There has been no one brighter than you; I have been waiting

When Kim Possible starts doing Queer Eye parodies, I know my life is complete.

There was no impossible project this year, for a variety of reasons (primary of which being that I forgot).

So, I give you an addendum to Dead Inside, in which Blaine is irritable, Aya is violent, and Silverlock is mildly put-upon; it ends with Silverlock getting laid, but then, most things do.

S'too long and too talky, but I don't care; I need to write something self indulgent and fluffy for these two, or I'll start cutting myself.
------------------------

"So, want a bite of my sandwich?" Silverlock raised an eyebrow suggestively, and alighted upon one of the many cushions scattered across the floor.

Blaine gave him a withering glare. "I wish I could remove your jaw so you could never voice any of your bad pickup lines ever again."

"I was actually just asking if you wanted to share my lunch. It's declicious." He frowned. "You're not going through one of those not-eating phases again, are you? Foxbird worries about you, and for that matter, so do I."

"Don't think that being concerned for my wellfare means we're on speaking terms."

"You're speaking to me now, aren't you?"

"No, I'm glaring at you. Subtle difference."

"Fine. Continue to be a pissy bitch."

"Works for me. And you can continue screwing that tacky cross dimensional whore."

"Is that what this is about? You're jealous?" Blaine didn't answer. Silverlock hissed angrily and threw up his arms. "I cannot believe you. You've nothing to be jealous of- he's a decent lay for an amateur, but he's obsessed with the water mage. It's cute, actually. Why is he different from any of the others?"

"For starters? None of the other people you've screwed around with were trying to take over the world."

"Oh, please. You're just mad because I didn't try to take over the world with you."

"And if I am?"

"Then you're more of a fool than I've ever given you credit for." The viciousness in his own voice surprised him.

Blaine glared. Silverlock glared back and chewed sullenly on his sandwich. They sat in stony silence.

A shadow fell over the two of them which, given that they were sitting in a dimly lit ballroom, was mildly alarming. They looked up. Ayanna DeLavrey looked down. Then she grabbed them both by the hair and cracked their skulls together.

"Ow!"

"Fuck!"

"You have no idea how long I've been wanting to do that. None."

"Thank you, General, that side of my head hasn't been subjected to a headache in quite a long time."

"You're welcome. I'd be more than happy to do it again- perhaps you'd like to switch places, so I can get the other side?"

"Really not necessary, milady. Perhaps next time, should you attempt to fix problems that are none of your business, you will think about using something other than brute force?"

"Shut up, priest. There is a closet over there." She pointed, and a door appeared in the wall. "If I must, I will lock the two of you in it until one of you dies or the both of you have sex. If that is not sufficient threat, then I will ask the one with the eyebrows to give you relationship advice- or I will tell the tall one you need couples therapy." Behind her, someone had given Ventislava a drink, and she'd begun to sing the songs of her native country. The Patchwork King looked pained.

"You wouldn't." Silverlock glanced over to Lydia, who was talking animatedly to Aislin.

"Try me. If you think I cannot convince those over eager children to be helpful, you are sadly mistaken. I'm sure even the angsty one would be willing to beat the two of you over the head with her stick." She crossed her arms and nodded once, with an air of finality. "You have ten minutes. Then it's either the closet or the therapist- but if you'd prefer to work your problems out with my sword, I'm sure that could be arranged as well."

Blaine hid his face in his hands as she stalked away. "This day keeps getting better."

"Oh, come on, it's not that bad. I'll admit, being threatened by Aya is never exactly a good thing, but Dekar and Sharecht have been stopped, all those shiny holy artifacts have been returned, your little minions have recovered their souls-"

"My little minions have; what about yours?"

"Hm, noticed that, did you? He's around, somewhere; I'm sure he'll turn up eventually. Anyway, as I was saying, you should be rather pleased with today, all things considered. And look!" He tore his sandwich in half and held it out to Blaine, "Free lunch!"

"There's no such thing." Blaine took the sandwich anyway. "And your transparent attempts to put me in a better mood will not succeed."

"Of course they will. They already have. See, you're smiling."

"I'm smiling because this sandwich is fucking delicious," he said, speaking with his mouth full.

"Whatever you say, my dear."

Blaine rolled his eyes. Silverlock nudged him with his shoulder, and the two of them sat and ate in somewhat companionable silence.

"Don't think this means I'm no longer angry," Blaine said, when the sandwich was nothing more than a delicious memory and a few scattered crumbs.

"Oh, don't worry. I've no illusions about that." Silverlock smiled serenly and licked the crumbs from his fingers in a way that probably broke obscenity laws in at least three countries.

Blaine looked at him suspiciously. "Then why are you smiling?"

"Because, as you so eloquently put it, this sandwich is fucking delicious. Definitely worth not taking over the world for, I think. And two other things." He grinned and raised two fingers. "One, our ten minutes are almost up, and I think you're as interested in listening to Lydia's psychobabble as I am, and you probably find Ventislava's eyebrows at least as frightening as I do, if not more. And two," he leaned towards Blaine ever so slightly and lowered his voice. "I like you when you're angry. You're...creative when you're angry."

Blaine's gaze drifted to the closet. The corner of his mouth twitched. "You." He covered his mouth and made a snrrking noise. "You are..."

"Completely incorrigible? Unbearably sexy?"

"Endearingly predictable." Blaine snickered. "Among other things."

Silverlock smirked. "I prefer to think of it as being consistent. Would you care to elaborate on those other things a bit?"

"Not in public." He was laughing outright.

"Then by all means." He stood and tugged Blaine to his feet. "Let's get out of here before we get locked in a closet. We can go somewhere and see about...relieving...your anger."

Blaine, still laughing, allowed himself to be led. "I'm going to regret this, you know."

"Nonsense. If you're going to regret something, don't do it. But if you're going to do something," Silverlock snapped his fingers, opening a gate in the air. "Don't regret it. This world is too brief for such things."

"So it is." Their eyes met, and for the first time in quite a while, neither of them was glaring.

They stepped through the gate, and it snapped shut behind them.

------------------
DRIVEL

Blaine: Shut up and gimme a sammich.
Silverlock: 'K. Does this mean we can have sex again?
Blaine: You're bribing me with food? And it's working? ...damnit.
Silverlock: ^__^

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


...MORE DRIVEL (some time later):

"Da!" Foxbird burst through the door of Templar's Rest, dragging a terrified young man with her. "Oh, good, the two of you are done being idiots. Took you long enough."

Blaine glared at her; Silverlock looked pleased with himself. Foxbird rolled her eyes in response to both of them. "Da, this is Tim. Tim, this is my father, and that's his willfull but incredibly talented concubine."

"What?"

"Hey!"

She continued, ignoring them. "Da, I'm adopting Tim. This way, Silverlock can stop whinging about wanting grandchildren, and you can stop looking paranoid every time I talk to someone with a dick."

They both gaped at her. Blaine recovered first. "Little bird, you are, at best, four years older than him. I really don't think you can adopt him."

She shrugged. "It's not like you're that much older than I am. And someone needs to take care of him. Look." She poked him. He squeaked, and tried to hide behind himself. "I can keep him as a pet, if nothing else. Anyway. We're off on patrol, so don't do anything stupid like stop talking to each other again."

And with that, she dragged Tim away.

"Concubine? I was a professional, not some fucking party favor," Silverlock snarled.

"And your professionalism has served you so very well here, hasn't it? You got yourself an office building. Very professional."

"Oh, fuck you."

"Hm." Blaine nonchalantly poured himself some more water. "I suppose that could be arranged."

Silverlock leaned back in his chair and looked inordinately smug.

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

FATALITY

I suck at writing endings. O WELLZ.

Song Post: Toggle soundtrack, part 1

Some songs, just 'cuz I keep meaning to get around to doing a song post on LJ an haven't gotten around to getting my music together.

First five are all calls because of the lyrics, and because they're songs I kind of adore; the rest are just appropriate in other ways.

Blaine to Silverlock, when they're being functional:
Johnny Clegg- Dela
("Well, if I were the insecure one in this relationship, I'm sure I'd feel much happier about my place in the universe. Too bad I'm not- but I do appreciate the sentiment." "Oh, shut up.")

Blaine and Silverlock, at the end
World/Inferno Friendship Society- The Brother of the Mayor of Bridgewater
("Fuck growing old." "I'll drink to that."

Silverlock to Blaine, when they're being retarded
Panic at the Disco- Lying is the Most Fun a Girl Can Have With Her Clothes On
("I would like to object to the heteronormative tendencies that keep cropping up in your song calls." "And what, exactly, do you mean by that?" "Bend over and I'll show you.")

Silverlock, Blaine, and Foxbird
Voxtrot- Rise Up In the Dirt
("Question! How the hell was I supposed to grow up normal with the two of you for parental figures?")

Silverlock and Foxbird
The Cardigans- I Need Some Fine Wine, And You, You Need to Be Nicer
("You are an asshole." "It's one of my more redeeming qualities, actually.")

The Shrive
+4DB- Rook
("Life is pennance. We live a very long time.")

Aya
Masterplan- Spirit Never Dies
("You wouldn't think it, but greatswords are excellent for practicing air guitar on.")

Blaine, and the Temple
Moby- God Moving Over the Face of the Water
(instrumental)

And, because it entertains me:
Harbard
String Quartet Tribute- Hungry Like the Wolf
("What? I have a fast metabolism.")

Toggle history things: Third Era

Toggle's Second Era is actually my oldest piece of fantasy- Radrezyne and the King's Elite have existed in my head in some incarnation or other since I was about six. Of course, their names and characters were all completely different then, but I have a problem with abandoning stories and characters- no matter how stupid and derivative they are, I just can't do it.

The First Era is pretty old, too; Rianna DeLavrey's first incarnation showed up when I was ten or eleven, and I think the Rift and the Dragonstaff Princes are a little older. I am, sadly, too attached to these bits of derivative fantasy to put them to rest and move on. (I think part of me is afraid I'll never come up with anything original again, so I cling to what little I have, storing them up against that inevitable day when I run out of ideas.)

