#just being blase at work. my purpose in life. when its not the. other things

[istherewifiinhell]

not like im actually someone with much vauble experience with butchery or anything of the sort.

but sometimes i do wonder. like? have you actually ever cut meat before? just like. the normal stuff from the grocery store? ever seen a tendon or bone?? no?

#some shit #THIS IS NOT. LITERALLY. about someones experience cutting meat. we also dont literally sell meat. as such #surely there must be SOME veg alternatives to understanding a sort of. tactility to things your brain might have some aversion too. #a haunted house walk through perhaps #<- okay that one was bitchy #no i really cant explain or justify the emotion/thought process im having #just being blase at work. my purpose in life. when its not the. other things

[stusbunker]

AGA: Spit It Out

A Supernatural Denny AU

Featuring: Dean Winchester/ Benny Lafitte

Other Characters: John and Mary, Jody, Garth, Anna, Castiel, Sam, (mentioned) Benny, Jo, Jack

Word Count: 4222

Summary: Dean has the toughest conversation of his life. Cas asks questions. Sam is a little shit.

Warnings: Homophobic language, internalized biphobia, coming out

Series Masterlist

Shout out to the amazing @cracksinthewalls​ for all her help on this series.

       Dean hadn’t realized how terrified he was of facing his father until he broke down at Jo’s. It hadn’t felt like something he would ever have to do until then. Now, it felt as inevitable as a death sentence.

John had always been a huge force in Dean’s life, but since he had gotten hurt to the point of disability, he was less of a presence and more of an imprint. Letting down his folks was the ultimate sin, one Dean had fought his whole life to resist. He knew they loved him, but would it be enough for them to see beyond the idea of Dean they had in their heads. Could they love a pansy?

His mother would be easier to bring on board; he was her favorite whether she’d admit it or not. On the other hand, John was a Marine, he was a mechanic; he didn’t deal with feelings or things he thought were reckless, selfish choices. Dean had never been selfish a day in his life, but this was something that seemed worth it. Benny was worth it. Dean couldn’t give up on family, and he needed them in his corner if it was going to work at all.

First, Dean just needed to get the words out.

The wind whipped through the neighborhood he grew up in like a child unleashed upon the playground. Direction and speed split its focus until it stilled long enough to move on to the next distraction. Dean parked on the street, letting the familiar siding and newer front door center him as he approached, trying to ignore the uneasiness that was unfurling in his gut. Sam was having lunch with some guys from high school who were in town early for Thanksgiving, granting Dean this window of privacy.

Not that Dean told Sam anything. He had done enough talking at Jo’s, even Benny didn’t know everything that he’d been processing the last few days. He hadn’t wanted to make any promises. Dean walked into the house, calling out his greeting, never one to knock at home. John was parked in front of the television in the living room while Mary sent her welcome from somewhere in the basement. 

“Hey! Talk about timing, lunch is just about done,” John teased. “What brings you ‘round? Sammy’s out for the day.”

“Yeah, Dad, I know. Kinda why I came,” Dean shoved his hands in the pockets of jeans, still standing.

“Jayhawks are playing at two if you wanna stay,” John offered. Dean hummed in uncertainty. John dragged his feet from the ottoman to sit up and face Dean better. “Is everything alright?”

“Yeah, nothing we can’t talk about over lunch. I’m gonna go see if Mom needs anything,” Dean nodded towards the basement steps and left John to his football.

Dean bowed his head as he reached the bottom of the steps, clearing the duct work to find Mary folding laundry at the long narrow table they used for everything from school projects to writing out Christmas cards. 

“I thought that was you,” Mary said pleasantly. “Did your dad tell you lunch was almost ready?”

She dropped the shirt she had finished atop an awkward pile and opened her arms for a hug. Dean scooped her up, probably a little too enthusiastically, but he didn’t care and she didn’t mind. A simple gasp told him she noticed though.

“So--- what’s the occasion?” Mary asked, turning back to the basket.

“Nothing really, just wanted to catch up,” Dean downplayed, grabbing a pair of jeans to help. Neither of them pointed out that they’d see each other the next day for Sunday dinner. Mary welcomed the visit as much as Dean was dreading it.

