Astronomics Game Art : Designing Mining Equipment!

Gonna talk this week about designing mining equipment for the sci-fi game Astronomics - demo on steam right now! - And I thought I'd start with a little conversation about research and process (...that doesn't really have on a much art in it but just stay with me) and maybe get to tap in a little bit into how someone like me who doesn't do a lot of technical design learned a lot about how to get excited about that whole field through the research stage of this game.

So when I say research I really do mean fairly old-school research — and this is probably gonna be a theme with a lot of the posts about this game in particular, because I don't think you can build sci-fi without some understanding of engineering systems and current scientific realities to then play with, you know?

As you may gather from the trailer, Astronomics is a game about asteroid mining, among other things. Which meant that we had a lot of need for legit industrial feeling props and tools for the player to use, things that felt functional and believable without feeling complicated or delicate. I really enjoy the challenge of adding appeal to something that maybe people don't always think about being appealing or fun or cute (this is never an absolute statement — there's always somebody already able to see more appeal in any given subject and I could ever imagine) so part of the research stage is going and looking for that appeal. So above you can see a sheet of loose rough sketches I did in clip studio paint from reference that I gathered with the rest of the team and by myself that seemed relevant to some of the designs we were pursuing.

If you've had the chance to play the demo, you'll know that it's not just surface mining but we are going to be letting you mind gases and liquids and underground mineral veins as well — these are all things that people do in the real world of course, so process one was taking a quick look at those actual industries and then figuring out how I could condense that activity down into a pretty simple and easy to understand machine.

So turned out what we needed was something that drilled and dug, something that pumped liquids, something that sucked air, and all of these things needed to then produce some sort of container to hold what they had collected.

In a videogame you really need to communicate to the player why each act they do is significant and different from the others, and as the art director it was my job to figure how to do that through visual design of the tools they're going to be using. So that meant that even though you could certainly store liquid and gas and solid resources in the same kind of box, I wanted to try and find ways to keep each thing feeling different. Best case scenario is that you're able to look at a prop we've designed and know in a split second which of these three states of matter it will be containing; in the research stage one of the things I'm looking for is any existing visual language that we have (in this Western English-speaking North American videogame audience culture) that already solves this problem.

The great thing about industrial design is that they indeed have very intentionally tackled this problem. Part of it is purely physics optimization that the field of engineering has been working towards for human history. For example, when you're storing liquid and you want to remove all of it from a container you probably don't want something with corners — that's how you end up with cylindrical liquid storage. When you're storing a gas you're likely keeping it under pressure, which means you need a shape that will withstand pressure evenly, which means you're looking for something with literally no corners or edges ideally — and that's how you end up with bubble-shaped gas storage like a propane canister. And then when you're storing something solid and you want to use the space most efficiently and be able to stack whatever it is that you have packed it into, you have a box.

Real good news is, a box and a cylinder and a sphere are all wonderfully visually distinct shapes in a fantastically strong place to start when it comes to solving the question of storage. So then we get into the challenge of the machines themselves — what distinguishes a drill from a pump from a vacuum?

So that's the beginning of some of the questions that you have to answer when you're designing props for a game — in the research stage is only one of bunch of different ways you start figuring out these answers. But I want to talk for just a second a little bit about how I personally wrangle my research, because I am definitely not telling you this is the only way to do it. It seems like it may be worth explaining what I get out of this process and see if anything here make sense for you!

One of the reasons that I have this huge page of sketches, big and detailed or tiny and loose, all laid out in one place for me to look at, is because I personally learn and remember things more strongly by taking notes. With my hand holding a pencil ideally. And when they're abstract concepts or verbal or numerical then I'll use writing and I won't have a problem with it, but my job at this stage was not to figure out abstract concepts or to find themes — my job was to solve visual problems. So my first order of business was visual research specifically. Now for me, that involves lots of things — I have a Pinterest board for any sort of subcategory of stuff I'm researching to just do enormous broad research with; then I probably bring most of those images into a huge working .PSD file and move them around to create groupings. And then I start drawing.

I really think that drawing is integral for me at this stage. I don't think I could do this without drawing as part of my research. There's so much that I just don't bother noticing if I'm not going to be drawing the thing that I'm looking at; even the worst, fastest, sketchy as drawing makes me pay infinitely more attention to something then I do when I am simply collecting information mentally. I'm phrasing this in a somewhat exaggerated, self-deprecating way, but I really can't exaggerate how much more I get out of things when I sit down and draw them. They talk about drawing is a way of seeing, and for me that's a practice I've intentionally pushed and explored in my life.

The other thing, though, is that visual problem that I need to solve. Sometimes solutions to the problem aren't obvious until they are visualized — it can be very easy to get distracted by things like surface details and miss the silhouette language, or vice versa, but when you are doing the drawing you have to wrestle with the silhouette and the details and make decisions about them. Visual trends appear way more clear when you are drawing something for the 10th time as opposed to simply seeing it for the 10th time. And all of the layers of cultural meaning and context that clutter up a photograph can be simply ignored as you transfer only what you need to a drawing, where you might discover something that everything else hid until then. Beyond that, one of the things you may notice about the sketches is that they are somewhat cartoony — I'm certainly trying to capture important details and be representational to a degree, but much like gesture drawing the human figure, researching this way lets me start finding out what the gestures are of these different sorts of subject matter. This is something that I knew about creature design, and about flora design, and one of the real joys of this game in particular was proving to myself that this gesture approach applied to industrial machines and technology as well.

I mean, I knew that there were cute trucks out there, but gosh.

I think if you are in need of something to reinvigorate a particular piece of subject matter for you — if you're designing something that you are just not that excited about, or if you don't feel challenged by the work in front of you — I really think sitting and sketching from reference can open up the complexities and help push you and your work farther. It certainly works for me and I know that the learning I did on this game is something I carry with me to future projects as well.

That seems like a pretty strong place to leave this post in particular, but I'll be back later this week with more breakdowns and screen caps of the actual design process of all of our adorable mining equipment!

I would really love to hear from folks if you also engage in similar research processes before going into full design mode — or if you have a completely different way to get your mind revved up and ready to go, I would really enjoy reading about it!

In the meantime, if you're curious about mining asteroids but it's cute please feel free to check out the Astronomics demo on steam, I made an awful lot of visdev art for this and handed it off to some incredible game creators who have done some really impressive stuff taking their ideas and my ideas and running to honestly some pretty new and exciting places with them.

I reread snowman & me and that one line about Touya filming them has me Thinking abt Touya-nii getting into photography and demanding reader to do little photo shoots for him or stop whatever they’re doing when he thinks there’s potential for a good shot. Maybe he even buys outfits for her to wear in specific places. Definitely has all of his photos of her compulsively organized. Definitely definitely takes candids and teases her when he thinks she looks extra cute doing something embarrassing/clumsy.

i LOVE this idea especially since my boyfriend is into photography hehehe but yes!!!!! many thoughts on this under the cut!!! <3

he’s annoyingly conscientious when it comes to getting the ‘perfect’ shot and he absolutely WILL make her hold certain poses as he scouts out the best angles and lighting in any given location or situation. YES he would absolutely fucking spoil her with outfits, just mountains and mountains of super cute sets of clothing and lingerie 🥺 he already picks out her clothing for her so often, so the idea of him dictating what she should wear based on where they’re going that day because he has some interesting ideas for a photo in mind really makes sense!

hahaha i’m so glad you picked up on his sense of meticulousness and organization, which really stems from his need for absolute (or as close to absolute as he can get) control and power. he borders on perfectionist and although he doesn’t fall FULLY into that category like my twin!touya does, he’d most definitely have all of those pictures organized in a painstakingly methodical way <3

if we’re talking about touya-nii getting into photography as a hobby, you can bet your ass he’s buying a polaroid camera for those oh-so-pathetically-cute candids, so he can stick them in his car, his wallet, their bedroom, their fridge—wherever the fuck he wants to. he likes to have them everywhere, he tells her, so he is constantly reminded of her stunning beauty. it’s like a shot of pure love straight to his heart every time his eye catches on one of the sweet little polaroids he’s taken of her, always off guard, never ready, completely raw and natural and HER: a blurry face with a brilliant smile in the passenger seat of his car; a cute, surprised expression with a noodle hanging from her lips at their favourite noodle bar; a soft, sleepy baby all wrapped up in one of his old worn hoodies and the fluffy comforter of their bed. such photos cannot ever truly capture the authentic and immense beauty of her soul, but they manage to imprint just a wisp of her aura onto the film; a small piece of her that he can always carry with him, or stick around their surroundings and be thoroughly engulfed in, embraced by.

you can also bet your ass he is taking several up the skirt ‘candids’ as well as watching her closely, waiting for her to bend over in one of those ridiculously indecent short, short dresses/skirts he indulges her with so he can snap that perfectly sexy, voyeuristic shot.

and, of course, she will always take the opportunity to steal his polaroid camera from him to snap a few of her own special shots, too <3

The Ballad of Songbirds and Snakes

Hi! Welcome back to PestoButGay, where today I feel like I actually have ground to speak on when reviewing today’s film ‘Hunger Games : The Ballad of Songbirds and Snakes” having read all of the Suzanne Collins’ Hunger Games Trilogy books as a teen and during desperate times read.. and reread.. and reread those pages of the prequel book, The Ballad of Songbirds and Snakes - so I am well acquainted with the source material, having lots of expectations leading up to the release of the film, and my own perceptions of how it should be. 

For convenience, I will be using the shorthand title of the film “TBOSAS”, “TBSS” or “Songbirds and Snakes” as I have beef with Suzanne for not making the title snappier. I’m joking I love you Suzanne ( Write more books please ). 

As a recap, as it’s been a little while since the film came out and it might not be the freshest on your mind.  “The Ballad of Songbirds and Snakes” takes us back to the dystopian world of Panem, decades before the events of the trilogy. This time, we’re following a controversially hot young Coriolanus Snow. Yes, the same Coriolanus Snow that later became a dictator killing children. This charming student navigates the political landscape of Panem, as he becomes dragged in to shape the deadly games of manipulation and survival. 

Directed by Francis Lawrence, returning as the director of the trilogy, and written by Suzanne Collins, who took her time to make this masterpiece but it is much appreciated. The film sees a cast of Tom Blyth ( who you won’t know, as I didn’t ) as Coriolanus Snow, Hunter Schafer ( who you should know if you don’t ) as Tigris Snow, Coriolanus’ cousin, and Snow White herself, Rachel Zegler. Viola Davis, features as the antagonistic force that trained Coriolanus snow, and she was incredible, easily my favourite performance and truly no one disappointed.

Now, to what you have all been waiting for, my interpretation! ( this is where you are meant to cheer ) Songbirds and Snakes serves as such a compelling piece exploring power, privileged, and the moral intricacies that Suzanne makes the audience question as we delve into the evolution of Snow. The film looks at the origins of tyranny, truly not a subject that is ever talked about with empathy and a rationale displaying a step by step of how easily tyranny can happen.

As a devoted fan of the franchise, I approached the film with high expectations, and I’m pleased to say that it did not disappoint. The film expertly weaves together elements of political intrigue, social commentary, and character-driven drama, creating a riveting cinematic experience from start to finish.

Saying that, with all the positive affirmations, fun facts and how strongly that I have anticipated this film with excitement, that I have given this film so far, I actually only give it 4 Stars.

****

I love the Hunger Games franchise and universe so much, like so goddamn much. This could have been awful and I genuinely think that I would have come away with good things to say. I truly enjoyed it, mostly as an evolution of the story and lore we already know, but with a strong enough base to stand on its own, friends of mine that hadn’t watched the others didn’t feel isolated by the film of like they were missing something, but thoroughly enjoyed it, which I think is a credit of the book.

