyes wide with surprise.

“Excuse me, Giyu, when did I say you could call me that?” Shinobu says, though she’s really less bothered by it than she seems. The other Pillars glance at her for using his name, even in retort, and Mitsuri grows even more excited, if possible.

The Water Pillar Shrugs.

“You didn’t. Let’s go.”

“Such a slave driver,” Shinobu murmurs, and bows to her fellow Pillars. “Excuse me. A safe trip to you all during your respective missions.”

Giyu waits for her to catch up with him, and she peers at him, her eyes alight with curiosity.

“My, I didn’t peg you as someone who had a taste for minor scandal,” she says, amused.

“You said you didn’t hate me,” Giyu says, a hint of petulance in his voice.

Laughter bursts out of her.

“And so that puts us on a first-name basis? Tomioka-san—no, Giyu—you’re still a bit of an idiot, aren’t you?” Her tone of voice betrays her, despite the rib; she’s delighted, childishly pleased with this turn of events. “I’ll allow it, though. Could it be that a first-name basis was something you’ve been wanting?”

He doesn’t respond, and she weaves around him like a fly.

“Come on, Giyu. Tell me! Giyu. Giiiiyuuuuuuu!”

His lip twitches, but Shinobu knows he’s fighting a smile rather than annoyance.

“We’ve no time to waste. Let’s get going.”

He jumps off first, and she snorts, following after him, and eventually overtaking him by a few paces.

“Come now, you’re still no fun,” she says, turning so that she is facing him, her back to the air.

“I think you have enough fun for the both of us,” he retorts dryly, and Shinobu’s eyes widen before she grins.

So he’s become mouthier, has he? She’s not complaining; he’s fun to tease, but she senses she’ll have more fun sharpening her wit against him.

“Oh my, Giyu, it looks like we’re finally showing some backbone, are we?”

“You’re annoying, Shinobu,” Giyu says, but there’s no bite in it, and at this she throws her head back and laughs.

He catches up to her while she’s busy with that, and she lets him match their pace. When she looks over at him, he’s actually smiling, and Shinobu resists the urge to stick her tongue out at him.

“You’ll get used to it,” she says, her eyes alight.

“I already am,” he replies, just as amused.

She remembers one of their first joint missions, where she’d brought up the two of them trying to get along and all he’d said was that he was here to slay demons. She’d thought him callous and a bit boorish, then. Now here they are—him of all people making her laugh, she of all people eking a smile out of him.

They land delicately on the same tree branch, launching themselves into the air, their haori spread out behind them. The haori were the beginning, recognition of the symbols of the burdens they both bore. But now, she thinks, they wear them a little lighter. They’re not so alone, after all—not if they let someone else in to share the burden.

So they go, side by side, breathing a little easier than before.

#giyushino #kimetsu no yaiba #kochou shinobu #tomioka giyu #kny #fanfiction #have this!! i made it!!!!#im pleased w myself for writing a whole ass fic lmao i havent written anything in so long #throwing this on ao3 and this blog for the night #honestly i was gonna like. hold onto this for a week or smth to edit but i was Impatient and also already tired of holding it LMFAO #i can't believe this ended up being so long. like i know i always write more than i intend but STILL #the title is from a line of ocean vuong's poem on earth we're briefly gorgeous!!#i fucked up the post when i tried to edit it on mobile woops #had to rewrite my notes but i couldn't remember what they were word for word :(#dont try to edit long fics on mobile y'all

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secretsantasides · 5 years ago

Text

Gift #7: Wishception

Gift for @pessimisticvirtuoso

Request: Soulmate AU with Analogical

Warning: this is ANGSTY as requested. There is some abandonment, internalised homophobia, self-hatred, manipulation (implied), emotional abuse (implied), financial struggle/poverty, panic, bad endings, injury/burning, intolerance, one-sided love, ambiguous soulmates, mentions of sex and nudity (nothing graphic), crying, ematophobia, insomnia, toxic relationships.

Roommates.

she/her and it/its pronouns are used for mentioned (side)characters. Everyone is either a cis male or an AMAB.

''That is 3.25, please'', the barista spoke as he rung the cash register and accepted the money that was pushed towards his hand. He took the bill and quickly grabbed the fitting change so the transaction would finally be over with.

Once he gave the money back, the coffee was already made by one of his co-workers and he received the cup. He handed it over to the costumer.

Polite words were exchanged and Virgil nodded with a service smile on his lips.

Empty, rosy, void of emotions.

He brushed his fingers through his purple hair and sighed. He turned away from the register and faced the inside of his work place.

The coffee machine was cleaning itself in-between and his colleague was running a rag over a few wet stains around the sink. The metal cover was supposed to be shining and gleaming in the low lights of the small cafe.

Technically, the small space was supposed to feel homely and safe. The narrow space saved money and brought people together, made them socialise and feel at home—a place where it was common to share space, bump into one another and just be close to other people. All Virgil saw was people forced together, made to interact with personal space being a rare commodity—something Virgil had so little of and wanted more than anything.

The dim lighting was supposed to be inviting instead of sleep-inducing.

The sweet smell was supposed to sugar-coat the pressure of passing time and encourage customers to shove more empty calories down their throat.

Dark furniture and opaque, warm colours welcomed and embraced but Virgil just felt repelled. He didn’t deserve to be embraced—and he obviously wasn’t ready to be comforted or loved.

He was not worth the auburn couches, the warm blankets or the colourful pillows. Virgil had never done anything to earn the feeling of warm tea easing the pain in his shaking fingers. He did not qualify to smell the spicy sweet scent of a drink made for him in exchange for money he didn’t have.

He prepared to rush out on a quick smoke break but at the ringing of a bell, he looked up from his shoes.

The door had opened.

The door swung shut, letting a weak blast of icy air that cut into the warm room.

It was so hot.

Virgil’s counter was too far back to let him smell the snow, the cold or the fresh oxygen but he could see some guests shiver for a moment, their noses powdered with the sweet frost of outside.

It might have been cold and it might have been cruel, but at least it wasn’t a trap for idiots.

He dragged himself back to the register, his heavy black and brown boots made his steps heavy, and he tried to hide his infinite disappointment with a forced smile.

A man with dark blonde and chaotic curls approached his sacred space.

Virgil has his lip ring pulled into his mouth where he could chew on it, and he to the inside of his lips until it was sucked in enough for his teeth to play with it.

He immediately let go, his teeth releasing the Titan and letting the opened ring snap back into place. Right now, talking had a priority over nervously biting his discomfort into unresponsive metal.

''Good day, Sir, may I take your order?'' his usual greeting came out a little flat.

Virgil had bags under his eyes darker than the eyeliner he had used in an attempt to make his eyes pop and look a little lessdead. After all, experience had shown that the tip jar usually ended up more filled whenever he had some makeup on.

It was a superficial, judgmental world.

The blond curly mess shoved his glasses back up to the bridge of his nose. The black eyewear framed his tired, dark-yet-soulful steel eyes like portraits as he returned Virgil's exhausted stare.

The pale skin under his ocean eyes was darkened, and his lips were a faint rose colour. Virgil spotted a few faint freckles, barely darker than the skin of the new costumer's face.

Typical nerd.

The guest spoke up, his voice somewhat deep.

Something about it reminded him of a curious dog experiencing new territories and strange smells, tail between his legs and ready to run at the first sign of trouble.

Weird.

But who was he to judge? He had piercings in his face and wore makeup--despite being a guy. He was lucky he got a job in the first place and nobody called him a fag or tried to beat him up or deprive him of his salary.

He was lucky. He even had a scholarship.

Maybe he was weird.

Yes, he had to be the weird one and he still dared to be a prick and judge others despite being the one who should change to be less embarrassing.

''Good day. Double iced coffee. Dark, please.''

The order was quick and straightforward. It felt classic and oddly fitting despite out of place quirkiness of the person before him.

He nodded and turned to make the coffee at the machine. His skin, looking as if it had been made of olive oil and fresh baked baguette, showed as he pushed his sleeves up enough to have his fingers show.

The tall man let his right curl around a big plastic cup and he shoveled crushed ice into the big container before he pushed it under the machine.

He punched in the order so theclueless technology would do its part of the work. Saved him the trouble of doing a more active job.

He really did not like to work.

His upper lip pushed over the lower one and his teeth graced over his two lip piercings. This time, there were no favourites as the black plated metal was pulled between his teeth and he caught the titan, then let it go just to latch his teeth onto the half-rings as well and pull at them so much that his pierced through skin nearly hurt with physical abuse.

The black balls of his piercings scraped the insides of his upper teeth as he released the jewellery.

His sun-kissed skin seemed even darker in the dim light of the cafe. He turned back to Logan and quickly dialed some buttons before the cash register ringed again.

''Three, on the point'', Virgil declared and the guest got out his purse to pay the right amount.

It took him only some moments to get out a ten and hand it over to the barista.

For a moment, Virgil actually looked over at the guest, really making eye contact for more than a fleeting second. Metal and mahagony met.

The world was standing still and the lights around them seemed just bright enough to illuminate one another completely. They were exposed with flaws and abilities, with pain and joy and resistance.

Hearts. Beating and growing together. Their minds seemed to intertwine in a soulful hug, invisible to the eye yet very much tangible for their hearts.

Time was not running anymore. The colours and sounds around them faded in favour of showing their own true colours and reveal every sound they could and would make.

Logan felt his answer get stuck in his throat and he instinctively put his wallet away.

He was ready to abscond.

Never had he once believed in the idiocy that was surrounding the myth of people being chosen to belong together. Not once in his life did he even consider the name on his arm to be of any more meaning but a reference to epic literature.

Virgil Prafure.

It was an odd name. Strange, rare. So provocative. He had suspected the person to be from another country but he could not tell. The person before him seemed just as mysterious as the letters tattooed into his skin.

But was this a coincidence? Was this really a connection and did he really feel the other's feelings and could he hear his heart beating like he could feel his own organ burst in tired energy.

Was he just an exhausted fool who had been forced into a marathon of Disney films alike?

Stay tuned because Mister Science will find out.

''Keep the change'', he spoke quickly.

Virgil nodded, mind absent and gears turning.

Their eyes were still locked and their hands moved on their own. Money was put away into the usual spots and clamped into the register. Fingers rubbed over the seven bucks in his hands and the worker nodded again. His dry mouth swallowed down his questions and he turned to put the money into the near empty tip jar.

Was it really just the eyeliner? It felt like more, there was more between them. There was more in him.

Well, whatever it was, his heart did not like it. But that might have been nothing but the missing nicotine and the counter action that had been an extra shot of caffeine in his early morning cup. Yeah, that had to be it.

Or maybe it was no more but the caffeine slashing into his empty stomach instead of even a little bit of food. All he had eaten in the past four (going on five) days was a few leaves of fresh basil they had at home. He remembered the look of fire and disapproval his girlfriend had given him when he had made breakfast and dared to lay the table with a second plate.

A common mistake.

She had given him the sweet, sweet lecture. She was so patient with him, even after weeks and months of dating, she was still ready to let him off the hook easy instead of punishing him like he would deserve to. He knew he was too fat and she constantly reminded him of it whenever they met, when they hugged and when they made love. She would squeeze his upper arms, she would give his stomach a pat and let out these elongated vocalisations when he would join her for cuddles or dared slipping into her lap.

He was lucky she was so good with him, helped him vomit when he had eaten without explicit permission. He could basically feel her hand sliding down the curve of his back when he hunched over the toilet and hugged the seat for stability in his dizzy spells. She was always there for him.

He was lucky with her by his side, literally and figuratively.

There was nothing going on. There was no magic no shit no nothing and the only lingering voice he certainly heard in his mind was the echo of the coffee machine groaning and people chattering so loudly, he wanted to rip his ears off.

He needed to sleep but he had a project due and he needed to beg his professor for an extension. Again. This idiot would lose his scholarship like this. Then all he could be able to do was drop out of schooling and life for good.

Virgil could not afford fucking voices and magic. He needed to work and earn his rent and get his shit done and make his love happy because she really wanted something nice for Valentine's Day and he was the luckiest loser to have her around still despite being in debt and missing his due dates on a daily.

He had taken extra shifts because his shitty job did not give any Christmas pay like other workers enjoyed. He was basically working full-time yet he was treated like an intern.

She had been so upset when he had been able to merely afford a little house party with her friends and work colleagues for her birthday. She had cried for hours and he had ended up on the couch he had exchanged for another wave of debt just to make her happy. The door had been locked and only when he negotiated getting her an extra gift instead of his trashy art, she was happy.

Just more debt. He could not tell her that he would need to stop paying the bills if she wanted another present. But he could also not tell her how much money and how many hours he had invested in the painting he he had made for her. Even his art professor had been pleased. Virgil had considered giving him the painting instead or use it for his portfolio or promotion but he had been too late. When he had been back with a real gift, something paid rather than self-made, she had already sold his work for a few bills and gotten herself a big lunch.

When he had cried about that, he had lost his food all at once without her helping out (which was a shame ,considering the party had been a rare occasion of him receiving some snacks).

''Thanks''.

Suddenly, Logan's voice was hoarse as if he had been screaming for hours. Maybe he had and he just forgot. All kinds of things happened. He wouldn't be surprised. There were so many thing he had never heard of, so many incredible possibilities he did not know about-

But honestly, right now he just did not know. Anything.

And it scared him.

The barista nodded again and turned his attention back to the coffee after his tip jar was filled up with an additional bit of money.

He swiftly finished the order, his shaking somewhat alternating between being its worst and also completely gone at the same time.

And then, everything seemed to happen at the same time.

His co-worker was back from his what? Piss break? He returned and made himself some hot tea and poured it into a cup while Virgil retrieved the iced coffee and got a straw and lid ready.

He put the things together and was done building the order. His hands shoved the business away from him and at the same moment, Logan extended his hands.

Now, what did the Braniac think and why was this important?

Well, whether soulmates existed or not was easily answered. He had seen his parents and his friends fall in love and bond for years and decades, side by side.

He had witnessed it, he had researched it but he knew that soulmates could go wrong. People whose souls were connected could hate each other, they could be in love like friends or be strangers to one another-

Sometimes, most times, though, they were each other's love of their life.

Some more research he had done had revealed that there were no records of his soulmate online.

On another note, he had just expected that maybe, just maybe, his soulmate had changed names because of adoption. Or maybe it was a dead name, perhaps they needed to change it for their own security.

In the times of social media, everyone had a profile on one of these many platforms.

But one of the most important things he had learned was that soulmates had different soulmarks. While his was the name of his mate, there were several other soulmarks and indicators to show that you belonged together, as per usual, people who belonged together had the same kind of soulmark in a very similar spot.

While Logan had the feeling settled in his guts that Virgil was the person his mark referred to, there was just one solid way to prove his thesis.

He needed to see his arm. Arms, actually. It would be the safest to check out both sides just to make sure he did not miss anything.

With this train of thought, Logan did not particularly reach out for the cold cup before him but he as much as rammed his hand into the plastic container.

Cold, brown bean juice spilled over his and the barista's hands. Crushed ice pieces flew all over the counter and in an attempt at saving himself, Virgil reflexively moved backwards without letting his eyes move from the scene before him.

His back bumped into his co-workers, but it was not just about bumping into him and nearly falling to the floor.

No.

No, of course not because Virgil's life was a fucking nightmare. Everything was against him and he felt just how much life was against his wretched ass when near-boiling coffee soaked into his long, black sleeves and the wet fabric immediately stuck to his skin.

The heat bit into his flesh, eating away at his arm with boiling temperatures. It was an unbearable pain, close to the feeling of being impaled with more and more white hot anger piercing through any layer of his skin.

''Fuck!!'', he yelled out in surprise.

His face distorted into a mask of anguish and disgust as his glance wandered over the steam that rose from his soaked shirt.

''Virgil, take it off!'', his colleague screeched and pulled him over to the sick. The tap was turned on and cool water started running over his covered arm.

The punk sighed in relief but he felt it was not over.

Tears were pricking at his eyes and he could feel his heart thumping so violently it felt like the muscle was trying to escape his rib cage for good.

It reminded him of his landlord after he failed to pay rent on time for a first. He had been banging against the door so much, he had feared for the wooden plank to finally give in, tired of protecting the cowardice of his actions.If the door has had any soul, it was beaten to death until now. Other than that, he was convinced that not even a soulless piece of dead tree would stand up for him. In that seemingly infinite moment, the door had saved his life. It was still his lifeline, the protective barrier between him and the rest of the world with its society of strict, judgmental eyes.

Virgil's eyes were glossy from the tears he held back. All his impulse control had left was the hope of relief from the hot burning pain. The cool water soaking into his shirt made his pain somewhat more bearable but at this point, it all felt dull and the pain was seated deeper than just on his arm. It was deeply buried within him. It seemed as if it wrapped around his bones. Maybe it was just an invisible idea of pain that tripped into the space of his arm.

Was it even his arm anymore?

He did not know, he did not know anything.

All he knew and felt was the pain and the rush and the horrible panic his mind limited itself to. If his thinking was a community, it shut itself down and put barricades up just to have a safe space to frantically run up and down the streets while emitting deafening screams of despair.

Huh, even his mental images of his mind seemed gruesome.

''Fuck'', he cursed again, his lips unstoppable.

With his mind on lock-down, he at least did not have the psychic capacity to wonder about what other people thought or what they would feel about his shit. Heavens, right now, he did not even consider whether he could lose his job over all this because his reason was closed down for the season of emergency.

Alarms were started like fires in his neurological connections. It felt as if even his brain was on actual fire.

''Fuck'', he choked again. It was the most expressive his mind could be when voicing his well-being. Not that there was too much well-being to really talk about. Actually, there was very much none of it. ''Fuck, fuck fuck fuck. Why.''

His voice was a silent hiss competing the continuous sound of numbing water running down his arm.

He heard someone tell him to take off his clothing, and orders and such were shot around the room like loose bullets during an inexperienced heist that got out of control way too fast.

His mind was reeling.

Slowly, the panic of pain dissolved only to merge into a new hysteria.

The intense stinging and biting was so old, so many seconds ago that his heart was spitting on the whole ado and spitefully rammed against his rib cage. Maybe he was wrong about that but it seemed like his heart beating so vengefully made his lungs hurt.

His breathing felt so flat and so... so empty.. No air was really arriving, not any efficient one anyway. It was thin and used and did not give him enough respiration.

Nice.

This was just short of another tragedy to make this day an even better disaster, honestly.

Lucky enough for him, the gracious hero of all, the panicking man who had caused the whole scene, was by his side by now and cutting the sleeve open.

Fuck, his lap had been attacked too but it was minor and frankly, he had been a really lucky bastard to wear pants that did not really absorb too much water. The apron that covered his torso down to the middle of his thighs with its tight fabric probably did the trick as well.

Maybe that part of his body would not get fucked up. It did not really hurt but maybe that was the adrenaline. Or the pure focus on his burned arm.

Wow, maybe he had actually been lucky. If you could call one lucky circumstance in a horrible situation within the most horrible life to be an actually lucky thing. Perhaps it was just prolonging the inevitable horror of his existence.

He did not know.

His mind was still too busy steaming to consider all of this shit.

Huh, steaming. Very funny.

The person next to him said something and carefully pulled the cut through sweat shirt sleeve away.

That was his only piece of clothing his manager had not shot down for this work place. He did not know whether he could afford another one and his paycheck was so far away.

''s-stop'', he breathed out and pulled his arm away.

How did he have the lung capacity to talk? He did not know but today was full of shitty miracles so maybe that was just adding up.

''I - I have work''.

The person was taken aback and suddenly his co-worker rushed back in. When did anyone leave?

''I called the manager! We will get someone to cover for you. The ambulance is on the way.''

The punk felt his breathing stop.

Stop. Pause. Put on break and twisted backwards.

Say what now?

The empty face of his co-worker shushed the guest away to no avail. Virgil felt himself being tugged over to the break room behind the doors that had this typical ''employees only" sign. It was so cliche but it was also so necessary.

Stupid people, stupid rules.

But rules could be nice and protecting sometimes.

The punk kept blabbering about something to do with work.

He needed to go back.

Had he not heard the bell? Had he not seen a new costumer?

He had to make money, he had to get tips. He needed to get his order done. Oh, and he had crushed his co-workers coffee. He would hate him now. Virgil fucked up again.

He always did.

He had fucked up. Fucked up.

He had fucked up. He always fucked up, fucked up fucked up fuckedup.

''Breathe, Virgil'', a voice instructed him.

Who?

The world around him seemed so blurry and his body seemed so far away. Everything was out of focus and so strange and somewhat it was darker and lighter than usual. His environment did not look like that. Why did objects stick out so much and how could he still not tell what they were when it seemed so clear, it kind of became razor blurry again.

''I-I can't. I have work, I have courses'', he whimpered in desperation.

His voice was so thin. So thin, like his wrists were thin.

If his voice had bones, they would be clearly visible whenever he used it. Audible? His mind did not make any sense anymore.

''I have a deadline'', he repeated, his mind blanking as the realisation hit him.

His shift was nearly over and he needed to go to his professor and beg for time and another try. He was about to fail, he could not drop out. This degree was nearly complete and he could not afford fucking this up. His scholarship was the only thing that made life bearable.

His girlfriend would give him so much shit for this. He was a loser and she would finally lose hope in him and leave him because he could not provide for he because he sucked and he was unstable and useless.

He was the real burden, not her being unemployed because of workplace discrimination.

Who discriminated against her again? They.. they were both white cis people- What.. he did not know but he believed her, he always believed her because she would never lie to him. In fact, all she said was honest, sometimes brutal but at least direct and clear as acid if not just as hurtful.

Oh he fucked up. He fucked up.

He would lose her and his job and his scholarship. Just because of a coffee, why had he hold onto this stupid cup. He should have been faster and more aware. How could he not have been aware, he was vigilant. That was even in his name- he was hyper-vigilant even so and he still had managed to fuck up enough to not get this right. He had fucked up, it was his fault.

His fault, his fault only. He always fucked up. He deserved to be left alone and abandoned. He deserved it. He had fucked up.

Virgil squirmed as he felt some dull sensation press into him. It felt so distant yet something firm about it seemed to almost be comforting. Water was running down his arms again. The stream was slow and cool.

It was the same as before but in a more private setting, probably to have less pairs of eyes stare into the mess Virgil had caused.

It took him a while to acclimate and realize that the room looked much different than the location he had been in before.

Odd. So odd. He had not moved, he knew he had been moved but he did not feel as if he had changed anything at all. Not a location, not his body. Nothing, really.

"No", he repeated and he squirmed further. The stranger trapped him between the sink and his own body.

In his mind, the only work he could hear was "work". He had to get back to work and finish and then meet his professor and present his project because he was done. He was actually done enough to hand it in and get a decent grade without failing this course.

It was not like failing the course was a problem anyway, he reminded himself. For some reason, he had decent grades - only soiled by the dirty record of breaking through ever deadline that has ever existed in the world.

He had been ahead of his birth - the one and only time he had ever been early and even then he had crashed the expectations others had in him.

Honestly, he nearly believed he would miss his own death or something. He was so busy trying to work for others or make someone happy or hand in his notes and do some project for them and meet all these demands. Fulfil all these requirements, that was his goal.

He had to.

There was no other way. If he did not get this done, he would not be able to graduate and get a decent job with good pay and a stable contract so he could provide for his family.

If he did not get this shit together, his only good relationship would break into pieces like the ice cubes that had been crushed for all these cool beverages he usually made from day to night.

Huh, somehow it was still funny to him that he could oversleep his own death because he was perpetually tired from overworking himself and running from one burning fire to another to put up with everyone's requests.

Somehow, he was never good enough. He was a weak yet constantly dropping sachet of water over a fire and he kept shedding some liquid into the burning abyss. However, he was certain that at some point, the flames would catch up to him and dry his insides out, have his liquid evaporate and eat him alive with bright flames catching and tearing at him.

''I need to work, get off'', he repeated again.

Up until now, his worries had been twirling him into a horrible dizziness and he surely did not felt anything but the irregular thumping of his heart.

It was probably knocking on heaven's door. Begging for relief and such. But Virgil was too busy for that, he had no time for panic and his heart and whatever else bullshit.

''Virgil'', the person spoke and a sudden shudder overcame him.

It worked like magic because the words flew through his wind and seemed to sweep his hurricane of thought away with the simple blink of an eye or the draw of a breath.

It was simple. It was most natural.

And it was frankly the most confusing he had ever been in a sober state.

He looked up, eyes open as much as his mind was blank.

The punk was met with the intensity of a steel blue, he thought was a joke made by the art industry when they gave their funny names to different shades of colours. To be honest, steel blue had always been something like a personal favourite. Destiny seemed to laugh into his face. It was his favourite and it had him left in a state of being so out-of-himself that he had forgotten himself and his world.

Now there he was.What had his favourite gotten him into?

He stared over at the extension of his torso.

It felt so strange to him, like a prosthesis clicked into his system but never having been a part of him before. It was not a replacement, it was just something so new that did not belong to him.

''I am okay'', he tried again.

The barista did not even hear how droopy and choked his voice seemed to the outer world. Then again, everything seemed foggy and generally unusual to him.

He did not really care, to be honest. He was just confused.

This voice.. this blue.. they were all he could see.

His whole body, his entire existence seemed so odd to him like he had never been aware of how weird Being was before. But these eyes.. this colour and the sound of a deep yet angelic voice seemed to be in his soul.

He did not perceive these things with his senses but with his soul.

''You are not, please stay where you are'', the guest instructed.

He barely saw the orbs move away and the owner of these soulful body mirrors seemed to move again. The silhouette was cut out from the rest of Virgil's background. It felt like these funny camera modifications of blurring out all that was not in focus.

Huh-

Funny.

So, essentially, the curly-hair stranger was his focus now? He could not really complain but he did not exactly have the capacity to flirt yet alone be groomed by some rando. He had a monogamous relationship with his Logan, sweet and lovely neighbourhood darling Logan Berry.

She was a beloved daughter but an only child, other than Virgil.

Despite their differences and how much she teased him about his bad habits like eating a whole plate or sleeping in when he could, the two loved each other and had been together for a while.

She was the light of his life. Whenever he saw her muddy brown eyes, he saw the sun-lit skin of trees and the calm life of slugs.

His thought continued flying in a tornado of nonsense.

Without her, he would have studied something funny like nothing at all or maybe had gotten into the cinema branch.

Who knew? He was a pretty salty bitch and loved giving harsh reviews with criticism he did not know how to fix but was quick to point out.

He had an eye for weakness, after all, he had been his worst nightmare of being a miserable weak spot all his life. At least this could have given him the opportunity to wake the best of his flaws.

But she knew better and honestly, being an artist made him happy too. It just also gave him a lot of anxiety and pressure.

Sometimes he wanted to drop out but what else was he supposed to do? He had gotten into a scholarship, yet again, with Logan's help, because his little loganberry was always by his side.

Man, his thoughts were so weird. They seemed to just flow into him like the water flowing over his burned arms.

He could hear the ticking of a clock in the background. When he looked at the side, he could spot a timer running. The stranger’s phone, possibly.

''Cant..'', he whispered but the other did not seem to care and carefully pressed him back into his position.

''Virgil, please do me the favour. This whole endeavour is my fault in the first place. I want to make sure I can give you adequate care until the ambulance takes over'', he explained calmly.

His voice was so nice...

''Who.. wh-'', he mumbled softly and curled into himself but once more, his action was discarded as mere attempt when the guest softly tugged him into a more comfortable position, ''what is even your name..?''

"Logan", the other spoke and Virgil's mind started twitching and churning in sickness.

That.. That couldn't be.

I believe I'm your soulmate, Virgil. I do have your name on my arm ", Logan explained to him.

Virgil only dignified the action with another groan but there wasn't any more he felt like saying. Not that he had chosen to make any sounds in the first place but sometimes things just happened.

His body has betrayed him already with all this weakness that made him unable to keep working even though he had to.

He needed to, indeed!

The nerd went on, his voice twitching and wiggling line the wagging tail of a puppy facing a treat.

"I felt it when - when our eyes met and the world. Virgil, the world seemed like it was standing still! Can you believe it?"

Now, even his fate kicked him in the butt. Well, it was less of this. A kick to his lazy butt usually was a thing his actual soulmate and girlfriend did to him whenever he slacked off and thought he could manage to spend money on this nice concert he had dreamed to go to. Or when he intended to buy that crushing album by his favourite band.

But she was always right because she knew better. She always knew when people were about to back-stab him or when they were lying and mean. She knew what he could and couldn't afford and what the good investments in life were.

She was his fate and she would only ever hurt him in the short-term to protect him in the long run.

This. This was different and it was only about seeing whether he was really loyal to her but he was and he would do his best to show it.

Logan, on the other hand...well, he seemed to feel strongly about this, like Virgil. But his feelings turned into a more romanticised version of events.

"And and", he continued and smiled, his lips twitching upwards, "I have never believed in soulmates. Not really, not for me. Virgil, I thought my mark had been a mistake and that this was just some weird magical superstition but I felt it. I felt us! I could feel you as if you have always been a part of me!"

But his fate said that it was all wrong. His fate said he had one of these people as soulmate. The string connected to his would seemed to ask for both or nine of them.

Why was there no last name to this mark? Why did he have an ambiguous mark like that?

Whatever.

He was sick and the voice making him dizzy and pushing the truth into him only made him want to puke and cry.

Virgil didn't deserve it.

"You're not."

He wasn't gay.

He wouldn't date this guy. He knew that this was bullshit and some sort of crazy thing. Fate was fucking with him. His hallucinations were fucking with him but it certainly wasn't his soul being attached to a guy like that.

" I'm dating someone. I've got Logan. We're together, we're dating - we.. We", he started but his voice rushed further and further. Virgil nearly forgot about oxygen when his pace picked up even more.

"You and I aren't soulmates. This is bullshit."

He moved his arm away, out of reach from Logan's careful touches. The curious fingertips were abandoned and he curled his arm around himself as if in a half hug.

The punk was protecting his gut or maybe he just tried to absorb the pain of his arm into his body if he just pressed the limb enough into him.

His burns missed the cooling sensation of the water and he commented on his pain with a vague hiss. Virgil willingly retreated his arms to let the water immerse his injuries once more.

Better.

The corner of his lips moved to one side, letting his jewellery shift along. His bottom lip popped out a bit as if to pout but all he could muster up were scornful, bitter words.

"I don't know what the fuck you're talking about. You must be confused or whatever. I don't really care. You fucking ruined my mark, the mark of me and my girlfriend's love and you think I'm gonna laugh and suck it up and jump into your fucking arms or what?

You think life is like that? It's bullshit. This is all fucked up, cracked up, dirty shit and I've got no idea what the fucking shit you ran into but I'm not your soulmate, I never will be and you have to leave right now, you-you life destroyer. "

The student nodded.

His head said acceptance but his face looked like he had lost the battle of battles, the one that should have decided the war.

And now he was standing there, having lost his youth and life and all his vitality for the sake of a fight he had ended before it had started.

He was disarmed and caught, but then spit out again because he wasn't even good enough to be kept as a trophy or to make an example out of his humiliation of believing in hope and soulmarks.

Magic had failed him. He.. He shouldn't have.

The unfamiliar warmth, that had crept into him when Virgil's and his eyes had met, faded from his heart and disappeared into thin air like the faint smell of pleasant vanilla.

Light, easy. Great yet so easily under-appreciated or dismissed.

And he had lost it.

"And for your information, I'll probably fail my deadline with that fucking ambulance you called up. Great job. If you're so desperate for love, you better try out some fucking online dating. I'm not your guy"

Logan nodded. Again. It was all he could do. After all he had done, after all he had caused it was almost a good joke to see that he was so powerless right now.

He started walking away until he heard another groan.

His heart was aching and life seemed to lose colours before him.

Hope was stinging in his eyes and laughing at his face with mean hands that teared at his skin, his heart.

"If my arms wasn't fucking burned because of you, I'd fucking give you a nice mark of mine", Virgil hissed to himself and sat up.

As Logan excused himself from the room. Phone in hand, timer ticking as twenty minutes of cooling time had run out, the ambulance rushed in.

At least some people could be of constructive use by now.

***

It had taken hours and Virgil was back at home, at last. Hospital bill and a doctor's slip in his hands, he knew he had to try and at least message his professor again and tell him about his accident.

Maybe that could be enough for making this clear and getting his art back into the play so he could ace this depressing course.

It was pressure to no end and he didn't know whether he enjoyed the dulling pain of rushing and brushing and colouring again and again and more and like this and that. This was mass-produced art at most but it wasn't his heart-felt pain of life, it wasn't the joy of his giggling heart or the hope in his curious mind.

The project was another painting, another photograph. It said "replicate this" and "interpret that" or "to be inspired by".

Bullshit too. But he did what he had to do do.

Maybe it was fine.

He quickly unlocked the door.

Or tried to, at least. The door wasn't locked. It wasn't even closed. The old plank was just there, vaguely resting against the door frame and leaving enough space for his right hand to slip in and pry the door away from its little slumber curled up against its frame.

His home was dark.

No Logan, no nothing. Not even lights.

Weird, usually she would be at home and do her nails or talk to a friend. It sounded cliché but she was busy so she did many things as once.

Well, maybe she was late. He was late too. She had been taking extra shifts and worked after hours and such because the company had made a lot of pressure.

He really should make her some food so she could relax when going home.

He could not help and fear the darkness was another unpaid bill he had forgotten about in his storm of obligations. The uncountable amounts of hands pulling and tearing at him to get his attention and have him finish all the issues that needed fixing - all these things caused him to fail at life every now and then.

However, he was sure he had paid this. Or Logan did. But he had been there and they had paid December and November together.

Virgil's arm was still hurting and his heart was stinging like something was ripped out of him but he really wanted to make her happy.

She deserved that.

She deserved more than he was anyway but he would always try his best to make up for it so she would never have to regret. So she would never have to think someone was much better and more suitable than he was.

There was plenty anyway.

He moved his uninjured arm to touch the light switch and he flipped it. His movement was casual and nonchalant as always. It was a usual business to turn on the light and make sure he could see something but apparently, the lights did not the the same.

The familiar 'click' sound echoed through the emptiness of his blank mind as the switch was flipped yet the darkness remained. The absence of light imposed itself onto his vision and it merely took a few more moments to get his phone out and turn on the torch so he could see something.

Shit, he must have forgotten to pay the bills again. Fuck, fuck. He needed to fix this. If Logan saw that, she would get really mad and he could not handle cleaning up after the messes of her tantrums. He did not have the time and his aching heart was not in the state to handle another break.