The Third Era, though- the Third Era was my most directly derivative storyline, and also the one that started to show the most influence from all the anime and video game fanfic I was reading at the time. It's still a story I'd actually like to write at some point, because I'm terribly fond of the main characters- but I have very little idea of what's going on in it, beyond the main characters having wacky hijinx.

After the Second Era, the Godhead was split with the opening of Rianna's Tower; Radrezyne kept half of it and and became the God-Empress of the eastern half of the continent. Her story directly affects Stella Matin in the Fourth Era, but for the rest of the Third Era, Radrezaria isn't all that important. A lot of awful shit happens, but it calms down pretty quickly. (The only really important thing is that she marries the exiled prince of Izalia, one Jarrek DeLavrey. By the time the Fourth Era swings around, no one remembers his name- just his title, the Dragonlord. (Razhia and Drazhene have the most screwed up genealogies everaaaahahaha.))

The other half of the Godhead went to an elf named Tybarra Ridelaine, who spent about a day as a goddess before she got sick of it. She split her piece of the godhead into six elementals- earth, fire, water, air, life, and death. Then Ty and her girlfriend wandered off into the cosmos, happily ever after. (Alright, yes, fine, okay, all of my characters are gay. Whatever. >_< Tybarra's girlfriend was the Lady DeLavrey of her generation, though she didn't realize it for a while. They're also really cute together.)

The six elementals became the patrons of various areas of the western half of the continent; Celesia, the White Lady, became the patron deity of Shaivhen; the Kraken (the physical elementals all have real names, beyond their titles, but they haven't told me them) took Akvaria and the Akvarian Ocean; the Wyrm took Tarmish and the Wild Woods; the Wyvern took the Reichen Mountains and Murundcar; the Salamander took the deserts in the south (which were part of Radrezaria), most of the southeastern coast, and Dzyrach; Adarial, the Dark Lady, took the Ikatian peninsula and all the northern nomadic tribes. Everything was cool and stuff until Adarial decided that, in addition to presiding over the domain of death, she was also the personification of betrayal.

Edrana Niceeraea Coralin was a shaman of the Ikatai; the position is hereditary, and she came from a long line of powerful and distinguished shamans. Adarial chose her to be Her Avatar on the material plane. Edrana had no choice in the matter, and found herself undergoing a series of upsetting and uncomfortable transformations into various forms of undead. After being a zombie, a vampire, a wight, a ghost, a nightwalker, and a shade, she finally descended to lich-queen and rampaged across the Ikatian peninsula, turning whole tribes into armies of hungry undead as she went.

(...should she and Theron ever meet, I'm rather convinced they'd fall madly in love.)

The plan was for Edrana to conquer the rest of the continent in Adarial's name, gathering souls and power for Adarial. Meanwhile, Adarial would use the boost in power to tear open the Rift and release seven of the Greater Demons of the first era- creatures so horrific and destructive, the creator put them to sleep at the very bottom of the Rift and charged the rest of the monsters with keeping them there.

The other five elementals weren't about to let this happen, so they raised Avatars of their own. Celesia chose the youngest prince of the Rothish royal family, Prince Siegfried al Rothcar. Ziggy was a scholar and a geek and was kind of gay for his best friend, and was, in general, not at all suited to be a warrior for Good and Light and things like that. But then Edrana's army of undead sacked the city (Shaivhen gets sacked a lot. Like, constantly. It's a thing.) and slaughtered the rest of the royal family. Celesia downloaded fantastic combat skills into his head, turning him into the greatest warrior of the age, but all Ziggy wants to do with himself is read books and raise hawks.

The Kraken picked a sea elf whose name is utterly unpronounceable; everyone calls him Blue. Blue was assigned a position as a border guard, because he had an upsetting tendency to go berserk at inopportune moments and bite people's faces off. The Kraken thought it was hilarious. Most of the time, though, Blue was a nice guy with a slightly quirky and morbid sense of humor.

The Wyvern's Avatar was a windrider named Redea Stormcry; windriders are basically avian humanoids- wings and talons and beaky noses. Redea was something like a princess and something like a shaman/warleader; she had a sunny disposition and a mean right hook, and an eidetic memory.

The Salamander picked a Gathare shaman named Deryll; the Gathare are usually called desert ravens, though they look a lot more like Disney's gargoyles than anything else. Daryl was an albino and an exceptionally powerful shaman among his people, but he doesn't speak much to non-Gathare. He's a bit of a snob.

The Wyrm's Avatar was Joradi Deethanas, a bobcat type malestri. The elves in the Third Era were less actively fascist than in the Second Era, but they were still in the process of slaughtering all the other sentient forest dwelling species. It was a territorial thing- the cities were encroaching on the forests, so the malestri and lesser fae agreed to give up the borderlands and retreat deeper into the woods. The elves, however, were having none of this; they allowed the refugees beyond their borders, and then executed them. After that, the elves started expanding their borders and invade what parts of the woods the malestri and lesser fae still inhabited.

Most malestri are bound to the forest; they're lesser elementals of a sort, and favored children of the Wyrm. Jora, however, wanted nothing to do with living in trees- so she hightailed it out of there and went to live in Tarmish, where she joined the Thieves Guild and caused mayhem wherever she went. She was the first Citywalker among the malestri, and her existence paved the way for the grand experiment that led to Foxbird, Harbard, and Sharecht being abandoned in Shaivhen in the Fourth Era.

The five Avatars eventually take down Edrana; they can't kill her, though, so Celesia breaks Adarial's control over her and de-undead-ifies her. She joins up with the other Avatars, and they seal Adarial away. Then the six of them get put to sleep until they are needed again.

Cut to a few hundred years in the future: the world is full of peace and happiness, the Radrezarians have gone isolationist, the Gathare and the windriders have been slaughtered and hunted nearly out of existence, along with the malestri and the lesser fae, Dzyrach has become a breeding ground for political insurrectionists, Tarmish is ruled by gangs and undercity guilds, Akvaria is destroyed by a hurricane, and Shaivhen has been taken over by a bizarre religious cult that preaches bigotry and the sacrifice of intelligent creatures to appease its made-up gods. The Elementals finally realize something isn't right, and they wake up their Avatars to fix things.

Shennanigans ensue (by which I mean plot and epic battles and religious politics, and all those other things I suck at writing), and Rianna's Tower gets opened. The Elementals are sucked in, chewed up, and spat out as the Thousand Little Gods. All six of the Avatars die in the process (even though I really want Edrana to live forever; she shows up in several other stories of mine because I adore her so much), and the Fourth Era begins out of the wreckage of the Third.

Sometimes, in the dark corners of my mind, I like to call the Avatars the Planeteers. They get really upset with me when I do that. But anyway. The basic plotline and a lot of the minor characters and locations in the Third Era are lifted from Dennis L McKiernan's The Eye of the Hunter, which is a most excellent book.

I don't have any other characters for the Third Era, beyond a few elves and maybe a cultist or two; someday I'll sit down and start plotting, but that day is not likely to be any time soon.

stupid vampire story

Dunno why the feed's been spazzing- I may take the feed offline for a while, but I'll give the two of you who read this on a semi-regular basis a heads up before I do that.

And now, a stupid vampire fragment.
-----------------
The Frost and Monthly Building was quiet at this time of night- it was too early for any of the real clients to be up and about, and too late for any of the daytime stragglers to be around. Toby was probably the only person on the ground floor, and he was stuck behind the reception desk until midnight.

He tilted his chair back as far as it would go and propped his bare feet up on the desk. Evening secretary duty sucked, and he'd be damned if he stuck to dress code at this time of night. He was wearing jeans with holes in the knees and an eye searing Hawaiian shirt, unbuttoned, over a black t-shirt.

At least he had a chance to catch up on his Tetris playing; Martin had beaten his high score last week. The tinny music of his gameboy drowned out the soft sounds of the lobby fountain and covered up the faint noise of the doors hissing open.

Someone cleared their throat. Toby very deliberately paused his game and set it down on the desk before looking up. A man in a finely tailored suit stood at the desk, holding a briefcase in front of him.

Toby raised an eyebrow at him. "Well aren't you exceptionally well dressed." He swung his feet off the desk and sat up in his chair. "What can Frost and Monthly do for you today?"

"I have an appointment with Mr. Frost." His voice buzzed pleasantly in Toby's ear, somewhere between a growl and a purr.

Toby pulled flipped through the datebook. "Yeah? Which one? No- just tell me your name, that'll be easier."

"Prufrock. Owen Prufrock, representing J. Prufrock and Sons, attourneys at law." He pulled a business card out of his jacket and placed it carefully on the desk, then settled back with both hands clasped around the handle of his briefcase.

"Prufrock? No wonder you're well dressed." Toby grinned, baring his fangs. "Says here you're meeting with Noah- third floor, office on the right. He'll be expecting you."

"Ah." Owen tilted his head slightly. "And you are?"

His grin widened, and his pupils lengthened into slits. "No one important, really. You can call me Toby." He settled back in his chair and put his feet up again. "Better hurry along. Mr. Frost doesn't like to be kept waiting."

Owen kept his expression controlled, but Toby could hear his heartrate skyrocket. "Of course. Thank you for your assistance."

"Pleasure's all mine." Toby waited until the man was on the elevator to snicker madly into his Gameboy. Sometimes evening secretary duty was awesome. Prufrock hadn't made a move on them in years- and if this was their opening gambit, things were bound to get interesting around the office again.

It was almost midnight when the elevator doors opened again; Owen Prufrock strode out, with his tie slightly askew. He made eye contact with Toby as he wound his way through the night shift crowds in the lobby, and smiled.

Toby smiled back. He couldn't wait to hear all about this one from Noah; life around the office had been so very boring lately.

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

The Frost siblings:
January (Jane)
February (Aubrey)
March (Martin)
April
May
June
July (Jules)
August (Gus)
September (Beryl)
October (Toby)
November (Noah)
December (Daisy)

The Frost Family is a bunch of eccentric vampires and demonologists; the Prufrock family is mostly vampires and supplicants. (The natural state of a Frost sibling is human but weird- Toby's an anomaly; the natural state of a Prufrock child is vampire and bitchy.)