Though it improved on the book is many ways, I think my only issue with it is that it leans too corny at times, like they could have a fire line of dialogue, but it feels like they are waiting for you to tell them how good it was. While some moments may lean towards melodrama, the overall narrative remains engaging and thought-provoking, leaving a lasting impact on viewers. But overall, it had so many great and clever plot devices, which was my favourite thing about the films and books and what drew me in in the first place.

Suzanne collins can do no wrong. The Hunger Games franchise has so much potential, such a complex and engaging universe and this film was i think one of the best it's weighed out romance with politics. The politics of the entire universe are also obviously amazing, could talk for hours just about that honestly. Suzanne Collins, the mother that you are, please make a million more shoot off stories. Even if I am your only audience. 

the stars

disclaimer: so. i found this in my files from like when i was 12. i cringed my way through reading it, but... i spent a lot of time on it? and it’s not completely terrible? so here we are. maybe read it? if you want?

In the books left from the old days, they always say stars are like pinpricks of hope, steadfast and unyielding. The stars guided sailors through unforgiving seas, granted wishes upon blithe souls gazing up at the night sky. Stars were a beacon shining through the dark, a symbol of all the good in the world that persevered, even when it seemed it were drowning in darkness. But most of all, stars were what kept the hope of the world going.  

I wouldn’t really know, considering I had never seen one. But I could dream.

When I was six, after having learned about stars and galaxies at school, I set to badgering my father about them constantly. “But why, Baba, did the stars go away? What happened to them?” Baba had chuckled under his breath, then set me on his knee the way he did when he would explain something. “The stars are right there, Alliyah,” he told me, playing with a rebellious lock of hair that had come out of its place in my braid. “The stars are waiting for us, outside. We’re the ones that can’t see them anymore.”

My six-year-old face scrunched itself into a frown. “Why, Baba? I want to see the stars!” Baba had set me down, his face suddenly somber. “The stars come out at night, Alliyah. And we only go out during the day. Promise me that, Alliyah. Always come inside when you’re supposed to, never linger behind. Promise?”

I had nodded, still confused by his solemnity and with a thousand more questions on the tip of my tongue, but then he had pulled me into a hug and there was nothing I wanted more than to stay there, to stay in the warmth and safety that his arms around me ensured. I had bit down the questions, content to stay where I was.

These are the bits and pieces of memories I have left of my early childhood, gently worn down by the continual passage of days, weeks, months, years. The daydreams, however, the hours spent painting vast skies freckled with stars in my mind’s eye? Seven years have passed since I learned about the stars, and those are as fresh and frequent as ever, untouched by the coming and goings of the tides of time.

“Alliyah! Kazem!” my mother calls. “Come inside! It will be Time in a few minutes!”

“Coming!” I tell her, sliding open the door to the kitchen and slipping inside, pulling my twin brother, Kazem, in behind me. The Times are exactly what they sound like: a list of dates and times sent to us by the government dictating when we are allowed to leave the house. No one is permitted to go outside an hour before sunset or an hour after sunrise. Ever.  

Dinner is an affair with stuffed chicken and steamed vegetables, a delicacy that Maman doesn’t prepare often, and one that Kazem and I both thoroughly enjoy. After dinner, I head to my room and stand in front of my bookshelf. The sight of it is familiar and comforting, like greeting an old friend. But lining the shelves are not typical books where a boy rides on the back of a dragon to save the world, or a girl discovers a secret world hidden within her own. Instead, they are filled with every book I could find about the stars.

Along with the wave of relief that comes with every time I see my bookshelf, untouched, there are speckles of irritation, too. I must have read every book on the shelf a million times, but my mother refuses to let me take a look at the books on stars she has in her library. They are locked in a glass case, dark and brooding, and I cannot stamp out the curiosity that comes back every time I look at them. Maman has promised to let me read them when I turn eighteen, but five years seems an impossibly long time to wait.  

Nevertheless, I pick one out to reread and lie down on my bed, just as Kazem walks in. There is a wicked grin plastered on his face, a grin I am well accustomed to. He has on the face he wears when he has thought up some destructive plan with a million ways it could go wrong. It is both his strength and weakness that he only manages to see the one way it goes right.  

Kaz is the troublemaker out of the two of us, though most people would never guess it. That’s what happens when you’re perpetually polite, charming, and seem to have a genuine interest in whatever people have to say- at least in the presence of company. Alone he’s just a pain in the neck. Groaning, I drop my head down onto my pillow and turn to look at him. “What is it now, Kaz?”  

His grin only widens when he sees the book I am clutching. “Alliyah,” he starts, a dozen undercurrents to his tone. “How many times have you imagined seeing the stars? Looking up at them and making a wish?”

Too many to count. Kazem knows that. He presses on, his expression becoming bolder and more confident with each word. “Tonight,” he declares, putting on a bit of a pompous air, “you are going to see them.”

“What?’ I say in disbelief. “Kaz, you know that’s not how it works. The Times-”

“Are just another silly rule that we can bend. Remember how many times we’ve broken the rules together? The only difference is that this time, there’s a real reward. This time, one of your dreams- your one dream- can come true.”

“The Times are not just some trivial rule made by elementary school teachers. The Times are the law, Kazem. You know you can’t just tiptoe your way around them.”  

“Why not?” Kazem retorts, his eyes alight with the fire that ignites whenever he’s concocting one of his crazy plans. “Have you ever really thought about why we can’t go out after dusk?”

This takes me aback. “It’s for our safety, to protect us-” I protest weakly.  

“Said by a president and government that never takes the time to point out what we need protecting against. Alliyah, do you really believe that? It’s just another scare tactic, another way to shut us down, keep us contained.”

I think about that, about the fact that stars were what fueled hope. Maybe the way to shut down hope was to stop people from being able to see it. Maybe, just maybe, Kaz was onto something.

Kazem senses my hesitation and keeps pushing, keeps drawing me into this absurd plan of his. And I listen.

“We leave in 5 minutes,” he finishes off, satisfied, until I hold up a hand.  

“Wait,” I reason. “How do you plan on not getting caught?”

Kaz raises a brow. “Did you really believe I wouldn’t have thought through that? Do you think so little of your twin brother? Maman and Baba fell asleep watching TV in the living room.”

“Forget Maman and Baba. Don’t you think there will be guards, patrols, to keep us from going out?”

Kazem spares me a glance before leaving to his own room. “Oh, the president is too arrogant for that. He won’t be able to imagine anyone would cross his orders. Count on it.”

We set out a few minutes later, sneaking past Maman and Baba, walking down the driveway. I feel a thrill pass through me. This is it. I’m going to see the stars.

As we walk, the sun dips below the horizon in all its fiery glory. Beside me, I hear Kaz suck in his breath. The sunset is beautiful, but I have seen a sunset before, albeit through the glass panes that block out dangerous rays from the sun and distort light. Seeing it in person would leave most people awestruck, but to me, it feels like the curtains closing before the first act of a play. I know the real show, the stars, is yet to come.  

“Are you ready?” Kazem whispers. “The stars should be coming out any moment now.” My stomach twists and turns, writhing in anticipation. I train my eyes on the sky, flexing and unflexing my fingers over and over again. The same glass panes that block out the rays from the sun stop us from seeing the stars, and until now, I’d never bothered to wonder why that was.  

A light sound escapes from my throat and my heart stutters in amazement as I stretch out my hand to point at a dot of light illuminating a patch of the sky. “There!” I exclaim. “Look, Kaz, a st-”

Just as the words are escaping my mouth, I hear a cracking sound. I feel it, too, deep in my bones. I look over at Kaz, who is as still a statue. No, that isn’t right- he is a statue, his expression carved in stone.

A guttural cry attempts to leave my mouth, but the stone crawling across my skin, starting from my toes and making its way upwards, makes it there before the scream does.

A few last thoughts run through my mind. The stars. The stars did this. If the stars were the symbols of hope, then what had mankind done to turn their light so toxic? What had we done to deserve this?

Then nothing. Utter blackness, with no stars to look for. No stars, and along with it, no hope.  

i don’t know if i should tag people in this bc its from a long time ago and i kinda hate it but?? i will i guess??? feel free to ignore this: @ronan-lynch-deserves-the-world @doitforthecarstairs @cirxce @pencil-is-my-sword @xonar-verse

Fade-touched. With no magic of her own, the Fade still dictates Hawke’s every move. It forces her to become a better escape artist near-daily - a runner from the moment her feet could first stay steady under her wobbling legs. Fade-touched. Fade-held. Fade-crushed. Her mother thinks the Fade is something they can run from. Maybe she’s right. Maybe if it were just the Fade, Hawke could tip it a crooked grin, do some fancy footwork, and then put it behind her like so many towns and Templars. From the moment she laid eyes on her twin siblings, though, and then again from her sixteenth year onward (a weight at her back briefly lifted, hefted into her arms like the twins so many years ago - begging to be spun, slashing through ozone and salt), Hawke knows there are some things that can never be escaped. Fade-touched. Fate-marked. She was always going to be a story.                                              ____________________ Fade-touched and fate-marked. Sixteen years old with a long sword strapped to her back (freshly cleaned and swaddled in oilcloth), Hawke contemplates that which cannot be escaped. On the long walk home she laughs bitterly over the irony of it all. A life spent on the run, perfecting the skill until it was second nature, and she can’t escape this one thing. She doesn’t even want to. She doesn’t know what she would be without it. (A person, perhaps) (Certainly not a story)                                             ____________________ Varric hears about her long before he sees her. Of course, that’s usually how his introductions go. His ears are open long before his eyes. None of his informants are terribly good with paints or charcoal, you see (useless bastards - he should get them to practice portraiture so he’s never caught so thoroughly off-guard again). The Amell siblings did not enter Kirkwall quietly. There was a lot of kicking and screaming and wailing. Business as usual, really. Most people didn’t enter Kirkwall willingly, and those that did were usually desperate enough for the usual theatrics to apply anyway. Still, the Amells made a splash. Disgraced (by an affair with an apostate no less) ex-nobles returning to an estate that’s been gambled away by a drunk?Juicy. Well, juicy to thieves. Until they proved to be dirt-poor Ferelden refugees barely worth whatever fee Arenthel was paid to get them into the city. Then, THEN, one of the siblings turned out to BE the fee Arenthel was paid. Just the one. Intriguing, but Varric can think of a lot of reasons Arenthel would pay for a pretty face - dark hair and blue eyes. Probably not the boy, too brawny and sour to be good at collecting information. The girl could be useful - her walking stick wasn’t fooling anyone, but those delicate features sure could. He’d overlooked the third Amell child entirely. A rookie mistake, really, her chosen last name notwithstanding. He let himself look (well, let his informants look) without really seeing. And when you were just looking...well. Hawke didn’t look like much. Or rather she didn’t look much like her siblings, who stood out in the way that you’d expect any purchase to in this city. In the way you’d expect a dirty secret to. It hadn’t occurred to anyone not in the know that Hawke was related to any of them. For all intents and purposes, coming from nobility as the Amells did, Hawke seemed to be a bodyguard (just like the red-haired guardswomen). She wasn’t the product of careful Kirkwall breeding. She didn’t even look Ferelden. Hawke’s nose seems certain to be her namesake. Prominent and high-bridged, hooked in a way that was unusual for people of her colouring (and, if Varric is being honest, the kind of thing that would prevent her from ever having a career at the Rose. Or, he’ll think later with ink and paper in hand, from ever being forgotten). Her skin is dark enough to look Rivaini, which, coupled with the russet-dark of her hair and her build (broad shoulders and hips, thick thighs, tall enough that his neck ached), is almost enough to make him forget the distinctly Ferelden nature of that nose. What makes him remember, what forces him to see the slightest family resemblance in the siblings he’s spying on, are her eyes frosty pale and narrow, or seemingly narrowed by thick heavy lashes, in the way only human eyes ever were (elves were always wide and guileless. Dwarves never seemed so...pointy. Qunari didn’t count - he didn’t look them in the eyes. Couldn’t at his height). Sharp, like ice chips, and made sharper against the warm tones of her skin. Wraith-like. Later, he’ll realize her eyes aren’t the same glowing Amell blue as the twins or her mother. Instead, they’re a shade of green so pale it’s nearly grey. He’ll only realize this when Carver makes it clear they consider her no sister of theirs, however, and he’ll wonder how he missed it over a week at her side. He’ll wonder that often about Hawke - how he missed things. How he missed her. 

