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leonawriter · 4 years

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Fox-Faced

Read it on AO3

Fandom: Bungo Stray Dogs/Mononoke

Characters: Dazai, the Medicine Seller. Others mentioned. SKK implied.

Summary: Dazai is taking the time to contemplate how much has changed in so short a time, and his bench gets a visitor.

Notes: Dazai-typical suicide references.

(Part five of the “Not All Kitsune Have Nine Tails” ‘verse. Follows “Home Territory.” Contains important context for the previous stories.)

...

The brisk sea air is as familiar and as comforting as it always had been, even if it is deeper, more rich, and full of scents that Dazai had never known to be able to sort through or notice before. It isn't, at least, overwhelming - the city with its streets and cars and hundreds of people and all of its food and perfumes was harder for him to handle on that first night and the following day than this, which is, comparatively, peaceful and calming.

He can hear shouting in the distance, children playing with their parents and tourists from both further inland and far abroad talking about the sights in adequately amazed tones, because it is Yokohama after all, and no matter what else happened, it was still his city. Their city. The city that he and Chuuya and Atsushi had fought to protect, that he had protected even when he'd been in the mafia, that he was proud of.

He closes his eyes to focus on the sound of the waves and the cries of the seagulls, and he loses track of time. Perhaps he'd even started to doze off in the warmth of a bright, sunny day with clear skies. Normally, by this time Kunikida would be wondering where he was. Now that everyone at the Agency knew he was living with Chuuya, he won't have to worry about that... at least for a while yet.

Tap.

Tap, tap, tap.

A breath of air comes out of him in a sigh, and he neither move to create space, nor turns his head to watch, when he hears someone coming close to his bench. Heavy steps, wooden sandals.

Ah, he thinks instead. You.

There are sounds as if something heavy is being shifted, and then let to drop onto the ground. Then, the rustling of clothes. Only after that, Dazai feels the weight of the bench shift, and a presence actually sat beside him.

If this had been an enemy, they would have had ample time to draw a gun or a knife, and his life would have been over as easily as that. In broad daylight, no less.

But it isn't, and instead of tensing - or relaxing - into the potential threats, he lets his arms drop from behind his head, and opens his eyes to acknowledge the not-quite-stranger.

Dressed in brightly-coloured traditional clothes from head to foot, with a bandana holding back pale hair that didn't - always - quite hide the earrings he wore, and only brought out the likewise pale colour of his face, the bold markings around his eyes, his nose... the man who had introduced himself as only a mere lowly medicine seller looked straight ahead, toward the Yokohama bay.

If the world made any sense, they both would have attracted a lot more attention than the few looks that were aimed their way - Dazai's illusion still held, suggesting to anyone looking their way who didn't know any better to see him as completely human and disregard the ears, the tail, the numerous other small details that marked him out as not human, but the medicine seller next to him simply... was what he was.

In a way, he was entirely on display. There wasn't a single thing about him that wasn't completely true, nothing that was hidden if someone wanted to look and actually see.

In another sense... Dazai could still remember the other, and looking at him now felt odd, as if everything was still there, but dimmed, somehow.

He wondered, in some distant part of him, if that was how he had seemed to anyone who had seen through him and known.

"So." The world carries on around them, and if Dazai hadn't known that the word had been aimed at him, it could have been aimed at anything. The wind. The sea. Some invisible thing that a form and a reason and a truth, but no unnatural twist to its nature. But he heard it clearly enough, and there is a tilt to the medicine seller's lips. "How is life, Dazai-kun?"

All of his years, and he still doesn't know the answer to that question. He doesn't know how a normal human being should answer something like that-

He stops that train of thought in its tracks. Laughs, and if it comes out sounding odd and a little bit harsh, then it isn't as though anyone else is paying attention to them, is it?

"I woke up to a dog drooling all over me again," he says airily. "There's fur all over the house, and I need to cat-sit again later on."

"And what of Nakajima-dono?" The way that the man says Atsushi's name makes Dazai stop and blink, because he's not used to such a level of respect to his younger protege. "And Nakahara-dono?"

Hearing Chuuya referred to in such a way is only slightly less odd. Executives took respect the way most people expected to be able to breathe, after all. He knew that from personal experience, although it had never been something he had worn with comfort, much the same as the coat he had preferred to shrug off, eventually.

"Atsushi-kun is doing well enough, I think. Sometimes I find myself myself worrying, but..." I think that by this point, he can make up for his mentor's failings. Atsushi isn't so dependant on me that he needs my example, or my praise. He'll do just fine. "Chuuya is - well. We're adjusting."