Toby was an accidental vampire in the Boffo universe, and Dei's roommate for a little while. Then he picked up eleven siblings and became Anya and Leto's genius programmer friend in DDD. Now he's insisting on staying a vampire and going to law school- only he's dragged his whole family into the mess too. And since I've been introduced to Angel, I seem to have acquired a bunch of warring vampire lawyer clans in my head.

Toby is also an adorable, twinky redhead with freckles and a lot of eyebrow piercings. I think he thinks he's punk, or something, but really, he isn't. He's mostly just cute and twinky and ambiguously gay.

Owen is the guy my iPod is named after. And as far as I can tell, he isn't a vampire, yet- it's possible he's still just a paralegal, and hasn't been promoted in the family yet. Solneki also seems to think they're related- distant cousins of some sort. My opinion on this is that not only does Solneki not need a last name, but he also doesn't need to invade every single bloody universe in my head.

Naturally, he and Mordant disagree. *sigh*

These guys may exist in their own universe; Boffo's vampires are all solitary creatures, not prone to developing clans or families. If I put them in Song of Shadows, there's a chance Von, Cata, and Ari'i would run into them in court, and as hilarious as that would be, it probably wouldn't end well- Ari'i would have to explain to Von, patiently, patronizingly, that they don't automatically win the case if they stake the prosecution.

Eh. We'll see; I doubt I'll do anything with them, regardless. I need a vampire story like I need a pencil through the eye, so they con consider themselves on permanent hiatus.

Dear Torchwood:
OMG WHAT WHAT WHAT CAPTAIN JACK OMG ROSE MADE IT STICK WHAT THE FUCK SHE MADE IT STICK AAAAAAHHHHHHH OMG THE RIGHT KIND OF DOCTOR OMG OMG OMG OMG OMG EEEEEE.

Also: EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEECAPTAINJACK.
Also also: EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEKISSYBOYS.
Also also also: SUSPENDERS. GUH.

*breathes* I remain utterly in love with John Barrowman and his amazing gray greatcoat and his incredibly, incredibly sexy suspenders with shirtsleeves. (My biggest weakness? Lonely men in shirtsleeves leaning out of windows with suspenders, and the sleeves rolled up and possibly also fedoras. Alternately, women in rolled up shirtsleeves, suspenders, and fedoras. Or wifebeaters. Women in wifebeaters and suspenders. Basically, suspenders. Mmm, suspenders.)

In conclusion, Doctor Who is hot- but Torchwood is on fiyah.

And, in other squee-tastic news, Ultimate-verse Cable is apparently Wolverine. Only older, more jaded and bitter, and with a hell of a lot more toys. Mmmmguh.

song call- Under the Influence of Giants, "Beautiful"

But I thought we were close,
'Cause I saw the Holy Ghost,
And he...
And I'm just digging,
Well I'm digging deeper for your grave, grave.

I want you to know that I'm beautiful,
I'm taking my time to perfect dying alone,
Come on.

I've been hanging on,
It feels right moving along,
You left me with my lust,
I'm digging deeper,
Well I'm digging deeper for your grave, grave.

I want you to know that I'm beautiful,
I'm taking my time to perfect dying alone,
I'm cutting the string that binds me to you,
I'm writing a book on what not to do.

I'll cut you up,
I'm the Holy Ghost.
I'll cut you up,
I'm the Holy Ghost.
I'll cut you up,
I'm the Holy Ghost.

I want you to know that I'm beautiful,
I'm taking my time to perfect dying alone,
I'm cutting the string that binds me to you,
I'm writing a book on what not to do.

I want you to know that I'm beautiful,
I'm taking my time to perfect dying alone.
-Under the Influence of Giants, "Beautiful"

Dear Silverlock:
Stop that. With the pathological dependence and the bitchiness and- just quit being a pussy it.

I'm sorry, did I say I liked writing healthy relationships? I WAS FULL OF LIES.

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

"I would have liked to watch you grow old," he said softly. It wasn't often that he left the chair by the bedside these days; occasionally Foxbird came to chase him off to sleep, but that happened with dwindling frequency.

"That's because you've always put too much stock in bad romance novels." Blaine grimaced. "Much as it might distress you to know, we've hardly been living the romantic ideal."

"I'm aware. The fact remains: I don't want you to die." He was gripped with a terrible sort of helplessness. "Who am I going to annoy, with you gone?"

"You'll find someone else to irritate, I'm sure." Blaine closed his eyes, dismissive.

It was unfair, that this fragile man could hold so much power over him. "Tell me how much I mean to you." It was like a living thing, gnawing at his insides. The helplessness, the rage, the desperation- he was accustomed to instilling these emotions in others, not feeling them himself.

"Stop playing this game."

"Tell me." Or possibly it was like a scab or a scar, something that itched so terribly he couldn't stop picking at it. "Tell me you love me less than your daughter and less than your god, so I can tell you I would die for you if you asked it, because your happiness is the only thing in this universe against which my own life feels insignificant. Tell me exactly how much you're looking forward to dying, to leaving-"

"Shut up." Blaine's hands clenched into aching fists on the coverlet, every joint highlighted in bright waves of pain. "Shut up, and get out of here. Indulge in self pity on your own time; I have more important things to deal with now."

He bowed mockingly, swallowing his lover's pain along with his own. "Of course. Anything you want. Anything. You know that."

"Out." Fury brought some small amount of color back to Blaine's face; his eyes were bright.

Silverlock shut the door behind himself and leaned against it with one trembling hand pressed against his eyelids. After a moment, he took a deep breath, steadying himself, and walked away.

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

AUGH.

Toggle: physical characteristics

S'funny, while GMing Dead Inside, how important the physical appearances of all my characters become. I left out a lot of them (and I should have had Bren be more helpful, but as a ghost, all he does is keep Stella steady and think about how much he misses Theron). But I've developed very clear ideas of what most of my people look like, in my head.

Silverlock is shortish- 5'4" in bare feet, and he does actually go unshod a fair amount of the time, especially when on a job. Built like a wrestler, not a dancer- very muscular, very compact. (I want to write about his childhood at the Tree so so badly, about his family before Gannet and before the Guild, and about Aya and Dekar and the origin of his names and and and- augh.)

His ears are slightly pointed, but they aren't any longer than standard human ears, and he can't move or rotate them independently the way elves can. He looks half Asian, under the tattoos. Slanted eyes, no eyelashes to speak of. Before Blaine dies, the word on his neck is "Rien," which means "nothing." After Blaine's death, he changes it to "Anzani," which means, roughly, "everything, and nothing more." He sees it as a different aspect of the same concept.

The tattoos cover him completely, including his scalp, the soles of his feet, and his genitals. Many of them are purely decorative, and range from abstract tribal designs to complex cityscapes; the rest are magical in nature and act as set spells. He has the following ear piercings: a row of helix and lobe piercings in each ear; two rook, daith, and anti-tragus piercings; and an orbital and tragus piercing in his right ear. He has the following non-ear piercings: a row in each eyebrow; septum; both nostrils; horizontal and vertical bridges; labret; front and back of his tongue; both nipples; three pairs of hafada piercings; an apadravya. He also occasionally wears dermal anchors under his collar bones, in his neck, and on his hands. He likes wearing chains and bells and things that jingle to connect his ear and facial piercings.

Underneath the facial tattoos and piercings, he has a jagged, poorly healed scar on the right side of his face, where his face was literally ripped open. It's shaped roughly like a downward facing crescent. Most of his other scars are decorative, to highlight the tattoos; it isn't that he doesn't get hurt (because he does, frequently), but he has all of his injuries healed professionally.

He wears his hair in a single braid or simple knot most of the time, wears it loose very rarely, and wears it in a complicated architectural construction when he's being paid to impress someone. He only wears it in small braids when he's in mourning for something or someone, or for certain ceremonial magicks. (His hair is in mourning coiffure in Dead Inside for reasons he won't reveal; he's probably just sulking over Blaine, but it's possible there's more to it than that.)

He wears elaborate mage robes when he wants to impress or offend people; he wears nothing at all when he wants to fuck with people (sometimes they notice he's naked, sometimes they don't); when he goes out topside, he wears expensive and extravagant clothing, but nothing that would be out of the ordinary for a particularly wealthy minor noble. (This usually means a high collared coat and a pimp cane.)

Blaine is 5'10" or thereabouts, perfectly ordinary looking. Brown hair, hazel-brown eyes, medium-dark skin, average build- not overly muscular, but clearly fit. More wirey than anything else. He looks Meditteranean, vaguely, which is why his last name entertains me so very much. When he's a kid, he looks very long and bony; as an adult, he feeds himself better and looks less bony, but is still fairly lean.

The scars on his face are mostly from broken glass; the ones across his mouth and nose were done deliberately, with a razor. The burns on his neck and chest were made with a branding iron. He has very bony knuckles, and his nose is slightly crooked; both were broken and healed incorrectly.

He has a stylized sleeping cat tattooed over one hip bone, and a coiled snake on the other. After he eats Mandhatri's heart and headjewel, he occasionally manifests scaly patterns on his arms, hands, and face when working magic. He usually needs a haircut; when his hair is long enough, he pulls it into a ponytail.

As a healer, he wears the standard nondescript gray uniform tunic and pants; there are numerous loops and pockets for holding various medicinal paraphernalia, and the sleeves of the tunic tear off and separate into strips easily for emergency bandages. For a few years after being mutilated, he wears a veiled robe to hide his scars, but he gets over that after Greymalkin tries to kill him.

As a priest, he wears the standard casual uniform for an apostle- a sleeveless tunic and baggy pants with heavy embroidery around the collar and hems. He had a set of gem studded gold armbands that were also part of his official priestly uniform, but he left them at the temple when Nagendra kicked him out. For high holy days and ceremonies, apostles are shirtless and wear even more heavily embroidered pants, as well as very heavy and intricate gold pectorals. They also have to wear elaborate henna designs on their face, hands, feet, and torso- Blaine hates wandering around shirtless and he hates henna, so he avoids temple functions as often as possible.