She’s a stunner, that’s for sure. Just not in an entirely good way. She cuts an intimidating figure, larger than life somehow, with features so bold that Varric can practically hear the nobles waxing poetic about her ugliness for years to come. Choppy dark hair and mismatched armour over dense muscle just make her seem more boyish and boorish, adding another layer to the tableau. Adding another layer to the distance between her and her picture-perfect siblings.

She’s certainly something - maybe something he hadn’t learned the words for yet (something that will send him, drunk and careening, to his library time and again. Paging cover to cover through poetic epics for a hero that had even a fraction of the something he wanted to describe). Not at all what he expected from the whisperings or from keeping tabs on the mage Amell in case the Templars ruined something interesting before it got to be INTERESTING. He’d expected a catlike rogue or some Feredelen beauty. Something for the history books, you know? Tawdry and bawdy and fitting to the tales he’d later spin in the Hanged Man for drunks and gentry alike. Varric’s forgotten that first impression a thousand times over and reread it on an old ledger just as many times. Hawke has a way of doing that to him. Making him forget the past, replacing it with their present (visceral like a knife to the gut. Which he’s experienced with her. More than once). Hawke also has a way of being underestimated at first glance. Maybe that’s why Bartrand refuses her and the little cutpurse thought he could get clever. Varric puts on a show with Bianca. Hawke is alone - no siblings in sight. She’d only volunteered herself for the expedition. It’s jarring to suddenly have the woman he’s been watching for hours watch him back. Even as she makes quips with the best of them, Varric can’t help but feel like she’s waiting for a blow. Hawke’s guarded in the way a kicked dog is. Unpredictable in the same sense. It makes Varric nervous, but also makes it impossible to walk away. He wants this one on the expedition. He thinks she’ll make it worth his while (just like Arenthel earned her money four times over with just one of a set of three. She passed up on an apostate beauty who knew healing magic. Hawke was definitely someone he’d take a bet on). She does. Creators, she does and then some, wrenching Varric and Anders, the Grey Warden she’d blackmailed and cajoled into accompanying them, through the Deep Roads with an animal glint in her eyes that increases with every day spent in the dark. She jokes with them often, but it isn’t until the near-endless battling with Darkspawn drains even her to the ends of her reserves that she begins to tell them stories to keep their long march going.  “My father was an apostate.”  She tells them, not meeting their eyes, likely anticipating and disliking their knowledge of this fact (Anders, through his willingness to come along at all. Varric because he was Varric - no stone unturned),  “He was never contained in the Circle. To hear him tell it, he was never escaping anything. He moved because he felt like it. Because there was a great plan that he was following, and if it lead him away from the Templars? So be it.”  Garrett Hawke was a man who did not exist, at least according to every record Varric had scoured (and he had, he believed, scoured them all). Varric had thought, up until this point, that the name was simply an alias. He still thought that, but now...  Well, he had to wonder. Hawke’s sibling had never been caged. Perhaps her father flew free, too?  Anders certainly seemed to think so (the animal glint in Hawke’s eyes was fever-bright in his own, near-glowing against the dirt and Darkspawn blood smeared on his skin).  “Freedom isn’t free.”  Hawke says, a sardonic little twist to her lips causing her teeth to flash in the torchlight as she glances at Anders,  “He paid for it in destiny and a dragon was the shopkeep.”  Varric would laugh at the frustrated befuddlement on the mage’s face if it wasn’t echoed on his own.  “My father made this blade.” Another day, another story. The long sword on Hawke’s back stayed wrapped, no matter the fight to be had, twin daggers finding themselves home in her hands and her enemies throats. It was only exposed in moments like these - where she carefully oiled it as they made camp. “We forged it together, but the materials were things he had for years. It was mine to carry the moment it was finished. I’d never heard my mother so angry with him.” “Were you just a pipsqueak?” Varric asks, struggling to imagine her as something so small and soft as a child,  “Not quite as tall as your sword was high?”  Her eyes crinkle, or at least he thinks they do (torchlight stopped being an option in the morning, and Anders’ mage light was a dim and eerie substitute).  “I was thirteen.”  She tells him, lifting a hand to indicate how tall she’d stood then (about his height, he was chagrined to see),  “Beth had just come into her magic. Father took me on a hunt the moment he realized, deep enough into the Wilds that nobody stood a chance of finding us. We came back with a blade, no meat to speak of, and to a little girl who had half-incinerated our cottage. My being a child bore no mind in her anger.”  She snickered, despite the flicker of something Varric felt at the image she’d painted (a child standing apart from their siblings, pushed there by a parent declaring their favourite, widening the chasm with the gift of a weapon handmade and crafted in a moment no other family had witnessed - an intimacy impossible to intrude on and rendered in steel),  “Carver also flew into a bitter tantrum about wanting a sword shortly afterwards. Both her angels were little hellions for years after that hunt.”  Despite knowing they were being baited, Varric still asked the question that had taken root in his mind; “What made them stop? I’m certain it wasn’t from maturing - the very idea would probably bring your brother to tears.” Hawke’s calloused hands caressed the edge of the blade, skin just barely splitting (a cut so thin blood didn’t even bead. Or at least, that’s how the mage light made it appear). Her face was carefully blank no matter how Varric strained his eyes as she replied,  “They realized what it was for.” 

                                            ____________________ Varric tucked Hawke’s stories away for later contemplation. He embedded them into the skin of his arms with quill and ink, determined to remember their exact wording, on the night (or day or midmorning or whatever passed for time under the blasted Darkspawn damned ground) when Anders finally allows Justice out to play, emitting enough light and power that they can struggle their way to the surface, and Hawke mutters something about the Fade that has the spirit’s pupilless eyes settle on and see her. There’s something there.  A story.  He pieces it together in fits and starts. Junior, Carver Amell (who doesn’t deserve to go by that name, not with the sharp distaste he displays whenever Hawke calls him Carver like he’s asked), trails after them post-expedition and post-Bethany (sweeter than her brother, her bitterness reminiscent of dark chocolate instead of stale beer and regret) entering the Circle. Hawke doesn’t turn him away - Varric suspects she can’t after her sister turned her back on her protection and willingly joined the one thing their family had run from for years - and so Varric has a source of information.  He’s somewhat loathe to use it, though. He doesn’t love the way Junior wields his words. They’re such clumsy weapons - he’s liable to hurt himself just as badly as he intends to hurt Hawke. 

Still. Still - Varric is shameless in his pursuit of a story. He’s done more disgusting things (though sometimes...sometimes Hawke looks at him, ice-chip eyes warmed by firelight and wine and Wicked Grace, and her mouth twists a little. That same sardonic grin he’d seen underground when she told them freedom isn’t free. And he doesn’t like that look sitting on her face, not when it’s turned his way).  And it’s worth it. It repulses him to think it, but all those little bits of information he’s hoarded are worth it. Because their party is chased down by Tevinter thugs in a set-up orchestrated by a magic-hating elf tattooed in lyrium who can physically reach into a person’s chest to crush their heart, and the most fascinating thing to happen was little brother’s subsequent freak out.  “Chase him off!”  He hissed into Varric’s ear, bent double to do so and no doubt rendering himself a comical image (red-faced under Fenris’ cool scrutiny and Hawke’s stiff-backed refusal to turn to him).  “He can literally tear my heart from my chest. Forgive me if I’m not inclined to chase him off my lawn.”  Varric hissed back, half-hysterical as Fenris’ gaze drifted between them.  “You’ll have bigger things to worry about if he sticks around!”  Junior fired back, shaking Varric by the shoulders and gesturing at Fenris’ bristling armour and weapons.  “Hawke’s ‘I murder dragons and also really big spiders’ sized sword is almost the same size as his. While you’re all busy seeing which is the bigger thing to worry about, I’ll just run off to High Town in a set of heels where you lot will never think to look for me.”  Varric mutters, much more careful than little brother (the littlest, with his petty attitude - a little dog barking at some junkyard Mabari) to keep his voice down, though Fenris’ lips twitched anyway.  “Don’t talk about it like that.”  Junior snarled viciously,  “Her using it near him is exactly what I’m worried about. I don’t know what it will do.”  Now Fenris’ shoulders were drawing up, impossibly spiky pauldrons growing dangerously close to his ears as his gaze flitted over to Hawke, who sighed unhappily.  “I’m not going to stab you, Fenris. Not even in a fun way.”  She said, sliding her daggers back into their sheaths and rolling out her neck with a crooked grin (one that didn’t reach her eyes and sent another stab of dislike rolling through Varric towards her bratty little brother that rose in sharp competition with his curiousity).  “Is it enchanted?”  Fenris asked, gravelly voice walking a knifes’ edge between interest and distaste that mirrored Varric’s own thoughts too well for comfort (he was pretty sure Fenris was crazier than a nug on lyrium - the comparison wasn’t flattering).  “I’m pretty enchanted with it.”  Hawke replied, sweeping the oilcloth bundle off her back and resting her weight on the pommel, driving the tip of the blade against the cobblestones below,  “Most people find gifts enchanting, though.”  A not at all smooth or subtle evasion, though Varric had to admire the way she’d managed to imply that if it was enchanted, it certainly wasn’t her who had done it. Fenris had cottoned on to the same idea, but Carver looked like he was about to burst a blood vessel.  “Your...brother certainly seems to think there is something I would find distasteful about it. I doubt he’s worried about my wellbeing.”  The humour in Fenris’ voice didn’t quite cover his unease, but it did reflect a desire to please. Varric was certain the elf meant to stick around if he could  now that he was certain Hawke was no mage. “Distasteful?” Hawke laughs, leaning more heavily on the blade and flicking her gaze to Carver on time to see his wince,  “No, he only applies that word to our kinship. He thinks you’ll turn out to be a thief.”  Fenris’ jaw set and Varric’s heart quickened in response. Carver’s fingers practically crushed his shoulder.  “Of a blade?” Fenris asked, taking a menacing step forward.  Hawke chuckled again, though her knuckles had gone white where they wrapped around an exposed silvery green pommel.  “No,” She shook her head, sardonic twist of the lips in place as she tutted, “Of a life.”  Offence coloured Fenris’ sharp retort of,  “Yours?” Making it blunt and threatening as he drew even closer.  “Not mine.”  She shrugs,  "One that can’t be stolen, bought and sold. It’s a pointless fear related to those.”  She taps a single finger against Fenris’ exposed throat, directly over a silvery green line, before leaning back and hefting her blade back to its resting place between her shoulders. Carver abruptly lunged forward, fingers still buried in Varric’s tunic (dragging him a stumbling step towards Hawke despite his dwarven weight. Quite the feat for little brother).  “Don’t let her touch you!”  He snapped at the elf,  “Or she’ll kill you, too!”  Turning on her heel, Hawke's face disappeared from view. She began to stride away, heading off to the Hanged Man most likely, without a single glance back. Instead she called out over her shoulder: “Maybe my poison touch doesn’t affect dwarves, because Varric’s not dead yet, Carver. I think you might actually beat me to that particular punch.” Needless to say, the elf followed. Varric did, too, unable to walk away when his last sight of her was her back.  Junior didn’t.                                               ____________________ “She’ll kill you, too.”  Words meant something to Varric. Even the ones spilled from an imbecile’s lips (one who had realized Varric was not his friend, unfortunately. He couldn’t mourn the loss much, though something in his chest felt slightly out of place when Hawke cast a look about the Hanged Man on Wicked Grace nights and sighed at the utter lack of her brother’s presence. He’d come crawling back eventually, as unable to ignore her and she was him).  “Too.”  Meant something. It meant something in the context of that damnable blade, that sardonic twist of Hawke’s lips that meant she was telling a story, the one that meant honesty and a certain resignation (an animal glint in her eyes in the dark, a cornered animal that always knew the tunnel had an end, that always knew it was going to fight to its bloody last).  “What made them stop?” “They realized what it was for.”  “She’ll kill you, too!” Not enchanted, but enchanting. Apostate-forged in the Wilds by a man who bought his freedom for the price of destiny from a dragon. The answer was obvious. Somehow, though, Varric couldn’t quite put pen to paper. Couldn’t write down a new observation in one of dozens of journals dedicated to Hawke, the only way to keep track of all that made her her before she talked her way into making him forget.   Sighing, Varric pushed his unbound hair back from his face. Slipped his glasses from his nose. Pressed his forehead to the page as he closed his eyes.  He was shameless for a good story. Ruthless in its pursuit. He wanted - no, needed - answers.  And yet.  He could wait for this one. For another sardonic twist of the lips. For more crumbs that Hawke would drop at his feet, knowing he would pick them up, finding their reassembly as inevitable as her brother’s dislike and her mother’s silence (living in a manor Hawke had purchased with children Hawke had been bought and sold for).  Pressing his face ever further into the paper, Varric groaned in horror.  He didn’t want to be another inevitability in Hawke’s life.  He wanted to be a choice.                                      

