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*
Thursday, August 31, 2006
Tuesday, August 29, 2006
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.)
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.)
Monday, August 21, 2006
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.
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.)
------------
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.)
Thursday, August 17, 2006
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.
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.
Sunday, August 13, 2006
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.
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.
Friday, August 11, 2006
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.
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.
Wednesday, August 09, 2006
It's official: GenX owns my soul
Firstly, Emma Frost trying to cook breakfast for the kids? Ohgod. No, Emma. Ketchup is not a suitable substitute for tomatoes. Also, you either get to keep your maternal instincts or your skanky corset. You can't have both, it's creepy.
Secondly, why the hell are there so many cartoon characters in this series? First Howard the Duck, now Elwood the Pooka- I am perplexed, befuddled, and delighted.
Thirdly, Jono trying to make popcorn with his face? I...am so in love.
Fourthly, Angelo. Just- Angelo. Bill Clinton jokes and slasher movie marathons and bad internet humor and calling all the girls "chica" and being a complete and utter dork all the time, and the way he prefers ancient Atari games to the best in Shi'ar entertainment systems. I think your chin fuzz is sexy Ange, even if no one else does.
Fifthly, Jono saying "the ol' ultra-violence." Unf unf, baby. Unf unf. Also, the terrified look he gets on his face whenever anyone tells him he's cute.
Sixthly, the way Emma and Sean keep taking the kids on field trips that involve circuses or mini golf or other startlingly mundane things, and how they make up the most adorably dysfunctional family ever. D'awwwwww.
Seventhly, the immense joy Emma and Sean get out of beating the snot out of each other. XD...DDDDDDDDD I love Emma Frost so, so much.
I'm so happy I found issue #1 at Otakon; it's got a foil cover! It's so mid '90s it hurts! And I'm utterly in love with this series. This is good, because I've gotten to the point in X-Force where Cable, Domino, Ric, and Shatty have left, and they were kind of my main reasons for reading that title. And Cable, meanwhile, is doing his warrior of destiny thing, which isn't half as interesting as him doing his snarky soldier thing. Good thing I just picked up all of The Authority to fill the gap in my comics reading.
...Yeah, okay, I'm a little obsessed. But can you blame me?
As far as The Authority goes, I do love Apollo and the Midnighter (even with the Midnighter's horrible, horrible helmet) but my favorites are Jack Hawksmoor and The Doctor. And the Jennys, of course, but mostly Jack. He has the coolest powers ever. He's the God of Cities. He can speak to them, command them, commune with them- and he walks barefoot through them, and is so stuffed full of alien tech as the result of hundreds of abductions throughout his childhood that he's really not even human anymore. He's shiny. (Not literally, that's Angie. But still.)
You have to love a guy who can point at a pair of skyscrapers and go, "You two! Help my friend! ...I don't give a shit if there's people inside you!"
I love the idea of sentient cities. I love cities in general, and you really don't have to walk far in New York to feel the place's heartbeat.
The Doctor is Jack's opposite; where Jack is the lord of all that is urban sprawl, The Doctor is the Shaman of Earth. Captain Planet, if you will. Jeroen is a coward and a junkie, but he can turn bullets into butterflies with a thought.
I love Warren Ellis. He creates the most amazing universes, the most incredible realities. So good, so good. Most people will tell you to stop reading once the Ellis run ends, and then read Revolution.
I think this is a little extreme, since the Ellis run was only 12 issues long, and that's really nowhere near enough of The Authority. On the other hand, while the Millar run of The Authority isn't bad, it isn't Ellis; some of the plotlines are just plain dumb. And the way Apollo and the Midnighter become Big Gay Superheroes instead of a pair of badass guys who also happen to be gay does get irritating pretty quickly. Also, despite the fact that Apollo is physically the strongest member of the team, he's also the one who consistently gets his ass kicked. I mean, what the hell. All Shen has going for her are wings and claws, but she hardly ever gets beat down. Apollo has heat ray vision, super strength, flight, and doesn't need to breathe- yet he's the one who gets kidnapped and abused all the time. I motion that this happens because he's the pretty half of the Big Gay Superhero couple, and therefore clearly the wussy girl half.
>_<
The middle part of The Authority has its moments, but I recommend skimming large chunks of it. I was mostly reading the middle stuff for Jack and the Doctor, anyway.
In the meantime, my own creative endeavors remain stalled, aside from the one scene of Silverlock being an asshole to end all assholes. I mean, really. There's insensitive, and then there's utterly cruel.