All of his non-uniform clothes were gifts from Silverlock, who refuses to go out in public with anyone who isn't at least as well dressed as he is.

Theron is 5'8"/9" with dark hair, dark eyes, and very fine, clear, medium-dark skin. He could, actually, pass as Blaine's very pretty younger brother, which is only part of the reason Silverlock takes as much interest in him as he does, I swear. Theron doesn't eat much because everything tastes like magic to him, and magic tastes like sickly-sweet lemons. He is thin, bordering on sickly at times.

He is sickly; he spent much of his childhood immobile with terrible respiratory infections.

He has a largely unhealed burn scar on his chest from being Blackmarked, and he's missing three fingers (right pinky, left ring, and left middle, which he chewed off). He has terrible handwriting because of this (he was left-handed). He also has other incidental scars, leftover from a childhood spent dodging rocks. He doesn't bruise easily, but when he does, he does so spectacularly.

He's fairly vain but in a quiet way; his clothes and hair are always neat and conservative. After Stella Matin, he becomes more of an androgyne than anything else, when he realizes exactly how uncomfortable he is with being gendered. He still defaults as masculine for the sake of convenience, however, and knows better than to try to insist on non-gendered pronouns. (This is another one of the many, many reasons he and Silverlock are never ever going to have sex.)

Bren is tall and freckly and strawberry blond and built like an ox. He's about six feet tall, maybe a bit less- but he's broad shouldered and looks like he'd be more at home behind a plow than in front of a loom. His fingertips are calloused from weaving, though, and he has very gentle hands- small children and animals love him. He exudes "nice guy," but he has a history of being a horrible prankster, and something of a brat. He's also a lot more aware of things than he lets on most of the time, which disconcerts Theron and Stella to no end.

Bren usually, inexplicably, has leaves in his hair, and his pants are perpetually grass stained.

Walker looks like Bren, only with black hair and shiny, dark gray skin. No freckles. He can stand in a corner and pass as a shadow or a statue most of the time- but Bren's body gets healed after the destruction of the Voyancy, so most of the time Walker just looks like Bren. His posture tends more towards looming, and he doesn't smile, ever. But otherwise, you can't tell them apart- though Stella and Theron always know the difference, and Mordant and Solneki can see it nine times out of ten.

The specifics of Stella's appearance keep fluctuating in my head, but the basics are always the same: dark hair, white eyes, freckles. She isn't as pale as Bren, but the freckles do come from his side of the family. (Dead Inside has also reinforced how bizarre and utterly fucked up the familial relationships in this universe are, mostly because of how skeeved out the players keep getting when they learn more about my people.) I'm not sure about her weight and build- sometimes in my head she's very sharp and angular, with pointed features. The rest of the time she's curvy but not voluptuous, almost bordering on chubby, with rounded features. I think I'd prefer her to be on the slightly heavier side, given how many underfed characters I have- but I really like her with well defined cheekbones and a long, pointy nose.

Her usual sunglasses are nondescript oval lenses in black frames, but Mordant bought her a pair of cat's eye sunglasses with rhinestone studded frames that she brings out for special occasions. She wears woven ponchos over t-shirts and long broomstick skirts with ridiculous patterns and textures. She likes bright autumnal colors- deep reds and golds, maroons and oranges. Usually in combinations that make everyone around her cringe but hey, what does she care? She can't see a thing.

Free Thought: In Erratis Veritas

Free Thought, versificative style.

(come sit with me)
beneath this
poison-apple tree
in the shade and hidden
from the inquisitive
rays of the sun

this is music, this dance
of ours
this surprising uprising of energy

these are dreams
these half thoughts
and half words
half spoken half sung
dreams are all about
doing things by halves
except when they're not
xeno's oneironautical paradox;
it's not over until we wake up.
we are not merely figments of our own imaginations
with our secret smiles
and smiling lies
inquisitive perfection
bright as the sun
(i promise)

we
descend
so
beautifully
but the pain is in
the ascension;
once we fall, we'll never
have another chance to fly

I'm relearning my nouns
rediscovering the verb:
to do
to be
to float unheavy,
weightless
to fall

we must stand, first, before we can
walk
run
fly
we must plant our feet in the earth
and once the earth is ours
it will dance with us

History repeats, in the sound
of music echoing through a car
on roads that wist a particular
destination:
no place, at all.
The songs are the same, if the voices are different
they are
no less precious for all their relative newness

there is truth in the typos
if you can see it
in erratis veritas
only properly declined
politely rejected or
downwardly inclined?
the words are the faultlines
and if we're not careful
they'll trip us all
(how do we say "I love you"
in words that do not hurt?)
or are the words sacrosanct
in their flaws
with divine
providence granted
to catch us in their claws?
if so, I'll let myself
be caught
better to be torn apart by words
than drowned to death in silence

or so I tell myself
as I sit quietly
and wait for my turn to dream

Song Call- The Postal Service, "The District"

Smeared black ink
your palms are sweaty
And I'm barely listening
to last demands
I'm staring at the asphalt wondering
what's buried underneath
Where I am
Where I am

I'll wear my badge
a vinyl sticker with big block letters
adherent to my chest
That tells your new friends
I am a visitor here
I am not permanent
And the only thing keeping me dry is
Where I am
Where I am
Where I am

You seem so out of context
in this gaudy apartment complex
A stranger with your door key
explaining that I am just visiting
And I am finally seeing
Why I was the one worth leaving
Why I was the one worth leaving

D.C. sleeps alone tonight

Where I am
Where I am
Where I am

You seem so so out of context
in this gaudy apartment complex
A stranger with your door key
explaining that I am just visiting
And I am finally seing
Why I was the one worth leaving
Why I was the one worth leaving

Where I am
Where I am
Where I am

The district sleeps alone tonight
after the bars turn out their lights
And send the autos swerving
into the loneliest evening
And I am finally seeing
Why I was the one worth leaving
Why I was the one worth leaving
Why I was the one worth leaving
Why I was the one worth leaving
- The Postal Service, "The District"

This is a Stella song, and a Bren song too, a little bit, and Sharecht probably wants her fair share of anything having to do with the city.

...Yeah. So. Shaivhen is divided into six districts- Redmark, Candlemark, Eastmark, Southmark, Temple, and Harbor. Candlemark is the northernmost district, Redmark is in the center, Harbor and the Akvarian Ocean are to the west, and Temple sort of sits around and to the west of Redmark like a weirdly shaped tumor. East and Southmark are, obviously, to the east and south.

Candlemark is sometimes called the Old City, because the oldest stretches of the catacombs exist beneath it. The original palace and royal family were located there, but they were destroyed in the early Third Era. Sections of the palace walls- it was originally a fort- still stand, and the area marked off by these crumbling bits of ruin is called Suicide City. It's located at the very center of the district, and at some point, Parliament filled in the missing bits of walls to make a penitentiary compound of sorts.

If Candlemark is a vicious, inoperable tumor on the face of the city, Suicide City is a necrotizing, gangrenous blot on Candlemark. It's not a nice place.

Sharecht is a mongrel bird-type Malestri, something like a cross between a heron and a shrike. Her animal form is a heron, but she has the instincts of a shrike. She's a rather vicious and deranged serial killer. A very young Harbard, with the help of the Assassins' Guild, captured her and put her in Candlemark some ten or fifteen years before the start of the story. Everyone wanted her dead, but the Shrive intervened.

Dekar is going to make the mistake of thinking he can control her; Sharecht is going to make the mistake of thinking she can control Foxbird (thus allowing me to write creepy, predatory, and homoerotic bondage scenes that reference the rape scene in Man of La Mancha). And Harbard is going to be convinced he made the mistake of letting her live- which, considering that she leads an army of criminals into the rest of the city on Dekar's order at some point, is a fairly accurate assessment.

She has a great deal of influence in Candlemark; she's been the reigning queen of Suicide City for years, and rumor has it she knows her way around the Old City catacombs, and can travel through them with impunity. The Old City catacombs are home to a number of undead covens- but they also house the remains of the Al Rothcar Library and Siegfried Al Rothcar's tomb. (Ziggy was the last surviving member of the royal family. He went on to become an Avatar of The White Lady and was one of the heroes of the Third Era. He was also a huge dork, but that's another story entirely.) Sharecht knows the ruins fairly well, and the covens don't mess with her- she always has an escort of Shrive rats when she goes underground, and the rats are twice as nasty as the cats.

Sharecht is crazy, but she's also fiercely devoted to the concept of the city; she is, essentially, exactly the sort of creature the other Malestri wanted to create when they sent their children to Shaivhen, Tarmish, and Akvaia. Aside from the crazy part. She sees herself as Aya DeLavrey's counterpart; the only reason she agrees to work with Dekar is for the chance to attain power in the respectable areas of the city. She has ambitions- it's just that up until Dekar comes along, her only ways of furthering these ambitions have involved sharp objects and internal organs and the removal of the latter with the former. Dekar offers her legitimacy and, more than anything else, that's something she wants.

But, again, she's crazy. Totally batshit and antisocial. And she's a bird, so she really, really likes shiny things. Foxbird, to her, is amazingly shiny.

(Malestri can crossbreed between species; the resultant offspring will only have one animal form- usually the mother's. This still often leads to children feeling dissociated from their animal forms; it was for this reason only mongrels were sent into the cities. The other Malestri hoped that this dissociation would make them more comfortable in their human forms, allowing them to move more freely in the cities.)

She's somewhere in her mid to late thirties- she's actually the oldest displaced Malestri experiment in Shaivhen. She's got curly blonde hair and yellow eyes in human form; she stands nearly six feet tall and has double jointed knees and elbows. In animal form, she's a great blue heron, and stands about three feet tall with a seven foot wingspan. Her beak is very, very sharp.

Silverlock, of course, adores her and wants to keep her as a pet- he's always wanted his own pet psychopath to play with. Blaine gets along with her fairly well; they occasionally commiserate over the difficulties of swallowing things whole. He can't spend too much time around her, though; herons eat snakes. Foxbird, of course, thinks Sharecht is a crazy bitch, and wishes she could meet a Malestri whose primary goal didn't involve getting into her pants. Harbard is conflicted; Sharecht is the closest thing to an alpha female he's ever encountered, but she's also a crazy serial killer.