"Adjustment is only natural. One hardly expects treatment to cure ailments instantly. Just as the body has its own way of healing itself when given a little help, the spirit isn't truly all that much different."

"You think living with Chuuya is like that?" Dazai tilted his head, and made a face. "I'll have to tell him when I get back. He isn't even a dog any more. He's just a medicine that I've been prescribed. One course of Chuuya per day. See how he likes that."

"What it is or it isn't is something only you can decide for yourself, Dazai-kun. Although you do look a lot better than the last time I saw you," the medicine seller added, a certain glint of amusement in his eyes. "And I would almost like to be there when you do tell him that."

No, not just amusement - spark of mischief. Dazai went back over his own words, and found himself blushing, hard, and looked away.

For someone who seemed to spend most of his time chasing down and exorcising mononoke looking the way he did, the man next to him was far more down to earth and crude at times than he had any right to be. Perhaps this was what most people felt when they were around him too long.

Not that Dazai was going to change, not at all.

"And there I thought you respected Chuuya," he says, letting a little bit of grumble out.

Not that he minded people making fun of Chuuya. That was Chuuya, and this was- well. If any of their sleeping together had gone further than sleeping then it might not feel as self-conscious of the unspoken potential getting brought up by someone who wasn't, well, him.

The laugh he gets in response is almost startling in its honesty, ringing barks of laughter that remind him of kon kon kon, painfully familiar.

"Too much respect is just as unhealthy as too little," the man says only moments later. There's still a smile lingering on his face.

Dazai thinks of Akutagawa, whose deep respect had never grown into anything capable of seeing his mentor as a fallible person and he's glad, knowing that he hadn't been present or involved in anything to do with either of the mononoke. The first one, or him.

He thinks of Atsushi, who he sometimes worried looked to him with those same eyes, but in the next breath the weretiger would berate him for not working, or fuss over him for not eating.

Atsushi, who had once sat in this exact spot, looking out at this exact view.

"When you look out at them... what do you feel?"

For a moment, Dazai almost feels that those must have been his own words, his own question, thoughts he had wondered about and circled around for so long yet had needed to recontextualise along with so much of his life in the past week.

"Humans..." he leaned back, and thought of his conversations with Fyodor, with Shibusawa. The things that he had lived through, remembered, forgotten. "They are truly destructive, and cruel, and thoughtless creatures. I do not think that I will ever truly understand them, either." He sighed. "And yet..." He thought of Chuuya, who despite his circumstances was so very, very human. Of Atsushi, who'd had his true nature as a tiger hidden from him for so long, and Kunikida. Of others that he had met. Odasaku, even Ango. "The same can be said for even the very best of them... searching for their reason to live, like stray dogs. It is at the same time terrifying, yet awe-inspiring, the feats that they can accomplish." He smiled, wryly. Neither bitter nor sweet. "And I live balanced in the middle. But - I think I'll be able to manage."

In the distance, a child screamed as they ran. Conversations carried on.

"Oh...? I see."

A fog horn blared out at sea, coming into port. A couple not far away shared food over by the railing, with guitars on their backs. A teenager passes them by wearing headphones, and Dazai's newly sensitive ears pick up on the beats of the music.

Human, youkai, hanyou... no matter what any of them were, it was still Yokohama. It was still his city.

"It... truly is a beautiful city. More than anything else... that's what I feel." He closed his eyes, and leaned forward into the breeze coming in from the sea. "Does that answer your questions?"

"You're the one who thought that was what I must have been saying. Do you feel better for having said it?"

I hate them - I hate them, and more than that, I want - I don't understand - why wasn't I- wasn't I... worth...

Those feelings. He remembered them, and they had been his.

First, destroy everything that comes close, before it can touch me. Then... destroy me, for having done so.

He had felt the culmination of twenty-two years' worth of an inability to understand, which had its source in something that he had not been able to affect.

You have a choice, Dazai-kun.

If you wish to die, then it is only a simple matter of choosing to stay. The Mononoke will be slain, and so will you. But-

But, if for any reason you should wish to hold on to even one thing...

It is impossible to both slay the monster and to take it with you.

(Kitsune, Chuuya had said, accepting him even as he stared in shock. Come, love, sleep, Chuuya had said, and his heart had wavered. They had called, and he had answered, because there was too much- he had too much- that he couldn't let go of.)