“Your father had physical therapy yesterday. I don’t think they get paid enough,” Mary conspired with a heavy side eye.

Dean chuckled, “I’m guessing not his at least.”

“And supposedly I’m the stubborn one,” Mary muttered. “If you want to make some sandwiches, I’m almost done down here. I don’t want to spread the soup too thin.”

Dean nodded and handed her the sweater he had folded last. “Sounds good, anything in particular?”

“Just don’t let him trick you into letting him have the salami, his doctor says he needs to watch the fats,” Mary warned.

Dean perched against the edge of the steps, listening. He slapped the banister and headed back upstairs. “On it.”

The kitchen’s layout hadn’t changed in thirty years and Dean quickly set up an assembly line with poultry, condiments, lettuce and tomatoes. He tucked the cheese with the processed deli meat back in the drawer, hiding the temptation from John. But not before stealing a slice for his and Mary’s sandwiches. He set the table, like hundreds of times before. John’s spot was the head of the table, Mary to his left. Dean set his own plate on John’s right, a seat he fought Sam for more often than not.

Dean stirred the pot, which was much more a vat, of chicken noodle soup. John’s approach was announced by the steady clink of his cane on the hardwood floor of the hallway. Dean pulled out John’s chair before settling down to his heaping sandwich and extra large bowl of soup.

John lifted the top tier of his sandwich, judging the contents. “She got to you, didn’t she?”

Dean just chewed purposely and gave John innocent eyes.

“Figures,” John muttered before bellowing through the house. “Mary! Soup’s ready.”

They ate comfortably, fighting the cold outside with the warmth of the familiarity of a shared meal. The grease from the chicken made bubbles in the broth and Dean blew across the surface mixing them back in. Meanwhile Mary made small talk and John teased her about her part time job. 

“Well, I need to get out of the house, or we’d kill each other, you know that,” Mary flicked John’s ear as she cleared their bowls. 

“How’s that going?” Dean asked, eyes fixed on his mother’s face. Panic clogged his ears at the thought of never seeing her again.

“‘S fine. People are picky, but it isn’t bad for what it is. Better than being behind a desk or answering the phone,” Mary explained of her work at the local sporting goods store. “Friday will be nuts, lots of sales, but it’s not like we would have been doing anything anyway.”

“So, Bobby and Ellen’s on Thursday?” Dean verified.

“Yup, dinner’s at 1. He says you’re on pie duty?” John asked, surprised.

“That I am. Sam’s stuck with sides, so please remind him. I don’t want to show up and only have rolls and turkey,” Dean asked Mary.

“Can do. We’re bringing the---,” Mary started.

“Cranberry sauce,” Dean and John said in unison.

“And the wine!” Mary said in dismay at their laughter. “Jerks.”

John and Dean grinned as Mary rolled her eyes. 

“So, was that everything? It seemed like you had something to hash out with us,” John asked Dean, picking up the last of his sandwich.

“Yeah, mostly. I gotta check with Ellen first, but I might be bringing somebody along,” Dean rushed out. He tipped his bowl back, finishing the final dregs.

“A special someone?” Mary asked delicately, looking at John in hope.

“Yeah, you could say that,” Dean grunted, standing to grab another sandwich.

“Well, is it somebody we know?” Mary prodded, not trying to be too pushy, but obviously curious. “Dean, why are we just now hearing about this?”

Mary’s tone had shifted to apprehension, Dean felt their silent conversation behind his back as he slapped the ingredients together. He shrugged in response, unable to find a proper jumping off point.

He tried to remain casual, but the dred had clawed back up. Without enough wherewithal to speak, Dean sat back down and ate, drawing out his confession to the point of confusion. 

John chuckled at Mary’s suspicion. “He’s nervous. Let the boy get it out.”

Dean rolled his eyes at the phrase. “I’m thirty six, Dad,” he said through a mouthful.

“Is that right? Coulda fooled me.” John tisked his tongue. Mary ignored his teasing tone.