She's a wild card, I suppose, but she ends up helping Blaine and Co when Dekar takes the tower.

Eventually, when they're all much older (and possibly after Foxbird makes it clear that she's not sleeping with either of them, because, ahahaha, Foxbird/The Lieutenant, OTP 4eva), Foxbird, Harbard, and Sharecht go off in search of their families. What they find up in the northern forests that border on Ikatia is another story entirely.

...I really ought to come up with a name for the lieutenant. But that's all anyone ever calls him, including Foxbird. Possibly Blaine uses his real name, but that's just because Blaine likes feeling smugly superior about being a better person than those around him. (He's such a delicious hypocrite and a horrible priest and I love him so. I also really need to get on that "Snakes on a Blaine!" picture that's been in my head for a while recently.)

Cold Light, part 2: DC sleeps alone tonight

Cold Light, Part 2: You seem so out of context

This whole section of the universe is getting more and more fragile as time goes on; I'm not sure where it's going to end up, anymore. It's curious.

Bren and Stella, rooftops, and the moon; this happens in the evening after part 1, concurrently with part 3. (Also, it's vague and confusing and ought to be rewritten again, but I don't care anymore.)
-------------------------------------

Footsteps crunched across the gravel behind her; Stella turned slightly in their direction. "Hello, Brenon."

She could hear him grin as he took a seat beside her on the roof ledge. "Hey there, Stella-bella. Stargazing?"

"Mm. It's a nice night for it, don't you think?" She could feel the stars hanging low in the sky; the whole world seemed closer, here.

"A little overcast, actually. But you can see the moon through the clouds."

"I can always see the moon, Brenon."

"Fair enough." He shifted slightly, and kicked his feet against the side of the building. "How are you feeling?"

"I'm fine. I was fine before, actually, but you think I'm crazy, don't you?"

"I think we're all crazy." She still couldn't tell if his sincerity was honest or merely an affectation. "But Walker thinks you're the closest to sane out of all of us, and I trust his judgement. Even if he is a little biased."

She could feel his leer, and blushed in spite of herself. "This city is so much louder than the capital, so much brighter. So full of life- real life, not the half life of the warm ones. There's so much more to see and feel- sometimes I get a little lost in it. And sometimes things like that creature take me by surprise."

Gently, "It was a cat, Stella."

"Is that what it looked like? Curious." She shook her head. "I'm afraid of the dark, Brenon. Did you know that?"

He tensed. "Stella-"

"You are, too. I know. I know so much more than you give me credit for, Brenon. And do you know why I am afraid of the dark?"

"I know why I am." Sometimes, he was so young, it made her ache.

"So do I." She took off her glasses, and tilted her face towards the moon. "Nothing is as it seems. What you see as a cat, I see as the embodiment of everything I fear." She laughed. "I'll get used to it. When he comes back, I'm sure he'll be bringing that thing back with him. And, speaking of- how are you feeling, Brenon?"

"I'm fine. You can call me Bren, you know."

"I could. And you could try to not avoid the subject."

"But you won't, so neither will I."

"I suppose you're right; I don't think I will." She wiped off the lenses of her glasses and replaced them.

"Because that's what Theron calls me?"

She was silent for a moment. Mihonil would have used the shortened form of his name, as well, but Stella had never properly met the other woman. It didn't count. "If I said yes, you would hate me for it. Just a little, but you would hate me all the same." Her fingers bunched the wildly patterned material of her skirt. "He knows you better than I ever will. I do not think I have the right."

Bren kicked at the side of the building again, surly. "You mean he loves me better than you do. That's hardly your fault, and I'm more inclined to hate him for that. But I'm not that selfish, and I have other reasons to hate him."

"And yet you worry."

"Of course I worry!" He swung his feet over the edge of the roof, standing suddenly. The crunch of the gravel beneath his shoes was unnaturally loud. "Someone has to. That's my job, no matter who I am- I look out for him. And now I can't because he won't let me- and it doesn't matter how angry I am, this is what I do." He exhaled hard through his nose, and added softly, "I don't really hate him, you know that. I just have plenty of reason to."

"There are other people to protect, now. It doesn't have to be him," she said quietly, to her skirt.

His hand on her shoulder made her jump. "Get up. Come on. I want to dance with you."

"What?" But he was already pulling her to her feet.

"I'm tired of doing it metaphorically." He caught her hands and lead her away from the edge of the roof.

Suddenly, she couldn't see at all, and her feet stumbled. He caught her before she fell.

"Look, Stella- or, don't, whatever, you know what I mean. What's between the two of us has nothing to do with Walker or Theron. I promise. But I can't leave him until he lets me go."

"He won't. You know that."

"He will. I know him as well as he knows me." One of his hands slid to the small of her back. "Are you going to dance with me or not?"

"I don't know how to dance," she snapped. This close, she could hear the absence of his heartbeat, as thunderous and terrifying as the absence of her own.

"Sure you do. Only this time, I lead, and you follow."

"We don't have any music."

"You're just not listening hard enough."

For a single, discrete moment, she could see him clearly in her mind- he was tall, with a solidness that spoke of trees and earth and deep roots, a solidness incongruous with his wind ruffled strawberry blond hair and freckles. His smile was like the sun.

She doubted any of them really knew him at all.

Her feet fell into the steps of the dance easily- something in six-eight time, to compliment the song of city. Circles and circles, like the moon. Familiar territory.

"Do you-" she swallowed. "Do you want me to remember him for you? I could, a little."

His silence all the answer she needed. She closed her eyes and leaned a little closer.

"I think of you when it rains," she said in Theron's voice. "And it makes me wish I'd been kinder. But every summer makes me think of fire, and fire makes me think of you, too. And then I wish you'd stayed dead."

Their dance stuttered to a halt when Stella realized the only footsteps she could hear were her own. Walker's hand was cool on the back of her neck.

"That was unfair." His tone was neutral; he'd never learned to be judgemental. "He didn't need to hear that."

"I don't choose the memories." She lied, and huddled into his embrace. "You can apologize for me, later."

"You can apologize yourself, when the Voyance returns." Brenon was the only one who used his name; Walker would never dare.

She sighed, and led him to the edge of the roof. "Alright. I will. Now come look at the city with me. It's probably too cloudy for you to see the stars."

He touched her face. "I can always see the stars, Stella."

"Good." She leaned against him, and trembled with laughter. For a moment, she could almost see him in her mind- but then the memory was gone, leaving a shadow silhouette behind. After all this time, the Walker still had no face of his own- not one she could see. "Tell me what they look like?"

He put his arm around her and whispered words of light into her hair, until the moon set and the sun touched the bottom of the horizon.

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

Gawd, Stella and Walker are weird. And Stella is creepily too much like Bren; I'm not entirely sure how I feel about this. Fortunately, Walker is nothing like either of them. Or unfortunately. (This is no love polygon! This is a four dimensional love tesseract!)

*headwall* I think this is going to have two more parts- the trial and the aftermath. Maybe three, if I want to write the opening of the tower. I don't know that I do; it's a little like writing the end of the world, and I'm not sure I can do that to this universe. And I don't know what the Fifth Era will bring, or what its mechanics will be like, so I think I'll avoid that for as long as possible.

I should go back to writing Blaine and Silverlock things, except they're going through an angsty phase. *sigh*

This place is a prison/ into the great nothing

I love that GenX is a team full of losers and kids who got shafted in the power department. Because seriously. If they'd come along any later, Jono, Angelo, and Penance all would've been candidates for Xorn's "special class" at Xaviers.

A bit of angsty Jono-ness, followed by a bit of hoodlumery. Just stuff I had to get out of my head, mostly.

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

There are days when he feels ancient, like some sort of great decaying monument, the pinnacle of all mother nature's great evolutionary fuckups. He worries that the hole in his chest is expanding, eating slowly away at the rest of his face, creeping down his torso. It makes him feel brittle and cold; he moves slowly for fear of shattering, while he wraps himself in extra layers of bandages- extra layers to keep himself apart from the rest of the world, and extra layers to hold himself together.

He bolts the door when it gets too bad, locking himself in and ignoring the way some of his teammates hover just outside. When he sits at the bottom of the stairs, he can just barely feel their thoughts, worried and half fearful.

He only ever opens the door for Penance, because if he doesn't, Emma will lecture him on trust and teamwork to hide her own guilt at not being able to reach the girl and, when that doesn't work, on how Jono will be paying for any ruined doors and locks out of his own allowance.

She sits in the middle of the wreckage that is his room, glittering and deadly and smelling faintly of apples. Jono obligingly turns his music down low until the not-thoughts she projects lose their panicked, jagged edges.

He thinks she must know how this feels, too- this fragility. Her skin may be diamond hard, but even diamonds can fracture and fragment. He wonders what made her so brittle, and if she's as terrified of being broken as he is.

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

And, related in a distant cousin sort of way (timeline? continuity? we don't need no stinkin' continuity!), some hoodlum antics with some weird tense-shifting craziness! FYI, vinyl really does iron out quite beautifully. But don't do that to people's vinyl. Don't microwave their CDs, either. That's just not cool, yo.

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

And then there are the days when Angelo picks the lock on his door because he can't be bothered to knock and he knows Jono can't be bothered to care, much. (He did, at first, because how dare Angelo try to slip into the cracks in his self loathing like that? He was never sure what bothered him more- that Angelo would try, or that he would succeed so easily.)

Sometimes Angelo will sit in the middle of the floor and go through Jono's CDs, tossing the jewel cases carelessly onto piles of discarded clothing and declaring, "Crap. Crap. Angsty crap. Whiny crap. Jesu Christi, Jono, don't you listen to anything good?"

*Like you're the expert on musical quality, Ange.*

And that would set Angelo off on a rant- he called them discussions, but Jono knew the other boy just liked hearing himself talk, and Jono himself never needed to participate- about music, and he would rattle off the names of artists and bands Jono had never heard of and wasn't likely to listen to, ever.