"I suppose... I simply find it hard to find the words to..."

He feels his heart beat. And another. He breathes in the salty air, and it still feels terrifyingly new.

And yet, the idea of not being here to experience it, the idea of having vanished without a trace somewhat over a week ago - no trace of fur in Chuuya's house, not having the honour of knowing Ranpo's own secret, or of having felt how relaxing it was to have his own fur stroked as he curled up on the sofa whether he was at home or at the office...

He thinks, perhaps, it might have been a beautiful death.

But at the same time... there is only one thing he can think of, the words catching every time he tries to put them on his tongue, for what he feels about still being alive.

"Me?" He hears and feels more than sees the fact that the man next to him is shaking his head. "There is nothing to thank me for. As a mere medicine seller, there was honestly very little I could do. At the end, I was powerless. You were the one who did all of the work. All I did was give you the ability, and the means." He stood, and Dazai could see the slight smile on his face even before he turned. "If anything," he added, bowing at the waist, "I should be the one owing a debt of gratitude to you. From the moment I understood your Katachi..." The medicine seller turned his face up, eyes closed into the upturned slits of a true smile. "Come now. Kits who are blessed with so many who care for them shouldn't need to make those sorts of faces."

...

AN: There's a stealth crossover (crossover-ception? triple crossover?) near the end. I'm just gonna hope someone catches on to what and where the reference is, haha...

If by the end of reading this it isn't clear - in order for Dazai to still be alive in these stories, he had to make the active choice to live and stay alive in the moments before the Medicine Seller's sword cut. This was inspired by several of the endings of the actual Mononoke storylines, although there are elements that appeared in none of those stories that I had to work out for myself.

What this means for Dazai is not that his suicidal ideation is 'magically cured', but that he is less likely to actively seek out death. It also isn't 'knowing his past' that enables him to move on, but understanding *what* he is, and that his feelings of 'not fitting in as a human being' don't just come from nowhere. In short - he was validated.Does anyone know that one poster with the owls on it, about "I just need a stick"? That's what the Medicine Seller's getting at there.

And do I mean to imply that I see the Medicine Seller himself as a kitsune...? Well if you read it with that in mind, just... imagine being him coming to that moment of realisation of just 'what' he's up against. As said and implied in the previous fics, due to the nature and longevity of kitsune, Dazai's still considered a child at twenty-two by other youkai, more than just being seen as "barely out of his teens", so... have that for a bit of adult fear, and why the Medicine Seller is saying what he does here.

All that said, this [was] my first time writing the Medicine Seller, and I'm still nervous over whether I've got his voice down properly or not. (And given how important he is to it, you see why the previous events aren't written yet.)

#bungo stray dogs #bsd #bsd stuff #Leona fic #kitsune dazai #bsd mnnk au #mononoke ayakashi

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featherymalignancy · 6 years

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Tender Jar: An Elriel Experiment

“Like a jar you housed infinite tenderness, and the infinite tenderness shattered you like a jar” -Pablo Neruda

Synopsis: Six months after the war, Elain is still mourning all that the cauldron took from her, and it’s only Azriel she trusts not to judge her for her brokenness. However, when she has a vision concerning both Lucien and Graysen, she steels her courage and braves first the Spring Court and then the Mortal World, Azriel at her side. When lines are drawn and Elain is pushed to her emotional limit, she must decide whether she will let her past shatter her or give in to the desires of her tender heart.Warnings: Elriel with brief Elucien. NSFW. Contains some graphic depictions of sex and foul language, and minor violence.

See The Masterlist here

Previously on Tender Jar…

The shadows around Azriel deepened a shade, writhing over his feet by reaching no higher than his tall boots

“We give her space,” he said finally. “And we continue watching her to make sure she doesn’t lose the progress she’s made. It’s more than any of you give her credit for.”

Elain’s throat burned. It had been humiliating enough to listen to her sisters dissect her brokenness. To know that Azriel had been doing it too was almost too much to bear.

Part II:

Elain’s eyes flickered open, and she felt a heady, roiling shame at the realisation that she’d lost consciousness and—considering that she was lying on Azriel’s meticulously made bed—that he’d had to carry her.

She sat up, and the shame bubbled over when she realised her dressing gown had fallen open, and that her breasts were clearly visible through the thing cotton of her nightgown. She hastily drew the robe together to cover herself, but Azriel wasn’t looking at her chest. His keen eyes were instead fixed on her face, studying her as shadows curled around him like wisps of smoke.