But he was sure they had paid it. He had been so sure of it.

His.. that was stupid, he was not heartbroken. He was not affected by some silly stranger showing up and getting their soulmarks mixed up.

The audacity to force his desperate ass onto others was something Virgil would never understand. His Logan was markless but he knew that some soulmark would develop later like when people marry and he just felt it in his head that they belonged together.

He knew it. He felt it. It was a truth he believed in.

Whatever.

Virgil quickly dropped his bag on the kitchen table and rushed to get some candles.

Digital torch in his hands and fingers floating around the drawers, he quickly pulled out some candles and spread them around the kitchen, as he lit them up. One by one, there was a little source of warmth and light filling the room.

Just in case this winter would have to be spent without heating as well, these candles would sort of work like a little campfire or a fireplace. ... rather a fireplace. They lived in a rental flat anyway and the fire alarm would instantly go off when there was an actual fire in their room.

Actually, this was kind of romantic. Maybe Logan would like that. After all, she kept saying that together, they made the best out of the worst and it somehow worked out every time.

He loved it.

His mouth twitched into a little smile and the light ultimately reached up to his face. His mind curled up to rest in the warmth and soothingly calm light of the candles surrounding him.

Virgil tended to the stove.

Huh, that seemed to work. Well, it was a gas-driven apparatus anyway.

He quickly got a pot and some food ready.

What could he cook, what should he make... They did not have so much food. Well, dang. He needed to go get some food tomorrow morning before class. He could just get up at five and it would be fine. Logan needed to rest after a hard day at work, especially if she has had to work into late at night like right now.

As Virgil started cutting up some vegetables, his mind had settled on the idea of making some nice chicken soup. They only had some frozen meat for it but it would be fine. Logan did not like meat anyway and it was just good enough for him.

It did not have any frost bites so it was fine. Only the best for his dear sweetcheeks.

As he chopped up the food, he felt his mind wander. Maybe creep and slither was the more appropriate term at the moment but that felt of little significance at the moment.

Did he not pay rent for the two and Logan handled the bills?

Sure, they both had their names on it but her bank account was connected to do the payments so he would not have to worry about that.

She was just too nice. She always allowed him to be a little late with the payment because he bought the food and provided rent. And also cooked. He really wanted to make up for his delays and all the unreliability he tainted the relationship with.

In his confusion he had dearly forgotten about all this. How could he had forgotten that he did not pay the utility bills?

...Logan usually paid on time. What had happened? Was she okay? Maybe someone had hacked her account and emptied out her money and now they were both in debt and had trouble handling the big apartment together.

Oh fuck, what if-

No. No.

He should not think like that. Logan hated when he did that and she would yell at him to stop and she was right about that because he would just start shaking and crying and he would do the ugly snapping.

Nobody deserved to be snapped at. He had even snapped at the guy Logan and while he had been a fucking dick, he had not deserved to be snapped at.

Virgil... He had just been so angry at people invalidating his relationship and feelings all the time and he was so so done over this prejudice of dating a markless.

Countless people had markless people as soulmates! The marks were often just delayed or worked with one-side only, as well!

He felt the darkness creep into his heart again.

None of this.

None.

He should just text Logan and ask her about the bills and then call their provider and tell them he would pay the next opportunity he had! It would be fine, people were usually so nice when you just talked to them and if not then,.. then they could get candles and it would be fine and nice and they needed to sleep more anyway and artificial light was bad for the mood, right?

He felt his throat feel like someone started choking him and he took a deep yet shallow breath.

His hand quickly got to the phone and he typed a little message to his dear.

This message could not be delivered.

Huh?

Curious. Why would that happen?

Well, maybe there were some server issues or something. Nothing too great to worry about. Sometimes that happened with the best messengers. He should just try another one or maybe a simple text message so she knew that the lights were out.

Was it all electricity or just the lights? He did not even know and he had a generally bad feeling biting at his guts like acidic bile burning into him. He just did not dare let it get the best of him in the sanctity of their home where Logan cared so much for him.

He carefully arranged the soup basis and made sure to set the stove to as low as he could possibly get so nothing would burn or overcook.

The punk picked up his phone again - his little torch - and went to get his things he had abandoned on the kitchen table.

Maybe he should call her?

Well, first things first were mailing his doctor so he quickly unpacked his slip and send it to his professor with a quickly apology and explanation.

He was still smiling but his lips felt strained and the excitement in his heart was so bare, so stripped and exposed that he felt as if this was.. not quite it. It did not reach him the trembling of novelty did not reach up to him or his heart and the electricity delighting his body was so far away.

He looked at the time. the clock already read 7pm. Odd. Just odd. Usually Logan would have texted him demands of certain meals and some questions about whether he was still in his course or had failed.

The usual.

But there was nothing still and that was more than confusing to him.

He bit the insides of his mouth, his teeth trapping the flesh between them before he bit threw and swallowed the tiny bits of rosy meat he cursed his own.

Something was wrong. Something was wrong, something was wrong. It was wrongwrongwrong!!

His restless fingers pushed the phone around in his grip and pushed against the touchscreen, his empty taps selecting Logan's contact again and again but the screen did not accept his attempts. A part of him felt calmed down by the barrier between him and her but he loved her and he was worried and he wanted to know whether she was okay or whether something had happened to her.

Eventually, it worked and he carefully withdrew his hand to his head and trapped the device with the cracked screen between his fingers and his ear.

The familiar sounds of ringing were missing out and instead, his natural funnels had to be pestered with the usual ''The person you are trying to call is unavailable at this moment''.

His heart cracked and he could nearly hear the tears falling from is eyes and crashing down onto his heated cheeks.

Virgil lowered the phone and caught sight of a piece of paper his torch had shone onto.

There was a single note and the curved letters in big black ink of ballpoint pens just screamed Logan to him.

He picked it up, his hands still shaking as if he had spent an entire night outside with the temperatures in the negative.

As far as he knew, the cold temperatures made the body cold and the shivering was a protective mechanism the body started instinctively in order to give as much movement as possible so the burned energy would be converted to heat and warm up the body, possibly saving it.

Right now, his own shaking just made him sick or maybe it was the sight of letters that looked so wobbly and blurry through his thick,wet tears.

''Found my soulmate. Got my mark. It is not you. Do not contact me, loser.''

Virgil barely knew words or sights as he blindly marched through their apartment to look for the void she had left when she took all her things away. Most of the furniture was missing, even the bed was gone and not even a mattress was left behind.

The couch was gone.. all.. all.. There was merely the bathroom furniture left and some of his products. If you could call liquid soap a product but it would have to do from now on. then..then all else there was left in the apartment and his heart was the depressing light of candles and the devastating Virgil who curled himself up under the kitchen table.

Well, there was also a closet.

There had always been a closet in his life. Every night the closet around him had teasingly spread its doors for him to see the sweet outside world of coming out but he had never done it and he never would. It was comfortable in the sorrow of his own tears and the snot running down his miserable face. He was safe in the world of messy clothing and abandonment.

He was safe because he was used to it.

And there was nobody to change a thing about it.

..It was not fair...

His phone popped with a notification and he saw another message having arrived.

Maybe Logan had changed her mind? It would not take away the hurt from being called a loser. The word still seemed to shove him into imaginary lockers that did not exist in the empty loft of his heart but they were there, deeply buried under the heavy blankets of his heart.

No, even the last bit of hope was dying down on him.

''I am sorry but you missed the last extension of your deadline. You'll have a failing grade for the semester with a missing project.''

He sobbed and his heart was but a mess of shatters around him. His fingers were too shaky and slippery with the tremors of his pain and the damp liquid of his tears.

He had to .. to move out... to.. to turn off the stove

''Why..''

He curled up under the safety of the table. It protected him. It was all he had right now.

His hands gripped the light material of his worn out, patched up jacket.

Why did fate mess with him so much?

He merely felt bitter sobs and chokes for air being replaced by the hysterical insanity of insomnia paired with famine taking over his system and making him laugh a horribly distraught sound of gruesome horror.

There was no happiness in his laugh, there was not a single thing that identified it as an expression of laughter or joy for that matter. Only the mere idea of imitating this sacred display of emotion qualified his torn, terrible shrieks as alterations between manic laughter and ear-piercing wailing sobs.

He lost it all. Even his mind.

***

Logan stepped into his shared flat. Logan and Adam (or Ada, depending on the time and date and the given indications or less subtle clarification) were living together but sometimes Patton, its boyfriend, would come over and the two were shamelessly.... passionate about each other. So to speak.

Today, sadly, had been one of these days and Logan in his asexual glory could not help but shriek at the sight of his roommate and its partner trying to somewhat impale one another or whatever, The sight of strange genitals burned into him and the nerd quickly made his way over to his room while the couple minded their own business.

He heard Patton's little protests, her voice soft and nearly comforting but they soon turned into loud, drawn out moans. Logan could see the two move together, naked skin of dark and light tones wrapping around one another and merging into one.

EW.

Ew. ew, ew ew ew ew ew.

He slammed his room door behind him and quickly slammed the door shut. For some reason, he had expected the others to sleep after this film marathon but they were not asleep and he was sick, so sick and oh fuck.

Sometimes, he forgot how averse he was to all of this..this stuff.. His skin was crawling and shivers of disgust were running up and down his body.

The nerd was curled up on himself, before he slid down with his back pressed against the solid wood. He was hugging himself as his body contracted painfully and he felt bile burning at the back of his throat.

In a brief moment of clarity (due to nothing but being used to these sensations ganging up on him),he reached forward to catch his black plastic bin and hug its rim before he emptied his body into the nearly empty bag within it.

His disgust was quickly spewed into the container and he had the great mind and heart to tie up the bag and place it at the end of his room so he could get rid of the horrible contents the moment he would exit his room.

He was not sure but Logan felt that the love-struck couple would take some more moments together to be extra affectionate in the commons.

No, no. He could not go back to think about all of this. It would just make him sick.

Still, why did they have to do it right there? They knew he was more than just grossed out by the plain idea of such acts. He had honestly reacted like that before because he just was not that type of ace to be cool about sex.

Ugh.

He felt his energy drain.

Now that his belly was emptied out and his body had moved in all possibly harmful and torturous ways, he felt the lack of caffeine and the missing hours of sleep from the past night rain down onto him. His body felt wet and heavy like a sack of stones being dumped into chlorine-stinking water.

Everything was gross and he just wanted this to be over.

What exactly? He did not know.

Right now, the idea of taking a small break of life and feelings sounded like the most genius invention he had ever heard of.

And he kept track of the science magazine all the time!

The student decided to take control of what he could change. It would be, as always, rather literal so he made sure to undress his body completely and vest himself in more clean and silky clothing.

A shower would be due as soon as the room was cleared. He just hoped for Patton giving him a heads up about it because she was this kind of caring person.

It was a pure wonder she had not yet knocked at his door but he appreciated the time for him to arrive and adjust to.. this day.

Changing was slow and it seemed to drag out the last bit of energy that tickles his finger tips but once he had dressed himself in more casual clothing, he was sure everything was just a bit more bearable.

He set his glasses aside and took a sip of his water that he always kept next to his bed just in case he would get thirsty in the middle of the night. With his all-nighters and tendencies to stay up in the stubbornness to finish all he had started in one go, this happened much more often than it was probably healthy.

He curled up on bed this time and pulled out his journal so he could write down the events of his day and evaluate them. Many people had advised him to spill his thoughts onto skin rather than just keep them bottled up or worse than that, use his favourite coping mechanism.

Encapsulation - it was essentially about the separation of experiences and the feelings related to these in order to be able to calmly store these as memories and be able to report them as factually as possible.

Personally, he did not see it as a bad way of managing himself but people told him he had the tendency to snap at others and honestly, he very much felt more anger and“sass”sitting in his bones right after this day.

So, sitting down and writing down the events so he could feel into them and then bury it all forever.. that would be how he would deal with himself until emotions would finally start to make sense to him.

His fingers started writing already, starting with the previous night and the film marathon but his mind kept screaming at him.

He probably would be more comfortable with sex if he had a soulmate, he probably would feel more if he felt loved for a change. Logan would probably be more open to his own experience and pain if he knew someone to share it with, unconditionally.

Before he knew it, his precious notebook was stained in darkening drops of water. His face was cold and apathetic as always as the tears ran down his impartial face.

The tears kept falling and falling and his breathing was so calm and so scarily whole.

This was not normal. He was not normal.

He did not deserve a soulmate. He was probably rejected because he did not know how to handle humans, because he was awkward and sucked at social interaction.

His face trembled and wrinkles fell into his skin, pulling at his head and pushing a aching heat into him as exchange. The liquid was still floating like a silent stream of molten ice from the mountains. But by now, the sobs wretching his throat and ripping through his lungs seemed far more attention-demanding than his tears.

Those were independent. The tears knew what they were doing and they did not need Logan but these sobs, they were scary.

Logan curled up again and hugged his legs against his chest.

It hurt and he could not breathe but he wanted this he.. he.. he could not bear having his knees away from him because it was just too much. He could not handle any more distance, any more rejection and humiliation.

Today had been too much.

He felt shivers wreck through his body and his hold onto his knees became tighter, bruising, nearly.

Logan just wanted to feel.

He did not hear the careful knocks of Patton's caring hands before some called out for him.

''Logan, I am coming in now'', she called and Ada(m) was right on her heels to follow in. The two engulfed him with their fresh smells of a refreshing, cleansing shower.

The sex and body sweat was gone.

Patton was so nice...Patton was so considerate.

''Logiebear, my dear, what is wrong'', she asked and Ada(m) carefully patted his knee while Patton pulled his head gently into her lap and carefully brushed through his hair.

The touch felt so caring, it just made him cry harder. His hand curled around the soulmark on his arm and he opened his mouth just to sob out in frustration again.

''I lost him'', he breathed eventually. His chords pushed the words out of his body and he hastily took more erratic breaths to calm his trembling lungs.

''V-Vi-...Virgil'', he stuttered as explanation and Patton's worry-knitted wrinkles eased into the blank realisation.

Oh no.

More sobs could be heard but Logan was clearly unable to do any more talking than he had already forced himself into.

Adam (at least Patton had called it so in front of him) had spoken some ambiguous words of perspective-related wisdom and its girlfriend produced more little reassurances.

Logan had allowed himself to feel and he now he paid the price for having all these emotions welling up inside of him.

But deep inside, Logan knew that the moment he had tried to reach out for Virgil, he had not just destroyed his soulmark but also much more. And deeper inside, he knew that Virgil had stepped away from him after he had tried to deliver his order because soulmates or not..

Not every soulmate was a datemate.

Especially not if your name was Logan.

#secretsantasides #analogical #fanfic #soulmate au #virgil sanders #ts virgil #logan sanders #ts logan #sanders sides

21 notes · View notes

spacegaywritings · 5 years ago

Text

Love burns hotter than coffee

gift for @pessimisticvirtuoso a3o summary: angsty Soulmate AU with AnalogicalVirgil is a student working his butt off to finance himself and his girlfriend Logan through life. Life sends him Logan, the costumer -who does not believe in soulmates- to mess things up. Warning: this is ANGSTY as requested. There is some abandonment, internalised homophobia, self-hatred, manipulation (implied), emotional abuse (implied), financial struggle/poverty, panic, bad endings, injury/burning, intolerance, one-sided love, ambiguous soulmates, mentions of sex and nudity (nothing graphic), crying, ematophobia, insomnia, toxic relationships. Roommates.she/her and it/its pronouns are used for mentioned (side)characters. Everyone is either a cis male or an AMAB. Soulmate/coffee shop AU with Analogical

story under the cut

“That is 3.25, please”, the barista spoke as he rung the cash register and accepted the money that was pushed towards his hand. He took the bill and quickly grabbed the fitting change so the transaction would finally be over with.

Once he gave the money back, the coffee was already made by one of his co-workers and he received the cup. He handed it over to the costumer.

Polite words were exchanged and Virgil nodded with a service smile on his lips.

Empty, rosy, void of emotions.

He brushed his fingers through his purple hair and sighed. He turned away from the register and faced the inside of his work place.

The dim lighting was supposed to be inviting instead of sleep-inducing.

The sweet smell was supposed to sugar-coat the pressure of passing time and encourage customers to shove more empty calories down their throat.

Dark furniture and opaque, warm colours welcomed and embraced but Virgil just felt repelled. He didn’t deserve to be embraced—and he obviously wasn’t ready to be comforted or loved.

He prepared to rush out on a quick smoke break but at the ringing of a bell, he looked up from his shoes.

The door had opened.

The door swung shut, letting a weak blast of icy air that cut into the warm room.

It was so hot.

Virgil’s counter was too far back to let him smell the snow, the cold or the fresh oxygen but he could see some guests shiver for a moment, their noses powdered with the sweet frost of outside.

It might have been cold and it might have been cruel, but at least it wasn’t a trap for idiots.

He dragged himself back to the register, his heavy black and brown boots made his steps heavy, and he tried to hide his infinite disappointment with a forced smile.

A man with dark blonde and chaotic curls approached his sacred space.

Virgil has his lip ring pulled into his mouth where he could chew on it, and he to the inside of his lips until it was sucked in enough for his teeth to play with it.

He immediately let go, his teeth releasing the Titan and letting the opened ring snap back into place. Right now, talking had a priority over nervously biting his discomfort into unresponsive metal.

“Good day, Sir, may I take your order?” his usual greeting came out a little flat.

Virgil had bags under his eyes darker than the eyeliner he had used in an attempt to make his eyes pop and look a little less dead. After all, experience had shown that the tip jar usually ended up more filled whenever he had some makeup on.

It was a superficial, judgmental world.

The blond curly mess shoved his glasses back up to the bridge of his nose. The black eyewear framed his tired, dark-yet-soulful steel eyes like portraits as he returned Virgil’s exhausted stare.

The pale skin under his ocean eyes was darkened, and his lips were a faint rose colour. Virgil spotted a few faint freckles, barely darker than the skin of the new costumer’s face.

Typical nerd.

The guest spoke up, his voice somewhat deep.

Something about it reminded him of a curious dog experiencing new territories and strange smells, tail between his legs and ready to run at the first sign of trouble.

Weird.

But who was he to judge? He had piercings in his face and wore makeup–despite being a guy. He was lucky he got a job in the first place and nobody called him a fag or tried to beat him up or deprive him of his salary.

He was lucky. He even had a scholarship.

Maybe he was weird.

Yes, he had to be the weird one and he still dared to be a prick and judge others despite being the one who should change to be less embarrassing.

“Good day. Double iced coffee. Dark, please.”

The order was quick and straightforward. It felt classic and oddly fitting despite out of place quirkiness of the person before him.

The tall man let his right curl around a big plastic cup and he shoveled crushed ice into the big container before he pushed it under the machine.

He punched in the order so the clueless technology would do its part of the work. Saved him the trouble of doing a more active job.

He really did not like to work.

The black balls of his piercings scraped the insides of his upper teeth as he released the jewellery.

His sun-kissed skin seemed even darker in the dim light of the cafe. He turned back to Logan and quickly dialed some buttons before the cash register ringed again.

“Three, on the point”, Virgil declared and the guest got out his purse to pay the right amount.

It took him only some moments to get out a ten and hand it over to the barista.

For a moment, Virgil actually looked over at the guest, really making eye contact for more than a fleeting second. Metal and mahagony met.

The world was standing still and the lights around them seemed just bright enough to illuminate one another completely. They were exposed with flaws and abilities, with pain and joy and resistance.

Hearts. Beating and growing together. Their minds seemed to intertwine in a soulful hug, invisible to the eye yet very much tangible for their hearts.

Time was not running anymore. The colours and sounds around them faded in favour of showing their own true colours and reveal every sound they could and would make.

Logan felt his answer get stuck in his throat and he instinctively put his wallet away.

He was ready to abscond.

Virgil Prafure.

But was this a coincidence? Was this really a connection and did he really feel the other’s feelings and could he hear his heart beating like he could feel his own organ burst in tired energy.

Was he just an exhausted fool who had been forced into a marathon of Disney films alike?

Stay tuned because Mister Science will find out.

“Keep the change”, he spoke quickly.

Virgil nodded, mind absent and gears turning.

Was it really just the eyeliner? It felt like more, there was more between them. There was more in him.

A common mistake.

He was lucky with her by his side, literally and figuratively.

Virgil could not afford fucking voices and magic. He needed to work and earn his rent and get his shit done and make his love happy because she really wanted something nice for Valentine’s Day and he was the luckiest loser to have her around still despite being in debt and missing his due dates on a daily.

He had taken extra shifts because his shitty job did not give any Christmas pay like other workers enjoyed. He was basically working full-time yet he was treated like an intern.

When he had cried about that, he had lost his food all at once without her helping out (which was a shame ,considering the party had been a rare occasion of him receiving some snacks).

“Thanks”.

Suddenly, Logan’s voice was hoarse as if he had been screaming for hours. Maybe he had and he just forgot. All kinds of things happened. He wouldn’t be surprised. There were so many thing he had never heard of, so many incredible possibilities he did not know about-

But honestly, right now he just did not know. Anything.

And it scared him.

The barista nodded again and turned his attention back to the coffee after his tip jar was filled up with an additional bit of money.

He swiftly finished the order, his shaking somewhat alternating between being its worst and also completely gone at the same time.

And then, everything seemed to happen at the same time.

His co-worker was back from his what? Piss break? He returned and made himself some hot tea and poured it into a cup while Virgil retrieved the iced coffee and got a straw and lid ready.

He put the things together and was done building the order. His hands shoved the business away from him and at the same moment, Logan extended his hands.

Now, what did the Braniac think and why was this important?

Well, whether soulmates existed or not was easily answered. He had seen his parents and his friends fall in love and bond for years and decades, side by side.

Sometimes, most times, though, they were each other’s love of their life.

Some more research he had done had revealed that there were no records of his soulmate online.

On another note, he had just expected that maybe, just maybe, his soulmate had changed names because of adoption. Or maybe it was a dead name, perhaps they needed to change it for their own security.

In the times of social media, everyone had a profile on one of these many platforms.

While Logan had the feeling settled in his guts that Virgil was the person his mark referred to, there was just one solid way to prove his thesis.

He needed to see his arm. Arms, actually. It would be the safest to check out both sides just to make sure he did not miss anything.

With this train of thought, Logan did not particularly reach out for the cold cup before him but he as much as rammed his hand into the plastic container.

Cold, brown bean juice spilled over his and the barista’s hands. Crushed ice pieces flew all over the counter and in an attempt at saving himself, Virgil reflexively moved backwards without letting his eyes move from the scene before him.

His back bumped into his co-workers, but it was not just about bumping into him and nearly falling to the floor.

No.

No, of course not because Virgil’s life was a fucking nightmare. Everything was against him and he felt just how much life was against his wretched ass when near-boiling coffee soaked into his long, black sleeves and the wet fabric immediately stuck to his skin.

“Fuck!!”, he yelled out in surprise.

His face distorted into a mask of anguish and disgust as his glance wandered over the steam that rose from his soaked shirt.

“Virgil, take it off!”, his colleague screeched and pulled him over to the sick. The tap was turned on and cool water started running over his covered arm.

The punk sighed in relief but he felt it was not over.

Tears were pricking at his eyes and he could feel his heart thumping so violently it felt like the muscle was trying to escape his rib cage for good.

It reminded him of his landlord after he failed to pay rent on time for a first. He had been banging against the door so much, he had feared for the wooden plank to finally give in, tired of protecting the cowardice of his actions. If the door has had any soul, it was beaten to death until now. Other than that, he was convinced that not even a soulless piece of dead tree would stand up for him. In that seemingly infinite moment, the door had saved his life. It was still his lifeline, the protective barrier between him and the rest of the world with its society of strict, judgmental eyes.

Virgil’s eyes were glossy from the tears he held back. All his impulse control had left was the hope of relief from the hot burning pain. The cool water soaking into his shirt made his pain somewhat more bearable but at this point, it all felt dull and the pain was seated deeper than just on his arm. It was deeply buried within him. It seemed as if it wrapped around his bones. Maybe it was just an invisible idea of pain that tripped into the space of his arm.

Was it even his arm anymore?

He did not know, he did not know anything.

Huh, even his mental images of his mind seemed gruesome.

“Fuck”, he cursed again, his lips unstoppable.

Alarms were started like fires in his neurological connections. It felt as if even his brain was on actual fire.

“Fuck”, he choked again. It was the most expressive his mind could be when voicing his well-being. Not that there was too much well-being to really talk about. Actually, there was very much none of it. “Fuck, fuck fuck fuck. Why.”

His voice was a silent hiss competing the continuous sound of numbing water running down his arm.

He heard someone tell him to take off his clothing, and orders and such were shot around the room like loose bullets during an inexperienced heist that got out of control way too fast.

His mind was reeling.

Slowly, the panic of pain dissolved only to merge into a new hysteria.

His breathing felt so flat and so… so empty.. No air was really arriving, not any efficient one anyway. It was thin and used and did not give him enough respiration.

Nice.

This was just short of another tragedy to make this day an even better disaster, honestly.

Lucky enough for him, the gracious hero of all, the panicking man who had caused the whole scene, was by his side by now and cutting the sleeve open.

Maybe that part of his body would not get fucked up. It did not really hurt but maybe that was the adrenaline. Or the pure focus on his burned arm.

He did not know.

His mind was still too busy steaming to consider all of this shit.

Huh, steaming. Very funny.

The person next to him said something and carefully pulled the cut through sweat shirt sleeve away.

That was his only piece of clothing his manager had not shot down for this work place. He did not know whether he could afford another one and his paycheck was so far away.

“s-stop”, he breathed out and pulled his arm away.

How did he have the lung capacity to talk? He did not know but today was full of shitty miracles so maybe that was just adding up.

“I - I have work”.

The person was taken aback and suddenly his co-worker rushed back in. When did anyone leave?

“I called the manager! We will get someone to cover for you. The ambulance is on the way.”

The punk felt his breathing stop.

Stop. Pause. Put on break and twisted backwards.

Say what now?

The empty face of his co-worker shushed the guest away to no avail. Virgil felt himself being tugged over to the break room behind the doors that had this typical “employees only” sign. It was so cliche but it was also so necessary.

Stupid people, stupid rules.

But rules could be nice and protecting sometimes.

The punk kept blabbering about something to do with work.

He needed to go back.

Had he not heard the bell? Had he not seen a new costumer?

He had to make money, he had to get tips. He needed to get his order done. Oh, and he had crushed his co-workers coffee. He would hate him now. Virgil fucked up again.

He always did.

He had fucked up. Fucked up.

He had fucked up. He always fucked up, fucked up fucked up fuckedup.

“Breathe, Virgil”, a voice instructed him.

Who?

“I-I can’t. I have work, I have courses”, he whimpered in desperation.

His voice was so thin. So thin, like his wrists were thin.

If his voice had bones, they would be clearly visible whenever he used it. Audible? His mind did not make any sense anymore.

“I have a deadline”, he repeated, his mind blanking as the realisation hit him.

He was the real burden, not her being unemployed because of workplace discrimination.

Oh he fucked up. He fucked up.

His fault, his fault only. He always fucked up. He deserved to be left alone and abandoned. He deserved it. He had fucked up.

It was the same as before but in a more private setting, probably to have less pairs of eyes stare into the mess Virgil had caused.

It took him a while to acclimate and realize that the room looked much different than the location he had been in before.

Odd. So odd. He had not moved, he knew he had been moved but he did not feel as if he had changed anything at all. Not a location, not his body. Nothing, really.

“No”, he repeated and he squirmed further. The stranger trapped him between the sink and his own body.

In his mind, the only work he could hear was “work”. He had to get back to work and finish and then meet his professor and present his project because he was done. He was actually done enough to hand it in and get a decent grade without failing this course.

He had been ahead of his birth - the one and only time he had ever been early and even then he had crashed the expectations others had in him.

He had to.

There was no other way. If he did not get this done, he would not be able to graduate and get a decent job with good pay and a stable contract so he could provide for his family.

If he did not get this shit together, his only good relationship would break into pieces like the ice cubes that had been crushed for all these cool beverages he usually made from day to night.

“I need to work, get off”, he repeated again.

Up until now, his worries had been twirling him into a horrible dizziness and he surely did not felt anything but the irregular thumping of his heart.

It was probably knocking on heaven’s door. Begging for relief and such. But Virgil was too busy for that, he had no time for panic and his heart and whatever else bullshit.

“Virgil”, the person spoke and a sudden shudder overcame him.

It worked like magic because the words flew through his wind and seemed to sweep his hurricane of thought away with the simple blink of an eye or the draw of a breath.

It was simple. It was most natural.

And it was frankly the most confusing he had ever been in a sober state.

He looked up, eyes open as much as his mind was blank.

Now there he was.What had his favourite gotten him into?

He stared over at the extension of his torso.

It felt so strange to him, like a prosthesis clicked into his system but never having been a part of him before. It was not a replacement, it was just something so new that did not belong to him.

“I am okay”, he tried again.

The barista did not even hear how droopy and choked his voice seemed to the outer world. Then again, everything seemed foggy and generally unusual to him.

He did not really care, to be honest. He was just confused.

This voice.. this blue.. they were all he could see.

He did not perceive these things with his senses but with his soul.

“You are not, please stay where you are”, the guest instructed.

He barely saw the orbs move away and the owner of these soulful body mirrors seemed to move again. The silhouette was cut out from the rest of Virgil’s background. It felt like these funny camera modifications of blurring out all that was not in focus.

Huh-

Funny.

She was a beloved daughter but an only child, other than Virgil.

Despite their differences and how much she teased him about his bad habits like eating a whole plate or sleeping in when he could, the two loved each other and had been together for a while.

She was the light of his life. Whenever he saw her muddy brown eyes, he saw the sun-lit skin of trees and the calm life of slugs.

His thought continued flying in a tornado of nonsense.

Without her, he would have studied something funny like nothing at all or maybe had gotten into the cinema branch.

Who knew? He was a pretty salty bitch and loved giving harsh reviews with criticism he did not know how to fix but was quick to point out.

He had an eye for weakness, after all, he had been his worst nightmare of being a miserable weak spot all his life. At least this could have given him the opportunity to wake the best of his flaws.

But she knew better and honestly, being an artist made him happy too. It just also gave him a lot of anxiety and pressure.

Sometimes he wanted to drop out but what else was he supposed to do? He had gotten into a scholarship, yet again, with Logan’s help, because his little loganberry was always by his side.

Man, his thoughts were so weird. They seemed to just flow into him like the water flowing over his burned arms.

He could hear the ticking of a clock in the background. When he looked at the side, he could spot a timer running. The stranger’s phone, possibly.

“Cant..”, he whispered but the other did not seem to care and carefully pressed him back into his position.

“Virgil, please do me the favour. This whole endeavour is my fault in the first place. I want to make sure I can give you adequate care until the ambulance takes over”, he explained calmly.

His voice was so nice…

“Who.. wh-”, he mumbled softly and curled into himself but once more, his action was discarded as mere attempt when the guest softly tugged him into a more comfortable position, “what is even your name..?”

“Logan”, the other spoke and Virgil’s mind started twitching and churning in sickness.

That.. That couldn’t be.

I believe I’m your soulmate, Virgil. I do have your name on my arm “, Logan explained to him.

Virgil only dignified the action with another groan but there wasn’t any more he felt like saying. Not that he had chosen to make any sounds in the first place but sometimes things just happened.

His body has betrayed him already with all this weakness that made him unable to keep working even though he had to.

He needed to, indeed!

The nerd went on, his voice twitching and wiggling line the wagging tail of a puppy facing a treat.

"I felt it when - when our eyes met and the world. Virgil, the world seemed like it was standing still! Can you believe it?"

But she was always right because she knew better. She always knew when people were about to back-stab him or when they were lying and mean. She knew what he could and couldn’t afford and what the good investments in life were.

She was his fate and she would only ever hurt him in the short-term to protect him in the long run.

This. This was different and it was only about seeing whether he was really loyal to her but he was and he would do his best to show it.

Logan, on the other hand…well, he seemed to feel strongly about this, like Virgil. But his feelings turned into a more romanticised version of events.

"And and”, he continued and smiled, his lips twitching upwards, “I have never believed in soulmates. Not really, not for me. Virgil, I thought my mark had been a mistake and that this was just some weird magical superstition but I felt it. I felt us! I could feel you as if you have always been a part of me!"

But his fate said that it was all wrong. His fate said he had one of these people as soulmate. The string connected to his would seemed to ask for both or nine of them.

Why was there no last name to this mark? Why did he have an ambiguous mark like that?

Whatever.

He was sick and the voice making him dizzy and pushing the truth into him only made him want to puke and cry.

Virgil didn’t deserve it.

"You’re not."

He wasn’t gay.

He wouldn’t date this guy. He knew that this was bullshit and some sort of crazy thing. Fate was fucking with him. His hallucinations were fucking with him but it certainly wasn’t his soul being attached to a guy like that.

” I’m dating someone. I’ve got Logan. We’re together, we’re dating - we.. We", he started but his voice rushed further and further. Virgil nearly forgot about oxygen when his pace picked up even more.

“You and I aren’t soulmates. This is bullshit."

He moved his arm away, out of reach from Logan’s careful touches. The curious fingertips were abandoned and he curled his arm around himself as if in a half hug.

The punk was protecting his gut or maybe he just tried to absorb the pain of his arm into his body if he just pressed the limb enough into him.

His burns missed the cooling sensation of the water and he commented on his pain with a vague hiss. Virgil willingly retreated his arms to let the water immerse his injuries once more.

Better.

The corner of his lips moved to one side, letting his jewellery shift along. His bottom lip popped out a bit as if to pout but all he could muster up were scornful, bitter words.

"I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about. You must be confused or whatever. I don’t really care. You fucking ruined my mark, the mark of me and my girlfriend’s love and you think I’m gonna laugh and suck it up and jump into your fucking arms or what?

You think life is like that? It’s bullshit. This is all fucked up, cracked up, dirty shit and I’ve got no idea what the fucking shit you ran into but I’m not your soulmate, I never will be and you have to leave right now, you-you life destroyer. ”

The student nodded.

His head said acceptance but his face looked like he had lost the battle of battles, the one that should have decided the war.

And now he was standing there, having lost his youth and life and all his vitality for the sake of a fight he had ended before it had started.

He was disarmed and caught, but then spit out again because he wasn’t even good enough to be kept as a trophy or to make an example out of his humiliation of believing in hope and soulmarks.