Once- just once- Angelo brought pieces of his own music collection down and appropriated Jono's stereo.

*An' just whadye think yer doin'?*

"What's it look like? You got the best stereo system in the academy, amigo. An' all I got is my shitty discman and a broken set of headphones. That seem fair to you?"

And then Angelo hit "play," and Jono swore terrible, terrible vengeance upon his gray skinned teammate, because there were a lot of things in this world he could tolerate, but no one- not even Angelo- got to mess with his music.

It was war. Angelo's CD collection and discman disappeared; a few days later, Jono's CDs went missing as well.

Angelo's music reappeared over the course of several days, in many half melted pieces. (Miss Frost had been enouraging him to refine his control of the psionic fire.) Jono's own CDs turned up later, in the microwave, melted beyond repair.

They had to get a new microwave; none of them were allowed to use it without adult supervision.

Beds were short sheeted. Chair legs were filed down and desk drawers were glued shut. Angelo spent an inordinate amount of time in the laundry room, and Jono found several of his favorite records had been ironed flat. Angelo's extensive collection of pornographic magazines became an elaborate abstract sculpture of paper mache, found by a half-asleep Jubilee one morning in the middle of the hallway.

"You didn't shred those on your own. You got Penance to help," Angelo accused, stabbing a gray finger between Jono's eyes. "That's sick. I'm gonna tell Monet-"

*No you sodding won't-* It didn't matter that he hadn't, actually- Monet was more likely to punch first and ask questions later, and he liked keeping the remains of his face unbroken. Angelo didn't have enough of a head start to keep Jono from tackling him in the hall, and the two of them went careening towards the head of the stairs.

They tripped with a yell, Jono's elbow in Angelo's face, and Angelo wrapped around him, covering his eyes and tangling with his legs (no one ever won a wrestling match with Angelo, not even Monet). They went headfirst over the stairs, and it was fortunate that Angelo could bounce as well as stretch, or the two of them would have ended up with worse than bruises when they hit the bottom.

"Boys."

They rolled to a stop before a pair of deadly looking stiletto heels and froze, as though not breathing might render them invisible. Jono knew for a fact that it wouldn't work- he never bothered with breathing these days- but that didn't stop him from trying.

It was a tribute to Emma's iron-fisted authority over the household that neither of them even considered looking up her skirt. Well, they considered it- who wouldn't?- but neither of them dared.

"I trust the two of you will find a way to overcome your differences while weeding the biosphere?"

"Si."

*Yes'm.*

"Good." And her heels clicked away, leaving them to contemplate all the implications of what she'd do to them if they didn't behave.

Angelo carefully untangled himself from Jono and gave the other boy a hand up. He glanced nervously towards the door Emma had taken. "You wanna get out of here before Senora Frost finds the modern art?"

Jono sniffed; something was burning in another part of the Academy. *And before she finds whatever you did in the kitchen?*

"Too right, amigo. I still got the keys to the jeep."

Jono refrained from pointing out what happened the last time they went on a roadtrip, and nodded. *Dibs on the radio.*

Angelo rolled his eyes. "Ch'. Whatever, 'mano. Let's go."
-----------------------------------------------

It should be noted that Angelo's porn collection was impressive in both quantity and variety. He was very proud of it. And the last time they went on a roadtrip, talking ducks and barfights were involved, and that's canon. XD

(I still have another half dozen not-drabbles, mind you. Most of them are, hopefully, better than these. But most of them also involve graphic sex of some sort, which is why they either aren't written, or aren't getting posted. C'est la vie.)

I'm a little bit madly in love with Emma Frost at the moment. She's just lurking in the back of my mind, making disparaging comments and getting along far too well with Silverlock, and occasionally being full of enough angst to give Jono a run for his money.

I should sleep. And get over my mental/emotional paralysis, because it doesn't help anything. I dunno what's worse- being in a panic over everything, or being apathetic to the point of catatonia.

Whee, self destructive spirals. The longer you ride it, the deeper you go. *sigh*

Spam spam spam comics eggs spam and comics

Sorry about that, y'all. For some reason, updating the indices has caused the feed to spazz.

So, I have a copy of the GenX Underground Special in my hot little hands, and it's all I can do to keep from licking the cover, it's so sexy. Jim Mahfood's black and white art is sixty three different kinds of amazing, and the very concept of Bishop with an afro blows my mind from here to Tijuana.

I've now got hard copies of GenX 1-4, 7-8, 17, 19-22, 27-32, 35, 41, and 71, plus the Underground Special, Flashback #1, and the collector's preview. I found a comic shop near the Joann Fabrics down Rt 1, which is where I picked up 7, 41, and 71; the rest came from Ebay. I like having the actual books to read; there's something nicely satisfying about holding a piece of art in your hands. Sadly, somewhere after issue 16, Marvel decided to cut printing costs by using cheaper paper, so some of the color and ink integrity gets lost. The scans provide better image quality than the actual books, which is too bad. The earlier issues are beautiful, though, all glossy and bright.

I miss the way Jono called everyone "Sunshine" in the early issues, and I wish the writers could have at least attempted some sort of internal consistency. Angelo is at times Puerto Rican, at times Mexican; sometimes he's from East LA, sometimes he's from South Central. M could see in the dark in the Lobdell run- it was explicitly stated in the first few issues, in fact- but during Zero Tolerance, it was explicitly stated that she couldn't. None of the artists really ever knew what colors Artie and Leech were. It's frustrating- the characters all had such amazing potential, and they were consistently sold short by the creative teams.

Lobdell and Bachalo had a good thing going with the creation of the book, but I feel that Lobdell could have worked better to make an actual team of the group. After they left, it took a good twenty issues for Faerber to pick up the ball and put together a properly cohesive team and family unit out of Generation X. Warren Ellis, for all that I adore him, has a tendency to ignore what his predecessors have done in favor of his own creative vision; the last thirteen issues of the series tell a completely different kind of story. I like what he did with the characters (the butchering of Emma's speech patterns aside), but I'm not sure I approve of the way he twisted the setting.

I am, by the way, still sulking after Holy War, and still furious over the way they handled the funeral in UXM 427. If Austen was going to fuck up the details that badly, the least they could have done was gotten a decent artist for the issue, but no. Too much to ask.

Marvel needs to stop hiring manga artists for the X-Men. Seriously. I buy American comics, I want to see American-style art. Fuck your big-eyes-small-mouth shite, if I wanted that, I'd read Sailor Moon. This is the sort of style I dislike even in my manga, never mind my X-Men.

When I start reading the Liefield/Nicieza X-Force limited series and find myself actually enjoying the art, you know something is wrong. Of course, old school Liefield makes me inexplicably happy- comics back then were simpler, and involved larger guns and more explosions.

But Liefield is still a crazy hack. Much as I feel nostalgic for the good ol' days, there's something to be said for plots that make sense. I forgive him for all things, though, because Domino wearing Stryfe's armor, and being like, a foot taller than Nathan? Hawt. ("You're taller than me." "Does that bother you?" "Actually...I kind of like it.") Alas, I am so shallow. And I vaguely want to find fic for Cable and alterna-Dom.

Liefield was also in charge of the Shatterstar limited series; it makes very little sense and looks kind of weird, and only serves to further drive home the fact that Shatterstar has gotten shafted repeatedly in terms of representation. I can only hope that someday someone will see fit to properly explain his backstory, and that project will be given a decent artist who knows what color his hair is. (Let's not talk about his last appearance in X-Force, where the artist evidently got him confused with Adam-X. Chrisy.)

I need to obtain the TPB of the Madrox limited series, and the first volume of X-Factor Investigations; Jamie has always been one of my favorite characters, and it pleases me to see him finally getting his chance in the spotlight. And Rictor is in X-Factor now, which is cool. I can only hope Peter David will remember that Ric and Shatterstar are actually hetero-lifemates, and will be having the latter make an appearance in the book at some point.

In the meantime, since I've chewed through most of my Marvel stuff, I've picked up the Ellis runs of Stormwatch. And...I adore Warren Ellis. Because some lines and instances are just so purely him, they made me giggle madly. Like every time Fuji speaks. It's good stuff, and I'm sad not all of the Stormwatch characters survived the transition into The Authority.

Now that I've run out of comics-related things to talk about, I'll have to babble about sewing. Excitement for everyone! ...or, y'know, not.

(It's funny how I've been waiting all summer for school to start back up, but here I am with less than a week left, completely and totally unprepared. Go, me.)

Please be careful, I exist in someone else's head.

Cold Light Part 3: Annie (dreams that everyone is dead)

Yes, the all the quasi-incest and other forms of sexual deviancy in this story disturb me, too.

Theron and Silverlock, and a not-conversation that should have happened long ago. Warnings for brief discussion of more wrongness than you can shake a stick at, because Theron is so amazingly screwed up. (Part 2 will be written later, because every time I try to write it, Blogger eats it.)

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

"You'll have to wait in a holding cell until I can arrange the proper paperwork to have you moved. My quarters are government issue, but I do have a spare room, and they'll be infinitely more comfortable than anything here." Silverlock nodded to the flock of guards that surrounded them. "Just go along with these men and behave yourself, and I'll come get you as soon as I can."

Theron briefly contemplated the definition of "behave" and how, as a concept, it was a completely subjective thing. Unfortunately, he doubted even Silverlock would consider his turning the guards into turnips or rutabagas or some other appropriately dull root vegetable to fit into any definition of the word.

It was a nice thought, though. He'd done some of his best work with root vegetables and leafy greens. He liked plants- but maybe that was just because Bren had always reminded him of a tree, something steady and tall and easy to lean on. In some other universe, I raised butterflies for a living and never once pulled any of their wings or legs off, and I had a well adjusted home life and a relationship with my family that didn't involve even the vaguest and most socially acceptable form of incest.

In his coat pocket, the kitten rumbled with a purr that belonged to something at least three times its size. He reached into his pocket and scratched its ears, acutely aware of the delicacy of its skull and spine between his fingers.