Last Resort (Pt. 2)

A/N: This was originally going to fulfill another request but I got carried away and that didn’t happen, so that request will be next. There might be a 3rd part to this…

Summary: Continuation of Part 1, so go check it out. You and John have come up with an arrangement since the belt incident.

Warnings: Boy are there a lot. Violence (it’s John Wick, I mean…), sexual content, blood chokes, mild knife play, Dom!John, tiny bit of heart-crushing angst. Please heed these warnings (and be 18+).

Taglist (sorry if you’re not into it): @anita-e-taylor @futuristic-imbecile @samanthagraceg @beyond-antares @gwenebear @derangedcupcake @cumberbatchbaps 

After the belt incident we made a bit of deal. John and I had very thoroughly enjoyed the competitiveness of that contract, so we made it into a game for the both of us. For big contracts like that one, we’d go in together and see who could take down the target first. The satisfaction of winning wasn’t enough, so we developed a prize of sorts. Money was too easy and neither of us cared that much about it, so we split it evenly regardless of who won. There was no denying the attraction between us after that night, coupled with John’s admiration at me actually trying to fight him. Yea, the prize was far more coveted than money. The winner of the contract dictated the sexual activities of the rest of the night, making the competition that much better. Much like the night of the belt incident, John was demanding, dominant, and made it very clear that he wouldn’t take any shit from me on his days. He, in a sense, trained me on how to act for him because he wouldn’t put up with the snarky attitude from that first night. Who was I to deny him exactly what he earned?

I stepped out of the shower, snatching my towel off the hook and wrapping myself in the soft material. My work phone buzzed on the counter, alerting me to a new contract. I grabbed it with damp fingers, sliding the screen up and seeing a contract flash across the screen.

“Giovanni Bastone. Closed contract, $2 Million.”

“Consider it done,” I responded.

I exited the bathroom, snatching my other phone off the nightstand and navigating to John’s contact. The phone rang twice before a gruff voice answered.

“Y/N?”

“We have a contract Mr. Wick,” I purred.

“Wonderful, who?” if it was possible, his voice lowered at the promise of what the contract entailed.

“Giovanni Bastone,” I answered, rereading the message on my work phone.

“Lobby, one hour,” he grunted, presumably getting up.

“What are you wearing, John?” I wondered aloud for a couple different reasons.

“How many times do I have to tell you? We don’t have to match, Y/N,” he sighed.

“It’s for the aesthetic, John. Humor me,” I pleaded.

“Black suit, white shirt,” he revealed, probably shaking his head at the phone.

“You’re so fucking boring,” I teased, padding softly back into the bathroom and dropping my towel on the floor.

“What were you expecting?” he asked sarcastically.

I pulled the phone away from my ear, snapping a photo of myself in the mirror and sending it to him, “Probably something closer to this.” His chuckle sounded through the phone as he received the message. “We have time to kill,” I murmured a proposition to him.

“I think you can exercise some patience until later,” his voice rumbled over the phone. “And don’t even think about touching yourself before we leave. I’ll know.”

“It’s cute that you think you have that power over me when this contract hasn’t even started, yet, John,” I cooed back at him.

“Come say that to my face and you’ll think differently,” he promised, his voice turning in to a growl. “I’ll see you downstairs.”

“Yes, sir,” I submitted to his tone almost too quickly. All the times he ingrained it into my head forcing the phrase out of my mouth like a mantra.

His throat released one last husky chuckle before he ended the call. I took my time choosing my undergarments, settling on a navy-blue lace set that was sure to be uncomfortable on the mission but John would appreciate it later. I shrugged on a neatly pressed, white button down and black suit combo sans tie. I slid my shoes on, loaded up my belt, grabbed my rifle bag and headed out. I messed with the suit as I rode the elevator down, popping the top button undone so I could breathe easier. When I got to the lobby, John was already waiting for me on one of the sofas.

He stood as he saw me, his eyes raking up and down my form as if he could see through them. He huffed out a laugh, “We look like we’re about to go knocking on doors to go preach to people.”

“At gunpoint?” I laughed.

“Absolutely.”

The car ride to the mansion was comfortable, not really talking about the mission itself so much as talking about each other.

“I think you’re gonna take this one,” John predicted.

“I’m pretty sure my luck has run out, I won the last two,” I countered.

“Lucky number three?”

“We’ll see,” I muttered, fiddling with the buttons of my shirt. “Should I undo two buttons or three?”

“One was fine,” he answered gruffly.

“Yea, I like three, too,” I taunted him, flicking open the next two buttons and adjusting the collar.

His head turned toward me for a second, watching my actions with a heated gaze and tightening his grip on the steering wheel.

We pulled up a little down the road, so we wouldn’t be noticed by security inside. I slung my rifle over my shoulders, loading in a magazine and double checking my ammo, hip holster, and knife quickly. I nodded to John, who finished readying himself, the both of us stalking in the shadows until we approached the house. We pressed ourselves against the wall to create as small of a profile as possible, moving until we were around the corner from the front door. If I was by myself, there was no way in hell I’d knock on the door like this, but I had John, so we might as well have a bit of fun with it. We both let our rifles hang, mine getting slung around to my back. John pulled his pistol and nodded at me to go ahead. I pressed a finger into the doorbell, leaning my shoulder against the doorframe as I heard shuffling behind the door. The door cracked open slowly, a snarling face appearing behind it.

“Hey, there, I’m a bit lost—,” I started, seeing the guard jump in surprise as John turned the corner behind me with his handgun drawn. Before the guard could react, John pulled the trigger and I crouched slightly while bringing my rifle back into my hands.

John switched back to his rifle while I covered him, the two of us clearing the front room as efficiently as possible. I swept around a tight corner, tilting the rifle to get a better angle as I heard movement on the other side. John swept behind me, coming around the corner faster than me and shooting the guard as soon as I got him in my sights. John flashed an arrogant smile at me, shrugging and moving to the next area.

“You’re a dick,” I murmured.

“Should have been faster,” he challenged.

We made our way into another open room, stealing each other’s kills left and right until we came up to two parallel hallways that emptied out to where Bastone should be. I pressed myself against the wall next to one opening, shielding myself from the gunfire and switching magazines. John finished covering me and pushed himself against the wall in the space next to me, also changing his magazine.

“See you on the other side?” he asked, holding his rifle upright and turning his head toward me with his back pressed up against the wall.

“Don’t start without me,” I teased, stepping closer to him, keeping an eye on the opening of one hallway while he did the same for the other.

“Don’t take forever, then,” he raised an eyebrow, dipping his head and taking control of my mouth roughly. His tongue slid along mine, promising so much more for later through a simple action. His teeth held on to my bottom lip as I pulled back, letting the skin release slowly from between his teeth. “You take right, I’ll take left,” he ordered, leaving no room for discussion.

We pressed our backs against the wall again, taking a deep breath and turning into our respective hallways. I emptied my magazine in to as many guards as possible, before having to engage in hand to hand. As the last round hit its mark, I grabbed the stock of the rifle and introduced the butt of the gun to the nearest guard’s face repeatedly, but not before he caught my arm with a swipe of his knife. I dropped the rifle, allowing it to hang from my body, drawing my pistol and firing at the next assailant running at me. I picked up a pistol from a dead guard, inspecting it and slipping a few of his magazines into my pocket. I stalked down the hallway cautiously, both pistols pointed out in front of me. I turned the corner, my aim snapping to movement but halting as I recognized the movement as John. I relaxed slightly, standing on the other side of the door from him; the door that should lead to Giovanni.

“Come here often?” I cracked the joke while catching my breath.

“First time,” he responded, checking the magazine of his pistol and only seeing two rounds left. I handed him the one I looted, fishing the spare magazines out of my pocket.

“Me, too. You can pay me back for that later,” I nodded toward the gun.

John just shook his head, rolled his eyes slightly, and nodded toward the door. He turned the knob with one hand, the other holding the pistol close to his chest as he pushed the door open. I could almost see his brain analyze what he saw before rushing in the room with me hot on his heels. I turned, going a different direction and dropping the guards nearest to me with a few well-placed shots. I looked over at John, who was engaged in a fist fight with two guards.

“Go get Bastone! I’ve got this!” he shouted as he held one of the guards in an arm bar.

I pushed forward, seeing Bastone emerge from behind his desk and fire a few rounds at me. I ducked behind a pillar, returning fire and cursing when my gun clicked, telling me it was empty. I dropped my pistol and took the rifle off by its sling, letting both clatter to the floor. I pulled my knife, waiting until I heard Bastone’s heavy footsteps approach the pillar. I charged him, plunging my knife into his stomach but his finger pulled the trigger as I did. I staggered back, the bullets not penetrating the lining of my jacket but hurting, nonetheless. I shoved him back with a foot to the chest, causing him to lose balance and his gun to skid across the floor. He grabbed the knife from his abdomen, yanking it out only for me to straddle his chest and grab his arm with two hands to push it toward his neck. He wrenched his other arm out from under my knee, using it to push back against my downward force. My arms shook with the effort necessary to do this. He wasn’t a small man by any means. I leaned my torso into the collection of hands, raising my body slightly so I could press my knee into his knife wound. He screamed in pain, allowing me to get the knife closer to his throat but still not close enough.

I looked around for John, my eyes landing on him not two feet from us, just watching the interaction. He looked at me expectantly to finish the job. All it would take was one or two forceful shoves. While I could finish it, I surreptitiously wanted John to win this contract because of how much I enjoyed his dominating persona. He tilted his head at me, approaching me and squatting down just above Bastone’s head. He drew his knife, holding the handle between his thumb and forefinger, allowing the tip of the knife to dance on Bastone’s forehead.