Magic had failed him. He.. He shouldn’t have.

The unfamiliar warmth, that had crept into him when Virgil’s and his eyes had met, faded from his heart and disappeared into thin air like the faint smell of pleasant vanilla.

Light, easy. Great yet so easily under-appreciated or dismissed.

And he had lost it.

“And for your information, I’ll probably fail my deadline with that fucking ambulance you called up. Great job. If you’re so desperate for love, you better try out some fucking online dating. I’m not your guy"

Logan nodded. Again. It was all he could do. After all he had done, after all he had caused it was almost a good joke to see that he was so powerless right now.

He started walking away until he heard another groan.

His heart was aching and life seemed to lose colours before him.

Hope was stinging in his eyes and laughing at his face with mean hands that teared at his skin, his heart.

"If my arms wasn’t fucking burned because of you, I’d fucking give you a nice mark of mine”, Virgil hissed to himself and sat up.

As Logan excused himself from the room. Phone in hand, timer ticking as twenty minutes of cooling time had run out, the ambulance rushed in.

At least some people could be of constructive use by now.

***

It had taken hours and Virgil was back at home, at last. Hospital bill and a doctor’s slip in his hands, he knew he had to try and at least message his professor again and tell him about his accident.

Maybe that could be enough for making this clear and getting his art back into the play so he could ace this depressing course.

It was pressure to no end and he didn’t know whether he enjoyed the dulling pain of rushing and brushing and colouring again and again and more and like this and that. This was mass-produced art at most but it wasn’t his heart-felt pain of life, it wasn’t the joy of his giggling heart or the hope in his curious mind.

The project was another painting, another photograph. It said “replicate this” and “interpret that” or “to be inspired by”.

Bullshit too. But he did what he had to do do.

Maybe it was fine.

He quickly unlocked the door.

Or tried to, at least. The door wasn’t locked. It wasn’t even closed. The old plank was just there, vaguely resting against the door frame and leaving enough space for his right hand to slip in and pry the door away from its little slumber curled up against its frame.

His home was dark.

No Logan, no nothing. Not even lights.

Weird, usually she would be at home and do her nails or talk to a friend. It sounded cliché but she was busy so she did many things as once.

Well, maybe she was late. He was late too. She had been taking extra shifts and worked after hours and such because the company had made a lot of pressure.

He really should make her some food so she could relax when going home.

However, he was sure he had paid this. Or Logan did. But he had been there and they had paid December and November together.

Virgil’s arm was still hurting and his heart was stinging like something was ripped out of him but he really wanted to make her happy.

She deserved that.

There was plenty anyway.

The familiar ‘click’ sound echoed through the emptiness of his blank mind as the switch was flipped yet the darkness remained. The absence of light imposed itself onto his vision and it merely took a few more moments to get his phone out and turn on the torch so he could see something.

But he was sure they had paid it. He had been so sure of it.

His.. that was stupid, he was not heartbroken. He was not affected by some silly stranger showing up and getting their soulmarks mixed up.

He knew it. He felt it. It was a truth he believed in.

Whatever.

Virgil quickly dropped his bag on the kitchen table and rushed to get some candles.

Just in case this winter would have to be spent without heating as well, these candles would sort of work like a little campfire or a fireplace. … rather a fireplace. They lived in a rental flat anyway and the fire alarm would instantly go off when there was an actual fire in their room.

Actually, this was kind of romantic. Maybe Logan would like that. After all, she kept saying that together, they made the best out of the worst and it somehow worked out every time.

He loved it.

His mouth twitched into a little smile and the light ultimately reached up to his face. His mind curled up to rest in the warmth and soothingly calm light of the candles surrounding him.

Virgil tended to the stove.

Huh, that seemed to work. Well, it was a gas-driven apparatus anyway.

He quickly got a pot and some food ready.

What could he cook, what should he make… They did not have so much food. Well, dang. He needed to go get some food tomorrow morning before class. He could just get up at five and it would be fine. Logan needed to rest after a hard day at work, especially if she has had to work into late at night like right now.

It did not have any frost bites so it was fine. Only the best for his dear sweetcheeks.

As he chopped up the food, he felt his mind wander. Maybe creep and slither was the more appropriate term at the moment but that felt of little significance at the moment.

Did he not pay rent for the two and Logan handled the bills?

Sure, they both had their names on it but her bank account was connected to do the payments so he would not have to worry about that.

In his confusion he had dearly forgotten about all this. How could he had forgotten that he did not pay the utility bills?

…Logan usually paid on time. What had happened? Was she okay? Maybe someone had hacked her account and emptied out her money and now they were both in debt and had trouble handling the big apartment together.

Oh fuck, what if-

No. No.

Nobody deserved to be snapped at. He had even snapped at the guy Logan and while he had been a fucking dick, he had not deserved to be snapped at.

Virgil… He had just been so angry at people invalidating his relationship and feelings all the time and he was so so done over this prejudice of dating a markless.

Countless people had markless people as soulmates! The marks were often just delayed or worked with one-side only, as well!

He felt the darkness creep into his heart again.

None of this.

None.

He felt his throat feel like someone started choking him and he took a deep yet shallow breath.

His hand quickly got to the phone and he typed a little message to his dear.

This message could not be delivered.

Huh?

Curious. Why would that happen?

He carefully arranged the soup basis and made sure to set the stove to as low as he could possibly get so nothing would burn or overcook.

The punk picked up his phone again - his little torch - and went to get his things he had abandoned on the kitchen table.

Maybe he should call her?

Well, first things first were mailing his doctor so he quickly unpacked his slip and send it to his professor with a quickly apology and explanation.

The usual.

But there was nothing still and that was more than confusing to him.

He bit the insides of his mouth, his teeth trapping the flesh between them before he bit threw and swallowed the tiny bits of rosy meat he cursed his own.

Something was wrong. Something was wrong, something was wrong. It was wrongwrongwrong!!

His restless fingers pushed the phone around in his grip and pushed against the touchscreen, his empty taps selecting Logan’s contact again and again but the screen did not accept his attempts. A part of him felt calmed down by the barrier between him and her but he loved her and he was worried and he wanted to know whether she was okay or whether something had happened to her.

Eventually, it worked and he carefully withdrew his hand to his head and trapped the device with the cracked screen between his fingers and his ear.

The familiar sounds of ringing were missing out and instead, his natural funnels had to be pestered with the usual “The person you are trying to call is unavailable at this moment”.

His heart cracked and he could nearly hear the tears falling from is eyes and crashing down onto his heated cheeks.

Virgil lowered the phone and caught sight of a piece of paper his torch had shone onto.

There was a single note and the curved letters in big black ink of ballpoint pens just screamed Logan to him.

He picked it up, his hands still shaking as if he had spent an entire night outside with the temperatures in the negative.

Right now, his own shaking just made him sick or maybe it was the sight of letters that looked so wobbly and blurry through his thick,wet tears.

“Found my soulmate. Got my mark. It is not you. Do not contact me, loser.”

Well, there was also a closet.

He was safe because he was used to it.

And there was nobody to change a thing about it.

..It was not fair…

His phone popped with a notification and he saw another message having arrived.

No, even the last bit of hope was dying down on him.

“I am sorry but you missed the last extension of your deadline. You’ll have a failing grade for the semester with a missing project.”

He sobbed and his heart was but a mess of shatters around him. His fingers were too shaky and slippery with the tremors of his pain and the damp liquid of his tears.

He had to .. to move out… to.. to turn off the stove

“Why..”

He curled up under the safety of the table. It protected him. It was all he had right now.

His hands gripped the light material of his worn out, patched up jacket.

Why did fate mess with him so much?

He lost it all. Even his mind.

***

He heard Patton’s little protests, her voice soft and nearly comforting but they soon turned into loud, drawn out moans. Logan could see the two move together, naked skin of dark and light tones wrapping around one another and merging into one.

EW.

Ew. ew, ew ew ew ew ew.

Sometimes, he forgot how averse he was to all of this..this stuff.. His skin was crawling and shivers of disgust were running up and down his body.

He was not sure but Logan felt that the love-struck couple would take some more moments together to be extra affectionate in the commons.

No, no. He could not go back to think about all of this. It would just make him sick.

Ugh.

He felt his energy drain.

Everything was gross and he just wanted this to be over.

What exactly? He did not know.

Right now, the idea of taking a small break of life and feelings sounded like the most genius invention he had ever heard of.

And he kept track of the science magazine all the time!

The student decided to take control of what he could change. It would be, as always, rather literal so he made sure to undress his body completely and vest himself in more clean and silky clothing.

A shower would be due as soon as the room was cleared. He just hoped for Patton giving him a heads up about it because she was this kind of caring person.

It was a pure wonder she had not yet knocked at his door but he appreciated the time for him to arrive and adjust to.. this day.

His fingers started writing already, starting with the previous night and the film marathon but his mind kept screaming at him.

Before he knew it, his precious notebook was stained in darkening drops of water. His face was cold and apathetic as always as the tears ran down his impartial face.

The tears kept falling and falling and his breathing was so calm and so scarily whole.

This was not normal. He was not normal.

He did not deserve a soulmate. He was probably rejected because he did not know how to handle humans, because he was awkward and sucked at social interaction.

Those were independent. The tears knew what they were doing and they did not need Logan but these sobs, they were scary.

Logan curled up again and hugged his legs against his chest.

Today had been too much.

He felt shivers wreck through his body and his hold onto his knees became tighter, bruising, nearly.

Logan just wanted to feel.

He did not hear the careful knocks of Patton’s caring hands before some called out for him.

“Logan, I am coming in now”, she called and Ada(m) was right on her heels to follow in. The two engulfed him with their fresh smells of a refreshing, cleansing shower.

The sex and body sweat was gone.

Patton was so nice…Patton was so considerate.

“Logiebear, my dear, what is wrong”, she asked and Ada(m) carefully patted his knee while Patton pulled his head gently into her lap and carefully brushed through his hair.

The touch felt so caring, it just made him cry harder. His hand curled around the soulmark on his arm and he opened his mouth just to sob out in frustration again.

“I lost him”, he breathed eventually. His chords pushed the words out of his body and he hastily took more erratic breaths to calm his trembling lungs.

“V-Vi-…Virgil”, he stuttered as explanation and Patton’s worry-knitted wrinkles eased into the blank realisation.

Oh no.

More sobs could be heard but Logan was clearly unable to do any more talking than he had already forced himself into.

Adam (at least Patton had called it so in front of him) had spoken some ambiguous words of perspective-related wisdom and its girlfriend produced more little reassurances.

Logan had allowed himself to feel and he now he paid the price for having all these emotions welling up inside of him.

Not every soulmate was a datemate.

Especially not if your name was Logan.

16 notes · View notes

tonystarktogo · 6 years ago

Text

An Unwise Murder (An Inconvenient Survival)

Summary: “Someone within SHIELD sold out an Avenger. That was their first mistake.” When Avenger Steve Rogers is declared killed in action, everyone expects his best friend and fellow agent Bucky Barnes to go on a rampage. It’s the quirky mechanic with a sharp tongue and a secret talent for less-than-legal hacking that throws the whole agency for a loop. Featuring: A dead Steve (but when is Steve ever dead), a very pissed off, fucked-up secret agent Bucky (so basically your usual Bucky), and a very civilian Tony (who is exactly as harmless as you’d expect Tony Stark to be).

Read on AO3

Here is, as promised, the first part of the Double-0-Bucky/Hacker-Tony fic! To most of you, this part will probably be familiar already, but we have to start at the beginning *shrugs* and don’t worry, the next part will follow soon. Enjoy!

Part I

Funerals aren’t meant to be a pleasant event, so Bucky doesn’t bother to put on a show.

His face could be carved in stone for all the emotion it conveys, and his muscles are tense, coiled, trembling faintly with the desire to grab his gun and pull the damn trigger.

Bucky isn’t sure if he’d stop shooting once he starts though. Not with how many tempting targets currently surround him. Not with how it would finally shut Pierce the fuck up. People tend to talk a lot less after you’ve emptied a magazine or two into them — and Bucky has always been a man who appreciates silence.

Fuck, Bucky doesn’t even know what he’s here for. He doesn’t attend mandatory events. It simply isn’t done. The few weeks of the year that Bucky spends in his own country, he wastes drinking and sleeping around, often both at the same time. What’s to stop him from walking straight out of this impersonally sterile room filled with people he doesn’t trust, and go back to his favourite rundown bar to knock back vodka until he can’t feel the cold on his skin anymore?

Oh right. His best friend just got himself killed in action. The lucky bastard.

On a fucking nightmare of a mission in France of all places. If it had been Russia or Iran or North Korea or even just Sokovia (and really, it takes skill to be wanted by all four sides of the conflict), Bucky could have dealt with it.

But France? Bucky takes that as a personal offence.

Avengers don’t get killed in France. Avengers get killed the way they kill: brutal and messy, with no one left behind who’d bother to avenge them. Because justice is a fairy tale, and every act of peace is built on the actions of someone smart enough to wash the blood off their hands before they step in front of a camera.

At least the acknowledgements are short and free of false sentimentality. A whole lot of bullshit, sure, but it’s not like there is another choice. Not when the truth amounts to Steve Rogers died on a mission we weren’t authorised to give, in a country he wasn’t supposed to be in, over intel that we won’t admit exist.

Bucky doesn’t laugh. Barely huffs a a breath, but the people on both sides of him twitch tellingly.

Like all Avengers, Bucky has sought out the back of the room, where he can keep his back to the wall at all times, has a clear view on all available exists and a good excuse to keep an eye on the crowd of mourners.

The thought that one of them — multiple ones, possibly — are faking their sorrow makes Bucky clench his fingers against the urge to start an interrogation right now, Avenger style.

“Don’t kill anyone you might need to sign you off on field work again,” Barton mutters to his left, the words barely audible.

Bucky forces the tense muscles in his shoulders to relax, adopts an at-ease position that won’t fool the other Avengers, but at least won’t traumatise the attending techies and lawyers. The psych department always makes such a fuss when you break their precious, civilian employees.

There’s no point in fooling his colleagues though — if the Avengers can even be called that. It’s not like he meets them for brunch or goes out drinking with them in his downtime. They’re the elite of a internationally operating spy organisation for a reason, and it’s certainly not their ability to play well with others.

Just hours after having one of their own killed in a SHIELD-issued safehouse, all the Avengers are on edge. More so than usual. That the entire op smells like foul play all the way across the Atlantic does about as much to deescalate the situation as throwing a hand grenade into a room filled with weaponized uranium.

Someone inside SHIELD sold out an Avenger.

That was their first mistake. Their second was taking Steve out without killing Bucky as well.

There’s a shift in Bucky’s peripheral vision. Natasha Romanoff, codenamed Black Widow, looks as affected of recent events as she always does: not at all.

Is she the traitor? Bucky wonders as he tilts his head ever so slightly in acknowledgement. The rivalry between Black Widow and Steve is no secret. It isn’t a friendly one either, not that any of the Avengers are the sort of person one might associate the word “friendly” with. She betrayed the Red Room at eighteen. What offer would it take for her to turn on a fellow agent? An Avenger at that? Is she tense because she expects me to do this country a favour by killing Pierce or is she afraid to be found out?

The service lasts barely twenty minutes — unsurprising, considering how much isn’t said, can’t be said, because living within the specter of the highest security clearance makes for a shoddy eulogy — but to Bucky it feels like forever.

It doesn’t help that half the people around him are waiting for him to fly off the handle in either grief or blind rage. Blind rage admittedly being the more likely outcome.

It doesn’t help that the other half undoubtedly suspects him to be the traitor — who better to kill Steve Rogers than his best friend, after all? Especially when Avengers so clearly don’t have best friends — though Bucky can’t fault them for the sensible assumption.

He’d suspect himself too. The black hole that is four years of being held as a POW on his résumé hasn’t left him with what one might call a solid standing within the agency. Or a stable life in general.

Bucky has simply been lucky that Avengers don’t have much use for stability as it is. (Also, Steve was planning a revolt, should they stop attempting to recover Bucky. Not that anyone likes to acknowledge that. Pierce’s secretary still pales every time she catches sight of one of them.)

He’s been lucky that he’s too useful to be killed.

That might change now — Steve Rogers’ death changes a lot of things — but if it comes to that, Bucky will make damn sure to take the traitor with him. Another outcome isn’t acceptable.

And Bucky is very, very good at getting what he wants.

But first, he needs to find someone clean — meaning unaffiliated with SHIELD in any way — who can take a look at the USB flash drive he’s found in one of his dead drops two days after Pierce declared Steve KIA.

Fuck, but the first thing Bucky is gonna do when he sees Steve again is punch him in the fucking face.

Tony has always had an interesting way of making friends.

For example, Tony meets his best friend Pepper during a hostage situation when he’s sixteen. He’s never before seen a girl throw high heels at a guy’s head with such a deadly accuracy. Suffice to say Tony likes her immediately — and promises to buy her all the shoes she needs to knock stupid people down, naturally.

They keep in touch afterwards, and it’s the start of something great.

He meets his brother in all but blood much the same way, only Tony barely remembers that one because those kidnappers were smart enough to drug him before trying anything funny. Luckily, Tony has Rhodey for the straight thinking part — or at least he does after that episode.

On another, memorable occasion, Tony befriended one of his kidnappers.

In his defence: they were some pretty alright people, for being criminals holding him for ransom. No unnecessary threats or bodily harm, and they actually gave him drug-free food too. Also, you have no idea how mind-numbingly boring being kidnapped is. Well, not the getting kidnapped part but the staying-kidnapped-whilst-your-kidnappers-fail-to-get-their-money part.

Sadly, some people still believe that Stark Industries will pay for the disowned heir Tony Stark’s safe return. And usually they don’t react too well to being proven wrong. That time being one of those rare exceptions. In no small part thanks to a certain member of the crew whose identity Tony will protect until the day he dies. Or something.

Never mind.

The point is, Tony is used to meeting cool people under very hazardous, extraordinary circumstances.

Which is why — as he will later explain to a very exasperated Rhodey and an even more distrustful Pepper — when Tony locks up his garage at 7.40 pm after a long day of changing oils and busted tires, only to suddenly find himself face to face with a hooded stranger — after he’s already locked the doors, though he won’t share that part with his friends — he doesn’t panic.

He greets the guy — there’s a twenty percent chance Tony knows him, okay, hiding their faces as they track him down isn’t exactly a rarity — like a civilised person instead.

“Hi there,” Tony says with his best customer smile. “How may I help you?”

The guy — who definitely has more upper body strength than Tony, not that he notices or anything — doesn’t so much as twitch. He just stands there, body turned towards Tony, face shadowed by his hood. Tony really should have switched out the broken light bulb ages ago, maybe then he wouldn’t have to squint at his visitor like a sceptical squirrel, trying to make out the guy’s features.

“Anthony Stark?” the guy asks after a moment, voice low and rumbling, like gathering clouds on the far end of the horizon, as a violent storm approaches.

It’s that specific, unfairly nice sound that decides it: Tony definitely doesn’t know this guy. There’s no way he would have forgotten a voice like that.

Tony lets his smile brighten a little because if he’s about to be kidnapped — is it that time of the month already? Tony wouldn’t know, his last calendar sorta had a small accident involving a fire and DUM-E using up all the fire extinguisher on Tony rather than the actual fire. It was a pretty sweet, protective gesture, actually. Tony may or may not have teared up, just a little, but that didn’t change that half his equipment had to be replaced — then he’d like to start their working relationship on a good note. The kidnapping attempts tend to have less violent endings that way.

Additionally, Tony really doesn’t want to start a fight in his garage. This is his work place — which is basically holy, ask anyone. His cars are in here. They are not acceptable collateral damage, no matter what Pepper says.

“Do you know a Steve Rogers?” is mystery guy’s next question.

Which is a damn shame because it takes all of Tony’s not inconsiderable self-control to not tense at that particular inquiry. Steve Rogers.

God fucking damn it.

Tony forces the memories, the reflexive questions — a bloodied, broken body, screams of pain, narrowed, blue eyes glaring at him even as strong hands push him out of the line of fire — down immediately, takes care to keep his expression calm and clueless instead. He’s got lots of practice doing that. It’s just like being confronted with an obnoxious reporter who won’t stop bothering him with stupid questions about why he denies his father’s legacy. Bloodthirsty reporters, bloodthirsty assassins, it’s really just more of the same.

Tony has been handling shit like this since he was nine. If mystery guy expects him to trip up and give up even a single piece of information the easy way, he’s got another thing coming. Tony Stark doesn’t do easy.

Especially not when it concerns people he almost considers tolerable. Those gems are hard enough to find as it is — well, among the boring, totally legal working crowd at least — Tony will protect them with all he has. Not that he wouldn’t do the same for people he doesn’t like, he just wouldn’t be as happy about it.

Mystery guy is in for a surprise.

“Rogers?” Tony furrows his eyebrows in confusion. “That doesn’t ring a bell.” Close enough to the truth to count.

Then, the grin slides completely off Tony’s face and his eyes narrow in open suspicion. “Not that it matters. I don’t make a habit of handing out contact information to strangers who can’t be bothered to introduce themselves. Client privileges, I’m sure you understand.”

And yeah, some sarcasm may slip into those words, but can you blame Tony? He’s been working for almost ten hours in that special place reserved in hell for customer service, and, frankly, Tony is done with the world for the day. That he’s most likely dealing with what’s either a very diligent mercenary or a very strange kidnapper does little to lighten his mood.

Both options are far less appealing than mystery guy’s sexy voice initially indicated. Tony feels a little cheated.

“Oh, I understand,” mystery guy murmurs ominously.

When Tony squints, he can literally see the shadows behind the guy blacken. On an unrelated note, he really needs to stop binge-watching those horror flicks. Clearly it’s messing with his mind.

Not that this keeps Tony from bristling at Mystery Guy’s threatening tone — if anything, it has Tony reflexively square his shoulders because he does not fold.

Mystery guy snorts, and Tony has the fleeting impression that the stranger has the gall to be amused by him. He kind of wants to deck the guy just for that.

“I can see why he liked you.”

Something in those words freezes Tony into place long before his brain has puzzled through their meaning. By the time his mind catches up to the past tense that refers to a person it should absolutely not refer to, mystery guy has already taken a few steps towards the only functioning light bulb in Tony’s garage and slips his hoodie back.

The bleak light reveals a pale, handsome face with a strong jaw and icy, blue eyes. Absently, Tony approves of the way the hoodie has messed up Mystery Guy’s wild hair into something untameable and unfairly attractive, but it’s kind of hard to melt into a puddle of appreciative goo when you’ve just learned of the death of a friend.

Or well, acquaintance maybe. Rhodey always reminds Tony that he can’t just go around, adopting friends left and right just because he wants to. And with Steve it’s hard to say. The guy is almost impossible to read.

Still, it’s Steve they’re talking about. And whatever mess he’s gotten himself involved in, Tony doesn’t doubt for a moment that Steve thought he was doing it for the right reasons. He’s annoyingly self-righteous like that. It sucks even more when you listen to him rant and realize he’s got a point, not that Tony will ever admit such a thing to his face.

Which will be hard to do if Steve is actually—

Tony presses his lips together and defiantly stares up at Mystery Guy. Who is, in fact, taller than him. There really is no justice in the world.

“Who the fuck are you and what the fuck do you want?” is what Tony settles on to summarize the maelstrom of confusing emotions wrecking chaos inside him.

The man takes a threatening step closer. Of course, it’s not that hard to come across as threatening when you’re half a head taller and made of muscles and steel. Still. The guy could at least try to keep his looming on the downlow.

Not that Tony does him the courtesy of giving up an inch. This is his garage, damn it. No one makes Tony feel afraid in his own home.

Mystery Guy growls and there is a lethal coldness in his eyes that Tony doesn’t think a human should be able to portray.

“I was Steve’s best friend. And you’re going to find the people who killed him so that I can return the favor.”

Thoughts?

#ReRe writes #An Unwise Murder Verse #Tony Stark #Bucky Barnes #WinterIron #Double-0-agent Bucky #Hacker Tony #Mechanic Tony #Tony has a peculiar way of making friends #Bucky's social skills leave something to be desired #to be fair he's had a rough day #betrayal #AU #fic

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nyllae-shiverflame · 6 years ago

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Learning to Track [ Pt.3 Final ]

A collaboration piece between myself and @amorthonblackwood . You can find the other parts of the story here(pt.1) and here(pt.2).

“As for the bit about ‘relying’ on others...I think it’s nice to have people you can rely on, people who know how things have gone, and the like - so you don’t have to do it all on your own. At the very least, I think having the choice must be nice.” He glanced down at the bandage and then back to her. “...And thank you, Lady Shiverflame. I - as I mentioned before - certainly didn’t think this morning was going to end up this way, but I do appreciate you bandaging me up. I promise I won’t take advantage of your hospitality.”

“It might not mean much but to trust knowing you can count on me should to feel you need to. That is a choice of yours.”

She smiled lightly and her hand lifted to motion towards his core and indicate his wound, “Well at least you’ll have another scar for the books and it will be a day to remember. That day when Cibor didn’t listen and the silly Mage-woman got ordered around by a little cub. All in all, we all came out fine -- for the most part. If there is anything else there can be done, you are more than welcome to it. You are also welcome to rest if you wish, I do know your time is important especially with your work tasks at hand.” she smiled still and gazed down to Cibor and Savage with her hands cupped into one another, “Of course all company is welcome.”

“‘Silly mage-woman’, huh? I can assure you that’s not how I think of you in my head.” He reached over for his shirt, tattered and blood-stained as it was, and pulled it back over his head. “My time isn’t -that- important. As I believe I mentioned earlier, I travel light, so there isn’t much preparation to be done. Generally have to be ready to leave at a moment’s notice.” He reached over for the chest piece he’d discarded earlier.

“I also owe you an archery lesson at some point, I leave that to your discretion.” He offered a small smile, before narrowing his gaze at Cibor, who appeared set to pounce on Savage. “None of that here. I don’t need either of you breaking anything.” The cub wandered over and sat down by the ranger’s feet with a huff. “...and when would you like to start your...um, ‘cat-sitting’ duties?”

Nyllae’s brow craned, piquing at his previous comment though she did not follow in suit with a question, most thought of her as grumpy or intimidating but she wasn’t sure she wanted to know what might have been in the place of silliness. A regal stance found her posture and both hands clasped to her front, “Perhaps when you return? I suspect you will be well mended by then and have completed your tasks.” Nyllae’s eyes ticked to Cibor for a moment and she watched the little cub, “If you are not opposed to leaving him at your departure I welcome the idea. He...might serve as some company for me and might be less of an issue for you regarding your other obligations such as the poachers and recovery.” “I uh…” she looked around, “Have already prepared various rooms for him. Some beds and food bowls and I had our cook see to a protein based diet for him assuming that it is what you prefer for he and Savage?”

He caught the eyebrow quirk and the change in her stance, which let to him tilting his head, but he didn’t push - choosing to follow her gaze down to Cibor. “That would probably be best, honestly. It shouldn’t take him long to adjust. I just wouldn’t be surprised if you wake up to a cold nose once or twice.” He sat back down, reaching down to scratch behind the cub’s ear.

“He doesn’t take up much space, and generally just likes being around someone he knows. Usually myself or Savage, but in this case it would be you.” He moved his hand to scratch under Cibor’s chin. “He’s good at staying out of the way though...I hope he won’t give you any trouble.”

A smile came and Nyllae shook her head, “Not at all, if anything I’ve been enjoying my time around him, Savage as well. It has been able to teach me many things though most of those lessons have also come from you. I’m not about to hang up my Arcane and Stave any times soon for a bow but to understand something is to carry a new and profound respect for it. I believe Cibor might be a little gentleman. If anything he did keep us from getting our legs clipped off by traps in the woods so I suppose I do owe him….a teenie bit.” she joked lightly and looked from the Tiger to Amorthon, “How long do you figure your work is bound to last?”

“Since I haven’t actually seen you shoot yet, I do believe it’s best that you stick with the arcane and staves.” He glances up at her, “Not that I’m doubting your abilities to utilize or learn to utilize a bow.” He tilted his head from side to side in an attempt to stretch his neck. “As far as how long I’ll be gone...I’m not sure. It’s been months before, but I don’t imagine more than a couple of weeks. I’ve heard there are plenty of portals available.”

He rolled his eyes as Cibor turned to pounce on his foot. “I promise I won’t leave you to deal with the little furry terror for too long.” He tilted his head with a grin. “Or deprive you of my company.” He paused...taking a moment to process what he’d just said before clearing his throat and turning his attention back to Cibor.

“Who is depriving who exactly? I was going to suggest an offering of letters to keep in touch but I suppose with portals…” and tilted her head and her hand lifted to move about in circles as she spoke, “and depravity and all -- Cibor’s company should be enough but I can also take a hint should be feeling yourself a little suffocated by my presence.”

He gave a tentative look up. “You wound me, lady Shiverflame. You wouldn’t be suggesting that I be easily replaced by a tiger cub, would you?” He’d gone and opened his mouth, might as well follow through. “And I can’t imagine being ‘suffocated’ by your presence. I think you might kick me out well before that ever has the opportunity to occur.”

Nyllae blinked several times then looked between Amorthon and the cub, “That is debatable considering much remains to be seen but at this rate, the animal doesn’t talk back either.” she licked her lips trying to hide the budding smirk but she seemed quite terrible and out of practice. It seemed a certain cheeky Monk was rubbing off on her, “So you’re saying that you enjoy my presence and aren’t too tired or overtly disgusted by my nagging-type nature and quirky humor? Either that or you are quite patient.” She took a few careful steps forward and challenged his height the best she could, looking up to him with her hands still folded to her front. If anything she carried an air of 6’6” without being the wiser that she actually stood a good 5’7”, “Do you still feel wounded?”

“Debatable that you’d kick me out, or debatable that I’d be...suffocated by you?” He tilted his head noting the smirk, but focusing on her gaze. Eyes were safe...right? “One, he absolutely talking back, just in a different way. And two,what if I were to say that I do enjoy your presence and your quirky humor?”

He straightened up, still a good six inches taller than the mage. “And...what happens if I say no? That I’m not feeling wounded?”

“Neither I was talking more in the sense of his company over yours. He has cute and cuddly working for him even if he does talk back in some sense.” her brow rose yet again which seemed to be a small habit of hers which either indicated a piqued interest or that she was thinking and mulling over the venom for words she often had at the ready, “Well I suppose if you enjoyed my presence and quirky humor then maybe suffocation isn’t all that bad. I’ll take your word for it then. In addition to that well, I’m glad you don’t feel anymore wounded than you already are.” her finger flicked out towards his core where she pointed to his bandaged half.

“And are you suggesting that I’m not cute and or cuddly? Now you have wounded me. It is far greater than that wound left by that arrow from earlier...Nyllae.” He quirked an eyebrow, ignoring Savage (who was covering his face with his paws) and Cibor’s curious glances. “And I get the sense that you appreciate a challenge...someone who does talk back, at times.”

“I wouldn’t know, I’ve never seen you cuddle someone before.” She furrowed her brow a little and shoved her hands to her hips. “Really now? You should tell me how you really feel then since you seem to have it all figured out.” for a second she considered jabbing his wound just to show him how wounded he could be and how she could inflict real pain but of course, it was a fleeting idea that was best not acted upon.

He licked his lips quickly as he considered the abrupt shift, trying to get a read on her...and failing miserably. “I’ve been told that I’m decent enough at it. Apparently I provide lots of heat for chillier nights.” He clasped his hands behind his back. “And as I’m sure you’ve noticed, I’m not the greatest with words. Telling people things tends to get me in more trouble, rather than getting me out of it.”

“Well I hate to break it to you but you kind of already unscrewed that lid to that specific jar.” Nyllae pursed her lips tightly, almost scowling and while he looked vulnerable with his hands clasped behind his back trying to be the epitome of a gentlemen she took that one step forward and tucked her arms between his and his body, “Well…” her shoulders shrugged and her eyes indicated them, the space in between and whatever else their person consumed, “Assume the cuddling position then and I’ll be sure to let you know if you’re telling the truth or if you failed. Of course, cuddles from Cibor will have to be your competitor and I’m sure he’ll get more time to make a lasting impression, I mean you have to test the couch before you buy, right?”

“Are you planning on ‘buying’ me?” Ah, deflecting with humor. Whatever response he thought he was going to get, this had not been it. He gulped, hoping it was noticeable, before slipping his arms around her smaller frame. “I would like to point out that cuddling while standing is one thing. Cuddling while sitting or laying down is another.” Mindful of her size versus his own, he pulled her to him, but not flush. “I feel like this may be more of a trial for a hug, rather than cuddling…”

“Then you’re already failing.” she muttered and then eventually looked up, “Okay, You’ve convinced me. I’m not buying.” she taunted and she pulled away already realizing how silly they looked even though they were the only people present -- aside from the two tigers, “You’d make a terrible salesman.” she pointed out and turned to crouch and give Cibor some pats along his head, “I’ll be well looked after I think. The two of us are set in our ways I suspect but there is a first for everything and there is always room for improvement.”

He frowned, jaw clenching for a moment. “That maybe because I’ve never been one to ‘sell myself’. I find that people are either interested or they’re not.” He glanced down a Cibor for a moment before leaning offering his hand to her. “And sometimes people can be too quick when making decisions about...furniture. Perhaps a second chance? Set in your ways or not, you might be surprised.” Nyllae chuckled gently, “There is grey areas in between, I promise you that selling yourself isn’t always a bad thing either.” She took the hand offered after one more pat to Cibor’s head and stood to adjust the sides of her slacks, “You aren’t wrong though and I can certainly appreciate that you are someone who sticks true to who you are and a very ‘take it or leave it’ sort of guy.” she looked him over a minute, “I mean, it’s not a bad couch.”

He quirked an eyebrow as his thumb brushed over the back of her hand before releasing it. “‘Not a bad couch’? I’m wondering what one might have to do to be considered a ‘good’ couch or what one might be interested in ‘purchasing’.” He took a small, cautious step forward, leaning down just enough to make easier eye contact.

Of course proper mannerisms taught Nyllae to look directly at people when they spoke to her and as of yet she hadn’t noticed the brush atop her hand. “Well, I mean…” she began and she shrugged a shoulder towards her jaw, “-- I suppose it has to be great quality and sturdy. Among other things but I suspect those qualities are just an added bonus. Is it cozy? Does it have a smell? Well I mean the most important question might be how big is it and does it match the rest of the room?”