“Dean, what’s the matter? What’s this girl’s problem that’s making you act so--- cagey all the sudden?” Mary asked anxiously. John slipped Mary’s hand into his, silently soothing her as they waited for Dean’s answer.

“Uh, yeah, about that,” Dean started, sitting back, and shooting for blase. “Turns out I actually like guys, too. So, uh, there’s no problem with a girl. I just wanted to bring, um, this guy I’ve been seeing, Benny, to Bobby and Ellen’s.”

Mary inhaled and clenched John’s hand. John stopped stroking Mary’s arm and twisted in his seat. Dean exhaled slowly, like a pin prick in a deflating balloon, he couldn’t take any of it back. Dean took a chance and looked out through his lashes, face tilted towards his plate. First to Mary’s blue worry and then a flicker to John’s almost black disbelief.

John swallowed and ducked low enough to force Dean’s eyes onto his. "You tellin' me you take it up the ass, is that what you're sayin?"

"Jesus. John!" Mary reproached. But neither man's glare faltered. The dark challenge in John's eyes caused Dean's lips to turn up in a silent snarl.

Dean finally broke the silence. "You really want me to answer that?" 

"I think I have a right to know exactly the kind of man my son is," John countered.

Mary stood abruptly. “He's your son! What's the matter with you?! You asking Sam his jerkin' habits now that he's single, while you're at it?!" She went to the sink, bowing over it as if it would cleanse the images the conversation had conjured.

“Oh, hell, that’s not the point,” John muttered.

Dean had been arrested in high school for drag racing. The whole ride home from the police station he was worried what his dad was gonna do to him once they got home, it was the same quiet rage that had terrified Dean as a child. But it was Mary’s disappointment when they walked in the door that tore into Dean to the point of scarring. He could live with his father’s anger, Sam had taught Dean how to slowly stand up to John over the years.

But Dean didn’t know if he could live in the shadow of Mary’s disappointment. He needed somebody to see him as himself, not just a screw up or a queer. 

Dean sighed. "I am your son. But if you can't handle this, Dad. I don't think you have any right to know me anymore." He looked from Mary to John as the last sentence left his mouth. Maybe he was asking too much after all.

Everyone in the room froze. But not even an ultimatum like that could stop John Winchester from digging himself deeper. "Christ, son, Jo really did a number on you, didn't she? Made you turn tail to the other team all together."

"Leave Jo out of this,” Dean spit out as he stood up. “This is about me and who I'm with now." He stalked the long way around the table, shoving chairs in as he went. He approached Mary alone, carefully, one terrified animal to another. "You'd love him, Mom. He cooks, runs his own business, even got an old Harley in the garage."

Mary couldn't hide her tears, but she tried to smile through them for Dean's sake. "Sounds like a catch, sweetie. But what matters is if you love him. You don't need our say so."

"Don't I?" Dean replied sadly before glancing over Mary’s shoulder to John. "You know Jo told me to give you the finger if you couldn’t see how happy I am. How important Benny is to me. And maybe she's right. But I wanted this to work. I wanted to keep the family together. That's why I'm here. The rest is up to you, Old Man."

Dean kissed his mother on the cheek, between murmured reassurances and left without another word to John. He teetered on the brink, somewhere between busting his knuckles against the cold glass of the impala’s window and losing his lunch on the frostbitten ground. Somehow, Dean made it into the solitude of the driver’s seat before he broke down and sobbed. The only saving grace he got was when his mother's voice roared from inside the house.

Dean dragged the salt and snot from his face with a heavy palm and started the engine. He couldn't stay there, but he didn't know where to go either. He just drove.

    Dean pulled into the parking lot at The Pearly Gates on autopilot. He’d spent the afternoon equally suppressing and dissecting his conversation with his parents as he kept it even between the lines of two lane country roads. Now, Dean was ready to be somebody else, to make drinks and flirt and just forget everything that had happened.