At least the voices in my head keep me entertained. (Dear self: we are not going to write Skin/Chamber fic. No, really. We're not. I mean it, stop that. It's not happening unless we get over our tendency to giggle every time we write "cock," and god knows that's not happening any time soon. *facepalm* ...*giggle*)
Secondly, why the hell are there so many cartoon characters in this series? First Howard the Duck, now Elwood the Pooka- I am perplexed, befuddled, and delighted.
Thirdly, Jono trying to make popcorn with his face? I...am so in love.
Fourthly, Angelo. Just- Angelo. Bill Clinton jokes and slasher movie marathons and bad internet humor and calling all the girls "chica" and being a complete and utter dork all the time, and the way he prefers ancient Atari games to the best in Shi'ar entertainment systems. I think your chin fuzz is sexy Ange, even if no one else does.
Fifthly, Jono saying "the ol' ultra-violence." Unf unf, baby. Unf unf. Also, the terrified look he gets on his face whenever anyone tells him he's cute.
Sixthly, the way Emma and Sean keep taking the kids on field trips that involve circuses or mini golf or other startlingly mundane things, and how they make up the most adorably dysfunctional family ever. D'awwwwww.
Seventhly, the immense joy Emma and Sean get out of beating the snot out of each other. XD...DDDDDDDDD I love Emma Frost so, so much.
I'm so happy I found issue #1 at Otakon; it's got a foil cover! It's so mid '90s it hurts! And I'm utterly in love with this series. This is good, because I've gotten to the point in X-Force where Cable, Domino, Ric, and Shatty have left, and they were kind of my main reasons for reading that title. And Cable, meanwhile, is doing his warrior of destiny thing, which isn't half as interesting as him doing his snarky soldier thing. Good thing I just picked up all of The Authority to fill the gap in my comics reading.
...Yeah, okay, I'm a little obsessed. But can you blame me?
As far as The Authority goes, I do love Apollo and the Midnighter (even with the Midnighter's horrible, horrible helmet) but my favorites are Jack Hawksmoor and The Doctor. And the Jennys, of course, but mostly Jack. He has the coolest powers ever. He's the God of Cities. He can speak to them, command them, commune with them- and he walks barefoot through them, and is so stuffed full of alien tech as the result of hundreds of abductions throughout his childhood that he's really not even human anymore. He's shiny. (Not literally, that's Angie. But still.)
You have to love a guy who can point at a pair of skyscrapers and go, "You two! Help my friend! ...I don't give a shit if there's people inside you!"
I love the idea of sentient cities. I love cities in general, and you really don't have to walk far in New York to feel the place's heartbeat.
The Doctor is Jack's opposite; where Jack is the lord of all that is urban sprawl, The Doctor is the Shaman of Earth. Captain Planet, if you will. Jeroen is a coward and a junkie, but he can turn bullets into butterflies with a thought.
I love Warren Ellis. He creates the most amazing universes, the most incredible realities. So good, so good. Most people will tell you to stop reading once the Ellis run ends, and then read Revolution.
I think this is a little extreme, since the Ellis run was only 12 issues long, and that's really nowhere near enough of The Authority. On the other hand, while the Millar run of The Authority isn't bad, it isn't Ellis; some of the plotlines are just plain dumb. And the way Apollo and the Midnighter become Big Gay Superheroes instead of a pair of badass guys who also happen to be gay does get irritating pretty quickly. Also, despite the fact that Apollo is physically the strongest member of the team, he's also the one who consistently gets his ass kicked. I mean, what the hell. All Shen has going for her are wings and claws, but she hardly ever gets beat down. Apollo has heat ray vision, super strength, flight, and doesn't need to breathe- yet he's the one who gets kidnapped and abused all the time. I motion that this happens because he's the pretty half of the Big Gay Superhero couple, and therefore clearly the wussy girl half.
>_<
The middle part of The Authority has its moments, but I recommend skimming large chunks of it. I was mostly reading the middle stuff for Jack and the Doctor, anyway.
In the meantime, my own creative endeavors remain stalled, aside from the one scene of Silverlock being an asshole to end all assholes. I mean, really. There's insensitive, and then there's utterly cruel.
At least the voices in my head keep me entertained. (Dear self: we are not going to write Skin/Chamber fic. No, really. We're not. I mean it, stop that. It's not happening unless we get over our tendency to giggle every time we write "cock," and god knows that's not happening any time soon. *facepalm* ...*giggle*)