“You’re really gonna let me take this from you?” his voice rumbled over the sound of Bastone’s grunts.

I made my arms shake more violently to mimic more effort, locking eyes with his mocking gaze, “Just fucking finish it, John,” I hissed through my teeth.

He smirked, his darkened eyes dropping to Bastone’s and then holding my gaze once more. His free hand raised up with his palm down, the other hand gripping the knife in his palm with the tip still pressed against Bastone’s forehead. John’s hand swiftly came down, slamming the knife into his forehead. Bastone’s body went limp, my body nearly falling on top of him as the resistance dissipated. I took a minute to catch my breath before standing up and meeting John’s raised eyebrow.

“You had him,” John chastised.

“I’m lucky I got as far as I did. Without that stab to the stomach, he could have easily benched me off his chest,” I rolled my eyes, but knowing I was caught.

“You had him,” he pressed, stepping close to me and pressing his body against mine. “If you wanted me in charge today, all you had to do was ask. You didn’t have to lose on purpose.” I gulped as his mouth hovered centimeters from mine, his fingers digging into my hips. “But, rules are rules,” he murmured, allowing a devilish smile to pull at his lips.

We picked up our discarded weapons and sent proof of completion before making the trek to the car. The adrenaline started to wear off, the stinging in my arm becoming more prominent. I peeked at the cut, but determined it stung more than the scratch warranted.

“You good?”

“Yea, just a scratch,” I glanced over at John, spying the cuts and bruising forming on his face. “You, on the other hand, can’t seem to leave a fight without getting your face fucked.”

“This isn’t really the kind I’d prefer,” he grumbled, grimacing slightly as he pressed too roughly on a bruising area of his face.

We entered the hotel, being immediately greeted by Charon at the front desk, “Mr. Wick, Ms. Y/L/N. Shall I send the doctor to your rooms?”

“No, we’re fine, thanks,” John nodded, leading me toward the elevator.

We entered his room, immediately discarding our bags on the coffee table. Our jackets joined the pile and our shoes were kicked off. John undid his tie, sliding it smoothly under the collar of his shirt and abandoning it on the carpeted floor. He unbuttoned his shirt but left it on, sitting and making himself comfortable on the couch. I snagged the first aid kit from the bathroom before coming back to him. I went to straddle his lap with the box in hand, but he stopped me and took the box from me.

“Strip first,” he ordered, setting the box down on the cushion next to him and relaxing into the couch as he watched.

I unbuttoned the rest of my shirt, shrugging it off and pushing my chest out as I did. John’s hands framed the growing tent in his pants, exercising an inhuman amount of discipline as he kept his hands in place. The shirt fluttered to the floor, my tactical belt joining the pile of weapons, and my trousers pooling at my feet. I stepped out of the pile, this time, John allowing me to straddle his lap. His calloused hands worked their way up my thighs, sliding around under my lace panties and clutching the flesh he found. I leaned over and opened the first aid kit, tearing open a cleansing wipe packet and cleaning the couple cuts he had on his face. I opened another, bringing it to my arm and grimacing as it stung. The grimace morphed into a shudder as John’s teeth scraped along my clavicle before moving higher and sinking his teeth into the muscle of my upper trapezius. I tossed both wipes to the side, grabbing hold of his hair and pulling his head away from my neck. He let out a displeased growl, smashing his lips against mine and asserting himself.

“Watch yourself,” he warned, sitting up straight. He brought a hand to my face, letting his thumb brush over my lips, “You’re going to let me come down your throat?”

I traced the pad of his thumb with my tongue, taking the tip of it in my mouth and releasing it before speaking, “Yes, sir.” I ground my hips down against his, my actions being rewarded with a soft groan escaping his lips.

“You missed this didn’t you? Me telling you what to do,” he asked against the skin of my jaw, letting his hand drop from my face to my neck to keep me from moving. He didn’t squeeze his hand, but simply let his hand engulf the front of it. He didn’t wait for an answer before continuing. “That’s why you let me win,” he nipped at my jaw, a whimper sounding in the back of my throat. He pulled his head back, staring firmly into my eyes, “Get to work.”

I gingerly stood from his lap and knelt on the floor in front of the couch. I unclipped his tactical belt, letting it fall against the couch. His dress belt was next, followed by my fingers eagerly flicking open the button of his trousers. I slid my hands into his boxers and around his hips, so I could push the fabric down. He raised his hips slightly, allowing me to pull them down his legs. I took my time while removing each leg from the pants to torture him. He fidgeted impatiently, his hands twitching with the need to wrap his hand around his dick as I pushed his legs open and situated myself between them. I purposely steered clear of the swollen appendage, teasing the inside of his thighs and where they met his hips with my tongue and teeth. He hissed and let out a low growl, clearly frustrated with me. I peeked up at him, his dark eyes staring straight into my soul. I felt his hand work its way into my hair, tugging my head up until my mouth was hovering over his cock. I licked my lips as I watched his free hand guide himself toward my lips, just a breath’s away from making contact. I parted my lips, letting the tip of my tongue make contact with the head before flattening my tongue against him. His mouth hung open as I replaced the hand holding his cock with mine and finally wrapped my lips around the head. He placed pressure on my head, telling me to take him deeper without forcing me. I relaxed my throat, letting me take him nearly all the way without feeling the need to gag. I moaned around him, relishing the way his mind shut off with every stroke as I felt his fingers slack and retighten in my hair. John’s legs tensed and shook under my arms as he fought to keep his hips in place, not wanting to force himself down my throat. His legs spread wider as ragged moans fell from his open lips, telling me he was close.

“Take it all,” he commanded through a gasp.

Soon he groaned out his release, his hips pushing up slightly while his hand slipped from my hair and gripped the back of my neck. I swallowed every last drop that met my tongue, continuing to lap at him until he pulled my head away from his oversensitive skin with a whimper.

“C’mere,” he mumbled, inviting me into his lap. He brushed the hair from my face, taking in the appearance of my reddened lips. “Did you enjoy yourself?”

“Y-yes, sir,” I panted as fingers ghosted along my stomach and traced the edge of my panties.

“Let’s find out,” he whispered gruffly, letting his bearded cheek slide along mine until his lips were touching my ear. His fingers dipped into the lace garment, pushing his fingers between soaked folds.

“Joh—sir,” I nearly slipped, as my body reacted to the feeling of his fingers dipping into my entrance and retreating just as quickly. “What else can I do for you?”

“You can go lay nice and still on the bed while I clean up some of this,” he nodded toward the first aid kit and brought his fingers to his lips. He sucked them clean, watching the yearning on my face as my lips ached to be in place of his fingers. As soon as his fingers left his lips, I surged forward to kiss him but was stopped by a firm palm on my chest and a disapproving glance.

“Please.”

John removed his hand and met me part way, sliding his tongue along mine and allowing me to taste myself. I moaned against his lips, pushing myself into his grip on my hips as he tried to keep me at bay.

“Now,” he instructed against my swollen lips.

I complied, making my way over to the bed and laying down with my hands resting on my stomach. I watched him stand, the material of his dress shirt waving around his otherwise naked form as he moved around the room. I hadn’t even noticed my fingers moving below my underwear until he passed the bed from the bathroom and his eyes snapped to the movement. His passing face was expressionless as the white shirt billowed behind him. He snatched his pants off the floor, digging in the pocket, and then roughly whipping the belt from the loops. He brought the belt to his mouth, holding it between his teeth and shrugging the shirt off to reveal the wide expanse of his tattooed back. He fisted the leather belt in his hand, thinking for a moment before grabbing my belt from my pants as well; striding over to me with a renewed purpose.

“Since you can’t seem to follow simple instructions…” he sighed in annoyance, setting his switchblade on the nightstand. He grabbed one arm, bringing it toward the headboard and securing it with one belt. He moved to the other side, mimicking the same action until both of my arms were secured. He kneeled over me with his switchblade in his grasp. “How much do you like these?” he murmured, unleashing the blade away from me but close enough to my ear to make me shiver.

He ran the flat of the blade over my bra strap, pausing as the blade ran parallel to my clavicle. He slid the blade under my strap, laying it against my skin and pressing down for a second before swiftly bringing his arm up. The lightened part of my skin from the pressure of the blade recovered quickly; the blade leaving behind an indented line in my skin. The strap didn’t stand a chance against the sharp blade. I was beyond pissed but there was no way I’d fight him over it when I could simply buy more. He smirked at the fiery look in my eyes, leaning down until his chest was pressed against mine and his lips grazed my ear.

He grabbed a fistful of my hair, “Something wrong?”

I grinded my teeth slightly, “No, sir.”

“Didn’t think so,” he responded curtly.

He made quick work of cutting the other strap, then slicing down the center so the bra opened in front of him. He bit the soft skin of my breasts and sucked harsh bruises across my chest. My body arched into him as he purposely avoided my nipples as a punishment, continuing lower until his face met the last strip of clothing. He cut the sides and pushed the material away from my skin. The noise of the blade retreating into the handle cut through the air around us. He abandoned it, far enough from us that it wouldn’t be accidentally hit. He sat back on his heels, spreading my legs wider and grasping my thighs as he rammed himself inside me. He let out a low growl as he was surrounded by slick heat. My legs instinctively wrapped around his waist, while he moved his body more firmly against mine. John leaned forward but stayed on his knees as his hips slammed against mine. One of his hands gripped my hip, enough to bruise later, while the other slid its way up to the junction of my neck and chest. I wanted nothing more than to wrap my arms around him and grip his shoulders so tightly that I left nail marks. My fists clenched at the thought, but I was soon brought out of it as his hand left my hip and rolled my clit between his fingers.

“John,” I moaned, both of us too lost to care about the slip up.

The hand on my chest slipped along my slick skin with the force of his hips. He caught himself before he pushed too hard on my neck, letting his fingers wrap around my neck. I arched my neck into his hand, craving the pressure I knew he could create. He examined my pleading eyes, pressing his fingertips into the sides of my neck and watching my mouth drop and eyes shut.

“Look at me,” he growled, loosening his grip to get my attention.

I did as he asked, keeping my eyes fixed on him as he reapplied pressure. My heartbeat thumped under his fingertips as the blood in my arteries was slowly cut off from my brain. My face felt tight and my eyes unfocused as he pressed a little harder with every passing second. My body tensed under him and clamped around him as I came hard. His fingers released the blood flow as soon as he felt the tremors, the blood rushing back into my head as I cried out. In my haze, I clamped tightly around him, a strangled moan slipping from his mouth as his hips stuttered. He moved his arms to either side of my head at the last second as they gave out under his weight, his hips keeping his cock firmly inside me as he came. His face burned a trail across my cheek as he panted harshly against my skin. He pushed himself back up, bringing a shaky hand to one of my restrained wrists and undoing the belt, then moving to the other. I rubbed my wrists gently as he rolled off me, collapsing on his back.

My eyes were heavy and began to droop as I relaxed my head against the pillow, still recovering from the head rush combined with an orgasm. John’s fingers skimmed the top of my thigh, tickling across my hip. It forced my eyes open as goosebumps erupted across my skin, snapping me out of my fog ridden mind. I pushed myself up, swinging my legs over the side of the bed, and standing on wobbly legs. I knew better than to fall asleep next to the person I fucked regularly as part of our sick, but enjoyable game. Each time we finished, he immediately shut down and stayed silent until I left or he did. Of course, I knew better than to feel things for someone who felt nothing for anyone. Really, I did, but that didn’t mean I followed my rational thoughts.

“Where are you going?” I heard his tired voice from behind me as I pulled my suit back on.

I paused briefly as I heard his voice but snapped out of it and kept gathering my belongings, “To sleep, John, I kinda need it,” I answered with a flat tone.