    The college football crowd was winding down, which allowed Dean some time to catch up with the day shift bartenders Garth and Jody. Back before Cas got blindsided with the responsibility of business ownership, Cas, Dean, Ash and Artie would claim a booth near the pool tables and blow their grocery money every weekend. When Sam moved back after law school he and Mick joined the crowd that were regularly praised for paying for Jody’s son’s braces.

    Garth had been the first dragged from the friend pool to fill the schedule when Cas’s brother dropped off the face of the earth. Though Garth volunteered, Dean knew it was just out of the goodness of his heart, not a need for extra cash. 

    “Here he is!” Garth announced Dean’s arrival. Luckily for Dean, Garth was pouring a beer otherwise he would have been wrapped in one of Garth’s spider monkey-like hugs. A few regulars in the corner raised their glasses to Dean in greeting as he passed by with his company smile. Jody whipped by him, fresh out of the stock room with her arms full of their dollar bags of chips they sold to keep from having to run a full kitchen.

    “Look who’s early,” Jody exclaimed before dropping the load onto the back counter. “You trying to cut into my time there, Winchester?”

    “You know if you ever want more hours, you just gotta ask,” Dean offered suggestively, strolling behind the bar.

    Jody sputtered dramatically, “And work nights? No, thank you.”

    “It was worth a shot,” Dean replied, shrugging at Garth who knew better.

    Jody sighed and cocked her head. “You’re cute, but you’re not that cute.”

    Dean ducked his head against the compliment as she patted his arm apologetically. 

    “Want me to split your tips before you go?” Dean asked, bending out of his jacket.

    “That’d be lovely,” Jody answered, sorting the chips by kind. “Garth get’s an extra twenty because Bess and Donna were ‘round.”

    “Look at you, Mr. Slick,” Dean teased as he grabbed the old milk bottle filled with mostly singles. Garth blushed.

    “You know what they say Dean-o, flattery is everything,” Garth explained. Dean, who routinely had the most tips out of any of the staff, including Bela, just nodded at the quirky dude. Dean doled out their shares and washed up before officially punching in. 

    Jody was gone as soon as Anna arrived, but Garth waited for Jack to show before leaving her and Dean on their own. It was seven o’clock before Cas arrived instead of his unreliable nephew.

    “Everything alright?” Dean asked knowingly as Cas hung his trench coat on a broken notch on the rail beside the server’s station.

    “Jack is under the weather,” Cas explained blandly. Dean eyed the windows, taking in the light flurries that danced in the streetlight. “I guess I’ll have to do tonight.”

    It was a surprisingly unremarkable shift, the weather kept traffic bearable even after Anna’s shift ended at midnight. Dean walked her out the back to her car, like he always did as the plow eased out of the parking lot. 

    “You gonna be alright with him for the rest of the night?” Anna whispered before they breached the cold. Her big brown eyes held more mischief than worry. 

    “Goodnight, Anna,” Dean drew out as he held the door sternly. 

    “Night, Dean,” Anna chuckled. Dean watched her tiptoe around the icy patches and make it to her old Tahoe. He made sure it started before heading back behind the bar, and three more hours with Castiel. 

    The speakers were set lower than usual to balance their minimal customers. On his shifts, Dean had always insisted on having control over the musical selection. So when he walked into a pop singer’s version of mopey folk he did a double take before bee lining for the stereo. 

    “Please, don’t,” Cas’s simply requested from somewhere to Dean’s right. “I kind of like this song, but more importantly one of the customer’s requested a change of station.”

    Dean eyed the patrons like suspects in a line up, uncertain who would blaspheme in such a way. No one seemed particularly guilty and he had to let it go. Between drinks, Dean washed glasses in the small sink behind the bar until Cas was finally able to start his nightly paperwork. The last couple paid their tab just after 1:30, leaving them holding their breaths in hope as they started to put up the chairs. 

    “Is it often this quiet?” Cas wondered aloud, “I don’t recall Saturday’s business to dwindle so.”

    Dean smiled to himself; leave it to Cas to look a gift horse of a slow night in the mouth. “No, man, this is not the usual. But, it worked out. And thanks for filling in for the kid, I know you don’t like getting your hands dirty.”