“How b-,” he stopped himself, fighting off a small grin as he tilted his head. “So, tell me Nyllae...how would one REALLY know if the couch is cozy and how well it...fits unless they were to really give it a shot. Not just a quick test run.” He straightened up to his full height. “Or, and this is just an outlandish possibility...what if the couch one looks at and they initially aren’t all that fond of is the one that might fit the room perfectly? How would that person know without giving it a try?” “I suppose that would be on the buyer. I mean, in hindsight it doesn’t sound like it would be buyers remorse but the only person at fault would be the buyer if they hadn’t tried.” the Mage paused a moment and furrowed a brow, looking down to notice her hand, ‘Why are we talking about couches again?” she then managed to look back up, “My, this is some odd and mild way to flirt, I cannot say I’ve ever compared people to a couch before or the action of buying one -- not that I would buy a person of course.”

“We were talking about couches because I believe you compared me to one, and because projecting and talking about couches is easier than talking about myself?” He reached up to rub the back of his neck as he exhaled slowly. “And talking about couches also keeps me from doing or saying something excessively foolish...well, more foolish than talking about myself as though I was a couch.” He let his hand drop away from his neck, clasping his hands behind him once again.

“Right.” she opted to agree in such a short phrase. Perhaps she was the one to blame but in the end, the two had something to chuckle over at the very least. Almost in tandem, her hands weaved behind her and held firmly there, “I’ll be sure to send you progress up dates on Cibor then, I’m sure familiar letters couldn’t go astray? I use to get them from my mother quite regularly when I was away but I never had much time to reply to them. In hindsight, I should have done more but we learn from such mistakes that better prepare us for the future, hm?”

Inhaling deeply, Nyllae finally looked over her shoulders to the two tigers. Deep down she was sort of going to miss the lot of them even though a third of their trio was going to be her house guest for some time.

“So they say. The past can be an excellent teacher if we allow it to be.” He turned and glanced at Savage and Cibor before leaning down to gather up his things. “Well...Lady Shiverflame, you have survived your first tracking lesson and have learned the basic commands for attempting to manage a small rambunctious tiger cub. I look forward to see what nonsense he gets up to. Savage, let’s go.”

He walked over and kneeled down in front of Cibor, stroking the top of the cub’s head lightly. “You be good. We’ll be back before you know it. And no tearing up furniture...or dresses….or clothing of any kind, alright.” He waited for an acknowledgement from the tiger before turning to face Nyllae once more. He paused for a moment, clearing giving some thought lots of consideration before shaking his head and moving forward. He stilled again in front of her, started to speak and then cut himself off, leaning down and pressing a light kiss to her cheek...and then promptly putting a bit more distance between them. “...I’ll write once we’re settled. Have a good rest of your day...Savage, come.”

For a time, Nyllae simply watched Amorthon and his tigers and the pure devotion and love he seemed to give each of them. It wasn’t hard to sense some tinge of worry that might have lingered, then again he was trusting one of his companions with someone they didn’t know. At first she considered a hug or a simple hand shake but it was the kiss to her cheek that left her a little taken back and by the time she had noticed his reverted distance, she already wore a pleasant smile and her hand lifted in parting, “Do try to be careful? Cibor will be in good hands here.” she then looked to Savage and offered a nod knowing full well that Savage wasn’t bound to let any hard come to the pair. If anything they were a force all their own, a working pair of what seemed like a hivemind. Perhaps all in all, that is what it meant to work in tandem with another spirit. A rare connection she had never seen between mortal and beast.

Her cheeks grew warm and in that motion of a wave and departing, her eyes finally settled to Cibor who, for some reason, was staring right back at her.

The cub tilted his head as he looked up at the mage, curious. He wandered over and plopped down by her feet before pawing at one of her boots. This was going to be interesting.

#Collaborative writing #Nyllae #Amorthon #saying goodbye.....for now!

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evoldick · 6 years ago

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How does your character think of their father? What do they hate and love about him? What influence - literal or imagined - did the father have?/ How do they see themselves: as smart, as intelligent, uneducated?/ What were your character’s deepest disillusions? In life? What are they now?/ What do they want from a partner? What do they think and feel of sex?/ How are your character’s gestures? Vigorous? Weak? Controlled? Compulsive? Energetic? Sluggish?

001. TATE MIRRORS HIS FATHER’S APPROACH to his family , he’s highly apathetic towards the man . as a child , i suspect he accepted Hugo and ( dare i say ) loved him , maybe blindly and to an oblivious fault . but like most psychopathic children , he was frighteningly aware of the dysfunctions around the house ; between his parents and the unusual level of neglect toward himself and his siblings . this was “normal” to him . the Langdons didn’t have a happy marriage . perhaps they tried , to keep appearances , to force things to work , but Hugo was unfaithful and an alcoholic . mind you , incredibly functional , as they lead a very comfortable life . Hugo was a successful car salesman , and married Constance when she was very young . though Tate remained unaware of what had really happened to his father ( murdered by Constance ) , he knew something was wrong . posthumously , Tate didn’t get to see Hugo around the house as a ghost , mostly because Hugo is not aware he is dead , and shortly after his “disappearance” Constance couldn’t manage the bills and she , with her children , had to move out . Tate , for a long time , held a grudge against Constance for driving his father away , perhaps imagining things would be different had they lived with his father instead ( or so he told himself ) . begrudgingly , he moved on from the abandonment ( so he thinks ) . subconsciously , he keeps the image of his father at bay . as he grew older , Tate acquired mannerisms and gestures very reminiscent of his father . facial expressions , body language , speech patterns ( sometimes ) , all these things that have gotten a mixed reception from his mother . after Tate’s own death , in the house , knowing of the permanent residents already , he finally discovers what happened to the man . there’s a mix of anger and apathy in this ; anger towards Constance , for lying to him . apathy toward Hugo , as he doesn’t blame Constance for killing him . this is a small conflict he carries toward his parents , one which causes no ripples in him . as far as Hugo Langdon is concerned , Tate is completely unburdened . whether the shared savagery between the two is an inherited trait or not , is up to discussion .

002. TATE HAS MOMENTS WHEN HE KNOWS he is intellectually capable . he never had problems excelling in school , if he so desired . instead , he sought after average effort for average results . he’s smart , undoubtedly so . but he is also someone who needs to be constantly stimulated by whatever his attention is drawn to . this is why he spent much of his time at school in the library , instead of spending time with classmates or making friends or talking to girls ; none of that interested him in the very least . so he read and absorbed copious amounts of knowledge and information , some of it aiding his early demise . he doesn’t see himself as being “educated” at all , though he is well read and was capable of much more than he managed to accomplished in life . he died at seventeen , during his senior year of high school . in his mind , this makes him a drop-out . and in retrospect , something he contemplated in doing when the dark fantasies of killing his classmates came to be too much . Tate , occasionally , has moments of arrogance when thinks of himself highly and in askew proportion to how he really is . like with any other psychopath , this comes from having narcissistic tendencies and an irrationally inflated ego , despite the usual cold , objective , realistic view of himself . though he knows he’s not the brightest bulb in the shed ( if you will ) , there are moments when nothing will convince him otherwise .

003. DURING LIFE, TATE’S GREATEST DISILLUSION was the way society worked . both in little things and the larger picture . this started at home , with his mother . the boy started off well-mannered , polite , and far much “mature” for his age . he did not keep a messy room nor did he misbehave for the sake of doing so . despite this , he was , by all means strange and intense . unbeknownst to himself , he repelled kind gestures from his mother . a reaction to her obvious dotting and overzealous sheltering of the boy , in contrast to the mistreatment his siblings had either via psychological means , neglect or simply by physical abuse ( keeping a boy with special needs and disabilities , hidden and chained in a room is hardly good parenting ) . he then began to act out against his mother . in turn , the woman kept her position of correctness and virtue , “high and mighty” . from his perspective , he was able to see through this well-kept persona she projected to the world around them , including his siblings ; addie , his sister , who always loved and adored Constance despite the way she’d put her down with small comments . whether this was intentional or not , the boy saw no difference . when Larry and other men showed interest in the woman , Tate was nothing but appalled . how could he ( Larry ) not see the truth of her ? it was so obvious . this also happened in school . the boy was never able to care for the things his classmates did ; socializing , making friends , ignoring school and simply use their attendance to hang out with others . their behavior sometimes repelled him . but he kept quiet , to himself , away from them and their little in-school society he couldn’t see himself being a part of ( unable to connect , isolated , this had little to do with his classmates but rather something in the boy’s psyche – unbeknownst to him ) . he saw their interactions , friendships and love interests as meaningless and false . his mind could never understood how it was people connected , so effortlessly , with one another , as they so claimed , and still could be so brutally ruthless with each other . the idea of this only magnified itself with the events of the era ; brutal attacks on innocent people by supposedly well-doing citizens , mass riots standing up to acts of injustice . then , his brother is murdered by Larry , as per Constance’s wishes and instructions . the final straw . how could she , who claimed to love her children , have him do this ? nowadays , Tate’s disillusions are more to take note of ; his failure with Violet , his own premature death ( to an extent , he regrets it , though selfishly so ) , to name a few .

004. DURING LIFE, AS AFOREMENTIONED, TATE was highly disinterested in forming any type of relationships ; acquaintances , friendships , romantic relationships , none of them seemed important enough to make an effort and construct them . for a kid unable to connect to another human being on an emotional level , relationships and human connections seemed rather unimportant and disposable . he didn’t need people in his life to go through his days , he’d never needed them before and therefore he assumed he would never come to need them . this , of course , brought moments of unbearable isolation and loneliness . something he took with frustration ( even rage ) rather than sadness . when it came to girls , or being attracted to others , it was merely superficial ; not in terms of visual attraction but in lacking depth . posthumously , after he meets Violet , this changes . for the first time in his “life” ( or afterlife ) he saw the need to be liked by another . he was instantly captivated by the girl and did everything he could to become close to her . it was a whole new experience to him , a wakening . things he never thought he could feel , a level of excitement and childish joy to be in her company . to be equally wanted by her . yes , Violet was his first “love” . at least , in the way he is able to experience love . psychopaths , by their own nature , aren’t capable to experience this connection in the way most people can . infatuation , lust , obsession . and after their relationship “failed” ( via monstrous acts committed by him ) , he’s no longer sure love is real . when it comes to sex , however , he’s always been disturbingly blase . in life , as a child , he’d been highly aware of sex . this to an uncomfortable and inappropriate level . during his young adulthood , he experienced a rather “asexual phase” . though he experienced physical needs , like any other human being , he didn’t seek out sex with others . sex was nothing but a human function ; much like eating , sleeping or breathing . it was something humans did , with the sole difference that one could experience physical pleasure through it . something he could appreciate . by no means did his disinterest kept him from acting on his impulses . but his sexual experiences mean absolutely nothing . it was sex for the sake of sex . ( this changes when it comes to Violet , however , due to his “feelings” towards her . though sex is still merely a physical act , he knows it must have a new depth when it is between two people who love each other . whether he experiences anything differently simply because of his feelings toward Violet , it’s highly doubtful ) .

005. TATE’S FACIAL EXPRESSIONS AND OVERALL corporal displays are incredibly animated . this is usually perceived as “quirky” , charming even . he is lively . but know that , sometimes , a lot of his gestures and body language is controlled . he transmits what he wants to say . he is careful and secretive . this control , however , has lessened with time . as a child he was far more uptight , discreet , and much less expressive , unless he purposely tried otherwise . as a teenager , during life , he’d occasionally allow himself to soften his demeanor . slowly learning to express other things rather than just discontent or anger . often displaying just enough to remain unnoticed . without much calculation , his eyes tell much more than he would like . his face as a whole is well versed in communicating whatever he needs it to . unfortunately , in moments of stress or high frustration , he can become much less contained . verbally and physically explosive . his gestures betray him with ease . and like with most people who experience a low levels of empathy , it’s difficult for Tate to express sympathy if it’s not rehearsed ( feeling bad for Ben after Vivien dies during childbirth ? not his best performance ) . because of this , mournful words may sound mechanical sometimes . empty . this is not without a reason . whatever Tate doesn’t experience himself , he can portray it because he is observant and knows what it looks like in other people . this is not abnormal to him , this is all he knows . there are certain things he does when absentminded or under stress ; biting his nails , pacing , fidgeting fingers . by “default” , his demeanor is relaxed and carefree . much like his conscience .

meme / character solidifying HERE !

#👻 ❝ ᵇᵉᵉˢʷᵃˣ ( meme )#👻 ❝ ʳᵃᵖᵉ ᵐᵉ ( inbox )#👻 ❝ ᶜˡᵉᵃⁿ ᵘᵖ ᵇᵉᶠᵒʳᵉ ˢʰᵉ ᶜᵒᵐᵉˢ ( character study )#👻 ❝ ᵈᵒ ʳᵉ ᵐⁱ ( character development )#👻 ❝ ᵉⁿᵈˡᵉˢˢ ⁿᵃᵐᵉˡᵉˢˢ ( headcanon )#👻 ❝ ᵐʳ. ᵇᵘᵗᵗᵉʳʷᵒʳᵗʰ ( about tate )#icameasiam #👻 ❝ ᵃᵉʳᵒ ᶻᵉᵖᵖᵉˡⁱⁿ ( da mun tag )#👻 ❝ ᵇʳᵉᵉᵈ ( hugo langdon )#👻 ❝ ⁱᶠ ʸᵒᵘ ᵐᵘˢᵗ ( constance langdon )

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magic-multicolored-miracle · 5 years ago

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A Review and Contextless Commentary of Episode Two of CW’s Nancy Drew

[I watched this episode last Thursday, but forgot to post because my life is busy with midterms and the last weekend of the LARP I cast at, so I’m just getting this up now. Might watch the next episode and try to post the review/commentary before bedtime.]

I liked this episode less than the first one. There were a lot more facepalm moments. The characters are developing well but the mystery is not. It feels very stagnant from where the story ended in the first episode, nothing really changed in the course of this one.

I haven’t given up hope yet, they do have to make this mystery last at least a season, so I get why it’s moving slowly.

And now, for judgy, slightly obnoxious thoughts (be warned, they’re long):

Oh good. They didn’t totally ruin Carson by making him a cheating bastard.

I still refuse to believe that Carson, any version of him, is capable of or responsible for murder. If any version is, I’d buy the golf ball over this guy

Why are we doing this CW? Why are we having a teenage girl and a grown-ass-man hooking up? I don’t care that she’s 18, the implication is that she wasn’t when this bullshit started. I’m not even angry about it, I’m just tired. And maybe a little concerned how often this kind of storyline crops up in teen shows and is not portrayed as BAD and CREEPY and PREDATORY

Yes George, little reminder, his wife was just murdered and he’s a suspect. Smart move on maybe not sleeping with him. On top of the whole predatory thing.

That is a pretty bullshit injunction. But also, I think technically plausible? Either way Highly Suspicious on Mr. Ryan Hudson’s part

We’re still calling him Nick huh?

Of course the small town wouldn’t cancel their quirky and probably slightly creepy event for something like a simple murder

Is he McGinnis? Cus I’m like 80% sure that’s not what we called him last week…but whatever man, McGinnis it is

Yes let’s just openly discuss stealing blood from a corpse. Good plan Nancy.

Break in with better coverage bitch! Not in your distinctly colored work uniform and all your hair and other DNA sources exposed!

So far Nancy is the only one conclusively seeing the ghost, including even the audience not seeing it clearly, and I’m hoping that means something…

I call bullshit on Ace’s haunted morgue story. If someone died or went missing in a government building, especially a FREAKING MORGUE that would not go unsolved/attributed to a ghost

Exact wording concerned-flirting is still 110% what I’m here for with the Nedcy relationship

That’s your story? That your wife was on (impliedly) psychiatric medication and you don’t want that somehow going from an autopsy report, usually a sealed medical record at least until the death is solved, to ending up in the paper because of some nebulous effect it might have on your family? Could you be any vaguer and more full of shit?

Noo, George don’t fall for that and refuse to steal his phone because you feel guilty or something…even if you believe him, which you shouldn’t, you still need that to clear your name

Sure you’d never try to cover up info on your wife’s murder. But you’ll hook up with an 18-year-old the day after she’s murdered…

Nancy, spying on your friends and co-conspirators is rude. Justified, but still bad form

Oh, Carson knows Ryan. Good. And there’s clearly a history there. Awesome.

Finally! Carson with a spine! Much more the Carson I know and respect.

Ooh, so the history has something to do with Kate. Intriguing

Tactless Drew strikes again. Super not helping…

Oof. Probably deserved, but harsh anyway George.

Maybe don’t loudly discuss your criminal plans in the middle of a restaurant? I mean even discounting the girl you have just given every reason to turn your ass in, there are other people in there. With ears and the capability to tell McGinnis.

Bucket ritual? Really? That is the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard, and I grew up in a town with the Annual Rubber Duck Races and the Tomato Festival

Can part of the bucket ritual be punching a sleezeball in the face with a bucket?

Also, maybe look around when you’re talking in case people overhear?

Going to Ryan and not the police is…maybe not the smartest idea George

More Ghostly hallucinations for Nancy…good…and she’s doubting herself. Not good. Don’t listen to Team Ghost or go to them for comfort when you see things, they’re not going to be helpful and we don’t need you freaking out more.

A least she’s covered up a bit more this time. But still leaving her hair and face exposed and wearing her distinctive (apparently) hat that got her into trouble once before on B&E. Nancy. Get it together.

That’s a lot of bodies for a small-town morgue

Coroner’s driver is hot. And clearly annoyed by these morons. I love her

That body looks very different than the woman before she died. I’m going to chalk it up to lighting and being a several day old corpse, but on another level I think it’s a low-budget corpse? Like that’s nowhere near the same hair color or face shape. Did you even try?

Lisbeth is so fucking Done with these two. Also I feel bad for Ace having to bust his clearly beloved car. And that leaking was focused on too closely to not be suspicious

When did it start raining? It wasn’t at the festival…

Oh god is this going to be a jumpscare? Nope, just dramatic noises. I think I might have to start watching in the dark for all the dramatics to really work…

So Gay! I love it!

Focus Nancy! Also she didn’t leave her whole body behind huh? I’m guessing Dead Lucy is less dead than one might think

Don’t steal evidence of a cold case. That you’ve already asked the police about recently. Bad plan.

How did the alarms get set off?! I would have believed on the way in or the way out, but not in the middle of the process. Unless the cold case evidence boxes are on pressure sensors for some bullshit reason

Go George! Glad you’re feeling apologetic Nan, but now is super not the time

And now Nancy’s in prison. Well this was a short show, considering this McGinnis doesn’t like her enough to let her investigate from lockup the way he did in ASH

I guess the suspicious zoom in on the dripping under the car was a red herring?

Yes! Bess got the cute girl’s number!

If Bess is what they’re calling ace rep, I’ll flip a table because what she’s describing is NOT WHAT BEING ACE IS (at least not for most people’s experience of it)

Adorable. And so fucking awkward. I love Ace like a lot. Which does not bode well for him tbh, especially as a canon foreigner

I love that they each have their own very different priorities to George’s announcement. Like, does it really matter what dead people parts she has Ace?

Listen to your cop friend Nancy. And maybe don’t immediately snoop so blatantly in a police computer…

Obviously she breaking into shit. That’s what she does. This isn’t new Carson

That’s…not how manslaughter trials work. Like ever. Unless, maybe, if she was a CI for the police and revealing her identity jeopardized other cases.

Is now the best time to talk about this? There’s usually shit like cameras in police holding areas…also do you really think your dad’s just going to be “haha yeah, I killed Lucy Sable and stashed her dress in the attic, you caught me!”

Really? I left you locked in a prison cell to get you to talk to me? That’s bad parenting

Ominous statement is ominous

I mean she JUST died, and her murder is still being investigated where both of you are suspects. So like maybe don’t jump to that assumption. Also, fuck him (but don’t fuck him) because he is a garbage person

I’m kind of in love with the fact that he fixed up the Blue Roadster and gave her a secret compartment for her locket. It’s sickeningly adorable

Watchya doing Carson?

I maintain that this is the dumbest ritual/town tradition ever

You’re stopping in the middle of sex for the bucket thing? Really? Is it that important?

Oof. Burning evidence now that you know your nosey ass daughter knows about it is bad form Carson. Way to look Suspicious

George…don’t read into it…it’s more likely a prank than an omen. Especially if you’ve been bullied/harassed before… Alternately, it’s hurting my theory that the ghostly apparitions are all in Nancy’s head

Of course it was Nick’s phone. I knew it was going to be one of theirs.

Okay, but seriously, Ace desperately needs a last name as one of the best things about the show and currently unsearchable as a unique tab on Tumblr

And now for the trailer!: Oh goodie, we’re doubling down on the ghosts and weird shit so I don’t get to keep pretending there’s a logical explanation or that it’s all in Nancy’s head…yay…

#Nancy Drew #CW Nancy Drew #Nancy Drew 2019 #Nancy Drew tv show #review and commentary #episode 2 was...meh #but I remain on team 'it's not bad and I'm cautiously optimistic'#please don't completely ruin this CW...I'm sorta trusting you here #cataloging my thoughts as I watch TV #semi-liveblogging

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queencanaries · 8 years ago

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The Flash | “Going Rogue”

“The Streak stops a robbery but the culprits get away after shooting a guard, and The Flash chooses to save the man instead of following the criminals. Joe shows Barry a book of suspects and Barry identifies Leonard Snart as the leader of the group. While investigating the case, Barry gets a surprise visit from an old friend - Felicity Smoak, who heard about his new abilities and came to check them out for herself. Dr. Wells is furious when he finds out that Cisco built the cold gun without telling anyone and now it’s missing. Meanwhile, Iris is getting the silent treatment from Joe because of her relationship with Eddie. Finally, The Streak and Captain Cold have an epic confrontation.”

The lightning gave him friends too... awww :’)

“Checkmate” doesn’t sound like chess to me anymore, it just reminds me of AMANDA WALLER because I’m DC trash

Ohhh it’s Captain Cold

Eddie don’t talk about Iris on the job fuck sake

“Leonard Snart”

I’m going to have to preface this by telling everyone that I’m not a fan of Captain Cold but I haven’t seen all his appearances so maybe that’ll change.

Iris and Barry are so cute together. They MAKE the show what it is to me.

EW ITS FELICITY *projectile vomits*

YOU HEAR HER VOICE BEFORE YOU SEE HER AND I PANICKED

“You lost your cool” trololololol

This guy called Barry “The Blur” oh my god Smallville feels

FUCK HE SHOT HIM

Doesn’t Felicity have enough dick in Star City? Why is she here?

I hate that they make everything sexual for Felicity. She says normal things and then has to be like “I DIDN’T MEAN YOUR DICK”

DON’T TRUST HER BARRY SHE’S A SNAKE

“I’m really good at keeping secrets” LOL NO UR NOT FEFE BOMBS

This entire episode feels like they’re just jerking Felicity off. I hate it.

YES JOE DRAG HIMMMMM

“That girl is great” no Iris she’s a SNAKE

I have second hand embarrassment from what Felicity showed up in

Harrison fuck off stop being mean to Cisco :(((

I cannot stand Felicity and how they try to make her “funny and adorable and so totally relatable” it’s so try hard stoppppp

Wait so did Cisco build that weapon that Captain Cold is using and he just killed someone with it? HOLY SHIT

YAS CAITLIN i’m so glad she’s protecting CISCO on this one

Joe made me cry. 4 for 4.

FOR FUCK SAKE HOW MANY TIMES ARE THEY GONNA MAKE FELICITY BE LIKE “LOL I DIDN’t MEAN COME AND FUCK ME” just stop with this shit its not cute

I do like the idea that Barry has this perception of what a team should be and wants his team to fall into place immediately. Felicity telling him that it didn’t happen like that and it took time felt like a good development for Barry. He definitely has Oliver on this pedestal to begin with.

“When it comes to hacking I’m the fastest woman alive” FUCKING EMBARRASSING LMAOOOOO

Felicity clicks like two keys on a keyboard and is like “okay I’m in” what a jooooooke

This scene on the train with Barry was such a beautifully shot moment -- the people who work on The Flash are incredible.

IT WAS A VACUUM CLEANER?!?! HAHAHAHA I LOVE CISCO

Awww and so begins the Barry/Cisco bromance

God. You just get the vibe (no pun intended) that Harrison would literally kill Cisco if he did something like that again... creeeepy.

“From now on... no more secrets” BUT THERE IS STILL THE BIG SECRET UGH I HATE THIS

“Did I just yelp? I’m so quirky ermergerd” *projectile vomits*

God. Oliver and Felicity are the worst. It honestly disgusts me at this point how an ACCURATE COMIC BOOK SHOW is talking about their ICONIC LOVE but comparing it to some SHITTY FANFIC SHIP on an INACCURATE COMIC BOOK SHOW. The worst.

“Bye Barry” stay gone bish

OoOooOoOoOoo heatwave

Honestly, my least favourite episode so far. This show honestly doesn’t need ARROW to survive. It doesn’t need ARROW to be relevant and therefore it really doesn’t need Felicity Smoak. The way they pimped her out through this entire episode was ridiculous -- from Iris saying how great she is, to Harrison talking about how there’s all this promising shit in her future... I hated it. She doesn’t feel like a real human character and no matter what they do to make her seem “quirky and relatable” it always falls flat. It’s not real. It’s more fake than a lightning bolt hitting someone and turning them into a speedster, you know? It just doesn’t resonate with me. I appreciated her role in helping Team Flash come together which was done through her experience on Team Arrow, but beyond that it was like... fuck off already, haha! Anyway, beyond that -- I loved the Joe/Iris storyline. It was important to address how her relationship with Eddie is impacting him and his own relationship with Eddie as partners. And it was nice to see Cisco’s arc and his involvement in creating Captain Cold. I really like the fact that he took precautions in case Barry went psycho. It reminds me of Smallville and how being “meteor infected” usually meant going crazy and playing for team evil. I think they portrayed Cisco’s reasoning really well and I love that Caitlin had his back. Anyway... it was a pretty shit episode. I don’t feel like watching anymore tonight after it. Killed the mood.

#the flash rewatch #anti felicity smoak #the flash talk #the flash: going rogue

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bxtgrl · 8 years ago

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still get my heart racing

five times shepard proposes, plus one time kaidan does. | ao3

//part of silent nights and fitful sleep. warning for loose usage of the term “propose” lol. title and insp from never stop (wedding version) by safetysuit.

1 ;

“Alenko, I could marry you.” The words are out before she can stop them. It’s the morning after the Feros mission and most of them are still exhausted to the bone. She’d spent the better part of her night cleaning that gunk out of crevices she didn’t even know she had and only then had she been able to crawl into bed, but it’d seemed like she’d just closed her eyes when her alarm had gone off, leading to her being unusually tardy to the mess hall for breakfast. She’d sat at her usual spot at the end of her squad’s usual table and all she could think was coffee, when a stupidly delicious smelling mug had been held in front of her and she’d blinked at it dumbly, before looking to the person offering it. It was Kaidan, of course, being ridiculously thoughtful. He’d made it just right, too: more cream than coffee—later, she’ll realize this is proof that her secret stash of creamer isn’t so secret and that the crew have been taking advantage of her stash despite their adamant denials.

The drink had just tasted so good, though, and she was just so tired that the words had slipped out without much thought.

Everyone at the table has practically frozen and she can feel her cheeks redden and see Kaidan’s doing the same and nobody’s talking and someone really needs to say something. Wrex is too busy snickering, Ashley looks entirely too pleased, Garrus is feigning inattention, and Tali is watching like they’re the stars of her favorite soap opera.

Ashley, apparently, is the first to decide to have some mercy on them. “I hope your standards are higher than just a good cup of coffee, Commander.”

Thank God, she’s saved, but Ashley’s still sporting a smug grin, so a retaliation is in order. She grabs a piece of whatever-the-hell Wrex is eating and tosses it at the other women, who cleanly dodges without losing the smug look. “Shut up, Williams.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

2 ;

“You’re total husband material.” She isn’t sure what it is about this man that brings out her almost awkward side, but she’s never had so many verbal blunders around anyone else as she has him. Sure, it’s still not a large amount compared to those who naturally stumble their way through life, but it’s still more than she’s used to. This time, at least, she can probably blame it on the fact that she’s had one or two more beers than she normally indulges in. She’s not drunk, she’s never been anything more than tipsy, but she’s still feeling lighter than she usually does. Maybe that’s not even the alcohol, though. Maybe it’s the fact that she’s at the beginning of three weeks of shore leave. Maybe it’s because she had just saved the entire galaxy some days ago. Maybe it’s because she’s at the Alenko family orchard and the whole place is just so beautiful, that she can only compare it to pictures she’s seen. Maybe it’s just the man sitting at the table with her, currently coughing as he chokes a little bit on his food.

“What?”

She shrugs and blushes and damn, she’d really thought she’d kicked that habit when she was a teenager. “I’m just saying.” Her eyes are on her plate and she’s debating the pros and cons of if she’d actually been crushed in stupid Sovereign’s wreckage.

“Is that a proposal, Shepard?” Her gaze snaps to him and for a brief moment she panics, before seeing the grin on his face and playful glint in his eyes and she registers the teasing tone to his voice. Her eyes narrow, fighting the urge to imitate that contagious smile of his.

“No. It was meant as a compliment toward your cooking. You shouldn’t look so far into things, Alenko.” She’s enraptured by him and his smile and the way his eyes light up when he’s happy. She’s in so very much trouble: her record for relationships in general is little to none and she wishes her romantic one was as nonexistent. But she doesn’t quite care anymore. He’s worth the risk, she knows this now.

“Of course not, ma’am.”

“Of course not.”

3 ;

“And this is my fiancée, Aidan.” They’re undercover, investigating a colony both the Council and the Alliance suspect of dealing with the Geth. Shepard’s got a black wig on with bangs to help make sure she doesn’t get recognized, but it was deemed Kaidan is unrecognizable enough to go to a colony on the rim of the Milky Way without a disguise. It’s their first mission since the Citadel and it’s going fairly smooth so far, but he’s not thinking about that. It’s only been a moment since the words have left Shepard’s mouth and he’s realizing that all she did was take the K out of his name and he’s trying to stifle his laughter.

Luckily, he’s a professional, so the only sign of his sudden amusement is a twitching of his lips that he quickly covers by taking a sip from the drink he’s holding. The woman they’re speaking with extends a friendly greeting to them and congratulations on their engagement, before leading them on a tour of the colony’s accommodations, their story being that they’re considering a move and this colony just seems like such a nice place, doesn’t it, dear?

It’s only later when they’ve slipped away and she’s hacking into the colony’s private trade records that he brings it up. “Aidan?”

Her eyes remain rooted to the stream of data, but she cocks an eyebrow as she shrugs. “I’ve never claimed creativity in the name department.”

“You picked your last name.”

“Yeah and half the kids in the gang were always asking me where my flock was, so.”

4 ;

Marry Me? The words are printed right there and he has to bite back a laugh that out of all the sauce packets, she would toss him this one from the Alliance’s extremely short-lived attempt to spice up its regulation food with quirky sayings on its sauce packets like some fast food chain.

They’re having a late dinner in her quarters as the ship heads toward its destination of Alchera and she’s looking at him curiously, wondering what brought on his sudden amusement. He turns the pack so that she can read the words as he speaks. “Moving a little fast there, Shepard.”

Her eyes narrow into the mock glare he’s become so familiar with and he watches as she grabs her napkin, balls it up, and promptly tosses it at him. He doesn’t bother dodging it, the light material hitting him right in his temple and all he does is blink once, grin not fading. “Shut up, Alenko.” His last name: he’s either in trouble or she’s amused. It’s the latter, thankfully.

“I’m flattered, Shepard, really, but-” She lets out a laugh and cuts him off by grabbing the front of his shirt and pulling him in for an impromptu kiss. He reciprocates happily and by the time she pulls away, they’re both grinning.

“I hate you.” Both of them are still smiling, though, because they both know she doesn’t, not even a little bit.

5 ;

“Marry me.” It’s the middle of the night, her fish tank casting them in a dim glow and Thessia is still fresh in their minds—she blames herself for the loss and he can’t forget how close he came to losing her again—when she speaks for the first time in hours. Her voice penetrates the quiet, but is soft enough to not break the stillness of the room. It surprises him nonetheless, though. He turns his face toward her sharply, causing his chin to knock into her temple. She flinches back. “Ow.”

He winces. “Crap, sorry.” He releases her hand he’d been holding to his chest to massage gently at the spot and her face scrunches up slightly.

“S’okay” she says, already relaxing again and he remembers what started this whole fiasco. Had he heard her right? It seems like it’d be hard, to mistake some other words for those two, but she’d spoken softly and she’d been slightly muffled by his skin, so he can’t be sure.

He shifts onto his side to face her and waits until her eyes connect with his before speaking just as quietly as she had before. “What did you say?”

She doesn’t break eye contact as she scoots closer, back within his space, and grabs his hand, entwining their fingers. “Marry me.” His heart pounds in his chest, but she rushes forward before he can even respond. “Not now, I mean, but someday, when this is all over, I want to marry you.” Her gaze is open and vulnerable and he wonders if she thinks he might say no, if that’s even a possibility in her mind. Because it’s not in his.

“Alright.”

A smile starts to grow on her face, it’s the most genuine one he’s seen on her in a while, and he finds his own face copying hers. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” He isn’t sure which one moves first, but it doesn’t matter because her lips are moving against his and for the briefest of moments, they can pretend that everything’s alright and the galaxy isn’t falling apart at the seams.

+1 ;

“Will you marry me?” The war’s been over for three years and some days it still feels like yesterday, while others it feels like centuries. There are scars that have healed and some that probably never will, of the physical and not-so-physical kind. There’s been setbacks, but the galaxy is already half rebuilt and while they were never broken, they’ve reached a place of stability that he knows she’s never known and for the first time in a while, he’s looking forward to each and every morning.

The breeze of the orchard air is cold, but the stars are clear above them from their spot on the master balcony. It’s quiet around them, just the rustle of leaves and the feint tune of the song they’d been listening to in the living room when he’d brought her out here. He’s down on one knee despite the protests of both her and his bad knee. If he tweaks something, it’ll be worth the stern looks he’ll receive from both Shepard and his physical therapist. Her eyes are wide, flitting to his mother’s engagement ring before locking onto his face.

Time is slowing to a crawl and his heart is pounding. He’s a little nervous, honestly. He knows she won’t reject him, but she may reject marriage. She’d said she wanted to marry him before, when the war was still going strong and no one was honestly certain if they’d all make it out and if so, in what condition. But so much has changed now. They’ve changed. Not in any way that’s good or bad, just the way people must when finding an entirely new place in life.