“How long was I—“ she began, cheeks heating as his eyes continued to arc gracefully back and forward across her face.

“Less than a minute,” he replied. “What did you see?”

She flushed again. She supposed she ought not to be surprised that as a Shadowsinger, he could tell she’d had a vision, but it made her feel oddly exposed.

“I—“ she began, swallowing thickly. “I’m not sure.”

He straightened, crossing to a where a pitcher of water and several hammered bronze goblets sat on a table across the room. Pouring her a small measure. he crossed back and extended the goblet to her. He had a fluid, almost hypnotic gate, like that of a jungle cat. Silent, but lethal.

“Take your time,” he said, pulling up a chair next to the bed and settling into it. “Tell me anything you remember.”

She considered, biting her lower lip.

“There was a fox,” she said finally. “And a wolf. They were—they were running.”

He nodded, eyes still on her face.

“Running from what?”

She strained to reach the answer, trying to sort of the vision from her nightmares, which often rushed in when the visions wore at her mind’s defenses.

“A fire.”

He leaned back in his seat, and she could see something storming in his eyes.

“Your—“ he paused, as if taking care to choose his words. “Lord Graysen,” he began again. “What was the sigil of his house?”

She blanched, not only at Graysen’s mention, but at the realisation.

“A wolf.”

He nodded, uncoiling to his feet.

“I need to speak to Rhys and Cassian. You can stay here, if you like, or I can—“

“I want to come with you,” she said, unsure of where the boldness to say it came from.

He didn’t immediately respond, and she struggled to her feet.

“I don’t—“ she broke off, looking down at her feet. “Please, I don’t want to stand aside any longer.”

Finally, he nodded.

“Cassian’s on the roof. Perhaps you could fetch him. I’ll meet you in the library in ten minutes.”

This time it was her turn to nod, and she did so mutely. He studied her for a final second, his full lips even parting as if he meant to speak. However, in the end he said nothing, and with a courteous dip of his head, he disappeared from the room.

When he’d gone, she hurried to her own room to change before ascending the stairs to the roof. Cassian was indeed there, and Elain wondered absently whether Azriel simply knew his brother that well, or if his shadows had told him where the Lord Commander would be. However, the query faded when she realised he wasn’t alone.

Nest stood beside him, partially obscured by the arc of his half-outstretched wing. They spoke in tones so low even Elain’s fae ears couldn’t pick of the words, but the way they were positioned towards one another—no more than six inches between their bodies—said enough.

Elan felt embarrassed at having caught her sister so compromised. Not that they were in a particularly compromising position, but she was tight-lipped about whatever it was that radiated between her and Cassian, and she’d made it tacitly clear it was not something she wished to discuss with her sisters.

However, Elain saw no real way around it.

“Cassian,” she said, her voice wavering a little.

Cassian turned sharply at his name, and Nesta leapt away from him as if he’d burned her, flashing him a glare even as a crimson tide swept over her cheeks.

“Elain,” Nesta said, tone sharpened by what Elain could tell was embarrassment. “It’s late. What are you doing awake?”

“Peace, woman,” Cassian chided, the wing that had half cradled Nesta folding against his back as he turned to Elain. “She’s not a child.”

At this, Elain’s cheeks heated, and she felt the humiliation and anger from the meeting they’d had to discuss her bubbling up again. She knew he’d only said it to goad Nesta; deep down, he did seem to see her like a child, weak and in need of protection. They all did, she feared.

“What do you need, pet?” Cassian asked her, and Nesta scowl only deepened, shaded by something darker now.

“Azriel needs to speak with you and Rhys in the library.”

“About what?” Nesta said. Elan could see in her posture that no matter her answer, Nesta intended to go as well.

“He—we—will explain downstairs.”

Cassian and Nesta exchanged a look so entangled with meaning Elain couldn’t begin to unravel it.

“Shall we, then?” he said, not waiting for a reply as he swept past Nesta, close enough to rustle her skirts, and back down the stairs.

Elain made to follow him, but Nesta caught her arm, expression less guarded and harsh now that they were alone.

“Elain, about what you saw—“

Elain knew what she was asking, what she hoping to explain away. Elain gently shook her hand off, lifting her skirts to follow Cassian.

“Perhaps I’ll convene a secret meeting and discuss it with the others behind your back,” she said, not bothering to cover the hurt in her eyes.

She turned on her heel, descending the stairs and heading into the library, where Feyre and Rhys sat conversing at the table and Azriel stood at his usual post in the corner. His eyes watched her as she came in, scanning her for distress. She wished he wouldn’t look at her like that.