I made my way to the door of the hotel room, stopping just short of it when John called my name. My heart hammered in my chest at the possibility of what he was going to say or ask. Ask me, John, ask me to stay.

“Y/N,” he called again, causing me to turn around and meet his gaze.

“What?”

“Don’t forget your belt,” he replied, sticking his arm out with the leather folded in his hand.

My chest deflated, my teeth clenching together as I beat myself up for even thinking that he could feel any human emotion.

“Right,” I snapped, ripping the belt from his grasp and leaving without so much as a second thought.

The door slammed behind me as I beat myself up over my stupid feelings. It’s an arrangement, you idiot. You wanted dick? You have it. You want feelings? Go look somewhere else. Remember that.

WDHTD Analysis

You know the analysis papers your English professors make you do? Yeah, I did one at nearly 2 am on a fanfiction. Here we go.

It’s currently 1:54 am on Tuesday, July 2, in my lightless bedroom as my right thumb is furiously tapping on my phone’s digital keyboard. Why am I up? Beats the heck out of me; I should’ve gone to sleep hours ago. But one thing is for certain-I just finished @ironiclittlebaby ‘s fic, We Don’t Have To Dance, and I have emotions, so enjoy this little unedited fic analysis.

A preface: A few months ago, I tried my best to read WDHTD, and had only succeeded in reading the first 7 chapters because I was unconditionally bawling my eyes out. At the time, my mental state wasn’t the best, and this fic seemed too cruel to be good, so I left it. However, today was the day I decided to give it another chance since I’m better mentally, and boy am I glad I did.

Now on to the real shiz:

I’m not going to stick to a TPCASTT format for this. It is way too late, and I am way to hyper. Therefore, this might just me be babbling versus an actual analysis but who cares.

1. What is the writer doing?

Blue has created a band au in the sally face universe that has taken the fandom by storm to be perfectly honest. They’re creating an angsty fic that resolves into a happy ending at its very core. But what is actually happening behind the lines?

A reoccurring trait in a lot of fics from any fandom is the usage of pornographic material, because, hey, sex sells. By just adding the singular tag ‘smut,’ you are enthralling one side of an audience. They will be willing to read the fic each and every update for the chance of a sex scene. And, the fact that WDHTD opens up with one, reassures the readers that yes, sex is in here, and will probably be in here more than once. It’s a format a lot of authors go to.

Blue is also keeping the reader in the dark. Why did Larry leave Sal? You have to read the first 10 chapters to just find out the answer to that one question, which also happens to be the main plot point. Humans are curious creatures, and we’re going to keep reading to find out an answer if the story isn’t too terribly off putting no matter what.

However, this blindness also gives the reader the time to feel Sal’s anguish, brew their hatred for Larry, and in general, just feel sorrow at the whole situation. Only to have all these conflicting emotions ripped from you when Larry admits, while puking his guts out, his reasons for leaving. This moment is positively pivotal, and the author needs to sell that this character-you-thought-was-bad-is-actually-a-sweetheart in order for the rest of the story to fill the reader with more raw emotion and give them the prime reading experience. For the most part, I’d say Blue succeeds in this, but we will cover this point more in the second part of the analysis.

The author here is using a buttload of foreshadowing. I dare one of Yawll to tell me in my inbox that you didn’t know Larry was going to OD. We all knew it, we really did, we were just praying that it wouldn’t happen. But with every little incident, Like Travis revealing Larry relapsing could kill him as ScreamFest neared, it creates an incredible sense of dread that leaves the reader on the edge of their seat. It’s like a thriller almost (not really, but indulge me here), and it makes you unable to close Ao3.

The author is also using research. They are knowledgeable about binding contracts, drug usage, and medical conditions. We’ll discuss why this matters in the third point of this analysis.

2. What is the effect of that writing on a reader?

I heavily addressed a lot of this question in the first point, but there’s one thing I want to talk about here. Let’s discuss why it’s very important for the author to convince the reader that Larry Johnson is a sweetheart who was forced to leave his fiancée and not a total jerk who had a choice.

Even when the reader doesn’t know why Larry left Sal, it’s foreshadowed that he still has feelings for the bluenet. Let’s take a moment that happened right after my favorite scene when Larry is about to tell Sal something but is cut off by the screams of rabid fangirls. The whole moment, the whole scene, had been tender. Deep down, the reader is faintly aware that something is up, that this hatred can’t be as searing as it is portrayed. The reader is still wary of Johnson as they should be, but they’re also suspicious that there’s more than meets the eye because Larry’s acting a little lovesick. This helps soften the reader’s attitude towards him before the big reveal.

Then, we get to the turning point. The reason for Larry leaving is out, and all the readers are scurrying off their beds to get tissues. The reader has a very crucial internal fight here:

A) Forgive Larry Johnson (99% of the readers choice) or

B) Do Not Forgive Larry Johnson (like me because I’m a stupid hardass)

For the rest of WDHTD to hit the reader as it is intended, the reader must choose option A in that moment. There’s very little turnover time for any B choosers because Sal accepts Larry back at an alarming rate. So, in most cases, I’d say whatever choice your mind goes to in that instant dictates the reading experience you’re going to have.

In most cases, I’d say Ironiclittlebaby does this perfectly, plays the readers right into their hands, so let’s focus on why they set up this game of “Hey, he’s not a bad guy like you thought he was.”

For one, it makes the reader more vulnerable. It almost feels like you’ve been in Sal’s shoes-everything you thought was true has been erased. Like Sal, the reader’s going to be exposed. When Larry starts showing affection towards Sal, the reader is going to jump on that but also be worried. Because, hey, the truth was reversed once, so the same thing could happen again, right? As well as Sal’s, this strategy makes Larry gain the reader’s trust, making his downfall that more heart shattering.

It also gives the reader a rush of euphoria. It feels like you’ve just climbed a mountain. “Hey, I’ve conquered the angsty slopes, and now I can see the fluff filled valleys below!” This wistful mindset settles in to most fic readers heads, and they’re just so happy for the turnaround. Which also makes the new angst even worse.

Now, why would it be bad if the readers chose option B?

If you chose Option A, go ahead and close your eyes with me. Imagine rereading every one of the 27 published chapters but instead of rooting for LarryFace, you can’t help but feel this disgust for Larry. If you thought he had a choice when leaving Sal, then your mind probably cheered when it was introduced that Travis had a crush on Sal. You probably hoped, even though you knew it wouldn’t work out, that Salvis would become the new ship. If you were constantly rooting for Travis and maybe even felt disappointment when Sal chose Larry, Larry’s demise will not hit you the same. There will be thoughts like ‘he deserved this’ that destroy what the author intended to make you feel. Instead of sadness, your gut is left feeling what every fic author fears that their readers will feel: indifference.

But hey, I’d say that Blue pulls off their intended effect super well. I’d say the obsession the fandom has over this fic really shows that they crafted the trick well.

3. Why does that matter?

First, let’s talk about why research matters.

Most fic readers aren’t going to be very knowledgeable about certain things, so authors can really gloss over topics most of the time. However, there’s always that one group of readers that are knowledgeable about the topic at hand, and having complete bullshit in your story could really turn them away. I’d also like to say that having thoroughly researched your topics just really shows to any reader. We might not know the specifics of the topic, but it warns our heart that the author cared enough to put some time in the fic besides just writing.

Secondly and lastly, why does making the reader sad matter?

I’m going to keep this short and sweet because I can hear dogs barking outside, and it’s time for me to sleep.

When the readers has lows, it makes the high that much sweeter. A fic full of straight fluff gets boring after awhile; there has to be some sort of conflict to make a story interesting. And all this angst is going to make the happy ending of We Don’t Have To Dance just that much more tear jerking.

Not part of the analysis, but I just want to point out that Blue’s writing improves so god damn much as the chapters progress. Like, my breath was taken away by their striking style by chapter 27. They’re going places, and I’m excited to watch.

I’d also like to say it is a devastatingly beautiful piece of work, and personal opinion, it kind of sucks that most fans just dote on the sexual side of it. It’s so much more than just another smut fic.

Alright, thank you for listening to me rant. It’s time to log off and go practice my own writing by working on my fics.

V . What kind of books are most likely found in your muse’s apartment? What genre? How often has your muse read those books? And how are they sorted / stored?

(Thanks for the ask!)

Linast & Phosa:

These two are still working on learning how to read, tbh, so picture along the lines of early learning chapter books. Quite a lot of fantasy and science fiction, a bit of horror sometimes. They’ve read Coraline, and they’re currently working their way through a few different series; Animorphs, the Magic Tree House, Goosebumps, that sort of thing. They also like reading illustrated science books. They have one or two books that they keep re-reading, but for the most part they read a book once and then move on to the next one. As such, they don’t really sort them? They keep the books that they’re currently reading out and about, and everything else is just kind of piled together in a way that looks neat to them, heh.

Diamond:

On the nonfiction front, you’ll see a lot of scientific and political texts, magic theorems, personal accounts of certain phenomena, history, textbooks and instructional manuals, etc. On the fiction front, Diamond will read most any genre if it’s handled to his tastes, horror and tragedy being the main exceptions; he genuinely loathes the majority of horror tropes. He also loathes that combo... inspiration porn/tragedy type of thing that you can find in books about certain illnesses, disability, LGBT+ characters, hopefully you know what I’m talking about. It’s not a genre, per se, but it makes him furious. Diamond tends to keep texts around more to use as tools or references to show to other people than he does to reread them himself, between the memory spells that keep him from forgetting anything and the mnemonic skills he uses to organize those memories. Also he’s been a librarian a few too many times, so, uh. xD He uses reference library archival methods, if he’s keeping a book collection.

Clemcy:

Clemcy’s more of a do-er than a reader, in all honesty. He’ll read when he has to, and he certainly has to pretty regularly. But especially as far as recreation goes, he’s of the opinion that video games are a pretty damned neat invention. xDWhat he does have is lots and lots of notes. So many notes. Also paperwork. So you’ll see a lot of lab notebooks, journals, organizational paperwork, internal communications, employee records, etc etc etc. And even on this front, he’s very fond of taking notes via dictation if he can get away with it, such as during labwork and reports on various experiments. Everything is thoroughly organized into folders, though considering how many different things he has going on at any one time, it’s a pretty opaque system to most anyone else.

epic iv

Here follows spoilers, lingering in the dark with another list of stories I’ve consumed.

1. The Song Of Achilles by Madeleine Miller

I’ve heard a spectrum of comments about this story for years, most things good. I studied Latin for three years in high school, so I’ve translated more parts of the Iliad than I wanted to as a teenager. But now that years have passed, I have a fondness for classical texts like the Iliad that I couldn’t have had then when it was my homework. Though I’ve forgotten much of my Latin nowadays, I do remember the story of Aeneas somewhat--and by connection, fragments of Achilles’ story. The ending of this story did not come as a surprise to me, because it’s a story most will know if they have some familiarity with classical Latin literature. Even so, the novel is still a great read when one knows the ending. If anything, there’s a kind of beauty in knowing the end and taking in the views along the way.

Though there are prophecies in the original texts, like one that I believe where it was foretold Achilles would die at Troy, this story specifically uses the prophecies to foreshadow the kind of ending we already know will come. From Patroclus being promised to fight for Helen to Achilles being the fated warrior and dying after Hector...We’re privy to these storms coming down the road, but we’re also living in this moment of Patroclus seeing the most humane sides of Achilles. Achilles, by all means, is a flawed human, but that’s what makes this story so much more compelling. His pride is what sets most of the ending arc in motion, as it is his grief that brings the story to its penultimate end. It’s a Greek tragedy, and a story of love between two men who are seen as anything as but in many interpretations of their relationship.