    Cas quietly beamed at Dean’s gratitude before pausing at the not so subtle jab at the end. They went through the remaining end of day routine in silence. Dean turned off the faux neon signs in the windows to signal the early close as Cas handled the money. Dean would usually even out the till and split tips with Jack, leaving the deposit for Cas to handle the next day. Instead he was left with cleaning detail as the boss man did the accounting.

    Before long Dean was rolling the dirty mop bucket back to the office/store room/ kitchen/ employee area. Exhaustion had eaten at Dean’s internal walls, leaving him on the slippery edge between slap-happy and zombie. He hummed to keep his eyes open, waiting on Cas to finally call it a night and let Dean clock out.

    “We don’t talk anymore,” Cas said abruptly, without looking up from the cash machine. Dean’s head shot up, concern furrowing his features. “In fact, I’m prone to think you don’t like me at all, Dean.”

    “What do you mean, we’re talking right now,” Dean downplayed defensively. Cas glanced up over his desk, mild surprise evident. Cas always seemed such a mystery to Dean, from his social awkwardness to his blunt observations. Dean had come to envy Cas’s almost innocent lack of need to perform for others, to be anyone but himself. He had forgotten that Cas would read into his demeanor in the uncanniest of ways.

    “True, we are. But are we?” Cas typed the code into the safe and waited for the time delayed entry. “We used to hang out, watch football, play pool, or cards even.”

    “We’ve got bowling every week, man,” Dean wrung out the mophead and latched it onto the rack on the wall. He was trying to remember the last time he and Cas had fun, just the two of them and couldn’t recall a single occurrence over the past year.

    “I miss you. I miss my friend,” Cas replied sadly. “And I don’t know what I did to ruin it, but I want you to know that I didn’t mean to.”

    Dean closed his eyes and grimaced. “Hey, no, it’s not like that,” Dean started. He walked over and leaned against the edge of the desk, assertive reassurance written all over his face. “Look, I’m tired. Working all week and then coming here is kicking my ass. So I don’t have a lot of free time or brain capacity to hang out like we used to. But I’m doing my best, man.”

    Cas looked like a confused puppy, eyes drooping and head tilted. “That isn’t it. There’s something else, something you’re not telling me?”

    Dean huffed and shook his head, hands raised in exasperation. “I don’t know what you want me to say. I like you, okay? We’re still--- you know--- buddies.”

    “Buddies,” Cas said it like it was a war crime.

    “Yeah, man, friends. Do you need me to pull up a dictionary on my phone?!” Dean was getting anxious. He didn’t know what exactly had set Cas down this path of questioning, but he was certain he needed it to end. So much for a quiet night.

    After a few weighted stares, Cas squinted and turned them down a different path. “Did me employing you negatively affect our relationship? Should I not have asked that of you?” 

    “Wait, that would have stopped you?” Dean asked, surprised by Cas’s sudden, if extremely late, realization.

    “I wouldn’t knowingly do anything to hurt our friendship, Dean. Has working here hindered you?” Cas asked apologetically.

    Dean’s mouth dropped open and his shoulders slumped. “Yeah, man. Working here--- everyone is great, don’t get me wrong--- but man I need a break. I wanted to help out here or there, but I’ve got no time for a life if I stay on.”

    “I see,” Cas sat back, poorly masking his own discomfort with Dean’s confession. “Look, I know I’m not the best at what I do. But I find it very hard to trust new people. Employees, especially, tend to let me down. I guess--- I guess I’ve relied on you for too long, Dean. I’m sorry if I’ve taken advantage.”

    Dean chuckled. “To be honest, I wouldn’t have minded if you had.”

    Missing the joke, Cas continued, “I am taking this conversation as your verbal resignation. I hope you will stay on for the customary two weeks time?”

    “You’re serious?” Dean asked, stunned.

    “You’re unhappy. I don’t want to cause you anymore grief,” Cas replied simply.

    “It wasn’t that bad, Cas.--- But, you gotta do something about Jack. Man up and light a fire under his ass, or just kick him to the curb until he’s ready to live up to the family business. You need to hire people who want to be here,” Dean offered. 