Before she could stop herself, she thought about the way Graysen used to look at her when they’d made love, as if she was beautiful and strong and everything he could ever want. She wondered if anyone would look at her that way again. Even Lucien, who sometimes failed to keep his knee-wobbling desire to mate and claim her from drifting down their bond, only ever looked at her the way Azriel was now, as if she might shatter at any moment.

Cassian, somehow, was not yet there, and Elain had to wonder if he’d gone back to speak to Nesta before the meeting. Indeed, when Nesta strode in a minute later, Cassian was on her heels. Elain watched Mor assess the pair with scrutiny from where the blonde sat across the room, and she felt a nauseating regret in re-remembering the cruel things she’d said to Azriel about Mor. She needed to apologise again properly when this was over.

“So what’s this about?” Rhys said when they were all seated. “It’s the middle of the night.”

“Are we keeping you up, old man?” Cassian said, grinning.

“I was awake,” Rhys purred back, crushed violet eyes glittering. “But what Feyre and I were doing was certainly more diverting than having to look at you.”

“Rhys, cauldron!” Feyre said, slapping him on the leg and making him wince through his smirk. “Don’t air our business like that!”

“It’s hardly a secret,” Mor said with a wicked little smile of her own. “You’re rather lou—“

“That’s enough,” Azriel said. “This is important.”

“Well don’t keep us in suspense, brother,” Cassian said. “Out with it.”

Azriel glanced at Elain, silently giving her permission to speak if she wanted it.

“I—“ she began, feeling the weight of everyone’s eyes on her again. “I had a vision.”

At this everyone straightened, all merriment bled from the room.

“About what?” Mor finally prompted.

Her gaze was in no way unkind, but it full of the same pity the others always seemed to shower her with, and it made Elain sick and angry all at once.

“There was a wolf and a fox, and they were running from a blazing fire.”

“Vanserra,” Cassian said darkly, and Azriel nodded.

“The wolf?” Rhys asked.

“That’s Lord Nolan’s sigil,” Feyre said quietly. “Wasn’t Graysen appointed to Vassa’s court, to help keep order until she’d freed?”

Elain felt her stomach tying in knots at the news. She couldn’t help but feel another stab of betrayal. They’d had news, word of Graysen, and they’d kept it from her for fear of her reaction. She glanced up at Azriel again and he was watching her, as if he sensed this would hurt her.

“So Graysen’s the wolf, and Lucien the fox,” Feyre said. “But surely Vassa can’t be the fire. She would never hurt Lucien. They’re—“ she paused, eyes flicking to Elain. “friends.”

“She’s not her own master,” Cassian pointed out. “She could be a weapon in her keeper’s hands, if he wished it.”

Elian’s mouth watered as if she might be sick. She still had no idea what she felt for Lucien, but she certainly didn’t want to see him hurt.

“Where is Lucien now?” Mor asked.

“Spring,” Rhys said with a derisive eyeroll. “Dealing with his esteemed majesty, Lord Asshole Supreme.“

“Rhys,” Feyre chided, but Elain could see she was holding back a smile of her own.

“But he’s due to leave for Vassa’s court in several days,” Azriel said. “We should intercept him before he goes.”

“How?” Cassian said, snorting. “We aren’t exactly welcome guests in Spring, and I don’t think we should be putting any of this in a letter.”

“I—“ Elain began, throat suddenly dry. “I’ll go. Tamlin has no real reason to dislike me, and it would be bad form to deny me access to my mate.”

She could feel everyone tense at the idea, a volley of eye contact bouncing between them as if they were collectively remembering their discussion earlier.

“She can’t go alone,” Nesta pointed out.

“I’ll go with her,” Azriel volunteered, eyes on Elain again. “I would say of the three of us, Tamlin hates me the least.”

“A very low bar,” Cassian pointed out dryly.

“I don’t think it’s a good idea,” Feyre said, watching Elain as if she were a violet in snow. “Things with Spring are still too raw.”

“We could wait until Lucien sends word he’d left, and intercept him before he goes,” Mor offered.

“He’s not going to walk to the continent,” Cassian pointed out. “We will have a hell of a time catching him while he’s traveling, and Mother only knows what is waiting for him at that court.”

“What about—“ Feyre said, glancing at Elain again. “Graysen? He could be in danger as well.”

“I say we leave him to fate,” Cassian grumbled, but Nesta elbowed him.