Finally, finally, she moves. She drops to her knees in front of him and he hears the low sound of the machinery in her cybernetic one moving. Her hands cup his face and she smiling and she’s so beautiful, but he doesn’t have much time to revel in that because she’s pulling his face in for a kiss and he’s all-too-happily obliging. The kiss is deep and long and by the time she pulls away to rest her forehead against his, he’s on both knees and she’s practically in his lap, both hands combing through his hair.

They’re both breathing heavy and grinning like fools. “Is that a yes?” His voice is low, but tone teasing. She nods quickly, letting out a breathless laugh with him. She watches then as he slides the ring onto the appropriate finger, before returning her gaze to his. Her eyes are moist and he gives her nose a light kiss, causing her to giggle.

They stay there for a moment, basking in each other’s presence and the pure sense of peace surrounding them. Eventually, he speaks. “Happy, future Mrs. Alenko?”

She hums. “You could say that, future Mr. Shepard.”

He laughs. They’ll figure it out. They have plenty of time.

#shenko #kaidan alenko #female shepard #fshenko #mass effect #fanfiction #my ocs #rpg ocs #aaliyah shepard #i hope this turned out well 'cause my last one was sorta meh lol

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hoodsmoaked · 8 years ago

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Let It Snow | Part 1 / ?

Summary: Oliver Queen spends the days before Christmas trying to find the murderous new archer in Starling City and renew family traditions. An odd request from Moira puts her son in a difficult position, but it also puts an unexpected twist in Oliver’s strange partnership with Felicity Smoak. (S1 AU)

Disclaimer: I do not own nor make any profit off of Arrow. It belongs to The CW, DC Comics, etc.

A/N: This is an AU story set during 1x09: Year’s End. It was meant for Christmas, but things went sideways and it wasn’t until this week that I actually put it down. Thank you @stygian-omada-fan for sensible words when I was feeling overly sensitive. <3

Chapter 1: Bits & Pieces

“Mom, you can’t be serious.”

At twenty-seven years old, with a veritable ocean’s worth of hell swelling behind him and a galaxy’s worth looming ahead of him, Oliver Queen still had absolutely no idea how to take up a debate with his stern, self-assured mother when she set her heart and mind on something she wanted.

Today, a mere morning and afternoon after Adam Hunt’s murder at the hands of the new Starling City archer, that something was Oliver’s honored presence at the Queen Consolidated annual staff Christmas party which his mother and Walter were set to attend in two days.

“I am exceedingly serious, Oliver,” Moira Queen looked as deeply frustrated as Oliver felt inside, at last setting down the book she had been attempting to read when Oliver stalked into the room waving a red and green invitation. “It does no harm to attend an employee party at the company. Why are you so averse?”

“For one thing, I’m not even an employee at Queen Consolidated, Mom!” Oliver reiterated for at least the fourth time in the discussion, growing irritated with his domineering mother. “I thought we clearly discussed my stance on working at the company after the Applied Sciences building opened?”

“You can still have the decency to represent our family and your father’s memory at a company function,” Moira countered with easy grace and authority Oliver remembered all-too-well from before the island. Even if her discipline had been directed at people other than himself, Oliver had never forgotten the sting infused with such taut coldness.

“You spend enough time up at Queen Consolidated to give people ideas,” Moira continued more reproachfully than Oliver felt was warranted. “A great deal of people have come to think you’ll be joining the company some time in the future, regardless your belligerent scene at the groundbreaking. It has been months since then, anyway. A person can change their mind and many believe you have or soon will. Hearing the way you talk now, I have to wonder myself what other reason could possibly draw you up to Queen Consolidated so frequently. Are you sure you haven’t changed your mind?”

“Undoubtedly positive,” Oliver enunciated more clearly and slowly than strictly necessary, hoping to make his point and have done with the subject. He had a visit with an IT expert that couldn’t wait.

Observing his facial features with heavy focus, under which effects Oliver use to squirm self-consciously, Moira finally sighed and turned her eyes away.

“All right,” the Queen matriarch remarked after a pause, turning back to her son with another familiar, unbending expression that led Oliver nearer to agitated groaning than usual. “I’ll leave that subject alone for the present time. However, I am still asking you to attend the annual Christmas staff party with us. We’ve already sent your response and I wouldn’t want to put any of the planners out with extra money spent for a seat that won’t be filled. Humor me, Oliver, please?”

Suspecting far more in Moira Queen’s pleading expression and request than a simple desire to appease the party planners, Oliver nevertheless didn’t dare say anything in that regard and merely nodded his agreement. If he required another ‘public scene’ to nail the point home with his mother, then he could plan it later; time indicated other plans must come first.

“Thank you, sweetheart,” Moira smiled warmly at her son and laid a motherly hand on his forearm. Settling back down to read her book, Moira left Oliver to evacuate the room on cautiously rapid feet.

Rolling back his shoulders to ease out some of the tension of the argument with his mother, Oliver headed out the front entrance and hopped onto the motorcycle for what had swiftly become routine visitation to a certain IT specialist at his family’s company.

The IT department was dark and yet comforting – despite the brightness outside – when the billionaire headed in, finding the ponytail-styled blonde sitting very engrossed in a tablet behind her desk. Incredibly engrossed, as a matter of fact.

Barely smiling at her inordinate concentration and allowing the tension with his mother to fade away, Oliver finally spoke up, “Hey.”

Felicity Smoak startled as though he had shot off a gun beside her, gasping a little and rebuking Oliver’s presence immediately, “Don’t you knock?”

“Felicity, this is the IT department,” Oliver retorted with heavily-buried amusement in his voice, shaking his head for emphasis as he added, “It’s not the ladies’ room.”

Laughing a bit breathlessly, Felicity looked down with some sheepishness as she agreed, “Right.”

Taking the time to close something on her tablet – curious, Oliver thought to himself – Felicity finally looked back up at him with wider eyes as she asked, “What can I do for you?”

Already spinning a rather elaborately carved lie in his mind, Oliver put a good deal of playful emotion into his voice as he answered, “My buddy, Steve, is really into archery. Apparently, it’s… it’s all the rage now.”

Turning away to put her tablet down on the desk, Felicity commented casually, “Yeah, I don’t know why… Looks utterly ridiculous to me.”

Felicity’s expressive face and blue eyes displayed a sense of ‘whatever floats your boat’ that forced Oliver to forcibly dispel a laugh that wanted to escape his throat. Instead, he remarked neutrally with a simple ‘mm-hm’ to guide the conversation along. Still, he couldn’t help staring a moment at the blonde; if only she knew what he did with his nights…

Rushing forward in spite of his humor, Oliver added, “Anyway, it’s Steve’s birthday next weekend and… I wanted to buy him some arrows.”

So saying, Oliver popped the lid off the container he held, pulling out the long black arrow of his nemesis with far more casual ease than Felicity’s widened eyes portrayed in her own senses.

“Thing is,” Oliver went as though nothing was amiss, “he gets these… special… custom-made arrows and I have… no idea where he gets them.”

Holding back the projectile in both hands with a pause to make sure he had the quirky woman’s full attention, Oliver finished with, “I was hoping you could find out where this came from.”

Allowing his request to settle in the quietly-charged atmosphere between them, Oliver at last rolled the arrow up and back down within reach of Felicity’s grasp, presenting it like a priceless artifact. And in truth, he supposed it was. Finding this new archer meant saving lives, really. As the new enemy had proven, he cared little for collateral damage.

Felicity’s smile looked more mysteriously invested with a mystic giddiness than Oliver expected from most people. Struck by the intensity with which he had brought the brilliant young woman into his dark activities, and the potential price that might already lay on her blonde head, Oliver couldn’t help feel suddenly wrong.

Yet it was too late now for that particular concern, wasn’t it? Oliver repressed a frown and decided he couldn’t change her involvement now. All he could do was ensure her safety from here on out. Besides, he found he needed her skills and knowing assistance more than he thought he needed anyone’s help in his mission.

“Careful!” Oliver warned the eager investigator anyway, pulling the bow back from her hand before she could actually grasp the arrow.

A shadow of exasperation and annoyance crossed Felicity’s still-eager features while she waited for him to drop the arrow to her clutch. She agreed more quickly than Oliver cared to hear, “Yeah.”

Dauntless even with his warning, the IT expert’s expectation led Oliver to release the arrow to her fingers as planned.

Taking it with a burst of smile, Felicity instantly began to examine the arrow in her hands, searching up and down the metal with subtle excitement. Within seconds of Oliver taking a seat before the desk, his constant researcher found what she needed to see.

“The shaft’s composite is patented,” she informed the billionaire, glancing between the patent name and her computer. “And that patent is registered to a company called Sagittarius.”

Smiling at her rapid success, Felicity looked back up at Oliver and offered up the black arrow. When Oliver did not immediately take it in hand, the blonde added informatively, “That’s latin… for archer.”

Shaking himself enough to reach for the weapon in the IT expert’s hands, Oliver responded slightly awkwardly as he put away the arrow, “Really... Could you find out where and when this was purchased?”

Felicity smiled again, her subsequent head tilt and sigh telling Oliver his question was very ridiculous, but she would do as he asked all the same. A few clicks and the specialist began answering him, “According to Sagittarius company records, that… particular arrow is part of a bundle shipment… Two-hundred units...”

Her face bespoke the growing disbelief in Oliver’s admittedly shoddy story-telling. Hobby archers didn’t purchase two-hundred highly customized special units for casual practice.

In spite of that, Felicity began to write on a notepad, explaining, “…sent… to this address.”

Ripping off the sheet, the blonde handed it over with what Oliver dubbed her ‘easy success smile.’ Felicity Smoak had many different types of smiles, he found out; this was only one of the vast multitude of bright expressions she wore.

“Felicity…” Oliver began, taking the paper with an unnecessary flourish and a wider smile than normal. Taking a little breath, the sandy-haired billionaire completed his thought, “You’re remarkable.”

“Thank you for remarking on it,” Felicity quipped instantly, eliciting a softer, warmer smile on her face – almost shy, if Oliver was to judge.

Still smiling, Oliver stood from his seat, grabbing the arrow as he made to leave. Before he could fully turn away, he leaned back towards the IT expert to add, “and Merry Christmas.”

“I’m Jewish,” Felicity corrected in a heartbeat, the words rushing from her mouth.

Oliver turned back thoughtfully at the sudden words, pausing to sincerely offer, “Happy Hanukkah.”

Felicity had brought nervous fingers to her lips, clearly worried over her expulsion of information, but Oliver felt pleased to know a little more about his babbling blonde acquaintance.

Before he fully turned back to the doorway, Oliver’s eyes caught on a familiar red and green invitation lying on the far side of the desk space. Struck by how awkward Felicity must feel being part of a Christmas-specific party, Oliver frowned slightly.

“The company should really expand to a holiday party,” Oliver commented out of the blue, drawing Felicity eyes back up to the man she must have thought gone from her office.

“Um… what?” she asked, bewildered.

“The annual staff party,” Oliver clarified, gesturing at the same invitation he had waved in his mother’s direction not an hour before. “It should be broadened into a holiday party, not just Christmas. Employees like yourself are being excluded for no reason.”

“Oh, it’s fine,” Felicity half-laughed, the same nervous and awkward sound when she didn’t want to get into a particular topic or wasn’t prepared for the turn of discussion. “I just go to socialize a little. Make sure no one thinks I’m a total recluse.”

“Well, that doesn’t make it right to exclude your holiday,” Oliver smiled at her honestly. “I’ll throw a word to Walter about it.”

“That’s… really not necessary,” Felicity replied, making a very goofy face as she worked through words she did and didn’t want to actually say. “You don’t have to bring me into this. I’m just fine… Finest fine that ever fined… Uh…”

Intervening despite the amusing word salad tendency Felicity had, Oliver concluded firmly, “I’m going to say something about it. You don’t have to be involved, I’m sure there are plenty of others who would appreciate the gesture, so no names are really necessary.”

“Well, okay,” Felicity bit her lip at the anonymity she’d been granted on the subject. “That’s probably true. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Oliver nodded at her firmly. “I’ll see you at the party, then.”

“You’ll be there?”

Oliver bit back a real smile at the higher tone to Felicity’s voice as she asked.

“My mother seems to think I can be convinced to become a part of the ‘team’ some day,” was all Oliver explained.

“Ah, I see,” Felicity nodded knowledgeably, then stopped suddenly to shake her head in the negative. “What am I saying? I don’t see. I mean I understand what you said, and it makes sense, but I… you know what, I’ll just see you at the Christmas party.”

“Holiday party,” Oliver corrected slyly, smile lingering on his lips as he glossed over the blonde’s awkward spouting. “It’s not too hard to understand my mother’s hopes. Although I think it will probably snow in Starling City before that happens… Not that I would mind a little snow.”

“You want snow?” Felicity lifted an eyebrow in surprise.

“I’m not saying I want a white Christmas, exactly,” Oliver paused, then shrugged. “I kind of miss a little snow here and there… Nevermind my odd wishes… I’ll see you at the party, Felicity.”

Felicity calmed in the face of his casual exit, allowing her face to ease into a little smile as Oliver walked out of the IT department with a fresher, calmer acceptance of his party attendance, all thoughts of causing a scene in any way dissipating completely.

The day of the party flurried into being with a great, fluttering to-do of activity overseen by Moira and Walter in tandem. After last minute orders and directions had been put into place, the Queen matriarch returned to the son she had literally begged to attend the event, joining him in a seat at the edge of the room where no one was working.

“Well, Oliver,” Moira spoke up with a knowing hedge in her voice, turning to look at her son with cunning expectation. “You seem to have picked up a peculiar investment with this party since three days ago. May I ask what changed?”

To the average observer, Moira’s question belied none of the hard edge of curiosity and suspicion that Oliver now heard like clockwork.

“It just didn’t seem right to exclude people in the workforce here who celebrate differently from us,” Oliver proposed with a casualness he didn’t precisely feel. For reasons he couldn’t pinpoint – reasons beyond keeping his secret – Oliver didn’t want his mother to find out about Felicity any more than she already might have.

“I see,” Moira allowed with secretive agreeableness.

“Can you excuse me, Mom?” Oliver attempted escape before the interrogation could begin, standing before his mother could even respond.

“Of course, sweetheart,” the socialite agreed more warmly than necessary, leaving Oliver wary of who he spent time with during the party. Moira Queen would not wait for an answer before drawing conclusions Oliver didn’t need.

Taking a trip out into the hallway, Oliver breathed deeply to calm himself and allay his concerns. Already dressed in his black suit and tie for the party, he had no excuses to actually leave before it all started. Sighing over his luck, the vigilante simply made his way around the floor as slowly as he could possibly meander without causing concern (or more likely, suspicion) from his mother.

With that concept in mind, Oliver amazed himself by finding a clear view of the city through a wall of empty office windows, and a hitherto untapped well of observatory staying power. Over all the hubbub and traffic and buildings far below, Oliver found a strange kind of peace in the constancy of Starling City’s populace he had never before felt.

“Oliver?”

Starting minutely at the intrusion on his surprisingly peaceful thoughts, Oliver turned to find Walter standing in the doorway with hands clasped behind his back.

“Walter,” the younger man greeted his stepfather with a nod.

“The doors will open in fifteen minutes,” the British businessman informed Oliver cordially, turning amused a moment later, “Your mother of course was worried you’d changed your mind at the last minute.”

Affecting a half-laugh, Oliver remarked wryly, “Well, we both know Mom likes to worry over nothing sometimes.”

Laughing as well, Walter added with a tilt of his head, “I must say I’ve found your mother to be far more rational than most, actually. But I suppose for children of any age, their parents seem overzealous much of the time.”

“I guess you’re right,” Oliver nodded as an end to the subject, smile stretching a little less than naturally on his features. “We’d better get back before she worries any more.”

By the time they reached the main space for the celebration, the guests had already begun to arrive, many employees followed in by spouses or adult relatives while more people than Oliver expected came all alone. Moira and Walter dragged him around the room meeting all the heads of departments and their assistants, sparingly followed by some of those not positioned in leadership yet holding respectably important jobs.

The party was in full swing, champagne flowing and wine swirling while canapés flooded trays around the room, when Oliver finally saw the familiar blonde ponytail bouncing through the crowd like a ball of sunshine. Repressing a smile with his mother so close, Oliver quietly and casually made his way through the employees towards the more secluded windows.

As expected, Felicity found him first, eyes widening briefly with pleased recognition behind her glasses as she made her way over. Much to Oliver’s pleasure in the moment, Moira Queen remained heavily involved in an intense debate with the Head of Accounting across the room, her back facing them.

“Oliver, hi,” Felicity made a funny, manic little wave at her shoulder level, drawing Oliver’s attention to the red dress that crossed subtly over the chest emphasizing a silver leaf necklace and tiny silver studs, the skirt flaring past the hips. Matching red suede footwear with a multitude of straps adorned Felicity’s feet. Just enough quirk to offset the basic dress, Oliver noted with the edge of a smile.

“Felicity,” Oliver nodded when the blonde stood close enough, a larger smile teasing his lips.

“You um… seem to have… you know,” Felicity blew out her lips and cheeks in a ridiculous expression as she gestured goofily around the room, “changed things up.”

“I told you it wasn’t right,” was all Oliver said, lightly shrugging.

“Oh! I, uh… got this…” Felicity began haltingly, reaching around in the small silver purse hanging from her shoulder with a sudden frown and pinched brows, until she exclaimed, “Ah! This. I got this for you.”

Smiling proudly, the IT expert whipped a rectangular item into the air before Oliver’s nose, gripping her purse in the other hand.

Allowing a brief moment to feel startled in spite of himself, Oliver finally took a better look at whatever hovered in front of his face. Surprised to find a bright blue envelope between Felicity’s fingers, the billionaire instantly responded, “You didn’t have to do this.”

“Oh, I wanted to,” Felicity waved him off, the encased card fluttering between them like a butterfly. “It’s the least I can do for you – for being so thoughtful.”

Caught by her logic and the stubborn will settled into those blue eyes, Oliver sighed and let it go, accepting the gift from her to slit the envelope and open the card itself.

“No, wait, don’t—!” Felicity tried to stop him, hands rushing forward too late to stop Oliver’s fingers from popping open the folded greeting.

A plume of white burst into Oliver’s face as though a gust of wind had suddenly thrown itself into the room, bits and pieces of white, glittering confetti blockading the billionaire’s eyes.

“…open it…” Felicity belatedly completed her warning, cringing visibly at the sight of Oliver’s crisp black suit decked out with tiny white snowflakes.

“Oh, I’m – I’m so sorry,” Felicity apologized, hands holding her mouth like it might run away from her. “You… you said you wanted snow… I meant for you to open it after the party. Well after…”

Oliver closed his eyes briefly to retain his stoic image and opened them again to find Felicity worrying her bright red fingernails already. The brilliant blonde looked horrified, eyes wide and elbows almost locked together before her.

“Thank you, Felicity,” Oliver said simply, taking a moment to actually read the Christmas card and its grateful message for his party interventions before looking back up at his companion, “I appreciate you getting me this.”

“You’re welcome,” Felicity responded, the phrase nearly a question.

“I think attacking confetti is the least of my worries right now,” Oliver said as dry as a bone, the first real tease he’d made in a long time.

Felicity laughed, really laughed, with a sort of deep giggle from the back of her throat Oliver never heard before. The unexpected sound was warm and pleasant, with that same quirkiness this particular woman had always been imbued with.

“At least you aren’t giving the same kind of ridiculous stories you usually do,” Felicity commented boldly, leaving Oliver more speechless than he cared to admit.

“Ah,” Felicity instantly tried to redact her words, eyes closing tightly in mortification for her slip, “not that… you are… a liar. No, not at all. It’s just, amazing, how… creative… all of yourrrr… acquaintances arrrreee…”

The drawn out words came across even more ridiculously than Oliver could have imagined – if he imagined it, which he highly doubted. Felicity Smoak was startlingly unpredictable and unexpected in her mannerisms and reactions. How many times had she caught him off guard with her blunt honesty and quirky sarcasm since they met in October? Oliver had long since failed to keep an accurate count.

“I do have fascinating acquaintances,” Oliver nodded, lips firmed up with false realization. “Thank you. For noticing.”

“My… pleasure,” Felicity laughed low and uncomfortable through her front teeth. “Always glad to clear up a mystery for a frie-friend… friend? ah, uhm… friendly! acquaintance!”

The blonde Oliver had chosen to go to for technological expertise looked ready for the ground to swallow her whole. Had the billionaire not seen his mother turning slightly, he would have spent more time reassuring his go-to IT.

As it was, he still couldn’t leave it all to sit so oddly between them.

“As I said… you’re remarkable, Felicity,” Oliver settled for, adding a tiny smile that belied his acceptance of the blonde’s many verbal slips. Moira nearly turned around, her eyes practically approaching Oliver and his very female company…

“Of course, thank you,” Felicity ended their talk quietly and far more calmly.

Moira turned back around at someone’s new greeting, and Oliver exhaled softly in relief.

“You’re welcome,” he nodded once at Felicity, blue eyes reassuring under the social mask.

Nodding once in return with a mild smile tightening over her teeth, the blonde turned awkwardly around towards the rest of the party, ready to head into the nearby crowd.

Out of the blue, without a warning, Oliver spoke as carelessly as Felicity often did.

“We’re hosting a party at the mansion this Friday,” he nearly blurted out, stunned by his own barefaced suggestion.

Felicity whirled around in equal shock, eyes wide and wondering behind her glasses and red lips slightly parted.

“I know it’s technically a Christmas party,” he was able to recover a little, but still didn’t know quite how to move forward with the offer.

“Well, it’s a personal family party, so… that… makes sense,” Felicity appeared to recover herself a bit as well, slowly working through what precisely Oliver was saying underneath it all.

“Would you like to come?” Oliver pushed the words out, stamping out his hesitation. Felicity could be trusted and he had already put it on the line; may as well finish it.

“I… well… that’s nice of you,” the blonde managed, eyes still wide blue pools staring up at Oliver. “Why would you want—”

Oliver cut across the IT expert’s doubts with a wave of confidence he didn’t expect to feel as an idea washed over him, “You’ll see snow to rival the whitest of Christmases.”

“You can’t really promise anything about the weather,” Felicity smiled a little goofily, blowing out through her lips in disbelief buffered by rich amusement. “Everyone knows that.”

“Well, I can promise you snow,” Oliver swore steadily. “Come and see for yourself.”

“Oh, really?” Felicity challenged him with a light laugh. “You’re on, Mr. Qu–”

“Oliver,” he corrected immediately, head tilted sideways a moment.

“Oliver,” edited Felicity quickly, eyes thoughtful and struck by recollection all at once. “Point being… I accept.”

“Good,” Oliver concluded easily. “The party starts at six.”

“All right,” Felicity said in a mix of quiet and some shyness, already stepping back as though she wasn’t entirely sure how to end the moment they became so caught up in.

“I’ll see you there,” Oliver ended it more conclusively for the awkward blonde, tapping the card she had given on her red-capped shoulder.

Moira Queen never turned around and Oliver walked away feeling gloriously successful for the first time in many years.

My stories and story prompts can be found on the page called The Written Word on my blog.

#CW Arrow #Let It Snow #Part 1: Bit & Pieces #olicity #THEWRITTENWORD #arrow season 1 #arrow au #arrow fic #arrow fanfiction #arrow 1x09 #arrow year's end

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murderincrp · 8 years ago

Photo

PROFILE LOADED...「KIM WOOSEOK」「UNAFFILIATED」「TWENTY-ONE」

“Twenty-one-year-old ARTIST and OCCASIONAL ASSASSIN that goes by the alias ‘THE ARTIST’. No known allies.”

✘ THREAT LEVEL HIGH. PROCEED WITH EXTREME CAUTION...

WARNING: PARENT DEATH, HUMAN MUTILATION, ANIMAL MUTILATION, BLOOD, KNIVES

[ BACKGROUND... ]

six years old. the age he’s just starting school, just experiencing that first tiny taste of freedom without his parents’ constant supervision. oh, he’s still supervised, but it doesn’t feel that way when it’s a teacher or some other adult who holds his hand and walks him to the bathroom or put him and the other kids in line when they’re going out for free time on the playground. he’s an outgoing child, eager to spread his wings, and it’s after coming home from school that he finds them.

he thinks it’s a little odd that mommy isn’t there greeting him at the door when he comes home from elementary school. she’s usually there, smiling and asking him how his day was. the door is just slightly ajar, and the boy thinks that maybe she had to run back inside for a second and missed him. he finds her sprawled out in the middle of the living room. red was his favorite color, but dried blood crusts dark brown and the hue isn’t so vibrant by that time. he finds daddy in a similar state in his study. they don’t move when he shakes them, and mommy’s hands are colder and stiffer than they’ve ever been, even when she held his tightly on a brisk day.

wooseok doesn’t know what to do. they’re not dead, they can’t be. they’re going to wake up, he’s sure of it.

with all the height and skill a six year old can manage, he pours out three bowls of cereal that night. he’s not tall enough to cook at the stove like mommy does, but his parents are going to be hungry when they wake up.

cereal again for breakfast the next morning. wooseok oversleeps without a mother to wake him up and misses school, and when the school calls he doesn’t answer the phone. daddy always told him not to touch the phone when he or mommy weren’t available to answer it. wooseok thinks that they’ve been asleep for a very long time, and their necks are going to be uncomfortable. it’s hard to push the pillows underneath, but somehow with the will of a six year old he manages despite the rigor mortis.

three days pass and he’s out of cereal and granola bars and the food he’s left out for mommy and daddy is starting to stink. there’s another bad scent in the air too, and the boy can’t quite place if he’s ever smelled it before. a teacher comes to check on him and she screams when she sees the bodies. wooseok tells her to be quiet, mommy and daddy are just asleep, they’ll wake up soon!

he only realizes that they really are dead when the police arrive. they ask him questions. how long have you been here? since i got home from school on tuesday. did you see any strangers? just you, but you’re a police officer and i’m not supposed to be afraid of you. is anything missing? daddy’s briefcase. he always has it with him. i couldn’t find it when i came home.

he moves in with his mother’s older sister, his grandparents too advanced in their years to keep up with an energetic little boy. his cousins are nice enough, but they’re young and don’t understand what happened any better than wooseok. they ask him when he’s going to go home; isn’t this just a sleepover? when are auntie and uncle coming? wooseok’s aunt explains that they’re not going to see them again, remember the service? the boy doesn’t know how to understand other than that his parents have abandoned him.

eight years old. his dreams are filled with the color red and the pictures he draws in art class look like something out of a horror movie. they call him creative, praise him for his unique analysis of different subjects in class, and overlook what’s brewing beneath. no one sees it coming when he takes the kitchen knife to the family cat. he says he just wanted to know what it looked like inside. the cat doesn’t make it.

his aunt and uncle look at him differently from then on. they don’t let their children play with him and he hears words that one would use to describe a monster when they talk about him. he checks his reflection obsessively to ensure that he hasn’t sprouted a third eye or is turning green or anything like that. he doesn’t understand that something was wrong.

they send him away after that. a special school for kids like him, they say. he doesn’t get it, not until he arrives and the bigger kids look like they want to crush him and the littler kids look like they want to bite his ankles. wooseok finds himself unafraid. he minds his own business, for the most part, and the staff thinks that his family was crazy to send him here. they see what he draws, the morbid stories he tells that make some vaguely nauseous, but they think he’s just disturbed by the sudden loss of his parents at a young age.

eleven years old. his therapist at the facility tells him that his aunt and uncle surrendered custody of him when they sent him to this group home. he asks why no one ever wants him, and she assures him that it’s not his fault. no one knows what you’ve been though, wooseok darling. we can help you find a new family, if you’d like.

thirteen years old. the old man was a doctor before he retired and lets wooseok read through his anatomy books to satisfy his curiosity of what things look like inside. he shows him models of bones and organs. the boy wants to know what a real bone feels like, and it just so happens that dr. park has a sample. wooseok is fascinated.

the doctor that fosters him doesn’t seem to notice the boy’s obsession with death, thinking that his interest in anatomy comes from a desire to heal, to save lives. he sees a clever young man with steady hands and he teaches him some of the tricks he had learned as a surgeon and encourages him to go to medical school someday.

wooseok finds that he’s worried about disappointing dr. park by wanting to go to art school instead.

eighteen years old. it’s his first human kill. part of him mourns the fact that doctor park had to die, but he had been so adamant that wooseok not go to medical school. you’re not my father anyways, doctor park, the young man thinks, i hope he died as painlessly as you have though. thank you for showing me how to do this.

the good doctor had no other family, and his wealth goes to wooseok. he cries at the service again, and the police can never identify who the murderer was. the death was too clean, there was no suspects or evidence linking anyone to the crime. wooseok indeed was a clever boy.

he goes to art school. they teach him the importance of medium, of how particular you must be when choosing your materials. he says he wants to make a piece paying homage to the human body. the young man he kills is on the soccer team of a different university and wooseok takes his time to dissect and rip the bones from his body. it’s hard work, and his professors admire the arrangement of the final sculpture and believe the materials are that of an animal instead of that missing soccer player.

more killings follow. his sculptural artwork is praised despite the morbidity of the themes he plays with, though there’s still too much red in his drawings and paintings.

he doesn’t finish art school.

[ BEHAVIOR... ]

he’s smart enough to cover his tracks, but there’s a certain naivety to him that gives him the air of innocence. no one would suspect such a charming young man capable of murder. sure, he’s a little off, a little quirky, but what artist isn’t? his eyes light up when he’s talking to others and he’s passionate about his work. he admires passion in others as well, content to see someone go on and on about their interests. he can relate, though last time he tried to share what his hobbies are with others he had to silence her before she screamed too much. he doesn’t find anything sad about death, rather he sees it as an opportunity to make something new out of the deceased. he’s unpredictable and doesn’t often listen to authority, though there’s a part of him that wants to be praised. he’s bright, enthusiastic, a stark contrast from the cold, removed killer he also can be. it’s a study of duality when it comes to kim wooseok, and he’s both sides of the coin.

#mi:accepted #mi:unaffiliated #kim wooseok #wooshin #krp #up10tion

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preserving-ferretbrain · 6 years ago

Text

The Demon's Blah Blah Blah

by Wardog

Wednesday, 01 September 2010

Viorica was right, and Wardog was wrong. Wardog tears into The Demon's Covenant.~

The Demon’s Covenant is the sequel to The Demon’s Lexicon, which I reviewed

here

, and very much enjoyed. I sometimes suspect that being liked is a mixed blessing at Ferretbrain as all it does is prepare for the way for a crushing disappointment, and I was, indeed, disappointed by The Demon’s Covenant. I’m vaguely suspicious that I might have read a different book to the rest of the internet, because every single other review I’ve seen has been full of love and squee, and I won’t deny that The Demon’s Covenant is full of Brennan’s usual charm, but it’s also extremely self-indulgent and does very little beyond set up the third book.

It reminded me most strongly of Harry Potter and The Goblet of Fire – not because there’s any real similarity between the texts themselves but because, at the point book IV came out, I was still a stalwart Harry Potter fan and, although I was surprised at the sudden jump in length compared to the third book, I decided to forgive the book its obvious flaws because I was so into the Harry Potter world. Of course by the time the fifth book came out it was clear that no amount of engagement in the text could save the series from what it had become: an undisciplined, unedited mess. The Demon’s Covenant is NOT Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire but compared to the tight plotting and exciting twists of the first book it might as well be.

In essence, nothing happens in The Demon’s Covenant until the final thirty pages. The story opens some time after the end of The Demon’s Lexicon, with Mae trying to get her normal life back, when she discovers Jamie is in contact with the Magicians. Needless to say she calls in Nick and Alan and that’s basically it until the very end of the novel when there’s a big fight between The Goblin Market and the Magicians’ Circles. Yes there’s some politicking, with Jamie being passed about like the magical McGuffin he so clearly is, and Alan does another one of his trademark manipulative switcheroos, but largely there is a lot of “stuff” in the story but not much to make it a coherent narrative.

Part of the problem, I suppose, is the natural move from novelty to familiarity that affects every sequel. There is no sense of discovery here, only further information about the people and places and concepts that were introduced to us in The Demon’s Lexicon, information which largely serves to render these things less interesting, rather than the reverse. Also the “Is Alan going to betray Nick” dance is performed a second time, although less effectively because the answer is self-evidently either “NO NEVER!” or “Probably not in the second book”. And I do recognise it’s meant to be about character not action but as much I like the characters I still felt the amount of time given over to their delineation was excessive, and the degree of detail borderline obsessive.

For example, part of the book consists of extracts from Alan’s father’s journal, charting his son’s attachment to the young demon and his own developing relationship with Nick. It a chilling, and heartbreaking account (“when I drew the blanket back, Alan was sleeping with one arm curled around the monster. In his other hand was an enchanted knife”) and yet also completely unnecessary. It doesn’t tell us anything we don’t already know, and it has to be bunged awkwardly into the narrative by having Mae read it aloud to Nick, who cannot read well when he’s emotionally distressed. Since the story is entirely told from Mae’s point of view, she spends a lot of time acting like Harry Potter with his invisibility cloak so she can be in on the right scenes for the sake of the reader. Furthermore, Alan’s father writes like a teenage girl with an LJ and literary pretentions, rather than a grief-stricken ordinary man, beset on all sides by enemies:

My blood ran heavy and cold through my veins, as if terror could turn me to stone, and I tried not to think of what bloody game or dark purpose the demon might intend for my son. That night I went upstairs with an enchanted knife in my hand and stood over the cradle. Drowning hadn’t worked, but this knife had the strongest spells the Goblin Market knew laid on it. The nightlight was on, casting a pattern of cheerful rabbits on the opposite wall. It [that’s the demon not the nightlight] lay sleeping in a pool light, but even sleeping it doesn’t look like a child. Not quite. I stood there sweating, the hilt of the knife turning slick my grasp. Then from the door, I heard Alan say, “Dad?” I turned and saw him looking at me, and the knife, and the demon. My little boy’s face went so pale it seemed translucent. He looked like the tired old ghost of a child long dead.