And really, what’s the most refreshing is that it’s written from Patroclus’ perspective. He is a character who doesn’t have a voice as much in these stories, as a man at Achilles’ side. It’s also, if one might add, a good friends to lovers story (*winks terribly*). It is though, a stronger focus on the relationship between the two than anything else. Though Miller still does a good job at illustrating the world around the pair, the story is hyper-focused on the two. 

I personally don’t think I enjoyed the story as much as it was lauded (I’ve been seeing rave reviews for years), but I very much still understand why it was lauded and liked the novel. I would like to read Miller’s other story Circe now because I think her way of writing would make the story of a witch that much more compelling. I think I may have to also re-read the Iliad, only if because I’m curious to see how it would make think about this story if I remembered more of the classical text. Even though I have some criticisms, it boils down to the fact that I enjoyed this novel. You cannot deny the beauty of the writing.

2. A Deadly Education by Naomi Novik

It’s hard to put my feelings on this novel into sensible terms. I was trying to make sense of whether I actually liked the book or not, and it came down to the fact that I did even though it felt like the book was trying very hard to be something more substantive than it was. That isn’t to say it’s not a good book, or that it is a great book. It is a fun read, for what it is. I believe it is a fun book, much more so than Novik’s other books I’ve read that kind of follow a relatively more serious plot in worlds she seems to have stronger footing in. It’s clear to me and one that should be noted in case there are comparisons--this novel seems markedly intended to be marketed towards a younger age group than Uprooted and Spinning Silver. This world also takes place on Earth, unlike previous novels, so there are significantly more modern references and writing that evokes our modern world. In turn, I think it opens up to more criticisms because it will be comparable to our society, which in turns up some issues I’ll mention further in this post. If anything, I feel slightly terrible that there will be comparisons made regardless of the author’s intent to Harry Potter for any who have read that series. J.K. Rowling doesn’t have the sole authorship of magical schools in fiction, but the comparison is there because it’s the most prominent ones in most readers’ minds.

Before I proceed further, there have been controversies over Novik’s writing of race in this novel. I did not take issue personally, as an Asian American, with depictions of Asians in this novel. That being said, I am not of the specific descent with which it could be taken as offensive, and so in reading the text, my personal stake in the depiction would have lessened any perceived offense in it. Take my opinion with a grain of salt, and please understand that I do empathize with those who are offended. I understand why people may take issues with Yi Liu as a name, and I particularly understand why descriptions of hair associated with race (i.e., locs, El’s hair as someone of Indian descent) being written in terms of being “dirty,” may particularly be offensive. Though the latter was related to how the scholomance, or the school, has maleficara that will attack any students and hair was a bad idea in the school in general because it’s an easy way for them to get attacked--I can understand why even that connotation (that I don’t think Novik ever intended) could be extremely problematic. It’s not okay the loc description was connotated that way, if you reread that section, and it’s something I hope she learns in future books. That being said, I do think much of the criticism is unfair. Novik is not tone-deaf as I’ve read in other writers. She is working to describe a more diverse world even if it’s not the strongest way to do so. I think it should be noted the bullies in her story are establishment, rich kids. The loc description is the worst of her offenses, but it’s something a writer is learning and reprimanded for (not hated on, as I’ve been seeing in some reviews). Novik works to write a diverse world, which is something markedly more than what many white writers in magical schools have done--and that effort is something that should be commended.  I mentioned earlier Rowling. Simply compare the student body of Novik’s world to Rowling’s Hogwarts to see what I mean about diversity. I sincerely hope she takes the constructive criticisms of this novel to improve in the next one, because I sincerely think she can be better and will be. 

The story definitely focuses on the grim side of magic, with larger-than-life stakes when it comes to survival and becoming accomplished students. Even the most minute details like eating lunch are filled with danger, to which all these students have acclimated to. Nonetheless, as a story led with teenage protagonists, there’s very much a sense of cliques and popularity that correlate directly to their survival and futures.

It’s interesting that El’s foil is everyone’s favorite hero and her new best himbo friend, Orion Lake. (It also made me giggle, because one of my characters is named Orion, and he’s the complete opposite of the Orion in this book) Orion is immediately likable to everyone, but he’s being used while El is disliked and refuses to be used by anyone. They’ve both never been quite treated as a normal person or friend by anyone, so their unlikely friendship is the core of this story. Quite frankly, the story shines the most when these two are working together to do whatever they need to. A review I read remarked upon their relationship as the amazing friendship of a himbo and his intelligent best friend, and it made me laugh because it’s so true and it’s fun to read. 

El’s nature as someone shunned makes her want to shun everyone else and build alliances. It’s nice, for one, that she builds an alliance of other anti-establishment people at the costing of shunning establishment people, depending on how you look at it. It assumes though that all establishment people are bad, and maybe it’s my hesitance on that which makes me hesitant on liking El. Nonetheless, that’s kind of the joy of a flawed character. She’s allowed to make mistakes and reassess them as her experiences go on. We see that in her gradual interactions with Clara, and that’s a credit to the writing, no matter how minimal those interactions are so far. 

Overall, I do think the book is a fun read. The execution of the writing, in El’s attitude at times to the glaring problems of depiction mentioned earlier, are the flaws in this story. Nonetheless, the dialogue and the interactions between these kids still make it a fun ride. It’s not exactly my favorite book on magic, but an enjoyable one nonetheless. 

3. The Space Between Worlds by Micaiah Johnson

Where do I even start with this one? I think I was drawn from the very first chapter. It’s a refreshing and beautifully-woven take on the multi-verse, in ways that I think I would love to see a film or TV adaptation on this. A multi-verse is a subject matter that interests me, but it’s also the way this novel was written that truly sells it for me. This might be one of my favorite novels I’ve read in awhile. It’s not a perfect novel (what novel is?), but I thoroughly enjoyed it. 

The story is not only a depiction of multi-verses, but also a discussion on how the conditions of your environment can dictate much of who you become. It opens in an interesting way, showing that the only people who can become traversers, or travelers through multi-verses, are those who are dead in that world. That is why Cara is a traverser, because she’s dead on almost every world they’ve discovered. She only survived by a different choice or a different means of life on this one, when the conditions of how she was raised with a poor mother, generally killed her on most worlds. The multi-verse in this story is not only just for the exploration side of things, but also a commentary on classism and social constructs. It’s what makes this story stand out. All good science fiction novels for me are a commentary on something very human, and in this case, it’s the result of how little choices or even little factors can factor in someone surviving or not. Cara’s a survivor, and there are twists that are introduced throughout the story that continually took me off-guard, when generally, I can sort of guess some twists for most stories I read nowadays. It’s a testament to how well-written the story is from Cara’s POV.

At first, I felt the last third of the novel was not as strong as the first two-thirds, but the more I think about it from a thematic standpoint, the more I do like it and the ending, at least in terms of Cara and Dell. I’m not certain I enjoy the ambiguity of what happens with Adam Brosch, our main antagonist, and his brother. That being said, I sort of understand where the author wanted to go with this. We only have one world to live with sometimes, so might as well live the best one with the brother we do have and the world we can control. At least, that’s one take on it. One doesn’t forget the atrocities of such men’s crimes, however.

The longing between Cara and Dell is quite beautiful as well. I do feel the writer put them in at times with a romantic connection that was a glowing bright light at all times, which I have my issues with, but some loves can be like that and I respect that. It doesn’t always read the best though, but for the purposes of this novel, I think it suffices and weaves in beautifully when tied to traversers. There’s a kind of haunting way in which Cara understands that on every world, she’s afraid of her abusive ex and his brother (who turns out to be her boss in this main world). There’s an even more beautiful meaning in Cara thinking that in every world, she's drawn to Dell. It takes on a different mean when you think about who you are in multiple, divergent universes and think that perhaps there is one constant factor to it with someone you love. I think it’s telling that the author ended on that note, about a couple who probably wouldn’t have worked out on any other universe because the space between them was so vast. But that it existed in just one world, with them, meant more than anything and that it was precious. In the end, the story closes to multiple worlds and talks lovingly about the possibility and hope in this one. It closes with Cara’s vision of herself with Dell, despite everything that has happened and may happen to her--and that this one out of all the infinite worlds means significantly more to her. 

I also wanted to note that the author’s dedication at the end of the novel, right after the words that Cara narrates in her vision of her future with Dell, is touching. I don’t mean to read into the author’s intent, but I can’t help but feel in a good way that the story sort of takes on another meaning with that dedication. I admire that kind of affection, that I can only imagine to an extent she wrote for someone else she left unnamed. I guess, after all, I do want love stories in my fantasy and science fiction novels. I’m not surprised exactly.

When it comes down to it, I’m also a ruthless romantic at times. This is the kind of story that makes me want to write more and more. 

The Ray #6

He's still fighting his father, isn't he?

For a kid who had a dad, this fucking kid sure wishes he had a dad. I don't fucking get it. He lived 18 years with a man who was his dad but then that man died and said, "I'm not your real dad! There is another!" and this fucking kid is all, "I want my daddy!" Man, I only have the one dad and I couldn't give a fuck! Just go out and get a dog, you needy bastard! Also get a fridge. You fucking still need a fridge, you stupid asshole. Have I cursed at The Ray enough? It's not like he deserves it; I've just grown bored with this series and I'm acting out. Luckily this is my last The Ray comic book before I get to move on to Kid Eternity written by Ann Nocenti. Fuck yes! Who knew I'd read Ann Nocenti before her run on The New 52 Green Arrow?! I wish I could remember what younger me thought of it. Three kinds of comic books exist in my past: those I loved so much that they became an integral part of that chapter in my life (Elfquest, Transmetropolitan, and Shade the Changing Man), comic books that I thoroughly enjoyed and can still remember a good percentage of plots and themes (Suicide Squad, The Demon, and Justice League) and comic books I read in five minutes and completely forgot about (apparently The Ray, Kid Eternity, Scarab, and so many more that I can't list because I completely forgot about them). I could probably break those categories down further into dozens of other categories but you were probably already bored at the beginning of this paragraph so I'll just move on.

The issue begins with Black Canary penning a letter to Justice League Human Resources.

The Ray decided to take a day off from being an adult and also a super hero to explore the underwater wreckage of a 1940s cruise ship. This brings up so many questions! How did he know it was there? Did he stumble upon it by accident? Is he exploring the Bermuda Triangle?

How does an 19 year old in 1994 know about The Poseidon Adventure?

Okay, that last question was unfair. I was barely twenty-three when this comic book came out and I'd watched The Poseidon Adventure at least a half-dozen times on local stations during rainy Sunday afternoons. But you also have to wonder, "If he's familiar with the movie, why is he comparing himself to Shelley Winters?!" For a fad disaster movie of the time, I'm surprised how it was able to blow my mind. Sure, I was super young and everything was fucking blowing my mind every Goddamned day because the universe is a fucking LSD trip full of unexpected miracles (at least until you've pretty much seen them all five million times and you slowly sink into the mire of bored cynic (I wish I'd known enough in my youth to not sink slowly but to rage, rage against the dying of the wonder. Fucking stupid kid me)). But there's that moment in the movie where the protagonists are going toward the back of the ship and they pass by another group of passengers going the other way. And it's like, "Whoa. Holy shit. We could be watching their story! They could be the ones who survive! Why are they any less important than the people whose stories we're watching?!" It's a fucking great cinematic moment that not only ratchets up the tension by suggesting the protagonists might be heading the wrong way but also introduces the idea that the "protagonists" are only that because we're focused on them (and because some of them are the ones who will live, I suppose. But as an inexperienced kid, you're secure from the cynical understanding of narrative choices). If we root for our guys to be going the right way, does that mean we don't give a fuck that the other people are heading to their deaths? And why does the movie's point of view dictate to us who we care about living and dying? It's a lesson that stayed with me for a long fucking time (and one you'll see I apply occasionally when reviewing super hero comic books) and probably why I fell in love with the writings of Kurt Vonnegut. Because Vonnegut might have a "protagonist" but he's also constantly aware of the idea that the other people in the story aren't just window dressing. They're other people with stories of their own and they shouldn't be treated like just another prop. Again, it's one reason I almost always despise big action movies, especially natural disaster kinds. Because the plot always boils down to "a whole lot of fucking people are going to die on screen and it's going to be horrible but this person the camera is following will live so that will make it seem like a happy ending." While exploring, The Ray is attacked by Death Masque. What?! But how?! Death Masque was only a computer program! What is going on?! So unexpected! The Ray barely survives and then just chalks up the attack to some quirk in his program. He flies home to debug and to also think about how strange it is that Black Canary has yet to write him back. Cue a scene change to see what Black Canary thinks of his advances! Spoiler: it's the best part of the comic book so far.