“Let’s get Vanserra to Velaris first, and then I will go to Vassa’s court and get the boy,” Azriel said quietly.

Elain bit her lip, hating that the idea of Graysen in danger made her want to cry even now, more so than the idea of Lucien in the same danger.

“I still don’t like the idea of Elain going to Spring,” Feyre said, addressing the others more than Elain.

“I’m not a child,” Elain said quietly. “And I’m not as weak as you think.”

Feyre gave her a penitent look.

“I don’t think you’re weak,” she said gently. “But I also don’t think you’re strong enough for this. As your sister and your High Lady, I can’t condone it.”

“I agree with Feyre,” Nesta said, speaking to the group as well. “Elain’s place is here, where we can look out for her.

“Lucien is my mate,” Elain said with more conviction than she felt. “And they were my visions. I wish to go. To help, if I can.”

Nesta opened her mouth to object, more sharply this time, Elain was sure, but she cut her sister off.

“If it was Cassian in danger, I would not presume to tell you to remain here and do nothing.”

A tense, buzzing silence hung in the air as Nesta’s paled slightly.

“I’ll be with her,” Azriel said.

“That does very little to comfort me,” Nesta snarled at him, pearly teeth bared.

“She couldn’t be in safer hands,” Rhys reasoned, ignoring Nesta and speaking more to Feyre than anyone else. “And she’s right. If it were you that was in danger, I would want to be the one to go.”

“But she and Lucien—“ Feyre broke off, looking sheepish.

“You can say it,” Elain said, her voice soft as a child’s. “I have not accepted Lucien’s claim. We do not love each other as you do.”

“I’m sorry, Elain,” Feyre said. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

“He’s still my mate,” Elain said, taking courage in her conviction. “I still feel him through the bond. It would be agony for me to stay if he were in distress. Physical agony. You know that.”

Feyre bowed her head.

“You’re right,” she said softly. “I’m sorry.”

“So it’s settled, then,” Rhys said. “You two go to Spring and fetch Lucien. Elain, you’ll need to send the missive yourself, but I can write it for you if—“

“I was almost the wife of a lord,” she said quietly. “I know how to speak to gentry. Though perhaps—“

she glanced up, cheeks heating slightly as she met Azriel’s eye.

He nodded his assent.

“I can help you,” he said in answer.

“Tomorrow,” Rhys said. “It’s nearly rutting sunrise.”

He signaled the end of the meeting by rising and offering a hand to Feyre. They said their goodnights and left.

“There’s still a few good hours left,” Mor announced. “I’m going to Rita’s. Do any of you want to join me?”

Her eyes flitted over Azriel before settling more fully on Cassian. Elain could see no change in Azriel’s expression at the subtle rejection, but the shadows around him grew a shade deeper as Mor began cajoling Cassian.

“Why aren’t you bothering Az about it?” Cassian demanded, making a pointed effort not to the look in Nesta’s specific direction.

Mor gave Azriel a smiling so blindingly bright that Elain could swear she saw the reflection of its glow in his amber eyes.

“Az has to get up early and prepare to go to Spring,” she said. “And he hates Rita’s.”

“No I don’t,” he said in a quiet but neutral tone.

“Yes you do,” Mor said with affection. “So you’re off the hook. You,” she pointed at Cassian. “Have no such excuses.”

“Fuck off, Morrigan, I’m not going,” Cassian said without malice.

“What do you have to do instead?” Mor demanded, and Elain saw Nesta stiffen at Mor’s insistence. “Cmon, it’ll be fun!”

Cassian groaned.

“One drink, you evil sorceress. And if Lauden tries to grab my ass again, I’m leaving.”

Mor clapped with delight.

“What about you, Nesta? Would you like to—“

“I’d rather die,” Nesta said flatly, and Mor only laughed as if she’d made a pleasant joke.

“I figured as much. C’mon, Cass.”

Cass rose with reluctance from his chair, and Elain saw him try to catch Nesta’s eye as he followed Mor. However, she ignored him, brushing past instead without saying a word.”

“Goodnight, you two!” Mor said to Azriel and Elain, brushing an affectionate hand across Azriel’s chest . There was nothing wanton in the gesture, but Elain saw a muscle feather in Azriel’s jaw, as if he was holding himself back from leaning into her touch.

With that, they left.

“I’ll walk you to your room,” Azriel offered when he and Elain were alone, even going so far as to offer her an arm.