I know the effectiveness of first person narration depends largely on reader being willing to suspend disbelief, but there was something so self-consciously dramatised about Alan’s father’s journal that it consistently detached me from the story it was telling. I also suspect there’s a difference in a narrative being in the first person from the outset – you know it is not literally a journal any more than an epistolary novel is literally an exchange of letters – and a first person narrative being included in the body of the text as a found item, in which case basic plausibility demands that it sounds at least a little bit like what it’s supposed to be. And I’m honestly not sure what the journal of guy protecting a crazy magician ex-girlfriend and her demon spawn at the cost of his own son’s life and future happiness would sound like (Number of times tried to kill demon today: 7 –v. bad) but as much as I like the line “He looked like the tired old ghost of a child long dead” it just struck me as far too constructed to support the ‘reality’ of the journal as a journal.

Although I’m away I’m whinging here, and I have to say, I didn’t like The Demon’s Covenant, Brennan is a talented writer. She has a lot of wit and style, and I genuinely enjoy the experience of reading her, even if, in this instance, I didn’t actually like the book. Although I’d kind of reached information-overload on the emotional and psychological intricacies of the characters by the midpoint, I do have a degree of fondness for Nick, who is just as hot, ruthless, confused and genuinely entertaining as ever:

She glared at the back of Nick’s head and said, furious and irrational, “You could have danced with him at the club.” “I could have,” Nick said. “There were kids from school there. He gets hassled enough. Anyway, I don’t really dance for pleasure much.” “Uh – so you, uh, dance professionally, or what?” Seb asked. “Yeah,” said Nick. “The ballet is my passion.”

And I think I like Mae. She is strong, and compassionate and smart, and pretty much everything one would want in a female heroine, while still being flawed and human and making mistakes. The tone of the book is much more emotional than The Demon’s Lexicon, as one would expect now the point of view is not rooted in Nick, and perhaps Mae’s natural insight and interest in the people around her is partially responsible for the amount of time spent dwelling on the minutiae of character. But there was also a part of me that couldn’t shake the conviction that big advantage of Mae’s point of view for the author is that it liberates her to spend a lot of time describing hot dudes being manly and self-sacrificing at each other.

“Oh Nick,” he said in a soft, amazing voice. “No.” He limped the few steps towards his brother, then reached out. A shiver ran all the way through Nick, as if he was a spooked animal about to bolt, but he didn’t bolt. Alan’s hand settled on the back of his brother’s neck, and Nick bowed his head a little more and let him do it.

Just shag already!

Although I got through The Demon’s Covenant with my appreciation for Nick and Mae relatively unscathed, the same could not be said for Jamie and Alan. Jamie, at least, has stopped wearing purple and being fabulous, but the quirky charm I found reasonably endearing last book has paled through overuse to the point at which I find him genuinely grating. Again, this is probably completely unfair of me but from the fragments of Brennan’s LJ I have read here and there, his style and general approach to life is so reminiscent of hers that he’s evolving into some kind of gay Mary Sue:

“I can cook better than you,” Nick corrected absently. “I think monkeys can probably be taught to cook better than you.” “I’d like to have a monkey that cooked for me,” said Jamie. “I would pay him in bananas. His name would be Alphonse.”

Also I find his vulnerability when combined with his homosexuality bothersome. I know he’s a powerful magician, but he’s also sweet and forgiving to the extreme, subject to crazy crushes on unsuitable people (I mean he does kick off the books by canoodling with an incubus which naturally gives him a demon mark) and squeamish about violence. Couple this with a tendency to make a fool of himself in public and an inability to hold his drink and you’ve got a character so mind bogglingly pathetic I would be up in arms if she was a girl. Perhaps it is a symptom of my own internalised prejudice that I see these qualities as feminising but it’s less about Jamie being girly than the fact he is very much ‘other’ to the rest of the men in the text. I suppose I should probably just be relieved he’s not Magnus Bane but the implicit association of homosexuality with a ‘different’ set of virtues to those of straight men was not exactly comfortable for me.

And then there’s Alan. Oh dear. He was my favourite character in the first book, because he was unexpected, a supposedly “nice” guy, as cold and ruthless, in his way, as the demon he guards. However, in The Demon’s Covenant, his presentation seems to have moved into a space that is less interestingly ambiguous than completely unfocused. I skimmed a few reviews out there on the Internet at large and the general feeling is largely Squee!Alan. His fucked up, loveless life and his unrequited love for Mae seems to be winning him the pity vote. However, I found him icky, icky, icky and although that’s not a problem per se I couldn’t work to what extent I was meant to find him icky, icky, icky. The love triangle between Mae, Alan and Nick established in the first book is continued, or rather repeated, with little development. Alan is still in lurve with Mae, Mae still fancies the pants off Nick, Nick seems to feel some sort of reciprocal desire for Mae but obviously is supposedly incapable of love … and therefore thinks she should be with Alan, partially because he knows he can’t do the human emotions thing but also because he’d do anything, give up anything, for Alan, and if Alan wants Mae than Nick will probably do whatever it takes to ensure he gets her.

I don’t know if we’re meant to find this creepy and objectifying but it fucking well is, not least because it isn’t presented as a demon treating a human being as a trinket, but because everyone else in the book – including Mae – believe she’d be better off with Alan. And it’s annoying that Mae, who is a smart girl most of the time and managed to navigate the love triangle with some dignity intact last book, ends up in precisely the same mess this book – grinding with Nick while he’s pissed off with Alan until the point Alan interrupts them and Looks Sad. Get a new hobby, Alan, for God’s sake.

Mae also semi-encourages Alan’s attentions, even though she knows she doesn’t feel much of a spark, basically because she pities him. I know I am not the target market for The Demon’s Covenant but regardless of age and experience: pity is not the foundation of a healthy relationship. Just (wo)man up and tell him you don’t fancy him. Of course, midway through the pity fest, Alan lets rip with this little speech:

"After my dad died, I looked everywhere for someone to love me. I used to sit on the bus and watch people, see if they looked kind, try to make them smile at me. I had a hundred dreams about a hundred different people, loving me." Alan's voice was low, but he didn't falter. He reached out and touched her hair, very gently, pushing it behind her ear, "Of all the girls I ever saw," he said, "I dreamed of you the most.

Again, I know I’m not the target market here, so perhaps I’m more inclined to find things creepy that a teenage audience might find gloriously tragic and romantic but, seriously, if a man ever said that to me I’d run away screaming. Yes, right then, right there, because he clearly has a raging case of

Nice Guy Syndrome

. And guys who guild trip you into going out with them are so dreamy. Not. I’d take the demon anyday, he’s significantly less emotionally maladjusted.

And, this, I suppose was largely my problem with The Demon’s Covenant. I read lots of books for which I am not the market audience – I even enjoyed Twilight until I realised it had no sense of self-irony at all – but the more I read of The Demon’s Covenant, the more I felt the gap. I honestly just don’t get it, and I wonder if there’s just a fundamental disconnect between myself, the author and the world as envisioned by the author. One of the big themes of both books has been self-sacrifice – the brothers, and to a lesser extent Jamie and Mae, are always tumbling over each other to get themselves roundly shafted in the name of protecting the other person. I’m not saying that self-sacrifice is not a powerful device and all that, but it tends to work as a climax, or at the very least as a one-off. When people are constantly sacrificing themselves for each other, it soon loses its impact. I might be pulling justifications out of my arse here, but I also suspect is a trope that gets more play in fandom. Over-used, however, it rapidly degenerates into little more than emotional pornography.

And there’s an uncomfortable moral dimension to it: self-sacrifice, by its very nature, is an act performed in spite of, as much as because of, another person. Needless to say, because of this it tends to be largely non-consensual, which has the weird side-effect of infantalising and disempowering the sacrificee in a deeply unpleasant way. Ultimately every self-sacrifice involves a run-up of double-dealing and deceit, so that the act itself is a massive massive betrayal of trust – trust, that is somehow miraculously restored through the act of self-sacrifice.

To put it another way, mean, Sydney Carton’s sacrifice has nothing to do with Darnay – he does it for Lucie, because he loves her, and because she loves Darnay, and partially because Carton realises he’s wasted his life completely and therefore has little to give to the world, except his sacrifice for a better man. In the world of The Demon’s Covenant, Carton would love Darnay, and therefore trick Lucie into helping him look like he’s betrayed Darnay to allow him to sacrifice himself for Darnay instead.

Self-sacrifice becomes a closed system, in which the keyword seems to be “self” – it’s less about the person you save, than the personal act of saving, catching all the characters in a perpetual game of “I love you more”. Sacrificing yourself for the person you love is ultimately a pretty selfish act – essentially all you’re saying is that if someone has to live on miserably you’d rather it was then. Sacrificing yourself for the happiness of the person you love as Carton does actually has meaning. And, yes, I know, I know, Alan sacrifices himself for someone who isn’t Nick, but it’s basically sacrifice for the sake of sacrifice, and thus as irritating as hell. Of course it doesn’t help that it’s only the second book so most attempted self-sacrifices get derailed, so it seems we’re meant to be enjoying the exquisite anguish without having to actually, y’know, be upset or lose a character.

I guess I’ve been pretty harsh on The Demon’s Covenant. Although I found individual things to like about it, for example the strength of the characterisation, Mae and Nick, witty, lively writing, I can’t really say I enjoyed it. I’m willing to chalk up, largely, to me rather than the book since it seems to be generating rave reviews across the internet. I think maybe I’m just too old and grumpy.Themes:

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Arthur B

at 13:52 on 2010-09-01I know this is absolutely nothing to do with the review, but what the hell is up with the cover?

I mean, seriously. If you ditched the title the cover only conveys four things:

- It takes place in London.

- There is a martial arts smackdown at some point.

- The weather is bad.

- Someone's been dying their hair.

None of which implies a fantasy novel, none of which implies demons, one of which implies pretty much anything I recognise from the review.

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Dan H

at 13:56 on 2010-09-01To be fair, I don't think the cover of a book with demons in it has to have a demon on the front.

Also, the word "Demon" in the title might be considered a clue.

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Arthur B

at 14:01 on 2010-09-01I dunno, "Enter the Dragon" didn't actually have any dragons in it. I think the chances of the book being mistaken for some sort of edgy modern day almost-cyberpunk martial arts thing aren't bad.

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Dan H

at 14:55 on 2010-09-01I really, really think you're reaching here.

Urban fantasy hardly *ever* has anything explicitly supernatural on the cover. You might as well complain that because /The God of Small Things/ has a flower on the cover, people might mistake it for a book about botany.

I'd also point out that this is another argument in favour of the Dark Fantasy section. Otherwise people might accidentally pick up Urban Fantasy books expecting ... umm ... cyberpunk martial arts novels.

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Arthur B

at 15:11 on 2010-09-01Actually I'm taking the piss. :P

Though that flower on GoST is floating down the river which is the allegorical spine of the book.

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http://mary-j-59.livejournal.com/

at 15:50 on 2010-09-01I kind of disagree about Nick's father's diary. It gave me more insight into Alan, and I found the man's progression from extreme hatred into love and protectiveness for Nick rather moving. I also ended up admiring Jamie, who seems braver (morally, I mean) and clearer-eyed than anyone else in the book. He may be a hopeless idealist, but I'm hoping he succeeds in finding a way to use magic for good, not evil. And I'm hoping Seb may be redeemable, in spite of his cowardice. Oh, and Annabelle rocked.

Back to Alan. I think he is creepy, and meant to be creepy, and the insight we get into his childhood explains why. I actually asked Sarah Reese Brennan about this, telling her that I found the prospect of Alan in a relationship scarier even than Nick in the same situation, because Alan is manipulative and profoundly damaged. She said I was right.

My two cents, as always. BTW, did you read "Fire"? I keep asking that!

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Wardog

at 16:32 on 2010-09-01I liked the arc, and I thought it was *interesting* - but I don't think it showed you anything you hadn't already seen, and in a book I personally found bloated with detail, it was simply one step too far. I might have liked it better had the book been generally tighter. Also the style bugegd me, as you know :)

I liked Annabelle, but I found the sudden intrusion of an adult presence a bit disconcerting, especially because of the role she plays. I think the problem with YA is that since they often function on an allegorical as well as literal level, adults strain, and sometimes break, that allegory.

I'm slightly comforted by the fact Alan was intended to come across as horrendously creepy - only slightly comforted, mind you, because that means most of the internet is REALLY SCARING ME now.

Your two cents are always welcome! I read Fire, and I loved it, I must review it :)

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http://mary-j-59.livejournal.com/

at 17:37 on 2010-09-01What you say about adults in YA is interesting. I hadn't quite thought of it that way, and it makes me wonder what people will make of the adults in my story, when/if I get it published. Glad you loved "Fire"! I think she is awesome, and I have to review that one myself.

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Sister Magpie

at 18:43 on 2010-09-01I, too, assumed that Alan was supposed to come across as unhealthy and damaged--and not really in love with Mae, tbh. I thought his late conversation with Mae was supposed to imply that, where she basically realizes that he's just manipulated her this whole time (and not even manipulated her through seduction but through pity) and seems surprised that he doesn't realized just how screwed up it is. I think she says something about how he made it impossible that he would be loved so he wasn't throwing anything away by betraying her. Like for him there was only manipulating her pity for him as someone disabled and loving her unrequitedly. Which was why his relationship with Sin seemed to have the most potential. Her repulsion to his limp made him want his good leg back.

One thing I wonder given your thoughts on Jamie--what did you think of Seb? Did he undercut the bad impressions about Jamie by passing for straight in Mae's eyes for so long?

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Wardog

at 21:16 on 2010-09-01It's possible I haven't quite appreciated the complexity of Alan - or given Brennan enough credit. But I don't think the portrayal is quite clear enough, one way or the other, and that goes beyond interesting ambiguity into slightly over-ambitious or perhaps unfocused characterisation. I mean, like I say, I think there's enough scope to read Alan as endearingly broken (he just needs someone to wuv him), and it seems a lot of people have. Again, I'm probably lying issues of interpretation at Brennan's feet unfairly

And I also read his love for Mae as sincere, although it's still something he's willing to give up or use to further his own ends, which, again I think is more interesting and complicated than straight forward exploitation.

The general feeling of other characters seems to be that Alan is a good guy but, again, perhaps that's just meant to reveal how good he is at concealing what a manipulative wreck he is. I guess I'll see how the third book plays out - and, yes, I will probably read it. Because having started I'll damn well finish.

I guess I would be interested in all these layers if there hadn't been so much to wade through.

I slightly preferred Seb, but then again, he's just another stereotype: The One Who Is Mean To The Out There Gay Because He Is Secretly Gay Himself, Zomg!

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Sister Magpie

at 21:30 on 2010-09-02

True. The reason I didn't consider him to be in love with Mae was really more that it seemed like the series in general, as stated by Mae, was sort of rejecting the idea that teenagers considering dating each other could be true love. Like at one point Mae said something about how nobody's going to "lose her" or whatever if they don't go out with her, they'll just date someone else. So it was kind of making a point of saying that romance at this point was not going to be the main driving force because nobody felt that deeply about anybody (perhaps only yet).

So the way I read the thing with Alan was that yes, he actually did have a crush on her. But once he decided to sacrifice that for Nick (like the self-sacrifice addict) that was what shaped his behavior. Like, if Alan was really hoping to date Mae he wouldn't be making speeches about dreaming about her the most because he's giving up anything like a healthy relationship chance in favor of guilting her and inspiring pity. But I could be totally wrong there. It's quite possible that that speech was Alan's true feelings coming out as a sort of tragic declaration out of hopelessness. As opposed to more of a perverse/bitter put down of himself as an object of pity that he's making work for him.

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http://katsullivan.insanejournal.com/

at 11:18 on 2010-09-07While I agree that Ryves Snr's diary did not read like the journal of a grown man, it's easily explained if you realize that Ryves had been a prose writer or poet before he became a demon huntert.

Again, this is probably completely unfair of me but from the fragments of Brennan’s LJ I have read here and there, his style and general approach to life is so reminiscent of hers that he’s evolving into some kind of gay Mary Sue

I definitely agree that Jamie comes across as authorial self-insert. Whether Brennan did this deliberately or this was subconscious is arguable. I don't think that automatically makes him a Mary Sue.

It's interesting that you found Book 2 so padded because I found it lacking in details about the mythology of the world. I still don't understand how Jamie's power is so dissociated from his free will that a Circle will go as far as to kidnap him to have it?

The reason I didn't consider him to be in love with Mae was really more that it seemed like the series in general, as stated by Mae, was sort of rejecting the idea that teenagers considering dating each other could be true love.

Interesting you should observe that, Magpie because that was definitely the impression I had got all through out the books and I found Mae's discovery that she is in love with Nick at the end of DC extremely profound because the distinction made it clear that it was no casual teenage-type of love that she was professing.

My one grouse with the characters is the lack of demographic diversity. All the main characters are White and this includes the protagonists and antagonists. Sarah Rees Brennan has written a lot of powerful articles about female represenation in stories but the fact is that a quarter of her main cast is female. And this person is also the most magically disempowered one. Her gay presentation, as you noted, is also problematic: Jamie and Seb.

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http://katsullivan.insanejournal.com/

at 11:20 on 2010-09-07I also found the death of Annabelle extremely problematic for the same reason. She reminds me of Spock's mother in the 2009 movie: she appears in the story just long enough for her to have a Meaningful Death for the benefit of her children's own story.

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Sister Magpie

at 21:19 on 2010-09-07

the main characters are White and this includes the protagonists and antagonists.

Except for Sin. Also I would quibble that while Mae is the one non-magical person, she's not exactly disempowered as she's being considered for what seems like a very important job in the magical world.

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http://katsullivan.insanejournal.com/

at 10:12 on 2010-09-08Have fun!

Except for Sin.

*face-palm* Why is it that when the race-fail or gender-fail in a story/TV show/movie is pointed out, the first response you get is almost always: “It can’t be racist if there is one Black/Asian/non-White supporting character in a sea of major White players.”? How does it help the conversation about racism and under-representation in fiction and fictional work (and the way that under-representation spills into real life) if every time the topic is raised, tokenism is used as a defence?

Sin is racially ambiguous – her little sister is described as blonde in the first book. She is also a peripheral player until hopefully the third book which is written from her PoV. (This may still not make her a major player, just the narrator.) Apart from all these things, Sin is still one character amongst White characters like: Mae, Nick, Alan and Jamie, Gerald, Black Arthur, Olivia, Sebastian, the female leader of the other Magician’s Circle (whose name I can’t recall), and Merris Cromwell.

Also I would quibble that while Mae is the one non-magical person, she's not exactly disempowered as she's being considered for what seems like a very important job in the magical world.

A job that can go to either Mae or Sin. So that’s two women fighting for a position of power (or a White woman making a power play for a Black woman's own position of power), which is far better than two women fighting for a man, but still two women fighting for one point of significance! As opposed to the men who get to be fought over for being uniquely powerful snowflakes.

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Dan H

at 13:38 on 2010-09-08

How does it help the conversation about racism and under-representation in fiction and fictional work (and the way that under-representation spills into real life) if every time the topic is raised, tokenism is used as a defence?

To be fair, I don't think Sister Magpie was trying to present a defence so much as a clarification. I could be wrong but I didn't read her comment as dismissing your concerns, just highlighting that rather containing exactly zero non-white characters, the book in fact contains exactly one.

I'd also agree (although I haven't actually read the book) that "least magically powerful" is not necessarily the same as "disempowered".

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Sister Magpie

at 15:22 on 2010-09-08

Why is it that when the race-fail or gender-fail in a story/TV show/movie is pointed out, the first response you get is almost always: “It can’t be racist if there is one Black/Asian/non-White supporting character in a sea of major White players.”?

Dan is right, I didn't say anything about how it couldn't be racist because there was one non-white supporting character. I just corrected the statement that there wasn't one single main character who wasn't white, and who I considered at least as important as the villains. She's not racially ambiguous, I believe she says flat out what her background is and it's biracial. I thought it was just giving a neutral fact.

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Leia

at 09:52 on 2010-09-09I think what Kat is saying and I agree is that nitpicking about supporting character Sin's race just derails the discussion about race and gender representation. And, for the record, I didn't know Sin was biracial until I read the comments.

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Arthur B

at 10:27 on 2010-09-09I think it depends on how the nitpicking's done. Pointing out Sin's race but emphasising that this doesn't really change the situation because Sin is arguably only there for reasons of tokenism is different from pointing out Sin's race and dismissing the argument entirely.

Ultimately, it doesn't help to let factual inaccuracies stand unquestioned because people have this tendency to say "Well, this one thing you said isn't actually correct, so I'm going to dismiss your entire argument". If the nitpicking is done with a view to strengthening and supporting the general point that's a bit different to nitpicking done to rip the argument apart.

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Sister Magpie

at 15:01 on 2010-09-09

I think what Kat is saying and I agree is that nitpicking about supporting character Sin's race just derails the discussion about race and gender representation. And, for the record, I didn't know Sin was biracial until I read the comments.

And I just didn't see how it could be derailing a discussion to correct something that I figured was an oversight. It didn't even seem like nitpicking to me.

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Dan H

at 15:13 on 2010-09-09I think the thing is that "correcting errors" is often used as a derailing tactic - while I don't think that was your intent in this case, people do tend to fixate on minor factual-level quibbles in this sort of discussion which isn't *necessarily* helpful.

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Sister Magpie

at 15:24 on 2010-09-09

I think the thing is that "correcting errors" is often used as a derailing tactic - while I don't think that was your intent in this case, people do tend to fixate on minor factual-level quibbles in this sort of discussion which isn't *necessarily* helpful.

True. Though in this case it seemed like the opposite to me, that you don't want to make it sound like it's important that there are absolutely no non-white characters anywhere when there is one. That just leaves you open to actual derailing in the future or accusations that you just erased the one non-white character.

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Arthur B

at 15:40 on 2010-09-09I think it's like I said earlier - it really depends on whether you are correcting the mistake in order to derail the argument, or correcting the mistake in order to tighten up the argument against precisely that sort of derailing attempt. And the thing is, people do the former

far

more than they do the latter, so even though I think Kat jumped to conclusions in interpreting your original comment I think it's a completely understandable jump.

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Leia

at 15:41 on 2010-09-09Maybe that wasn't the intention but the fact is that so far, all the discussion has been about a supporting character's ambiguos biracialness and there has been NO discussion about SRB's choice to make

all

the four main characters and

all

the principal villains white. Kat's point about Mae's mother's fridging has also been completely unaddressed. Whatever Sister Magpie's intention was, bringing up Sin's

ambiguosly presented

race has shifted the discussion from this.

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Arthur B

at 16:07 on 2010-09-09To be fair I think the discussion very swiftly shifted from Sin's race to the subject of derailing itself as it relates to this conversation, and the fact that this particular point doesn't actually change Kat's point.

In fact, I think more or less everyone has declared that they actually agree with Kat's point. Which, er, leaves us with nothing to discuss.

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Sister Magpie

at 16:15 on 2010-09-09

Maybe that wasn't the intention but the fact is that so far, all the discussion has been about a supporting character's ambiguos biracialness and there has been NO discussion about SRB's choice to make all the four main characters and all the principal villains white. Kat's point about Mae's mother's fridging has also been completely unaddressed. Whatever Sister Magpie's intention was, bringing up Sin's ambiguosly presented race has shifted the discussion from this.

Yes, they are all white. But it still seems a bit sneaky to complain about everyone discussing Sin's race (which hasn't really been what people are talking about) while making an argument twice, once in bold-faced, about Sin's race with the implication that this will be the last word on the subject.

Sin refers to herself as a dark-skinned girl, Mae has a moment of awkwardness about not wanting to say something racist in response, and then Sin says that her mother was Welsh and her father's family was from the Carribean originally. I do not think this absolves the book of any and all accusations of race, sexuality or gender fail. But it didn't read as ambiguous to me.

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Sister Magpie

at 16:18 on 2010-09-09p.s. Looking back on my original comment I can see how just saying "Except Sin" could read as a gotcha, like I was saying, "Um, except SIN! Who totally pwns your argument!" That was one of those times where how something sounds in your head doesn't come across on the page. In my head it was meant to be more, "Right, except Sin everyone is white."

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http://mary-j-59.livejournal.com/

at 03:16 on 2010-09-11It was absolutely clear to me that Sin is a girl of color. Because this is set in England, it didn't especially bother me that all the other main characters are white. After all, one of the chief main characters isn't even human! But I did find Annabelle's death problematic, and can't quite put my finger on why. What I said to Sarah Rees Brennan in a recent q and a session was that she runs off with her fencing foils to help in the fight, and we are never shown that the buttons are removed. Everyone else has sharps. Sarah Rees Brennan responded that the buttons had indeed been removed, but she didn't feel it necessary to show it. So - really, I guess my problem is that Annabelle was a pretty awesome character, but she existed (as a powerful and capable woman) primarily to die. And that does bug me a bit.

OTOH, the scene between Nick and Mae in the aftermath was really, really well-done.

My two cents! (again.)

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Leia

at 05:45 on 2010-09-11

Because this is set in England, it didn't especially bother me that all the other main characters are white.

*sighs* Which is why it's never *just* a story for people who don't have the privilege to assume their race is default. If your impression of England's demography is based on SRB's fantasy monochromatic England, it's not surprising you can make a statement like that.

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Arthur B

at 16:32 on 2010-09-11And in London, for that matter! Notable statistics are

here

. Note that this actually implies that London is more racially diverse than parts of the US.

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Dan H

at 17:36 on 2010-09-11

If your impression of England's demography is based on SRB's fantasy monochromatic England, it's not surprising you can make a statement like that.

Yeah, I was a bit confused by that as well.

I think this is one of the subtler and more pernicious forms of stereotyping, it's very easy to get into the habit of seeing ethnic diversity as something which only exists in America in the twentieth century - certainly I suspect that a lot of the reason most fantasy settings are so full of white people is that most people really believe that there *were* no dark-skinned people in Europe in the middle ages.

It's rather peculiar to see somebody applying the same logic to the country I live in - it's one of those things that encourages one to examine one's preconceptions.

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Wardog

at 18:00 on 2010-09-11I'm pretty sure there are black people in England ...

Also I'm pretty sure nobody was trying to derail or racefail here.

To be honest, I find Sin genuinely problematic as a character; she does, in fact, seem there largely to fill the "except Sin" role, and I find her sexualised exoticism a bit, err, dodgy when she is the ONLY non-white character in the book. I mean I know we all like the idea of hot black women dancing around but ... y'know ... it's especially problematic, I think, because the gypsy/other feel to the Goblin Market.

Also the whole "hey, the person I have raised to take over this might be rubbish at it so let's call in the inherently talented white girl" plot is a bit icky.

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at 18:43 on 2010-09-11Aw, I wasn’t quick enough. I’m a chronic lurker here, but I was going to come out of hiding to point out that England is an *incredibly* diverse society! (I have spent far less time in Wales or Scotland and so don’t feel comfortable generalizing, but I do know there are people of color in those areas as well.) Just taking into account people from the Anglosphere/Commonwealth who emigrate or are educated there takes in huge swathes of Asia, Africa, the Caribbean, and so on, not to mention the generations of non-Anglo-Saxons who are born there, or people not from the Commonwealth/English-speaking nations.

I would not necessarily attribute not knowing that to Mary’s (alleged?) race, though. There are plenty of non-white people who think that the UK is wall-to-wall whiteness. I’ve found myself unable to persuade one or two of my own relatives to visit it, due to that belief and the complex attitudes and nervousness bound up in it. Possibly this comes from them not being exposed present-day UK media or whatever, I don’t know.

For the record, I am very lukewarm about both books in the “Demon’s” series. I am going to take a bit of a departure from consensus here, though. And I’m going to be a be anti-Barthian and resurrect The Author, at least for the duration of this post: I agree with Kat’s points in terms of literature as a general body, but I’m not sure I agree with them as regards this particular book, on the subject of race. Aside: I’m glad someone above clarified above that Annabelle being “fridged” was not just a matter of killing off a female character, but that the character existed, basically, *only* to die. I’m on board with that point.

In terms of race (and I speak *only* for my individual self — I’m a black, U.S. woman, and speaking with, I guess, middle-class and Western privilege) I’ve found that I much prefer to *not* see people like me in the books of authors who might not be able to pull it off properly. I’m not keen on the idea of reading practice-run depictions of people like me in the works of authors who are just learning how. It’s upsetting, not entertaining, and it’s gotten more upsetting as I get older and more exposed to subtler types of fail. If I’m going to be misrepresented, I would rather not be included at all, thanks, and I would devote my energies to getting more diverse authors out there and telling their own stories instead.

Therefore if a white Irish/British girl (I believe she has Welsh family? Not sure) wants to write about a bunch of white Irish/British people, I am not going to have a problem with this. This is absolutely NOT to say that everyone should be restricted to writing only about people exactly like themselves — they should not, that would be horrible, and boring, and would diminish the quality of literature in general. But if something is going to be done, it needs to be done excellently, for my satisfaction. It should not be done to check off a list, and believe me, I can tell. And to be blunt, there are more than enough diverse depictions of white people in existence that one or two newbie authors’ screwups will not affect how they are perceived and treated in the real world very much. A white (read male, straight, cis, et cetera also in here, as applicable) character gets to be much more of a blank slate, un-prejudged. Screwing up a character of color feeds into far larger and more pervasive existing stereotyping, prejudice, and bad press. And, to narrow it way down, it affects how people respond to me, for real, in the actual world.

Now, I like Brennan’s blog, and the voice that she uses in it. I have also read and enjoyed her Harry Potter fanfiction. However, there were several things in her fanfiction that pinged me, as a black person, in an unpleasant way. One thing that struck me particularly was a definite sense of Hermione’s hair (large, bushy, frizzy, curly, et cetera — hey, kinda like mine come to think of it, and I know of readers of Rowling’s original work who thought that canon Hermione was actually intended to be biracial due to descriptions of her hair) being unattractive and somewhat mockable, and looking better when controlled with potions or other means of straightening. This in contrast to Draco’s (blond, fine, very pale, described as “the impossible color of childhood” in very romantic passages), mentioned in nearly every description of the character, and even treated as his one beauty when characters have called him less than handsome (Veelas think he is one of them, but wonder if he has had a disfiguring facial accident).

There were also characters she wrote about quite often that I did not know were black characters until I found myself sucked in by a Wiki one day and saw the pictures of the actors portraying them...because...I am more familiar with her fanfiction than I am with the actual Harry Potter-verse. (Yeah, it’s weird, I know, I know. I’m not a fan of those books). There were mentions of Blaise Zabini being black and attractive, but the one time I can recall that involved any detailed description of the character cited his “sleek black hair falling over his face” or similar. Now believe me, I’m well aware there are many people identifying as black with a wide variety of non-chemically induced hair textures; it would be very hard for me to have missed this. But “sleek” and “smooth” remain the only hair textures that get mentioned as attractive: I believe she referred to Ginny’s hair as both pretty and curly, but I was still bothered by the overall emphasis on sleek textures, even on a black character, while the one character’s hair that I empathized with was made fun of.

I don’t exactly hold this against the author. Fanfiction is, to me, a learning workshop, and for at least some of this time period she was a teenager. And much of the more flowery prose, I think, attributable to the fact Draco was the general fetish object of most fanficcers writing at that time; his particular characteristics would therefore be the ones that got lauded and raised above other people’s. And Brennan gets points for outright calling him point-blank unattractive to the viewpoint character(s) in a few stories. Variety!

The thing is, when you put something in writing it doesn’t go away. Even though all official sources of Brennan’s fanfic have been removed from the Internet, it’s still possible to find these examples with a perfunctory Google. How much more indelible would it be if a problematic depiction found their way into a mainstream-published work?

And I certainly don’t see how including a non-white villain would improve this.

I do not know the reasons Brennan neglected to include more non-white characters — it is entirely possible that she could write some quite well at this stage, without including the things that irked me in her fanfiction. I’d like that. I don’t know if she consciously felt she couldn’t, or if it did not occur to her, or if she just plans to do more of it later. But I would rather wait for her to do it at a point in her writing life when she can do it excellently, and I can read it un-irked. I guess I’ll wait and see how she describes Sin’s hair.

And now I’m going to contradict myself — with the books set in London, it’s WEIRD not to see more diverse ethnicities running about even in the background. Lots of times people tend to hang out with people of their own group, and that could explain the main cast, sort of. But there is a distinct lack of background color in this book, and not just in terms of people — I did not get much sense of place in any aspect. Not seeing a variety of people just *being there* is a mischaracterization, I think.

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at 19:48 on 2010-09-11

Not seeing a variety of people just *being there* is a mischaracterization, I think.

That should read "not EVEN seeing a variety of people just being there..." or "Not seeing a variety of people EVEN just being there"... etc. The way it reads above seems like I'm saying people of color *should* be relegated to just "being there," when in fact I'm trying to say that "being there" is a bare minimum, especially for a city like London.

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Shim

at 13:08 on 2010-09-12@Cammalot:

I suppose one difficulty with having a varied background cast is that it's quite difficult to do subtly, because unless you highlight people's appearance (or names, but that can get a bit stereotypey) readers will probably still assume they're white. In fact, it may be especially difficult with lower-tier characters (identifiable individuals who aren't significant characters, your "Angry Commuter" and "Girl in Café" types) because they probably wouldn't merit much description in the normal run of things, and if you start highlighting their ethnicity it might seem rather heavy-handed. For crowd scenes and the like you can at least imply variety.

I'm not saying that's a get-out, mind.

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http://katsullivan.insanejournal.com/

at 11:58 on 2010-09-13@cammalot: I remember reading Hermione as a Black girl, too. For all her faults, Rowling did

start

at least by making Hogwarts casually multi-racial: the Parvati twins, Lee Johnson, Dean Thomas, Cho Chang... Of course in the end, the people that really counted were White. Maybe the silky-haired Blaise thing in SRB’s fanfiction was a call-back from the time the whole of fandom thought he was an Italian girl?

@Kyra Smith:

To be honest, I find Sin genuinely problematic as a character; she does, in fact, seem there largely to fill the "except Sin" role, and I find her sexualised exoticism a bit, err, dodgy when she is the ONLY non-white character in the book. Also the whole "hey, the person I have raised to take over this might be rubbish at it so let's call in the inherently talented white girl" plot is a bit icky.

THIS. Perhaps if Sin wasn’t the ONLY non-white character. But as it is, it’s so many kinds of problematic. And maybe it’s too simplistic a solution, but rather than insert the token non-White character with all the common prejudices (comic relief Asian best friend, exotic biracial dancer), how about making one of the ‘default’ characters non-White? What’s wrong with Mae and Jamie being siblings with Indian ancestry? Or Dan Ryves and Black Arthur being, pun not intended, Black?