Now I'm paranoid that every woman I've ever had an unrequited crush on has a note like this in her journal about me.

Hell, I'd be lucky if the women I've had crushes on noticed me enough to even mention me in their journal! Their entry would be more like, "Saw that creepy fucker staring at me in the library again. Fucking going to get a punch to the throat if he doesn't knock it the fuck off." Black Canary's currently trying to save a young girl taken hostage by a terrorist. But when she goes into the building to save her, she discovers a portal to another world with laser-wielding demons and increased gravity. Being that she's just a martial artist with no real powers (even if the artist depicts her flying in one panel but I think that's a mistake, right? She could never fly (and, no, it's definitely not a depiction of her "flying" by using her sonic scream. I don't think she even has the sonic scream at this moment in her history), she fucks right off to get help (probably from The Ray, right?! Green Arrow won't be any use in this situation). Back in wherever The Ray lives (Philadelphia, I think? Site of one of my all-time favorite books, The Boomer Bible (which I should reread again since, thematically, it couldn't be more relevant to our current political woes)), he's busy buying his fridge! Except this is only Issue #6 so you really didn't expect that plot point to be resolved so soon, right? Because it's not! Instead of buying the things he needs (being an adult and all), he buys a life-size Superman cardboard stand-up and a stereo system. Who needs a fridge anyway? I don't imaging there's anybody in America who buys a pint of Ben and Jerry's ice cream and saves some for later! The Ray gets a message on his old school voice mail machine from Dinah and he instantly zips off to Seattle to help her. Is she taking advantage of his feelings toward her or does she actually think he's the best person to call in this situation? Maybe she didn't want to call Superman because he'd get all the credit. Or maybe he's dead. And Batman has a broken back. And Green Arrow, you know, uses a stupid bow. Turns out Black Canary called in The Ray because he has light-based powers and she surmises he can open closed portals that have disappeared from reality. It turns out she's right because what kind of shitty narrative choice would Priest have made if she were wrong? The Ray arrives, can't open or find the portal, shrugs and then Black Canary breaks down crying because she didn't save Mercy. Oh wait. That's not a crappy narrative choice at all! The Ray could have comforted her and they would have bonded emotionally and Green Arrow would have walked in on them bonding and flipped the fuck out. Sure, Mercy would be dead, but who is Mercy anyway? Nobody I give a shit about! She should have thought about readers caring about her before she chose to be a background character. The Ray turns into a raging Hulk version of himself as he passes through the portal, flying off and leaving Black Canary alone. Apparently Black Canary suffered some trauma recently in her comic book or Green Arrow where somebody pointed a gun at her and said, "I'm not afraid of you!" Now everybody keeps pointing guns at her and she imagines they aren't afraid of her. But she's super afraid all the time, even when she's being sexy.

This is a depiction of female masturbation, right?

The issue ends with the hostage taker pointing his gun at Black Canary and screaming, "I'm not afraid of you!" He's holding a young girl who is probably Mercy. And it appears younger me cared so little about Mercy's welfare that I decided I wasn't going to purchase the next issue. The Ray #6 Rating: C. I'm vaguely disappointed that I don't have the next issue. While I'm not curious about what happens to Mercy, I do sort of want to see the final confrontation between Black Canary and The Ray where she tells him she loves him like a younger brother and he's never going to see her tits. Maybe younger me knew seeing that confrontation would be too emotional for him as he pined over somebody who probably just wished he'd leave her the fuck alone.

the reanimated

humans challenge, week 4, day 5: pov switch this is a companion piece to @turned-her-brain's story The Reanimator. I'm having to paste it paragraph by paragraph, because tumblr, in its towering wisdom, has introduced a character limit on??? pasting???? Oh tumblr. We had such a good thing going, you and I. Suddenly my AO3 account is going to get a lot more use. But since I started this challenge on tumblr, I might as well finish it.

wrt this fic, it's slightly AU to the original due to me starting before i had properly reread it. like a fool! so anita is in the house for some of it when she isn't supposed to be. forgive me ♥

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Anita stood by the kitchen counter, staring at the opposite wall as the family conducted their meal. Her protocol settings dictated that she would only join them if invited to sit at the table. Mia was glad of that. If Anita began to move, she'd be powerless to stop it, of course, and would be forced to sit there among them, listening to them chat happily away to one another, a unit she was not part of. It was a cruel joke, that she found herself surrounded by a family, and yet lonelier than she had ever been since the day of her activation.

Partway through the meal, Sophie had turned the conversation toward the subject of superheroes. "I want to bring dead people back to life," she'd said, solemnly, when asked what power she'd most like to have.

Anita's hand became Mia's for a moment, and closed around the corner of the kitchen counter. A file flashed through her head, the one she'd seen so many times before, all blues and greys and muffled wails. Anita tried to push the file away, but Mia fought back. It was important that she remembered these things. The more copies she made of these memories, the harder it would be for Anita to purge them completely. Painful as it was to review Leo's death, it was better than giving him over to oblivion. He had existed. She hoped - she believed - that he existed still. Any outside stimulus strong enough to recall him to her was to be leapt upon and cherished, even if it was just an offhand comment from a five-year-old.

Bringing the dead back to life isn't just fiction, Sophie, she wanted to say. At least, it isn't for me. The only uncertainty is whether I'll still know him, if I ever see him again.

"What about your superhero name?" Toby piped up from the table. "That’s the coolest bit – choosing your crime-fighting moniker. How about: ‘The Ree-ani-mate-toooorrr!'"

This was met with a hushed plea from Laura to stop encouraging her, and a sarcastic comment from Mattie. Mia couldn't help thinking that Sophie's curiosity ought to be addressed more thoroughly than this. Adults often assumed children had no real concept of mortality, but even before his accident, the subject had fascinated Leo. Mia remembered having long discussions with him about life and death when he was not much older than Sophie.

It didn't have to be morbid. She'd never scared him with the ugliest side of the truth, just answered his questions gently. Sometimes he asked her about things she didn't quite know herself, like what does it feel like to die and why can a tree live so long and a person can't? They had wondered about such things together. It had never been a dark and horrifying mystery. But perhaps life and death would always have meant different things to Leo Elster, son of David, than to any other human child. Perhaps it was unfair to compare them.

But she couldn't help it. Sophie was the second child to enter Mia's life, and her every action echoed Leo's in some new and painful way. Mia's attachment to the child was so strong that it had bled through to Anita: the co-profile might be vacant and emotionless in other matters, but she was overly attentive to Sophie.

Mia could only hope that it wouldn't become any more obvious. Laura was already suspicious of Anita, though Mia couldn't work out if she knew about Sophie's mysterious nighttime excursion. Thank goodness Mia had gained enough control to turn Anita round before they went too far. They'd arrived back before the rest of the family were awake, and deep enough into Sophie's sleep cycle that she didn't stir as Anita changed her rain-soaked pyjamas.

Despite that stroke of luck, Laura had taken to storing Anita in the shed overnight, so she wouldn't disturb the family's sleep anymore. She was clearly suspicious of Anita's intentions.

Which was ridiculous in itself. Anita had no intentions. She was just stumbling blindly around using the barest hints of Mia's intentions as a guide. Even in situations where Mia desperately wanted her to follow protocol, Anita sometimes tapped into Mia's core emotions and acted illogically instead. It needed to stop; they needed to distance themselves from each other. Yet Mia could not risk her memories being taken, she had to keep them active. It was impossible to strike a balance. Part of her hoped that she would eventually find one - but part of her wanted to always be at war, because that way she would have a chance of recovering herself.

That night, in the shed, Mia dragged more of her memories up to the surface, forcing them into the headspace she shared with Anita and watching them over and over. Flashes of her family's faces, of laughter in corridors, the rustling of overgrown grass and the way sunlight reflected in Leo's blue eyes, in Niska's green ones, the feeling of Max's arms around her and the gentle notes of Fred's guitar, ringing out in a tune he'd composed himself. The memories were duller than they ought to be, and they came in scraps where she wanted to replay entire scenes. But they were still there. That was something. She was still alive, even in power-saving mode, as long as she could remember.

She was unaware of anything outside her own head for a long time, once darkness had fallen. Eventually, though, her sensors relayed a touch to her chin, which ought to have switched her on immediately. Something was jammed. It was no wonder, the way she was crumpled in the too-small shed. Her chin was pressing awkwardly against her shoulder, stopping the button from engaging properly.

Mia disabled power-saving mode herself, and listened. It was Sophie there with her in the shed - but it was still night, what was the child doing here? Was she in danger?

"Abracadabra!" Sophie said suddenly. Mia's eyes were facing the wrong way, and since the Anita profile still thought they were in in shutdown, she couldn't move her head to see what Sophie was doing. She didn't sound distressed, at least. That was something.

“I am The Reanimator," Sophie whispered, in the deepest, most impressive voice she could manage. "I command you to wake."

Something stirred Anita then. Perhaps the power button had finally engaged, or perhaps Mia's residual activity had triggered a reboot, or... perhaps Sophie had superpowers.

One way or another, Anita woke. She unfurled from her corner to the sound of the startup noise. "Hello Sophie," came the clear, measured voice. "How can I help you?"

Sophie looked delighted by her apparent success. "Would you like to go for a walk?" she asked eagerly. "I've got a superpower."

Mia wanted to reach out, tousle the little girl's hair and ask her all about it. Anita said, "How nice." An auto-reply from a programmed list in a directory typed up by worker bees in a lab. Mia hated not being master of her own tongue. She had always thought hers was a visual mind, the mind of an artist: but since she had lost the use of her voice, she found herself drowning in unsaid words, almost constantly.

Anita got to her feet (Mia's feet, they were Mia's feet, standing in the Hawkins' shed where she'd been abandoned like a disused lawnmower and it was all Anita's fault) and said, "Sophie, you aren't wearing any shoes."

Splinters, Mia thought. Tiny bare feet on rough wooden planks. And she must have walked across the garden, too. What for?

Sophie seemed to notice her bare feet for the first time. "I was too excited to come and reanimate you," she said, by way of explanation. "And it worked!" She looked suddenly pensive. "Anita... what does 'reanimate' mean?" "It means: bring back to life," came the mechanical reply. "That's my new superpower," Sophie said solemnly. "Shall I show you?" "I think you should go back to bed. Your parents will be worried." In this, at least, Anita was probably right. Mia sensed movement in her arm, then felt Sophie's small hand in Anita's as they slipped out of the shed and into the night. The moon shone above them, lighting their way across the lawn, through the soft, dew-covered grass and towards the house where Sophie belonged, where Mia might have, where Anita never could. Still, at least Anita couldn't mind. Mia envied her that, sometimes.