The holding cell the guards put him in had a small, heavily barred window set high in the wall that let sunlight slant across the floor. For that reason alone, he allowed himself to be locked into it. He sat on the floor in that tiny patch of sunlight, facing the window, and let the kitten chew on his fingers.

The last cell he'd been in had no window, and no door. This one had a door that he could put his back to, and feel the edges of the bars digging into his shoulders while he waited.

The last cell he'd been in hadn't had a slanted patch of sunlight to sit in. Just four cold, gray walls, and the maddening knowledge that everything he'd lived for had amounted to exactly nothing.

In comparison, this place was rather welcoming. He leaned his head against the bars and waited with his eyes closed.

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

"With his corpse? Now that's something I've never seen the appeal of." Silverlock narrowed his eyes thoughtfully, cheerfully aware of his student's horrified discomfort. "But then, I prefer touching people who can touch back."

Silverlock's quarters, government issue or not, were palatial, and looked out over the most attractive parts of the Harbor and Temple districts from fifty floors up.

Theron wrapped his arms around himself and leaned against the window, shoulders hunched. He tried to remind himself that Silverlock couldn't actually read his mind, but the other man still knew him too well.

"Yes, my dear, you have always been that transparent," Silverlock said, in response to the question Theron hadn't asked. "But back to your sex life. Tell me, was it any good?"

He covered his face with his hands. He was going to die of shame. Two hundred years of intrigue and magic and backstabbing, and he was going to spontaneously combust as a result of his teacher's nonchalant curiosity. "No. It wasn't. Not that I had any basis for comparison at the time, mind you," he said into his hands.

"No basis for comparison? You wound me, my dear. Truly. Am I so forgettable?" Silverlock laughed, wielding carefully honed cruelty like a knife.

"I hate you," he muttered. "And I'll kill you if you touch me again."

"Is that a promise? You don't make it sound like much of a threat, love."

"Can we not do this?" He hadn't been this tired since his death. "I just want-" He didn't know what he wanted, not really; that had always been the problem. "Never mind." He was shaking, some combination of too many memories and too little sleep and too much fear.

"I won't let them kill you, you know." And suddenly Silverlock was there beside him, leading him away from the window to one of the armchairs without touching him. "You can believe what you will about my motivations, but I refuse to watch you die in the Black Square."

Theron tucked up his feet and wrapped his arms around his legs, curling into a ball with his eyes shut. A moment later, the kitten jumped onto his chair and burrowed its way into his protective cocoon, settling against his chest with a tiny mewl. He stayed that way until the shaking stopped, then unfurled far enough to rest his chin on his knees. "Have you ever wanted something so badly it made you sick? Not- not physically ill, or not just- but- twisted inside."

"Of course not." Silverlock took a nearby chair, jewelry chiming softly as he moved. "When I want something, Theron, I take it."

"I did-"

"No. You wanted something and found it too difficult to take, so you broke it."

Theron slumped a little, knowing that was true. Tiny kitten claws pricked at his arm as the little creature climbed up to his shoulder. "You hurt me."

Silverlock sighed at the change of subject, and shook his head. "You don't want to talk about this, Theron."

His glare could have stripped paint. "I think we've avoided the subject for long enough, D'Alestri."

Silverlock wouldn't meet his eyes. "I don't see that there's a subject to discuss; you weren't even occupying your body at the time. Given the circumstances, I was as kind to you as I could possibly have been."

"Kind?" he hissed. "It was rape, and you treat it like a joke at my expense. I trusted you, I did nothing to provoke you-"

"And it brought you back, didn't it?"

Theron opened his mouth to respond, then shut it with a snap. He was shaking again, more violently than before.

"You're a very curious sort of masochist, you know. You've tied certain forms of pain- emotional trauma, mostly- to the very core of your identity. When you forgot yourself, I chose the one thing I knew you were most afraid of to bring you back." He looked up, expression guarded and slightly sad. "Perhaps, at the time, I could have been more sympathetic, and for that I am sorry. But you're not looking for an apology from me.

"I cannot grant you absolution for what you did to your friend, Theron. What I did to you was monstrous, but it does not excuse your actions- and what you did to him was equally unforgiveable."

"I know that," he whispered, still shaking uncontrollably and trying desperately to stop thinking. "I know, I know but it still hurts-" because he could remember so much blood everywhere and the walls were so white even with all the blood and he was so cold they were all so cold and he'd just wanted to- wanted to-

"Shh, shh. It's all right, I know, I know," Silverlock was next to him again, speaking softly and touching him this time- just one hand around his wrist as he hid his face in his arms, that voice and single point of contact and the warmth of a tiny gray kitten purring in his ear the only things holding him together as he shook himself apart.

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

...Meh.

(Five counts of genocide, and he still doesn't actually feel remorse- but the torture, murder, and violation of his best friend is slowly killing him with guilt. Oh, Theron, you screwed up little cookie.)

Theron will never be the same caliber of artist that Brenon is, but he still has a very keen sense of theatricality, shape, and form. He spent his first few weeks after returning to Radrezhaea running a street street show for money. He turned vegetables and rocks and other inanimate things into fantastical birds and mystic creatures. Of course, Lifesmithing was illegal, and it got him Blacklisted, but he was quite good at what he did.

Theron's problem is that he doesn't really enjoy his magic. Being undead means he's limited almost entirely to his magicrafting skills; arcane magic relies on the soul's ability to control aether, and his soul is too compromised to handle that. Theron is still technically an Omnismith, but he's nowhere near as powerful as he was before the implosion of the Voyancy. He can't reweave time and reality anymore, but he has almost absolute control of his physical surroundings.

'Course, he's too busy hovering on the edge of a nervous breakdown most of the time to make use of this power- otherwise he'd have just smithed himself some gold so he and his cadre wouldn't be totally broke. Theron pawned his mother's jewelry (a pendant and three rings that he wore on a chain around his neck as the Voyance) for what little money they do have, and that's almost run out.

Because they are currently broke, the six of them (Theron, Brenon, Stella, Mihonil, Mordant, Solneki) are stuck living in a two-and-a-half bedroom tenement house. The first floor opens onto a small reception area, where Mordant and Solneki usually hang out, manning the front desk. The desk is right next to the stairs, and there's a short hallway leading towards the kitchen behind it. The second floor is a long hallway with a window at the end, and two bedrooms, plus a large storage closet. Brenon and Stella share a room- Stella and Walker share a bed. Bren sleeps either on the floor of their room or on the floor of Mihonil's room. Mih doesn't really need a room, but Bren insisted; she's been in a coma since they arrived in the city, so she chills on a bed in the closet. The last room is Theron's office. He sleeps on a cot that folds up behind the filing cabinets. Mordant and Sol sleep in the kitchen, or they go out trolling bars and sleep with whomever they happen to pick up that night.

It's fortunate that of the six of them, only Mordant and Sol actually need to eat on a regular basis; the zombies can survive by scavenging for extended periods of time. Bren and Stella hate eating rats, though; Theron doesn't actually mind it all that much, but he's kind of weird.

Mordant and Solneki stick around because they're both fond of Stella and they still don't entirely trust Walker with her. They've also still got explosives wired to their spinal columns, so they're keeping this job until they can get rid of the extra hardware. After that, they end up universe hopping- they sort of show up on the fringes of most of my stories, usually hanging out in bars, starting fights.

When you look in the mirror, wish you were somebody else.

GenX, Jono and Angelo. Possibly getting incorporated into something longer, later. I'm still sulking over Uncanny X-Men: Holy War, so we'll see if I actually follow through with it. (Re: Holy War- AUGH. WHAT. WHY. SO. ANTICLIMACTIC. WHERE IS MY CLOSURE, YOU BASTARDS.)

------------
He finds the folds in the creases of Angelo's body- elbows, knees, groin, behind his ears, the bottoms of his feet. All of that extra skin has to go somewhere when Angelo smooths himself out; he keeps it stretched tight, folded over, and tucked away, hidden.

Jono traces the thin line of the fold in Angelo's elbow with his thumb and watches a gray fist clench in reaction.

"Cut that out." Angelo pulls his arm away, but Jono follows it, running his hand from wrist to elbow in silent apology.

It looks like a scar, just one of the many dark and pale lines on his friend's body, and he touches it again. It reminds him of nothing more than the crack under a doorway: a tiny, secret way in. He is caught by the sudden, sick desire to strip Angelo open, exposed; he tries to slip a fingernail under the edge of the fold, to peel it apart.

Angelo moves quickly, wrapping one of his hands around both of Jono's and pinning the other boy down, a heavy weight on top of him, pressing down on the fragile shield of his bandages. Angelo glares down at him, but Jono is looking at his hands, at the stretch of Angelo's skin around his wrists, unfolded and spun into the long, unbreakable strands of his fingers.

Another set of long gray fingers touches his face, curling around the strips of black cloth there. Jono's eyes snap up to Angelo's face, wide and white around the edges, as Angelo slips a fingernail under the edge of the folds, and tugs.

*Don't-* It doesn't matter that Angelo sees him with the wrappings off all the time, or that he hasn't lost control of the fire in over a year. He's still suddenly sick with shame and terror- it would be like Gayle all over again, like Paige, and even if Angelo survived, he wouldn't, not again.

But Angelo doesn't pull the bandages away. He just leaves his fingers tucked under the very edges of them, and glares. "Not so fun when someone's doin' it to you, right?" His voice is low and angry. Angelo is always angry, but never at him.

Jono closes his eyes and tries to form an apology in his head, but Angelo untangles himself and is gone before he can say anything.

-
-
-

(They knew all the best ways to get under each other's skin.)

GenX fic recs and some babble

I love Angelo. I haven't loved a fictional character this hard in quite a while; possibly I fangirled Kakashi like this, back in the day, but I doubt that level of adoration came close. (This love for Gen-X is going to yield an indeterminate amount of not-drabbles, and I apologize in advance for all of them. Don't worry, this too shall pass.)

Faerber is a god at handling team dynamics; I think he does just as well as Lobdell in writing GenX. Sadly, he doesn't have Chris Bachalo's sexy sexy artings to back up his writing, but Dodson isn't half bad.