@SisterMagpie:

p.s. Looking back on my original comment I can see how just saying "Except Sin" could read as a gotcha, like I was saying, "Um, except SIN! Who totally pwns your argument!"

Yeah, that was the vibe I got.

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http://mary-j-59.livejournal.com/

at 15:56 on 2010-09-13Um - sorry. I have lived in England, and am aware that it is racially and culturally diverse - and also that it's probably far more so now than when I lived there as a child, thirty years ago. I didn't mean that the way it sounded. What I meant was: is it always automatically racist if a white person writes about her own culture? If so, why?

That said, I think can seem more racist to have a token person of color than to have no person of color at all. And Sin does seem to be the token person of color. But -

1. Sin is going to narrate/be the viewpoint character for the third book. Before making judgements about her as a character, I'd like to see how Sarah Rees Brennan pulls this off. I, for one, liked Mae a lot better in "Covenant" than I had in "Lexicon".

2. And I repeat that Alan is creepy, and is meant to be creepy. So I do think, Kyra, that you're not giving Sarah Rees Brennan enough credit. But we can't tell for sure until we have the last book in hand. Heaven knows I gave JKR far too much credit! But everything I've heard from SRB reassures me that I'm not making the same mistake twice.

Which is not to say they are great, great books. They aren't on the level of Michelle Paver or Catherine Fisher or Kristin Cashore. But they are smart and fun and seem to me (so far, at least) to have a pretty solid moral core. I may be wrong, but I am willing to wait and see.

That said, the big problem I had with "Covenant" was Annabelle. I've got dead mother figures in my story, too, but there is a difference between a character's dying during a story and a character's existing solely to die. Annabelle exists solely to die, after having been a nonentity in the first book and a large part of the second, and that does bother me.

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Arthur B

at 16:26 on 2010-09-13

What I meant was: is it always automatically racist if a white person writes about her own culture? If so, why?

The thing is, the hairs on the back of my neck stand to attention when folk start talking about white people's culture, because they're usually referring to one of two things:

1: The mainstream culture of the UK, or the US, or some other country which is thought of as a "white" country. The problem here is that, whilst the mainstream culture of white-majority places is obviously going to be largely influenced by the majority (that being why it's mainstream), you can't simplify that to "mainstream culture = white culture" - if you do that, you're saying people who aren't white basically can't be part of mainstream culture, which by definition is marginalising.

2: An exclusive culture which belongs solely to white people and which folk who aren't white can't participate in or understand. The thing is, when people get enthused about celebrating that sort of thing, it's usually because they're Nazis of some persuasion or another.

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at 23:37 on 2010-09-13

Maybe the silky-haired Blaise thing in SRB’s fanfiction was a call-back from the time the whole of fandom thought he was an Italian girl?

It’s possible. It didn’t seem to be a spoofy usage to me, though, and it was written well after Zabini’s identity was clarified. (SRB had a clever, funnier throwaway sequence in an earlier-written piece, about Zabini changing genders with the full moon.) And again, these were all relatively tiny things taken in isolation. They just had a cumulative effect on me. And her work is still, overall, a pretty freaking stellar example of Harry Potter fic.

I do wonder, and I ask this with no belligerence whatsoever, but genuine curiosity — would Lexicon and Convenant have worked better if SRB had simply not included a “token” person of color and a “token” gay person? (I’m using the quotes because the tokenism might be disproved in the third book.) If Sin and Jamie weren’t in there, would we have noticed an absence? (Hmm. I guess we would have, since there would have been even fewer female characters.)

What I meant was: is it always automatically racist if a white person writes about her own culture? If so, why?

I have a lot of contradictory feelings on this subject, all of which are extremely subjective and reflect FAR more of “what I would personally rather read” than “what should be done in society.”

1. If a white person has to be told to include non-white characters, their heart probably wasn’t in it to begin with, and they likely won’t do the best job. So they are better off writing white characters, and that in and of itself will not offend me. (Especially if the group of characters is small — e.g. involving a family or similar.) They need to write what they are enthusiastic about rather than checking off points on a list.

2. It will annoy me no end if the sort of writer above then goes on to write non-white characters half-heartedly (or with stereotypes and cliches) while a minority writer writing on the same topics nowadays will either get paid and publicized less, get marginalized on the store bookshelves, or be instructed by powers that be to shoehorn in white characters in order to be saleable.

3. A white writer who wants to write minority characters should be encouraged to do so. (I didn’t always feel this way, but I do now, strongly.) But I really want to see it done well, and such a writer has to assume the risk that they might not do it well and might be criticized -- and will definitely be more scrutinized as an outsider than a person writing from within the race/culture in question -- and must, well, regard that risk as an invigorating challenge, I guess. That whole “fail better” thing.

An exclusive culture which belongs solely to white people and which folk who aren't white can't participate in or understand. The thing is, when people get enthused about celebrating that sort of thing, it's usually because they're Nazis of some persuasion or another.

Yes. It also posits that white people have one big homogenous culture. (Or that anybody has managed to agree on what “white people” means in the first place.) There’s a difference between writing about “white people [within a larger, diverse culture],” writing about “*a* white culture,” and writing about “white culture” (which, come to think of it, could theoretically be done without white characters, like in postcolonial lit).

But no, I don't think it's automatically racist. I don't think it's a question of anyone being a big old bigot at all, what I'm seeing in this thread isn't an accusation of oooh-you-terrible-racist at anyone, but of leaving out things and people that are there and exist in the world that's being described. There are people in our society who need to see themselves included and represented more. (I'm just wondering how best -- and who is best -- to get that done.)

@ Shimmin: This is very true. I think it was Tobias Buckell recently writing about how if you say things like "bronze skin" people (well, Westerners of all shades) tend to assume you're talking about white skin that has been tanned. Maybe it's better at this point to go bigger with it, especially for minor characters? It's unwieldy to say "The East Asian girl at the corner table," but it might just be what needs to be done. (It bugs me to admit that, too, because I have in the past been very annoyed by descriptions that go "The Asian girl" and think they have actually finished giving an adequate visual.)

I thought China Mieville did a wonderful job using quite obvious names to denote ethnicity in "Un Lun Dun," for example -- and he let the South Asian girl be the heroine to boot. On the other hand, I've found myself, at my age, actually squeeing joyfully at a couple books when I realized the protagonist(s) I'd already made assumptions about were supposed to be dark-skinned. Neil Gaimian managed it in "Anansi Boys," and I think Holly Black pulled it off once by mentioning the color of a character's scars. I felt like I had unlocked a really cool puzzle. :-) And I loved how, in that subtle way, the dark skin was not presented as some sort of deviation from a norm. So I think it's a question of skill, not necessarily method.

All that said, the big problem *I* had with the "Demon's" series was the system of magic felt a bit scattered; I don’t really feel a sense of place; and for a preternaturally emotionless guy, Nick seems to be emoting left and right. (Which for me raises an interesting question — how clueless can you honestly be about human emotions and still manage to always be bitingly quippy? Can you *be * humorous, on purpose, if you don’t have emotions?)

I am tired of bad boys. I was never that fond of them to begin with. I loved Jamie’s saying out loud that whoever he fell in love with would be very nice to him all the time and try to make him happy.

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at 23:37 on 2010-09-13meep! I got very wordy there...

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http://mary-j-59.livejournal.com/

at 02:03 on 2010-09-14I'm glad you did! Basically, I agree with everything you said, except that I haven't (yet) had any major problems with the series - except for the gratuitous offing of Annabelle. And I'd been feeling a bit under attack, though I brought it on myself, I suppose, by writing in haste and when tired.

I do agree with you about Nick, but I think the so-called lack of emotion isn't really such; Nick has lots of emotions. It's just that they are mostly what we would call negative - rage, frustration, etc. But he is capable of what we (or more accurately, I) would call positive emotions, as well. It's going to be interesting to see what happens to him in the final book. At the moment, I'm shipping Nick and Mae, but expecting dead Nick. We'll see.

As far as the system of magic goes, have you read the Bartimaeus Trilogy? It's brilliant, and it almost seems Brennan must have borrowed from it - except that I think she hasn't read those books.

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http://3stan1990.blogspot.com/

at 06:21 on 2010-09-14

Sorry if this is derailing, but katsullivan and cammalot's comments suggests this is the right kind of place to ask these kind of questions. Also, it'll be kind of rambling and will involve a lot of talking about me.

A bit of context: I'm a white, cis, middle class dude from a small Australian town where casual racism, sexism and homophobia was the norm, with a strong white English heritage (my grandparents are Welsh and English and moved here in the seventies). I've been trying to challenge my views and perceptions on race and gender in order to become a better, wiser person.

I'm also an aspiring writer, and I've been trying to work the kinds of things I've learned into my writing. The thing is, I'm not sure if the attitude I'm taking is still just well meaning tokenism.

As an example of what I'm worried about, I have an Indian character (currently nicknamed The Jack, after the video game archetype). Born in India, raised in India, moved to England to study engineering and medicine at the same time, snapped under the pressure, bought a gun, became a mercenary, and is now trying to live up to the 'ultra badass' stereotype. This is intended as a parody of the (as far as I know) Western concept of the Indian nerd (seen in shows like 'The Big Bang Theory' and the movie 'Inception', though Inception plays with the concept a little), as well as a commentary on ultra-badasses in Western media (he'll pull Kirk/Mal/Renegade Shepard style stunts, which will disturb and annoy the other characters). So basically I'm writing a white guy who happens to be Indian. Same with Noiry Thief Dude - he'll act pretty much like a classic Caucasian film noir protagonist, for what I think are perfectly legitimate reasons (analysing the concept of cynicism and the motivations stemming from it), except he just happens to be Japanese.

TL;DR I guess I'm wondering whether or not all my characters being heavily based on Western concepts, despite being from non-Western cultures, is a bad thing.

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Wardog

at 11:29 on 2010-09-14I will second the recommendation of the Bartimaeus Trilogy - I LOVED those.

This is just a general rather rather specific point and apologies if I fail all over it but it was in reference to the tokenism of Jamie and Sin. I never felt Jamie was tokenistic - I thought he was a problematic depiction of a gay person, for me, because his vulnerability seems to go hand-in-hand with his sexuality, but it's obvious SRB is pretty damn interested in him, either as a weird authorial self-insert or because fandom, in general, is very into gay men. I know being "interested" can sometimes be an issue in itself (Jay Lake is clearly "very" interested in Green... altogether now EEEEWWW) but it tends to stave off tokenism. I found Sin much more tokenistic because it seems pretty clear to me that Brennan really isn't interested in the hot black girl, and she's just there to be a contrast to Mae, as well as to demonstrate Mae being friendly with other women to show it's not just about Mae and all the hot men who fancy her.

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Wardog

at 11:31 on 2010-09-14Oh, and I meant to say thanks for taking the time to comment, Cammalot - I've found your take on the book fascinating, and I'm generally just delighted to discover I'm not the only person in the world who doesn't like it! :P

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Dan H

at 13:51 on 2010-09-14

What I meant was: is it always automatically racist if a white person writes about her own culture? If so, why?

I think this is a misleading question for a number of reasons. Firstly, I think getting hung up on questions of what is and is not "racist" is often misleading and distracting. It tends to lead to people getting defensive and turns the whole discussion into one about individual white people. Ironically the more seriously we take race issues, the more sensitive we get about the "danger" of calling a white person a racist.

This touches on what Kat was talking about earlier: if somebody says "hey, anybody else notice how all the important people in this book are white" then a lot of people will respond by saying "OMG HOW DARE YOU CALL MY FAVOURITE WRITER A RACIST" which simply isn't helpful. The question is not "is Sarah Rees Brennan a racist" it's "are people of colour underrepresented in Sarah Rees Brennan's imaginary world". The answer to the first question is "I don't know, but probably a little bit but hell so am I" whereas the answer to the second question is "yes".

Sorry, that was a long and distracting preamble.

To answer your question, the problem here is that talking about "a white person's culture" - as Arthur and Cammalot have pointed out - is actually rather misleading. One of the big important items on the White Privilege Checklist is the fact that your ethnicity *is not* a major part of your cultural identity. Although as Arthur points out, a lot of *extremely racist* people like to argue that this is actually a huge injustice.

Because I am a white person living in a white-dominated country (more generally, because I am a member of my country's ethnic majority) my "culture" is the entire culture of my country. In fact since I'm English, my culture actually includes pretty much the entire English-speaking world. Hell, it arguably includes large parts of the *non* English-speaking world, because my cultural heritage includes amongst other things the British Empire and Christianity.

Because my culture - whether I like it or not - is the dominant one in the English-speaking world I have to accept that my culture *does* include non-white people, and gay people, and for that matter women all of whom have been historically margainalized by my culture and whose contributions *to* that culture have been minimized.

If I write a book about - say - being a student at Oxford and that book contains only white characters (which, to be honest, it probably would) then not only would I be erasing and margainalising non-white Oxford students (of whom there are a great many) I would in fact be *misrepresenting* my actual experiences and therein lies the problem. When a white person presents a fictional setting which ignores or margainalises non-white people, it *is* reflective of a wider cultural tendency to ignore and margainalise non-white people *in general*.

Now from the point of view of an individual text, it might be far better to ignore and margainalize a group than to tokenize, fetishize, or demonize it, but that's a different issue altogether.

To draw a rather peculiar analogy, it's sort of like recycling. I generally recycle all of my rubbish but sometimes I don't, sometimes I will throw plastic bottles in the dustbin. The fact that I recycle 90% of my plastic does not change the fact that the other 10% of the plastic I send to landfill sites contributes to global warming. Even if a person's portrayal of race (or gender, or disability, or whatever) is 90% perfect, it is still possible for the remaining 10% to *actively contribute* to a racist society.

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at 16:43 on 2010-09-14Dan, in spite of saying mine was a misleading question, you answered it here:

Now from the point of view of an individual text, it might be far better to ignore and margainalize a group than to tokenize, fetishize, or demonize it, but that's a different issue altogether.

That's pretty much what I meant (and failed, initially) to say.

But it is interesting that, as far as I can remember, no one considered Sarah Rees Brennan racist when reviewing "The Demon's Lexicon". The issue arose in Kyra's review of "The Demon's Covenant", because Sin really does seem like a token person of color. As I said above, she is to be the narrator in the third book, and I'm reserving judgement on the series as a whole until after I've read the third.

I read "Covenant" a bit differently from Kyra. I thought the main issue was: would Jamie be seduced by Gerald into using his magic? And, if he was, would he be able to find a way to use magic for good, or is it always corrupting? That, to me, was the driving tension of the plot - Jamie's struggle with his magic, and Mae's struggle to protect him from the magicians. And I found it interesting.

Although I feel like I'm dancing around a live wire in even bringing it up again, as a white person, I'd be scared to do what Sarah Rees Brennan is attempting, and to write from the POV of a young woman of color in real, modern-day England. In a fantasy world, it's not so intimidating. But in a real-world setting, I'd be terrified to get it wrong - what do I know about being a person of color in England or America? Being an outsider - yes, I understand that. But what are the limits of imagination? Do I, as a white person, have any right to attempt to write from the viewpoint of a person of color? Especially when there are so many fine writers of color who cannot get the buzz that white writers get? As a writer, I do think I have an obligation to present the world honestly, and that definitely includes having varied casts in my stories. As a reader, I have an obligation to read actively and intelligently. As a librarian, I have an obligation to support and promote good writers of all types, and to aim for diversity on my shelves. I do take my obligations seriously. Sorry if I sound defensive here! As I said, I'm feeling a bit attacked, and I really didn't mean to say anything offensive. I apologize if I have given offense, nonetheless.

But - although I can see where Kyra was coming from in the original post, I do actually like Brennan's books so far. The questions Kyra has raised, and which others here have elaborated on, are good and valid, but, as I've said, I'm waiting to see how she completes her trilogy before judging it. After all, if Rowling had stopped her series with OOTP, I would have been convinced it was a good set of books. Even HBP didn't disabuse me of my love for the books entirely; it took DH to disenchant me and break my heart. It was only after the last book had been finished that I had all the information I needed to judge the series as a whole. I'm still a pretty optimistic reader, I guess, and I'm hoping Brennan won't disappoint me as Rowling did.

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http://cammalot.livejournal.com/

at 17:44 on 2010-09-14

This is kind of what I mean about the magical system not hanging together -- as presented so far, this feels like cheating, to me. I want more clarification as to what the source of emotion is in her mythos, so that the scenes of emoting don't feel so convenient. I don't want "It was inside him all along." That would destroy the 1st book's twist. (Although, if SRB chooses to pull something in the final book like “Alan gave Nick a part of his human soul through being so loving, and changed Nick’s essential nature while they were kids”...I might buy it. I disliked “Lexicon” until the final twist convinced me that there was some real brilliance in it, so I’m willing to hold out. And SRB has earned huge amounts of leeway from me for her depictions of Pansy Parkinson. She rounded out, redeemed, and made pretty feminist a character created to be Rowling's buttmonkey, in my opinion.)

@Kyra: Thanks for clarifying about Jamie and Sin, re: tokenism. Sin is definitely a hard character to get a handle on this time around. (In Lexicon, I found the *majority* of the cast difficult to get a handle on -- their quip-ful conversations really got in my way -- so I hope that’s reason to believe there will be more to Sin in the third volume). I liked Jamie, but 1) a lot of that is because I like SRB, and I *did* see a lot of authorial-insertiness about him (he also has a great many of the qualities of her version of Draco, but with less of the overt strength and anger), and 2) I remember having been an embarrassingly zealous Minority Warrior for gay rights in my early twenties, and have since erred on the side deferring to the more knowledgeable and keeping quiet. I’m also trying to navigate writing gay characters properly in my own fiction, so...yeah. Shutting up and learning from others now. And I will definitely look into this Bartimaeus business. :-)

And that segues into Stan’s post -- this is so very difficult to tell without seeing the writing in question. As I said above: To me, it’s less about topic or method and more about skill of execution. You should have beta readers, and some of them should of the groups you’re dealing with, or as close as possible (and even that *will not be foolproof* for all readers). If you don’t have such betas IRL, get hold of willing and trusted Internet ones. Your heart’s in the right place, but you shouldn’t take chances. There WILL be small but telling things, and you WILL miss them unaided (because what reason would you have had in your life to know them?), and readers from those groups will notice and be annoyed. Betas. Get 'em. But don’t assume that just because a person is from the group(s) in question that they have the time or inclination to educate you. Get someone enthusiastic, and choose carefully and respectfully.

And I agree with everything Daniel just said.

But it is interesting that, as far as I can remember, no one considered Sarah Rees Brennan racist when reviewing "The Demon's Lexicon".

@Mary — I don’t think anyone is calling SRB (or you) a capital-R racist NOW. We’re giving the “R-word” too much power in this conversation now, I think, which is distracting: SRB’s character isn’t the issue. It’s not about attacking any individual -- you or Sarah. But racism permeates our culture, and sometimes it will manifest in us. Privilege also exists and will manifest. This is not something we can help. This doesn’t mean that anybody is an evil, irredeemable person, or that liking the books makes you terrible. (Wanna know something awful? I liked “300.” And that shite was “problematic” up, down, left, right, and backwards. Racist, *heinously* ableist, *laughably* homophobic considering the people it depicted -- all kinds of crap. There now. I’ve ruined my fledgling reputation already. In my shallow defense, I thought the creators were being more tongue-in-cheek than they really were).

But it does mean that we need to be constantly aware and vigilant of the problems and possible problems that exist, and how to deal with them. And I don’t think anyone has written off the upcoming third book. Try to look at this theoretically, not as personal attack?

SRB has proven herself a strong and resilient young woman, and she has lots of support. I think she’ll be fine and can deal with the fact that there are people who take issue with her work (as there are people who will take issue with any work; nothing’s perfect). And you should write what you feel passionate about -- but writing in public is an act of self-exposure and requires bravery.

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Dan H

at 18:47 on 2010-09-14

Wanna know something awful? I liked “300.” And that shite was “problematic” up, down, left, right, and backwards. Racist, *heinously* ableist, *laughably* homophobic considering the people it depicted -- all kinds of crap. There now. I’ve ruined my fledgling reputation already. In my shallow defense, I thought the creators were being more tongue-in-cheek than they really were

I think you have, in fact, ruined your FerretBrain cred forever.

My favourite comments on 300 have been from my Iranian students. Highlights include: "In my country ... we do not have ninjas" and "We remember Xerxes as a great man. He was not a Gay!"

The latter comment highlights another interesting point about this kind of thing, which is that a person can be offended by something while themselves being *quite offensive*.

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http://cammalot.livejournal.com/

at 19:41 on 2010-09-14

I think you have, in fact, ruined your FerretBrain cred forever.

I know, I know. I am duly ashamed.

I was watching it with a bona fide history professor, at midnight, and we sat there going "La la la, swordy things, la la la, loinclothery, la la la, anachronistic rock music, whoo-HOO, half-naked acrobatics, and hey, isn't that the hot skinny demon guy from 'Hex' -- hey wait, did he just diss ATHENIANS for sleeping with boys?" And then it occurred to us that the rest of the theater wasn't reacting the same way, as in, no, that line was not coming across as hypocrisy, it was coming off as "time to giggle at the gay now". And then there were more things (like "holy shit, did they just VALIDATE throwing babies away??"). And then the lack of irony slowly dawned on me. Much too slowly, really. As in, not before I left the theater. Don't know what to say about that, I had thought I was more astute. And then I read the source comic. (I had not been familiar with Frank Miller before.)

I was also overly impressed that the film acknowledged that black people were around and involved in classical antiquity. Except, you know, then the beheadings and Unfortunate Implications and oh god I'm sorry I'm sorry...

(It's all...yeah, I don't know. I especially don't know what to say about the roars of theater laughter when the head flew through the air. This was, um, not a white theater, shall we say. Things are complicated. I think a lot of the audience were appreciating it as though it were a horror movie.)

a person can be offended by something while themselves being *quite offensive*.

Too true. :-)

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Jamie Johnston

at 16:49 on 2010-09-19Just caught up on this discussion. It was interesting! I have nothing to add to it! This comment may be pointless and excessively exclamatory!

Hi to Cammalot & 3stan, neither of whom I've seen around here before (as far as I remember).

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Montavilla

at 20:55 on 2010-09-28Coming to the discussion late, as I am wont to do.

Wow. This is a great discussion about writing different cultures from your own -- whether race, sexual orientation, so on. I really love how honest people are being about difficult it is to approach racial and cultural inclusion.

Long ago and far away, I edited children's reading textbooks and believe me, inclusion was a major consideration. Along with deleting any possible objectionable material, which makes for great stories. True one: I once as a joke scared my supervising editor by suggesting the team names in a story ("red" and "blue") might cause parents to think we were promoting Communism. She nearly fainted.

Anyway, we were tasked with making sure that the depiction of minority/majority race characters matched the current American demographic breakdown: 16% black, 12% Latino, 6% Asian, 2% Native American, 2% physically challenged, 2% "other." Since we were trying to use as much pre-published material as possible (as opposed to commissioned writing), we ended up changing race/gender in many cases. We also specced artwork to include crowds of racially diverse people whenever possible. Then we had to go back and actually count heads in order to justify the inclusion.

It was all very silly and artificial, but it did have the virtue of showing kids a world where not everyone looks the same. And the California State Board of Education eventually got savvier and started demanding that we follow a demographic breakdown of writers and illustrators, instead of making Ramona Quimby Hispanic. :)

As a writer, I do think about trying to include more diversity in characters. But it intimidates me at the same time. My racial heritage is Italian, Filipino, and Spanish-American. But I don't know diddly about any of those cultures, really. For me to write about a Filipina character would be as inauthentic as my writing about an Iranian woman. But I think I have to try. My only other choice is to set everything in a fantasy world where any real world culture doesn't apply. And don't think I haven't thought about it.

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Cammalot

at 17:03 on 2011-07-12RE: The Demon's Surrender, the last book in this trilogy -- Based on the first few bits... I really wish Brennan had been writing from Sin’s POV all along. I’m much more immediately sucked in, this time.

(Heh. She is also

much more obviously black/biracial now

. Thank you, British bookbinder.)

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Kat S

at 09:40 on 2011-07-18@Cammalot: The UK Cover of Surrender with Sin in front bothers me. It bothers me a lot. It is not in the same style at all as the previous two covers. When you line up the books, Surrender is a different size and the spine lettering is arranged differently. They did just about everything possible to make the book about the PoC look like if it was from a different series.

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Cammalot

at 21:03 on 2011-07-18Hmm. It’s food for thought.

I know that there’s been a shift across the board toward more photographic-looking covers (the background skyline still seems similar, though also converted to more photo style, as is the saturated color and the backdrop-to-face size ratio. I don’t have a copy in hand yet, and have refused to buy the US versions. I can’t stand the US covers. Everyone looks stiff and mannequinlike, and Sin is whitewashed. And aged way up).

I can only guess at the rest, though. It’s weird.

I tend to hate it in general when the look of a series changes midway, and it’s been happening more and more lately. Busting out with much-pricier hardcovers to capitalize on a heretofore paperback series’ steady sales, and thus upping the per unit price by almost double, or more than double in some cases, that sort of thing. I’ve begun waiting up to two years for paperbacks to come out in order to have consistency — among them Simon R. Green, Patricia Briggs, and Jim Butcher (Yes I read some fluff. More important, I can wait a very long time to read fluff, there are other piles o’ books on my poor floor waiting for me, I will not be suckered in. ;-D). Similar happened with the “Monster-Ink Tattoo” series, and Patricia Bray’s books went from trade to hc too, I believe.

As I said, I don’t have a copy in hand yet. Have you got the hardcover? Is there a trade paper even out yet? Is your copy larger or smaller than previous?

This complicates things in my mind, but in a weird way. Publishers are driven by the desire to make cash. And they tend to think in very short and direct ways about it. (This cover sold well last week, let’s imitate it fortyfold, right this instant! Or, more annoyingly: This did not sell a million copies instantaneously, let us never do anything like it again! This is exaggeration on my part, but you get me. That last mentality has especially hurt books about girls and people of color.)

The photographic thing is a definite trend right now and supposed to up sales; this, I am sure, is the thinking, from what I’ve observed. (I’m in publishing. Sadly, never in a Big Decider capacity so far.) I’m kind of surprised they didn’t go that route on the first two. That plus the size change (opposite of what I would expect if they were trying play down the non-white angle) might make me think they want to call even more attention to it...so perhaps the previous two were not selling very well? (Based on what I see on chain-store bookshelves here, what’s actually on the floor displays and what’s even kept in stock, I would tend to believe this: I’m not seeing her on the shelves. Her series has to be doing well enough for them to let her try another -- unrelated -- book, but I don’t know that it’s a blockbuster.)

Increasing the size of this last book to hardcover might say to me that sales *are* going well, and they expect to shift just as many twice-the-price hardcover copies as they did cheaper paperback ones, and will likely even re-release previous entries in the series as hardcovers if the sales on this one hold steady. (Jim Butcher had a similar mid-series redesign, and hc versions of older books are being released. Briggs has had the hc re-release without the redesign, possibly because her books started out with semi-realistic pics of people to start with.)

Smaller size, on the other hand, might say they want to lower the price in order to sell more, possibly because the previous ones did not do as well as they’d hoped. (In this case, though, I would not expect them to put a person of color, and a girl, on the front.)

Either way, change says, to me, an attempt to get more attention.

Now, if they specifically want to CAPITALIZE on the non-white angle (as opposed to thinking “Well, this is surefire and will sell either way, so let’s take an easy risk and put a biracial girl on the front” -- I can’t imagine they’re thinking the third option: “Let’s put a person of color on the front and then downplay everything so no one will notice the book to buy it, and also let’s confuse and misdirect existing fans”) -- If they think a larger size and a brown face is going to move more copies or attract new buyers -- well I say go for it. I feel very mercenary about that. I’d like it if there were more of that sort of opinion happening in the States.

All this, of course, with the caveat that I am not British and so can’t claim insider knowledge of what might drive the British/UK publishing mind-set on the issue.

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Kat S

at 15:57 on 2011-07-19The trend of photographic-looking covers was already on-going when the publishers produced the first two books. As for capitalizing on Sin's PoC-ness, they could have done that without completely changing the style of the covers. Frankly, I doubt it. The changes in Demon's Surrender versus the other books is too close to the way "Urban" romances are usually packaged by publishers.

Not sure how I gave the impression that the size was increased to hard-cover. Demon's Surrender is in paper-back.

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Cammalot

at 19:27 on 2011-07-19You wrote:

Surrender is a different size

I couldn't tell from that wording in what way it was different -- bigger or smaller. (Thank you for clarifying.) On the webpage with the cover version we are discussing, Bookdepository.co.uk has it listed as available in a hardcover edition and a paperback. (The hardcover could actually refer to the U.S. edition, but I find the setup ambiguous.)

Yes, the trend towards more photographic covers has been around for a while, but 1. it hasn't been anything near universal even for North American books and would not necessarily have affected any one particular book we could select; 2. it hasn't been pushed quite as much in the U.K. (Google the original British covers for Melissa Marr, Stephanie Meyer, Rachel Caine, and so on); and 3. it is still trending. In my experience, at least for the past decade or so (possibly before that), British books have tended far more towards the artsy covers than towards the more full and/or photorealistic human representation that U.S covers were going for, especially in fantasy. It's still more or less down to editorial/marketing whim, and still doesn't really tell me anything.

That cover is the British version, and I don't know that "Urban" fiction is that big a genre or a draw in Britain. I would posit that it isn't, just because in my experience of the “Urban” genre as it is (euphemistically) defined here, it has been wildly,

intensely

, and kind of annoyingly) U.S.-centric, and because I haven't seen those marketing categories delineated in the U.K. in the same way they are in the U.S.

at all

. They do not divide up their shelves of genres in stores in the same way; particularly, they haven't, in my experience, been separating out "'urban'-aka-'black'-books" from other types of fiction in the way our "African American interest" sections do, but integrate their authors of various colors onto shelves by topic and subject matter, not ethnicity.

But, y'know, I wouldn't swear to it, since I haven't been there since '09. It could be a new thing. They seem to have a thing called

street fiction

. But not much of it expressly delineated as such, and still, the covers...

do not look like that

. Codes and subtexts are not the same for the two markets.

"Surrender's" differences from the previous two are not striking to me. Spine text is not a large enough indicator -- variations in spine text happen frequently with all sorts of series. The face on the cover, though photographic, is positioned in the same place and at a similar angle and size relative to background to the previous two (though more of her face is showing), and like the other two, does not involve her body. The background, though also more photographic, employs the same shading as the second book (indicating a progression of artistic vision, to me). The cracked-letter effect in the cover font is identical on all three, and in the same place. The author blurbs are also positioned in the same place across the board.

(I also think that there's too much fire in the background of "Surrender" [indicating subject matter larger in scope and apocalyptic than the usual plot of the "Urban" stuff I've come in contact with] and not enough of the young woman's breasts are on display, nor is she positioned "tough-ly" enough, for me to mistake if for Urb-Lit or Urb-Rom.)

Sizing also doesn’t tell me much, as it is not unique to this series and is far more often an indicator of either financial concerns (cost of physical paper fluctuates and has been going up for some time now -- some hardcovers have leaped to nearly $27 from $22 in just the past five years and non-genre authors are under a great deal of pressure to keep their novels to 300 pages or less), or perhaps an overall push to make paperback sizes more uniform. A quick Google tells me paperback sizes across the board have been in flux both in the U.S. and the U.K.

since at least around 2008/2009

. (As Brennan’s book hit shelves in mid-2009, most of the plans concerning its manufacture and release would have been well underway anywhere from 2 to 4 years before that, and the size change could easily have simply missed those first two.)

I'm just not seeing the publishers doing "everything possible" to make the book look like some other series. It doesn't exactly match, true, but this is not unique to this series or to books with women of color on them, and it seems to me that many elements were intentionally retained (I'm looking at Amazon UK right now) in order to link this book to its predecessors. I believe a redesign was intentional, yes, but I can easily see this new full-face style as an improvement, and --*if* the books sell well enough to go to a subsequent printing -- I would not be surprised to see the other two altered to match this one.

Further, I haven't seen any big push to masquerade books as more U.S-esque "Urban" style in the U.K., even with those written by actual black British people: See

Katherine Bing

Mike Gayle

, and I'm sure others can be quick-searched. (The Mike Gayle covers have indeed been revamped -- those versions are not the ones I own, so there seems to have been ample time to take him more "Urban," but this is not the direction they went in.)

The two Urb-Rom imprints I worked for didn't have much of a footprint in the U.K. (that is to say, no corporate presence at all, but you can get books nearly anywhere nowadays what with the Internet), but I can only speak to what I know; some British people might have to weigh in on whether or not going "Urban" would be considered an intelligent marketing strategy in the U.K., especially for Y.A. It also does not seem plausible to me that the marketing team would take the very last book of a trilogy and purposefully disguise it as a new genre (especially in a country that genre is not native to or apparently very popular in) in hopes of drawing a whole new audience and abandoning the previous one.

This is not to say that British publishing doesn't have its own problems --

it does

. And I think your concern is valid. But at the moment, in the particular case of this book, I do not share the concern.

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Leia

at 09:28 on 2011-07-20The times I have noticed UK covers make changes, they tend to adapt the US covers. That's what happened with Twilight and the Cassandra Clare books. Spine text is a pretty big indicator when you line up the books side by side. Are there considerably more letters in "Surrender" than in "Covenant"?

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Cammalot

at 17:10 on 2011-07-20

Spine text is a pretty big indicator when you line up the books side by side.

But an indicator of what, exactly? Intentional genre and audience shift and exploitation, or general reconsideration of overall design? Reconsideration of overall design is a given, here; it was publically touted as such. They did in fact reconsider the design, and took it in a different direction -- that's not in dispute.

I'm simply not seeing how it's more likely that the

intent

of that new artistic direction would be to mimic "Urban Lit," a genre for which I have seen no evidence of popularity in the U.K.; a genre which is extremely U.S.-centric and reliant on U.S. tropes, codes, and cultural signifiers; a genre that a great many British blacks (who are predominantly of direct-African and Caribbean descent) would be far less likely to relate to, understand, or drawn to purchase. Nor do I see how it would make sense to hype such a thing in the U.K. Instead of the U.S., or to trust such a thing to generate any hype. (Unless the thinking here is that they’re trying to get the book to fail?)