Elain accepted the genteel gesture, letting his scent wash over her again. After everything that had happened that evening, she found it soothing. They didn’t speak all the way to her door, but she found herself pausing before she entered.

“Thank you for supporting me,” she said quietly.

He gave a genteel nod, and just as she was about to retreat into her room he spoke again.

“I’m sorry,” he said after a beat, surprising her. “I shouldn’t have gone to that meeting earlier. I did you a grave injustice.”

She was unsure what to say, so she merely looked up at him without speaking. His expression was softer now, no longer assessing her for damage and blessedly devoid of pity. He seemed to just be drinking her in instead, as if he could learn what he might offer her as recompense if only he looked hard enough.

She found herself rather suddenly struck by just how exquisite he was. It wasn’t that she hadn’t noticed before, but somehow she couldn’t stop admiring how sharp his cheekbones and jaw were, and how soft and full his lips. She wondered what he was seeing in her face, if he found her even a fraction as beautiful. It was of little consequence, but she found comforting to imagine that a person could know her damage and still see the woman beneath it.

“I think you’re stronger than you know, Elain Archeron,” he said finally, breaking her odd reverie. “It is one of the things I most admire about you.”

She couldn’t help but flush at the comment, and the bare sincerity in his tone.

“Thank you,” she said, and he gave his customary nod.

“Good night,” he said, retreating a step.

“Good night,” she said, slipping into her door and closing it behind her, his eyes on her the whole time.

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mastcomm · 4 years

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A Thorn in YouTube’s Side Digs In Even Deeper

Carlos Maza believes that YouTube is a destructive, unethical, reckless company that amplifies bigots and profits off fascism.

Now it’s also his meal ticket.

Mr. Maza, 31, announced several weeks ago that he was leaving Vox, where he had worked as a video journalist since 2017, to become a full-time YouTube creator.

The move shocked some of Mr. Maza’s fans, who have watched him become one of YouTube’s most vocal critics for failing to stop a right-wing pile-on against him last year. The controversy that followed that campaign, which was led by a prominent conservative YouTuber, turned Mr. Maza into a YouTube mini-celebrity and made him a sworn enemy of the site’s free-speech absolutists. He received death threats — and was temporarily forced to move out of his apartment.

Rather than swearing off YouTube, Mr. Maza, who is a New York-based socialist, decided to seize the means of his own video production.

“I’m going to use the master’s tools to destroy the master’s house,” he said in an interview. “I want to build up an audience and use every chance I get to explain how destructive YouTube is.”

It’s not rare for YouTubers to criticize YouTube. (In fact, among top creators, it’s practically a sport.) But Mr. Maza’s critique extends to the traditional media as well. He believes that media outlets have largely failed to tell compelling stories to a generation raised on YouTube and other social platforms, and that, as a result, they have created a power vacuum that bigots and extremists have been skilled at filling.

“On YouTube, you’re competing against people who have put a lot of time and effort into crafting narrative arcs, characters, settings or just feelings they’re trying to evoke,” he said. “In that environment, what would have been considered typical video content for a newsroom — news clips, or random anchors generically repeating the news with no emotions into a camera — feels really inadequate and anemic.”

The YouTube series that Mr. Maza hosted at Vox, “Strikethrough,” drew millions of views with acidic takedowns of Fox News, CNN and other mainstream media organizations. But he took aim at YouTube itself last year after Steven Crowder, a bargain-bin conservative comedian with more than four million YouTube subscribers, began taunting Mr. Maza, mocking him as a “lispy queer” and repeatedly making off-color jokes about his sexual orientation (gay) and ethnicity (Cuban American).

In response, Mr. Maza compiled a video of Mr. Crowder’s insults and tweeted them out, blaming YouTube for its inconsistent enforcement of its hate-speech policies. (One tweet read: “YouTube is dominated by alt-right monsters who use the platform to target their critics and make their lives miserable.”)

After an investigation, YouTube found that Mr. Crowder’s videos did not violate its rules. That set off an avalanche of criticism, and provoked backlash from L.G.B.T. groups and YouTube employees, who urged the company to do more to protect Mr. Maza and other creators from harassment. The controversy even ensnared Susan Wojcicki, YouTube’s chief executive, who was forced to apologize. Late last year, the site revised its harassment policy to address some of the concerns.

A YouTube spokeswoman declined to comment.