The shift from Faerber to Ellis/Wood in the last handful of issues is more than a little abrupt; issues 67-70 are completely jarring and deeply traumatizing. Standard Ellis style, I suppose, but it doesn't mesh well with everything GenX was before he took over. That doesn't mean the Ellis/Wood run isn't good, mind you- all the plot arcs aside from "Come on and Die Young" are wonderful. Ellis and Wood manage both plot and character development at the same time, and that's horrifically rare in super hero comics.

I do like the way Ellis and Wood evolved the kids, though- they're half feral, the way real teenagers should be. (And, okay, Jono's laundry crisis cracked me up like nothing else, because damn. Boys. I love them.) Not so much of a fan of the new Emma Frost, though I can see where she's coming from, and it half makes me want to write fic about it.

I was half expecting the final issue to make me cry; I was pleasantly surprised to see that, even though there are about six dozen loose ends, it was a satisfying ending. There was enough of a "to be continued" in it to keep me happy.

Now, of course, I'm downloading X-Men Unlimited and the mid-420s issues of Uncanny, and I fully expect those to make me bawl. If they don't, I'll be disappointed.

That said, fic recs! All genres, and as much Skin/Chamber as I could find.

The Regresas Series, by MaggieCat- The Door Will Lock Behind You, A Bit of Naughty, Found Out, and Al Anima Sola.
So, few things entertain me more than feral hoodlum antics- and by "few things," I mean nothing. And the first parts of this series are full of those, and I love them. This is sort of how I figure things would have ended up if Ellis and Wood had held onto GenX longer before the book got cancelled- sort of edgy and gritty and utterly delicious.

Angelo-centric, mild to serious slashy subtext depending on how high the prescription on your slash goggles is, and warnings for het. (The warning is just in case anyone else finds the idea of Emma Frost having sex- with anyone or anything- as creepy as I do.) I would have read this series about a dozen times by now, if it weren't for the fact that reading the final part is like taking a punch to the chest. I lack the endurance to handle many of those.

Also, Emma Frost having sex really creeps me out. >.>

Mommy Complex by MaggieCat. Emma and her orphaned children. Shamelessly cute. (For the record, I loved Water Babies when I was a kid.)

Inquiring Minds by WondergoddessSarah. Jono and Angelo have locked themselves in the bathroom. Paige stands outside, feeling Concerned. Innuendo ensues.

Monotone Photograph by DitzCat. Ultimate-verse Jono/Angelo, full of lovely, atmospheric pr0n. Wins six million extra points for Jono calling the Ultimates "one of the largest wank offs in the history of all governmental communal circle jerks." There's a sixth part on the X-Slash livejournal here.

Steady by thegutterlife. Vignette from Ange and Jono's roadtrip to LA. There's other Jono/Ange fic on coo's livejournal, but this is my favorite piece.

Breakfast in Bed by Lise. Jono/Ange morning-after fic. Cute and squishy, sort of.

Midnight Vigil by Cassandra West. Post M-Day; Jubilee, Jono, and Gayle Edgerton.

Comic Book Fairy Tale by WondergoddessSarah. Drabble; Jubilee, Angelo, and a gingerbread house.

Monsters by Rossi. Short Leech-fic; a coding error causes the story to repeat. Cute and kind of achey, and I really wish the comics had explored the relationship between Artie and Leech and the other students better.

Heartless Among Them by Shallot. Waaaangsty Jono-fic.

A Moment of American Beauty by Tangerine. Jubilee instrospection. Loses points for the lack of subtlety at the end, but the rest of it is just lovely.

I am the cigarette smoking man- say once an hour I light the flower and burn, baby burn.

My great quest for good GenX fic has yielded very little; I'll do another recs post soon, but in the meantime, I'll probably just read "Perseus, Still" and "Absolute Beginners" again for the six millionth time, and try not to absorb JaneTe's fairly distinctive voice in my own writing.

Jono and Ange have difficult voices to capture; they've both got a huge vocabulary of slang, and slang is finicky to work with when it's not your native dialect. That said, my Jono is totally a die hard Neil Gaiman fan, and he and Angelo totally argue about comics almost as often as they argue about music, which is all the time. (What? No, I'm not actually writing a longer-than-drabble-length fic. Shut up. I'm not.)

Also, the Great Lakes Avengers are a real team...sort of. They're even more ridiculous than their name implies.

No warnings, just a vaguely out of character Angelo, because he doesn't actually know how to feel sorry for himself. (But, in conclusion? I love Angelo so much, and I hate Marvel, just a little, because of it.)

-------------------------
"What kind of super hero team would want me, anyway? "Sorry, Senor Espinosa, we already have our share of mutants with useless powers." Face it, amigo. All I'm good for is scaring the kiddies at Halloween." Angelo paces the basement restlessly, halfway through his second pack of cigarettes for the day. It's become second nature for him to step over or around the piles of clothing and CD cases that litter the floor.

*The Great Lakes Avengers'd prolly take you. An' yer power's not useless.* Jono is lying on the couch, rereading one of his old issues of Sandman and listening to Angelo monologue around his room with half an ear. *Thought you were only in this 'til you graduated, anyway.*

"That ain't the point. If I wanted to keep doing this shit, no one'd take me. And- what the fuck, 'mano? The Great Lakes Avengers? How desperate do you think I am?" He picks up an empty soda can (one of his) off the floor to use as an ash tray. "Don't matter anyway, they already got a stretchy guy."

Jono flips a page in his comic book and doesn't look up. *Keep feelin' sorry for yerself, mate. It's sexy.*

Angelo stops and drapes himself over the back of the couch, in Jono's face. "You'd be the expert on that, right, muchacho? 'Cuz you're the one with the aura of mystery and self loathing. Izzat why Paige still wants to jump your bones?"

Even though he can communicate perfectly well through telepathy, there are times when Jono can say everything he needs to with his eyes alone. The look he gives Angelo now says, quite clearly, "Keep talking and I'll rip your bloody face off with my psychic teeth, you plonker."

Angelo just grins and ruffles Jono's hair, then lights another cigarette and begins pacing again.

Do it like they do on the discovery channel.

Damn you, Wikipedia, and your spoilerific ways! And damn you, Marvel, for killing off all my favorite characters. >_< *wanders off to Ebay to buy all of GenX*

Anyway. When I'm not running Theron torture through my head, I'm running Blaine and Silverlock being weirdly adorable. Or just being weird.

(Silverlock needs to build up his aether reserves before a job, and the easiest way for him to do this is to have lots very enthusiastic sex. Sadly, he can't leech from Blaine until after Nagendra dies, so any sex they have before then is purely recreational. Blaine gets very zen when it comes to Silverlock's screwing around, which means he's either got a convenient cuckolding kink, or he's repressing lots of murderous rage.)

And this? This is why the two of them win the award for most sickeningly adorable couple evar in my head. This is also quite possibly the fluffiest thing I've ever written. And you know what? I like mindless fluff.

Blaine and Silverlock talk about sex. Takes place before Nagendra dies.

---------

Silverlock crossed his arms and looked down at the pile of blankets and pillows on the bed. He didn't need his magic to feel the exhaustion radiating from the man currently nesting there. "Hibiscus said you'd been busy lately, but he didn't say you'd been trying to kill yourself. Why couldn't you have developed a work ethic like Maddel's? He wouldn't have spent three days draining himself over a bunch of alchemists. He'd have just let them die. They'll just go back to finding new ways to blow themselves up, you know."

Blaine made an indistinct noise and pulled a pillow over his head.

He sat on the edge of the bed and pulled the pillow away. "Stupid little martyr. I've got a job out in Tarmish, and my ship leaves tomorrow. I was hoping to spend some time with you before I left to get ready, but you're clearly too tired to be any fun."

An eye opened and blinked sleepily at him. "Bad timing."

"Tell me about it. We would've only had an hour or so, anyway. I've got an appointment with a friend." He tucked the pillow under his chin with one arm and reached out to stroke Blaine's hair with the other.

Blaine made a sleepy noise and turned his face into Silverlock's caress. His eye slid shut. "Mm. 'Nyone I know?"

"Don't think so. Her name is Stacia. Poison specialist, but not officially a guild affiliate. She's the best in the business, though. You'd like her, I think. You both have the same weird scholastic tendencies. And she gets on well with cats and snakes."

That got him a smile, but Blaine kept his eyes shut. "What's she look like?"

"Redhead, fair skin. Glasses, and lovely blue eyes. Well endowed, for halfling."

"Gonna fuck her?"

"You're sick. She's three feet tall."

That got him the curled edge of a grin, and a noise not unlike a drowsy purr. "Pots 'n kettles." A yawn. "So, gonna fuck her?"

He laughed and traced the line of Blaine's eyebrow with his thumb. "Maybe. If she wants. Sometimes she does, sometimes she doesn't. She's got a regular thing with a few of her bodyguards."

"And if she doesn't want?"

"I'm sure I'll find someone, somewhere, willing to fuck me."

"Mm-hm. City's full of charity."

"Oh, thank you." He dropped the pillow over Blaine's face and leaned on it, earning a muffled noise of protest. "I suppose I'll just look elsewhere for handouts when I get back. Wouldn't want to strain your generosity, after all."

An arm sprouted out of the mass of bedding and flailed for a moment before grabbing an extra pillow and thwacking Silverlock in the face. It was a glancing blow at best, but he relented and sat up before Blaine managed to hurt himself.

Blaine threw another pillow at him and emerged from his nest with his hair sticking up at odd angles. "Bastard." Exhaustion drew dark smudges under his eyes and lent a grayish cast to his skin. His jaw cracked loudly as he yawned.

"Literally and figuratively." He tugged the other man into a slow, lazy kiss, just a warm, aimless exploration of his mouth with lips and tongue. "Part of the job description, love."

"I know. Now go. Let me sleep. Come back in one piece." Blaine kissed him again, with a little more purpose: a goodbye kiss. Then he burrowed back beneath the covers and pulled a pillow over his head.

Silverlock grinned and patted a lump in the bed that might have been Blaine's shoulder, then dimmed the lights as he left.