For my own, personal self, I am very,

extremely

wary and distrustful of overextending/overattributing U.S. mindsets to people it has no reason to apply to. We do this all too often, us Americans (in all our ethnic variety), and it gives us an inaccurate and offensive understanding of other people. I am speaking for myself here, and not assuming U.S-ness in anyone else.

There are a vast number of books being published every year in the UK, many of which go to multiple printings and show an evolution of cover design. A great many of these titles are never even available in the U.S. Often several versions of the cover art remain in print and available simultaneously. (For a very long time, they had both "regular" and "less-embarrassing, grown-up" covers available for the Harry Potter series in the U.K.) Saying that U.K. covers "tend" to adopt U.S. cover design, assigning this to an entire national industry, linking this phenomenon wholly to nothing but some attempt to copy America, is an extremely big and kind of presumptuous stretch, for me. (Not to mention there’s often a lot less “adoption” going on and a great deal more “importing the actual U.S.-produced physical product, because it costs less”.) Maybe for popular Y.A. American authors, they might -- it's far cheaper to “adopt” an existing design, after all, see parenthetical -- but I would hesitate very much to apply that reasoning in this particular case, when the U.S. cover actually features a red-headed white guy in an entirely different art style.

And it still bears noting that U.K. books, particularly in the genres in question, tend to start out more artsy and less photorealistic. (Sometimes they even have wholly different titles. It’s a different market — different things appeal.) I do indeed believe that with this particular book, this move to photorealism is an attempt to mimic the similar U.S. shift toward such trends

in Y.A.

, since these sorts of Y.A. covers have proven themselves more popular (for now) in the U.S. market. That’s business, especially when speaking in terms of specific titles, and it doesn’t always go in one direction either (see the U.S. habitually copying Japanese horror films, or remaking Britcoms, or the fact that we get any translated works here at all — they have to prove popularity at home first). But I'm still not seeing a shift to "Urban Lit" in this particular case, when this specific book by Brennan is not readily available (not without high shipping fees, or secondhand purchase, or knowing about Book Depository’s no-shipping-fees policy — basically, you have to seek this thing out) to the audience that would appreciate or buy Urban Lit.

Sophia McDougall’s (UK, not available in US) books got redesigned mid-series, just in time for the last book of the trilogy to arrive this summer — a much bigger redesign, with no art elements in common with the originals at all. Terry Prachett’s Discworld went through this several times, the UK versions shifting from something that resembled a Benny Hill chase scene to a woodcut-type design. Ian Rankin’s (UK, can’t really find it quite as readily in the US) mystery/crime series underwent a spontaneous size change in or around 2009. Over here, Kelly Armstrong’s latest Y.A. series went from a something with architecture on the front for the first novel to closeups of the lower half of a girl’s face for the second two, and moved from mass market to trade paperback. Octavia Butler’s books got reissued under several different covers; the Patternmaster series that I owned had similar cover designs but a font and paper texture change midway through (less gold-leaf). Then they all got re-released with photos on the covers. This happens with a large number of manga titles in the past few years (money matters, again, as “flipping” manga for Western ease of reading costs more). Ranma 1/2 got size switched (not an improvement, IMO; I stopped buying) without even the excuse of switching to right-to-left reading. Samuel Delany’s “Neveryon” series came out under a redesigned cover quite some years ago, and there has since been a push to re-realease a lot of his older works with covers that resemble those, particularly his literary and social theory. I'm looking at the spine text on Simon E. Green's "Nightside" series (US version) and his "Drood" series, lined up on my shelf, and there is a noticeable spine text shift, particularly on the seventh Nightside one. (I actually think the text shift is very unattractive.) This doesn't, however, say "rebranding" to me. Fans of Green can still read his name very clearly and locate the book, even when only placed spine-out on the shelves. Fans of Jim Butcher were similarly not much deterred when his books stopped looking this way and started looking like this, and then gained nearly an inch in height (and a dollar and change in price).

And if we haven’t seen this happening as much with people of color on the covers, surely we must take into consideration hat getting people of color onto the cover of “mainstream” books has been and still is still a big huge fight, so no, we

wouldn’t

have seen that happening as much, but that was BAD.

Redesigns take place primarily for economic reasons, and the direction those redesigns take come with all sorts of rationales, most of which lead back to “we want more money out of this.” (Unless it’s “We can’t afford to do this anymore, how can we cut corners.” Which is more or less the same thing.) All too often this rush to the cash leads to oversimplified, racist, and other socially problematic decisions, yes. But I am not, in this case, convinced that a British publisher would have any sane reason to cynically target what we know as the “Urban Lit” audience with a book meant for release in the U.K., nor am I convinced it would be a sound financial decision for them. It just doesn’t make any sense to me at all.

I am not willing to outright go: “They don’t have Urban Lit in the United Kingdom, or indeed outside the U.S. much,” but searching for “urban fiction” on Amazon.co.uk gives me this:

http://tinyurl.com/3gjp8oq

An “Urban Lit” search leads off with “urban fantasy/paranormal romance” titles and rounds off with books from America and books on city planning:

http://tinyurl.com/3nd54zn

Searching for “street fiction” gives me this:

http://tinyurl.com/4xf895g

And “street lit”:

http://tinyurl.com/3fvrer4

— again, the one fiction book on that page that fits the bill is an U.S. book. Not even a re-covered Brit version of a U.S. book — the U.S. version. (The major-player publishers of Urban Lit are a very rare thing -- independent publishers -- and they do not have international presence, as I said before. Which is cool, in its way— they haven’t been snapped up by conglomerates.)

And only searching for both together gives me some semblance of the very, extremely US-spawned and US-centric genre that we are speaking of.

The codes and tropes and shorthands are simply not identical. We are both part of the “Anglosphere,” and so the codes and tropes and shorthands are not fully foreign or impenetrable, but they are also not the same.

Now, what’s INSIDE the book is a different matter, and frankly I am filled with a great deal of trepidation about that. But I need to finish it first.

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Cammalot

at 17:17 on 2011-07-20Arrgh. Dropped two links.

Old Jim Butcher:

http://tinyurl.com/3fdjgmy

New Jim Butcher:

http://tinyurl.com/3wfp5sd

And for comparison, Brit Jim Butcher:

http://tinyurl.com/3clzw7s

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Cammalot

at 17:50 on 2011-07-20Completely irrelevant, but eye-catching:

http://www.amazon.fr/Furie-du-Curseur-Jim-Butcher/dp/2352944600/ref=pd_rhf_shvl_2

http://www.amazon.fr/Dossiers-Dresden-F%C3%A9e-dhiver/dp/2811203427/ref=sr_1_5?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1311180535&sr=1-5

(none of these referrings I'm doing should be considered any particular endorsement, by the way)

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Cammalot

at 19:17 on 2011-07-20Last edit for a bit: "and then gained nearly an inch in height (and a dollar and change in price)." should be "nearly half an inch."

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Leia

at 06:31 on 2011-07-21

Saying that U.K. covers "tend" to adopt U.S. cover design, assigning this to an entire national industry, linking this phenomenon wholly to nothing but some attempt to copy America, is an extremely big and kind of presumptuous stretch, for me.

I said the times *I* have noticed... You clearly know more about this than I do. For the record, I'm not a, American or b, inclined to go witch-racist hunting for the fun of it. And maybe you didn't mean it but the tone of your responses is border-line implying that. Bottom line: I don't have a bone in this and I'm just going to bow out of this conversation right now.

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Wardog

at 09:57 on 2011-07-21I'm sure nobody intended to suggest that you were witch-hunting - I think we've just hit on a topic which overlaps with Cammalot's professional experience.

I hadn't given much thought to this at all, to be honest, so I actually found this discussion really interesting. I remember feeling broadly positive about the UK covers of Lexicon and Covenant - I liked the stylised, slightly impressionistic art style for the characters (better for Lexicon than Covenant, though, Nick was very characterful, whereas Mae just looked like a girl with funny coloured hair). But equally I can see why you might have wanted Sin to look more "realistic", otherwise you've got a cover with an artist's impression of a black girl on the front. I think in this instance UK did way better than US, since I believe the US got a pouting pretty boy against an orange explosion? I do think replicates the major features of the previous covers, though - even if the artwork has changed. However, I do agree with Cammalot that the covers have enough stylistic elements in common (positioning, text style, etc) to seem to be recognizably connected to me. I certainly didn't see any attempt to distance Surrender from the other two books, because it has a POC on the front, or to make it look like another "type" of book.

And for the record, I know bugger all about this, so I could be talking out of my arse.

They do not divide up their shelves of genres in stores in the same way; particularly, they haven't, in my experience, been separating out "'urban'-aka-'black'-books" from other types of fiction in the way our "African American interest" sections do, but integrate their authors of various colors onto shelves by topic and subject matter, not ethnicity.

I do most of my book shopping online these days, but I have never seen anything like this in a British bookshop. You occasionally get "hey, read these books about black people!" displays but as a general rule you just get fiction, sci/fi fantasy, comics, crime, classic fiction, romance if you're very lucky and that's about it. The two genre emergences I've seen in the last few years have been "dark fantasy" and "young adult" - and I remember how tiny-mind-blown Arthur was the first time he saw a dark fantasy section in a bookshop. This being so, I can't imagine "urban" taking off any time soon, with relation to either adult or young adult fiction. But, as I say, that's an impression constructed from a position of absolute ignorance.

I haven't read this either, by the way - I am curious though. But it suddenly stopped being available on Kindle. MYSTERY!

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Arthur B

at 10:21 on 2011-07-21I admit to not really going out of my way to look for any, but the only time I've seen an "urban" fiction book in a UK bookshop it's been a lonely novel by 50 Cent crammed into the Crime/Thrillers section.

Oh, and if I'm remembering right it was a US import. I guess they bought it in due to the name recognition or something.

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Cammalot

at 15:04 on 2011-07-21I was in fact trying to be quite careful about assuming anyone else’s nationality when I said

"For my own, personal self, I am very, extremely wary and distrustful of overextending/overattributing U.S. mindsets to people it has no reason to apply to. We do this all too often, us Americans (in all our ethnic variety), and it gives us an inaccurate and offensive understanding of other people. I am speaking for myself here, and not assuming U.S-ness in anyone else."

However, in retrospect, I guess I used some pretty nonstandard grammar and orthography in there. :-)

This topic does ping on... nearly every aspect of me, really: For the record, I am a combo of a few ethnicities of black American; both the U.S. and the U.K. have played large roles in my educational and professional life; and I've worked in publishing for most of my adult life, although I promise to stop that fairly soon; and I have a

serious problem

with Urban Lit. I am never sure how much I can express how very big and angry and depressing a beef I have with Urban Lit without impacting myself professionally, so I do try to keep it vague online. (But this is a fairly anonymous place, I think?)

And I can be a very longwinded pedant. I like to at least attempt to make sure my assertions are covered. I hope I’m not sounding too Minority Warrior. Can I even BE a Minority Warrior when talking about the UK??? :-)

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Sister Magpie

at 18:00 on 2011-07-21

I do think replicates the major features of the previous covers, though - even if the artwork has changed.

FWIW, I would probably be more likely to compare it to the second book in the US version, since that one has Sin on the cover. She's dancing in a ring of fire, iirc.

Oh, and if I'm remembering right it was a US import. I guess they bought it in due to the name recognition or something.

Do you mean this cover is an import? It's not. The UK has different covers than the US versions for all of them (the UK's are better imo)--and I don't think the UK is publishing them for name recognition. It's a first novel series in both markets published at the same time.

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Cammalot

at 18:17 on 2011-07-21I think Arthur meant his Fitty-Cent book was an import. :-)

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Arthur B

at 18:48 on 2011-07-21That's exactly what I was saying. :)

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Sister Magpie

at 20:24 on 2011-07-21Ah! Now that I read it again that's obviously what you were saying. I think I ran several posts together in my head!

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Leia

at 08:29 on 2011-07-22@Cammalot: Sorry for jumping to conclusions there. I think I was projecting a little: just out of a conversation with someone about how the casting of the Prince of Persia wasn't in the least bit racist, at all.. *le sigh*

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Cammalot

at 17:17 on 2011-07-22@Leia -- Not at all, and rereading my thing I just want to make clear that I

think your and Kat’s question is an important thing to think about and ask, and keep asking, even though I don’t think it applies here specifically. There are a host of underlying daily frustrations and problems with publishing as an industry. When I said things like “not logical” I was talking about hypothetical British top-editors and marketers, not you guys.

(Actually I’m making assumptions by saying your question was the same as Kat’s; please correct me if I’m wrong.)

I’m sorry you had to deal with such a ninny. My own feelings on PoP are convoluted, filled with caveats, and pretty tl;dr (this is probably not surprising, by now ;-D), but it’s pretty ridiculous not to concede that they could easily have been much more inclusive.

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Robinson L

at 18:02 on 2012-04-16Warning: extremely long and probably ramble-y comment.

In response to the article, I find it pretty amusing that what

I interpreted

as "cool and intense character development," you interpreted as "nothing happens until the final thirty pages."

I'm also amused that what I read as really sweet fraternal affection between Alan and Nick, you read as blatant slashing.

Dan Ryves' journal struck me as stupid and artificial at first, and I suppose it was mostly just a lot of padding. But I did warm up to it by the end.

I'm ashamed to say I sort of missed Alan's creepiness when I read the book. I might have missed his assholishness too, had Rees Brennan not explicitly pointed it out a few times, as discussed in my review.

By now, I've also read

The Demon's Surrender

, and I think what Rees Brennan did with the Alan/Sin romance was pretty interesting. Granted, there were things about it which bugged the crap out of me (about which more later), but all through the first two books, he's like this untouchable master manipulator who can deceive absolutely anybody. Whereas in the third book, we see that he has limits, and he's not able to deceive people whose life circumstances also require that they be skilled at manipulation. (In this case, the metaphor is that of a performance, because it's from Sin's viewpoint and she's a performer.) The implication to me being that the only way Alan will be able to have a happy functional relationship is if his romantic partner is someone who can see through his subterfuges. Which I think is pretty neat.

I'm pretty sure

Surrender

has a call-back to that creepy line of Alan's: "Of all the girls I ever saw I dreamed of you the most." I don't have the book to hand, but I'm almost certain in

Surrender

, Alan tells Sin that he never dreamed about her because she was too unobtainable. I wish I'd been paying more attention when I read that line, because now I think about it, depending on the context, it could have been a really creepy pedestal line.

I'm so relieved that you liked Mae, though, because I really, really liked her in

Covenant

with Jamie being passed about like the magical McGuffin he so clearly is

I find this interesting in light of the fact that he also reads to you like a self-insert character. I'm trying to figure out what to make of that dynamic.

Interesting analysis of the whole self-sacrifice motif – something else I failed to pick up on at the time.

Re: Annabel

Kat Sullivan: She reminds me of Spock's mother in the 2009 movie: she appears in the story just long enough for her to have a Meaningful Death for the benefit of her children's own story.

Yikes, I wouldn't go that far. I mean, the portrayal of Spock's mother is probably one of my biggest personal irritants from Star Trek|| because she was blatantly there for no reason other than to get stuffed into the fridge and further Spock's storyline. If you took that aspect of her out of the movie, she wouldn't have had any reason for existing in it.

Whereas Annabel, apart from being awesome, had her own nice little character arc, and played a part in other characters' story arcs which went beyond passively providing motivation. You could remove her death from the story and her presence in it would still have meaning and purpose. (To be honest, I didn't pick up on the whole fridging angle until I read this.)

And continuing the theme of Stuff Robinson totally didn't notice until someone pointed it out, the only person of color in the first two books (Sin) is exoticized and a dancer (though not an exotic dancer). And the "let's bring in a white girl to take over instead of her" aspect (ick). I didn't so much mind the "two women vying over leadership of the Market" scenario at the end of this book, but that was partially because I didn't realize what a large role it would play in

The Demon's Surrender

. (To be fair to Rees Brennan, it was significantly less terrible than it might've been, but it still wasn't pretty.)

Cammalot: I’m going to be a be anti-Barthian and resurrect The Author

I'm going out on a tangent to gush about how much I adore this wording; lovely. And only slightly more on-topic, I think in this post-TeXt Factor Season 2 world, citing the Author in this manner is entirely reasonable. (I'm thinking about how much people's perceptions of "The Host" were filtered by the knowledge that it was written by Stephenie Meyer).

Maybe it's better at this point to go bigger with it, especially for minor characters? It's unwieldy to say "The East Asian girl at the corner table," but it might just be what needs to be done.

Maybe so. Unfortunately, this

still

doesn't work if you're trying to write far-future or alternate world speculative fiction (like I am. Still haven't entirely figured out a solution yet).

and for a preternaturally emotionless guy, Nick seems to be emoting left and right. (Which for me raises an interesting question — how clueless can you honestly be about human emotions and still manage to always be bitingly quippy? Can you *be * humorous, on purpose, if you don’t have emotions?)

The part which always strains my suspension of disbelief is how, as a demon who finds human speech difficult, he's incapable of telling a lie, but is completely comfortable dishing out sarcasm. The characters even lampshade it in this book, but Rees Brennan never explains how it's supposed to work.

Kyra: I will second the recommendation of the Bartimaeus Trilogy - I LOVED those.

I'll throw in on this one, too; great trilogy. The more recent installment,

Solomon's Ring

is somewhat weaker, but still very enjoyable, and the title character at least is entertaining as ever.

Dan: The question is not "is Sarah Rees Brennan a racist" it's "are people of colour underrepresented in Sarah Rees Brennan's imaginary world"

Superbly articulated as usual.

Mary J: That, to me, was the driving tension of the plot - Jamie's struggle with his magic, and Mae's struggle to protect him from the magicians. And I found it interesting.

I think that's more-or-less how I related to it, too.

Jamie: Just caught up on this discussion. It was interesting! I have nothing to add to it! This comment may be pointless and excessively exclamatory!

Out of curiosity, were you

trying

to imitate the “Jamie” from the books there? If so: good job!

Cammalot: I can’t stand the US covers. Everyone looks stiff and mannequinlike, and Sin is whitewashed. And aged way up

I read

Covenant

with the US cover and I missed that there was an age-up, but I couldn't for the life of me tell if the character on the cover was supposed to by a whitewashed Sin or a Mae with undyed hair. Answer: whitewashed Sin. Figures.

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Kat S

at 12:08 on 2012-06-25

The whole thing is incredibly colonialist, and indeed functions as a miniature of the colonial narrative: Mae, the rich, white foreigner comes in and revolutionizes a native's land with "superior" organization and technology. But it's all for the better, and the "native" (in this case, Sin) admits that, and eventually comes to support the usurper.

This is an excerpt from a review that pretty much highlighted every issue that I have with this book. The way Sin was portrayed in contrast to Mae sickened me at every turn.

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Wardog

at 12:40 on 2012-06-25I have the third book sitting in my tbr pile and I keep looking at it and making this face:

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http://melaniedavidson.livejournal.com/

at 21:26 on 2012-06-25

...I’ve found that I much prefer to *not* see people like me in the books of authors who might not be able to pull it off properly. I’m not keen on the idea of reading practice-run depictions of people like me in the works of authors who are just learning how. It’s upsetting, not entertaining, and it’s gotten more upsetting as I get older and more exposed to subtler types of fail.

I know this is old (but recently commented-on! Who else watches the recent activity page?), but I feel pretty much the same way. I know there are good arguments on the other side*, but for my personal enjoyment I would MUCH rather read, e.g., a story which "just happens"** not to have any women in it, than one which is horrible and faily with its female characters.

*Like the "token x" thing being in some sense a step forward from an implied "x's just don't fucking exist". I guess I see it as being that they both fail, but in different ways, and it's legitimate for someone to be bothered more by one way than the other. I was going to also say something about it possibly being, for some authors, a step towards

actually

writing non-faily depictions (if they're doing it in good faith, I mean) and that they won't get there if they don't ever try, even if the trying itself can be pretty bad--but you're right; their "practice runs" don't need to be public.

**That's a little sarcastic because I don't really mean that I honestly think it

actually

just sort of happens by pure coincidence that a story is like that, but you see what I mean, right? In-universe there could be a plausible reason or it could be sort of coincidential, like being explicitly set in a single-gender environment, or your example of just small groups of characters which wouldn't necessarily be representative.

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Cammalot

at 01:48 on 2012-06-26

And the "let's bring in a white girl to take over instead of her" aspect (ick). I didn't so much mind the "two women vying over leadership of the Market" scenario at the end of this book, but that was partially because I didn't realize what a large role it would play in The Demon's Surrender. (To be fair to Rees Brennan, it was significantly less terrible than it might've been, but it still wasn't pretty.)

Yeahhhhh... I did not like that at all. I did try to think well of it, as I liked much of what was done with the character beforehand (especially her mixed family, which is something I'm noticing a lot more in London now). But as the story veered more and more in that direction... It's like when you're used to driving on one side of the road, and you go off to a place where they drive on the opposite side, and you're sitting in what your lizard brain can't quite grasp is now the passenger's side, and you find yourself desperately trying to slam on the "brakes" to no avail...

I did NOT want it to go there. And then I hoped it might be going there in a different way... but no.

Also, thank you, Robinson.

@ Melanie -- yes! Ha ha -- this is why I try not to be too harsh on fanfiction. Practice does need to happen. (Of course, I also tend to avoid fanfiction -- some, not all -- so that might not be saying much, on my part.)

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Wardog

at 09:37 on 2012-06-26Hmm... I'm not sure but I think one of the, ah, 'problems' with fanfic is that is not, and should not be perceived, as 'practice' for 'real' writing (sorry for all the scare quotes). I think it's an entirely different entity, written in a different way, with a different purpose, for a different audience. I tend to get a lizard brain effect when I'm reading published books by authors who are influential in (and influenced by) fandom - it's rather like tea from the nutrimatic machine, y'know, almost but completely unlike a book. To be fair to SRB she's made the transition better than others I've experienced (peers at Cassie Clare).

Also I'm not sure if fandom could be sensibly relied upon to be a sensible practice audience - in the post you linked to, there's a response from SRB in which she basically criticises fandom for only being interested in straight (?) white boys.

I guess what I'm trying to say is that I'm not sure it is possible to practice run at these things. I mean if you 'practice' on yourself and your friends you'll just confirm your own prejudices and sit around congratulation yourself on your splendid portrayal of somebody who is not you.

On the other hand, published and be damned and upsetting a bunch of people doesn't seem a legitimate way forward either...

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http://fishinginthemud.livejournal.com/

at 10:19 on 2012-06-26The only thing I can imagine fanfic being good "practice" for might be some technical issue like writing reasonable-sounding dialogue for an established character or setting up a scene. If the tv-writing business were less impenetrable, a lot of fic writers would probably do much better as guest writers on long-running series than they would as novelists.

As far as creating original characters or coming up with plots that haven't been done to death, I think fanfic-writing probably does more harm than good. I think another of Rowling's many crimes is making hackery look easier than it is.

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Wardog

at 10:25 on 2012-06-26Yes! Hackery is a fine old art and should be treated with the respect it deserves! (and I mean that seriously).

Sorry to randomly bring up an old article written by me (!) but I remember trying to read

City of Bones

and being struck by how ... oddly it was constructed. I probably articulated it in a way that would enrage all fanfic writers everywhere but I found even the technicalities of it (the way characterisation worked, the dialogue) noticeably different from original fiction.

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Arthur B

at 10:48 on 2012-06-26Genuine question: could there be a publisher-side role in helping writers get the sort of practice we're talking about without necessarily unleashing harmfully offensive texts on the public? I mean, commercial publication via a publisher is more or less the only place where writers are obliged to hold to any standard other than their own whim; self-publishing and fanfic doesn't really have any filters that an author couldn't bypass when it comes to getting a text to market. If editors took it on themselves to say things like "Are you sure your portrayal of this character isn't problematic for X reasons?" alongside points like "This looks like a typo but I'm not sure what you intended with it" and "Hang on, isn't this a continuity error?" then at least

someone

is flagging areas for improvement before a text is finalised.

Then again, that'd rely on the editors themselves being clued-in sorts who by and large "get it", and the publishers being willing to hold a book back until the author gets it right. And we live in a world where publishers are willing to put out

The Straight Razor Cure

so clearly offensive handling of race isn't enough of a commercial liability to put them off provided that there's a genre audience that's willing to accept it.

So basically bad authorial habits + fandom of enablers = more fail to come. :(

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Sister Magpie

at 15:39 on 2012-06-26It's an interesting question, though isn't it, exactly how bad it is to recognize fanfic styles in an original work? Is it just jarring or actually bad? I mean, the CoB article imo does a great job in pointing out the ways it can be a problem (and I didn't take it as insulting to fanfic, but that's me), but otoh there's probably a lot of things in fanfic that aren't bad when done in original work because people enjoy them in fanfic and will also enjoy them in original fic.

Like the post above, I do think fanfic can be helpful in improving some things--any writing can be good practice. It's just that there are other things it's not going to teach you how to do, and it can also give you bad habits. At least some of the fanfic writers who have gone pro were *very* popular writing fanfic, and while there are a lot of dismissive reasons for why they were popular (right pairings, right friends etc.), I think part of it was that they were often doing things that a lot of fanficcers lack or ignore.

That is, just as one can read a novel and recognize a fanfic style, one can also be reading a fanfic and realize hold on, this person's actually writing fic like an original work, which can be great. Rare, but great.

I'm not even sure that fanfic is always a good starting point for writing for a series, actually. I've never really written much fanfic (I've done Yuletide twice now, but since that's a fest for small fandoms and a couple of the stories I did wouldn't even qualify as fanfic because of the source material), but I've done tie-in novels and I think they rely much more on the standard "pro-fic" model rather than fanfic. Not that one can't crossover--as at least some Star Trek fic authors did, of course. I don't make the distinction that notorious anti-fanfic author Lee Goldberg does b/w tie-ins and fanfic but most fanfic couldn't be a tie-in novel any more than it could be an original novel. When I read the Sarah Monette books they also seemed very heavily influenced by fanfic to me, yet I don't think she's ever written any. (She does read it, though, so it could still be there.)

Basically I'm just wondering about whether fanfic is fundamentally different from any other type of writing that can influence an author. Like, I've noticed that I'll pick up habits from different writing jobs. The magazine that I work for has a very specific style (a fiction style, that is) that I have to remind myself isn't the law.

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http://fishinginthemud.livejournal.com/

at 15:52 on 2012-06-26

Sorry to randomly bring up an old article written by me (!) but I remember trying to read City of Bones and being struck by how ... oddly it was constructed.

Yeah, I was actually thinking of that article. Like you said there, that stupid scene with the boy at the piano would have worked if he had been Draco Malfoy. If you have a reasonable idea of who a character is, or at least the fanon version of him, you can put words in his mouth and make him do things that feel authentic. That's why I think the skills used in fanfic would actually transfer to writing for established tv shows in a way that they absolutely don't transfer to writing novels. It's not that fanfic makes you better at writing original fiction, it's that it makes you better at writing fanfic.

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http://fishinginthemud.livejournal.com/

at 16:00 on 2012-06-26

I've done tie-in novels and I think they rely much more on the standard "pro-fic" model rather than fanfic.

I didn't know that, but that makes sense too. I'm thinking of the few really good tv-based fics I've read where the dialogue sounds like it could have been on the show itself, and I wonder why this person isn't writing for the show. But of course there are other issues involved in tv writing that I don't know anything about.

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Sister Magpie

at 16:11 on 2012-06-26

If you have a reasonable idea of who a character is, or at least the fanon version of him, you can put words in his mouth and make him do things that feel authentic.

Within reason. Because let's not forget that OOC! is a common criticism of fanfic. The Draco Malfoy discovered playing piano is, after all, often referred to as fanon!Draco for a reason. The key is to sit the sweet spot where you're revealing something new about the character that deepens them and feels authentic but also doesn't feel like shifting the gravity of the piece to revolve around how deep they are, or make the audience feel like you're just fangirling that character, which has certainly been known to happen too. If you start doing that you might get the same "it's like fanfic" criticism.

The CoB example, for instance, really brings up the conundrum. The reveal of the piano scene lacks something because it's not actually Draco. But was Draco in HP lacking something because he had no "piano scenes?" (He did have something close to one in the bathroom in HBP, but compared to the fanfic version that scene's cut brutally short and the emotional fallout immediately smothered. I admit I did find the canon version unsatisfying because it didn't follow through emotionally, but a full-out fanfic version would undoubtedly be out of place even without the porn!)

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http://fishinginthemud.livejournal.com/

at 16:48 on 2012-06-26Yeah, the piano scene fits Draco because it calls up the popular conception that he has a lonely inner life and a genuine but somewhat strained connection to his family and his upbringing. I think the suicide mission of HBP fulfills essentially the same purpose. At this point it's arguably moot what anyone thinks is in character for anyone in HP, but back in the day I found fanon!Draco a reasonable interpretation of the character, mostly because there was so little to him that pretty much anything would have fit.

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Cammalot

at 18:53 on 2012-06-26Kyra, I think I really, really need you to read book three. I find myself craving an article on it. :-)

in the post you linked to, there's a response from SRB

Please pardon my dumb -- can you point me to this? I've scrolled through several times and can't find this link.

My opinions on fanfic are complicated and changeable, and affected by the fact that I haven't been involved in it since about 1999, which was a bit pre-Livejournal and pre-Google and was indeed a time when you wrote the fic predominantly for your friends of like mind in "webcircles," and there was, for the longest, just one guy out there called "Minotaur" (now sadly deceased) who had a website "workshop" to teach people (mostly straight girls) how to write (gay) sex. It was not an enlightened time.

I agree that fanfic writing and fiction writing/novel writing are two different things and require significantly different skill sets. (The fanfiction skill set might overlap more with comic-book or television writing. Not necessarily with tie-in novels, as there's often a great deal of backstory creation and filling in internal-thoughtstream and motivational blanks going on there.) And proficiency at one doesn't mean proficiency at the other.

But it also looks to me, from the periphery, that in the fanfiction world of today, especially since the advent of more community-based (and less Geocities-esque) Livejournal-type sites and large fic archive-type places, there is a wider audience for it, more opportunity for feedback from people who don't know you, and more opportunities for education archived in the Wank blogs and fan history wikis and the various "Sue" and other critique (and snark) communities -- especially post Racefail.

So I'm thinking somewhat selfishly that if people are going to screw up, it might be best for them to do it there, under a pseudonym, in a place where I can comfort myself post-rage by saying, "Well, it's an amateur and at least they are not getting paid for this," or more likely, where I can avoid it entirely.

Also I'm not sure if fandom could be sensibly relied upon to be a sensible practice audience -- in the post you linked to, there's a response from SRB in which she basically criticises fandom for only being interested in straight (?) white boys.

I've read far too much critique of poor handling of characters of color in fiction to believe that fandom is [em]only[/em] interested in white boys. People are producing these versions of characters that are getting critiques. Overall, fandom might be [em]predominantly[/em] interested in straight white boys, but that is also true of the world at large (see the debacle over Rue in the Hunger Games). I feel like there is a growing movement to be inclusive and to get it right. Possibly not as large or as fast-growing as it could be. And there are still areas that need a lot more work having awareness raised than others -- awareness of racism far outstrips awareness of ablism, and acceptance of gayness is more prevalent and even more understood than issues of gender fluidity -- but [disclosure] I was born in the early 70s, so a lot of the progress I see around me looks HUGE.

So it might not be the best practice for excellent novel-writing skills, but overall, if done in public, I think it is at least starter practice for not pissing people off by being socially insensitive.

Tangentially, I saw a huge billboard covering the side of a bus for Cassie Claire's "Angel" series two days ago. I felt very resigned.

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Cammalot

at 19:12 on 2012-06-26(Correction -- not pre Google, but it was very new, and I hadn't heard of it when I sort of petered out of fandom. It was all "search.com.")

Oh, and I've got typos in my html. Darn...

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http://melaniedavidson.livejournal.com/

at 20:11 on 2012-06-26

Genuine question: could there be a publisher-side role in helping writers get the sort of practice we're talking about without necessarily unleashing harmfully offensive texts on the public?

That is more or less what I was thinking of when I said it didn't need to be public, actually--it is at least the publisher's/editor's job to make sure the book is up to standards and ready to be published (as opposed to it

not

being the job of all [insert group here] everywhere to have to educate authors about how not to fail miserably when writing about [insert group here]). But that's thinking ideally (well, sort of ideally--

ideally

the problem wouldn't exist!) and the practical problems are as you said.

Yeah, it does seem that with fanfic there is a bit less distance between author and audience and possibly therefore a better chance that they will actually see that type of criticism (because it's more likely to be in the same actual community they're part of), either about their own work or about someone else's (as sometimes you see something someone

else

has done criticized and go, "oh shit, I've done that, too, time to stop").

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Cammalot

at 20:29 on 2012-06-26

Genuine question: could there be a publisher-side role in helping writers get the sort of practice we're talking about without necessarily unleashing harmfully offensive texts on the public?

I wonder about this a great deal.

On one hand, yes, they should. On the other, A) the primary goal of publishing corporations (maybe not academic presses, but they're included, to an extent) is to make money -- to find the hit that will appeal to large numbers of people and make the cash so they can stay in business, and B) the publishing industry seem to be very homogenous, to me -- a lot of the individual editors mean *very* well but might not *know* what they're looking for in order to correct it. I spent more of my time in magazines than in books, and so I'm sure my viewpoint is limited in that way, but I have also spent time as the Only Black in the Village attempting damage control at relatively late stages in the production process pointing out things that simply did not occur to my white colleagues. Also C) the people who are doing the hands-on selection of books aren't the corporate bigwigs who actually make the decisions that stick.

I have to sort that out in my head some more.

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Cammalot

at 20:46 on 2012-06-26(I forgot to disclaim I'm talking about the U.S., and the east coast U.S., for that matter.)

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Robinson L

at 22:02 on 2012-06-26You're welcome, Cammalot; I greatly appreciate getting your viewpoint on the issues on this thread.

Cammalot: Kyra, I think I really, really need you to read book three. I find myself craving an article on it. :-)

I'd like that, too. I've read

The Demon's Surrender

and I'd really like to see - and take part in - a discussion about it. I don't feel motivated to write a review myself (although I suppose I'm somewhat open to being badgered into it).

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Cammalot

at 02:38 on 2012-06-27*puppy eyes at Kyra*

CRIKEY. That was supposed to be "critique of poor handling of characters of color in "FANfiction." You know, I truly did do a preview...my screen is small... my dog ate my keyboard...

#Ferretbrain #The Demon’s Lexicon #The Demon's Covenant #Wardog #Sarah Rees Brennan

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