Inside the world of YouTube partisans, Mr. Maza’s feud with Mr. Crowder made him a scapegoat. Some creators blamed him for setting off an “adpocalypse” — a YouTube policy change that resulted in some videos being stripped of their ads. Others wove elaborate conspiracy theories that NBCUniversal, an investor in Vox, was using Mr. Maza to drive viewers and advertisers away from YouTube and toward its own TV platform.

In July, Vox ended Mr. Maza’s show, and after a few months in limbo, he decided to hang his own shingle. He set up a YouTube channel and a Patreon crowdfunding account, bought a camera and hit record. For all its flaws, he said, YouTube is essential for people who want to get a message out.

“The one thing that YouTube offers that’s really good is that it does give a space for independent journalists to do important work and build an audience without requiring a huge investment of capital,” Mr. Maza said.

YouTube can be harsh terrain for a professional leftist. The site is nominally open to all views, but in practice is dominated by a strain of reactionary politics that is marked by extreme skepticism of mainstream media, disdain for left-wing “social justice warriors” and a tunnel-vision fixation on political correctness.

In recent years, some progressive YouTubers have tried to counter this trend by making punchy, opinionated videos aimed at left-wing viewers. BreadTube, a loose crew of socialist creators who named themselves after a 19th-century anarchist book, “The Conquest of Bread,” has made modest stars out of leftists like Natalie Wynn, a YouTube personality known as ContraPoints, and Oliver Thorn, a British commentator known as PhilosophyTube.

But these creators are still much less powerful than their reactionary counterparts. Mr. Maza attributes that gap to the fact that while a vast network of well-funded YouTube channels exists to push right-wing views, liberal commentary is still mainly underwritten by major news organizations, which have been slower to embrace the highly opinionated, emotionally charged style of content that works well on YouTube.

“People understand the world through stories and personalities,” he said. “People don’t actually want emotionless, thoughtless, viewpoint-less journalism, which is why no one is a Wolf Blitzer stan.”

In order to reach people on YouTube, Mr. Maza said, the left needs to embrace YouTube’s algorithmically driven ecosystem, which rewards “authentic” and “relatable” creators who can connect emotionally with an audience.

“There is a need for compelling progressive content that gives a young kid on YouTube some sense that there is a worldview and an aesthetic and a vibe that is attractive on the left,” he said.

Mr. Maza’s first video, a five-minute introduction to his channel, hints at how he intends to do that. The video is half political manifesto, half self-deprecating monologue. Playing all three parts himself, he has an imagined conversation with his “left flank,” a hammer-and-sickle socialist, and his “right flank,” a tie-clad centrist, along with his therapist, who warns him that YouTube can transform decent people into “cruel, ego-driven” attention-seekers.

It’s a funny, knowing skit, and it shows how familiar Mr. Maza is with the customs and culture of YouTube. He doesn’t wear a suit or plaster himself with stage makeup. He doesn’t take himself too seriously, or adopt a Walter Cronkite-like pose of objectivity.

He gets that YouTube, while a serious forum for political discussion, also requires a kind of pageantry that can be hard for people steeped in the ways of traditional media.

With just 14,000 subscribers, Mr. Maza has a long road ahead to building a platform as large as the one he left at Vox. But he sees no better route to relevance than going all in on YouTube, even if that means embracing a platform whose politics he detests.

“There needs to be some swagger to leftist politics,” Mr. Maza said. “And YouTube gives you a space to have that swagger.”

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mastcomm · 4 years

Text

A Thorn in YouTube’s Side Digs In Even Deeper

Carlos Maza believes that YouTube is a destructive, unethical, reckless company that amplifies bigots and profits off fascism.

Now it’s also his meal ticket.

Mr. Maza, 31, announced several weeks ago that he was leaving Vox, where he had worked as a video journalist since 2017, to become a full-time YouTube creator.

Rather than swearing off YouTube, Mr. Maza, who is a New York-based socialist, decided to seize the means of his own video production.

A YouTube spokeswoman declined to comment.

In order to reach people on YouTube, Mr. Maza said that the left needs to embrace YouTube’s algorithmically driven ecosystem, which rewards “authentic” and “relatable” creators who can connect emotionally with an audience.

“There is a need for compelling progressive content that gives a young kid on YouTube some sense that there is a worldview and an aesthetic and a vibe that is attractive on the left,” he said.

He gets that YouTube, while a serious forum for political discussion, also requires a kind of pageantry that can be hard for people steeped in the ways of traditional media.

“There needs to be some swagger to leftist politics,” Mr. Maza said. “And YouTube gives you a space to have that swagger.”

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