    Cas nodded dejectedly. “I know, I just have an awful gauge for people’s reliability from a simple interview. And past employers rarely ‘spill the tea’ as Bela would say.”

    Dean giggled, but stopped himself once he saw the worry in Cas’ eyes. “Hey, what if somebody does the interviews for you? I bet Jody would weed out the bad seeds before their asses ever hit the bar stool.”

    Cas was surprised by that option. “That could work. She is very intimidating.”

    “Right?!” Dean exclaimed, feeling lighter than he had in a long time. “So, we’re really doing this? Two weeks and I’m out?”

    “Yes, Dean. You’ve done more than I should have asked of you.” Cas stood and extended his hand.

    Dean grabbed it and pulled Cas in for a hug, their bound hands stuck between them. “Thanks, man. But, I’m glad it worked out. It will work out. This is gonna be good.”

    “And we’ll---,” Cas asked as they broke apart.

    “We’ll still be friends. Hell, if I’m free maybe we can reclaim our old table every once in a while,” Dean offered, patting Cas’s shoulder. A genuine smile crept across Dean’s face for the first time all day.

    “I’d like that,” Cas admitted as the safe alerted his time was up.

    The next morning, Sam held the door for Dean who was smirking as they walked in. Exhausted and needing the comfort of his favorite diner to fill his empty stomach, Dean agreed to Sunday breakfast with a seemingly none-the-wiser Sam, certain he'd be missing their weekly dinner with his parents for possibly the first time.

"Not that one. Let's see if there's a spot in the back," Sam muttered as Dean tried sitting in the first open booth he saw. 

"What? Why?" Dean groaned, but straightened up and followed Sam passed the bustling counter.

Sam lifted his chin and motioned Dean to the second to last spot. Slightly annoyed, Dean threw himself onto the bench seat, only to have Sam slide beside him, caging him in. 

"Glad you boys could make it," the all too familiar drawl of their father's voice greeted them from across the table.

Dean looked at Sam and cursed beneath his breath. Sam had the nerve to look guilty, but his puppy dog eyes didn't hold an ounce of potency now.

"Wow, Dad, I had no idea you'd be here. Funny coincidence, hey, Sammy?" Dean snarked.

"Shut up," Sam grumbled.

"I made him drag you here, Dean. So if you wanna be pissed, be pissed at me," John began. "I ordered your usuals, to give us some privacy. It seems we need to talk."

Tagging: @flamencodiva​​ @dolphincliffs​​ @dontshootmespence​​ @fookinghelljensensthighs​​ @fangirlxwritesx67 @dawnie1988 @mrswhozeewhatsis​​ @cosicas-cuquis​​ @foxyjwls007 @tumbler-tidbits @wingedcatninja​​ @defenderrosetyler​​ @ericaprice2008  @crashdevlin​​  @mylovelydame21 @cajunquandary​​ @itmighthavebeenintentional​​​ @thoughtslikeaminefield​​ @there-must-be-a-lock @tatted-trina6​ @cracksinthewalls​​ @atc74​​    

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#A Gentlemen's Agreement #bi!dean #dean winchester fanficiton #dean/benny #dean x benny #coming out #john and mary #aga: spit it out #spn fanfic #spn au #supernatural fanfiction #supernatural au

[why-this-kolaveri-machi]

we’re partners in this.

so titans 2.12 was mostly about (awkwardly) moving pieces around to get them in place for a grand finale. it was great! but also awkward. but great! let’s talk about it, if you don’t mind:

SPOILERS ahead.

1. i apologise for going off on a tangent right off the bat, but i just had this weird bit of insight about this show’s universe and it’s kind of hilarious. so you know those clickbaity articles about titans fucking up its worldbuilding by having its characters be so blase about protecting their superhero identities? (screenrant and cbr have inundated my newsfeed. oh good lord the pain. the agony.) maybe that’s just how It’s Meant To Be. batman and robin have been around for at least a decade and a half; the big bat’s likely been around for longer. the justice league is a sophisticated organisation with connections, representation and influence on worldly affairs. no doubt there has been countless battles and alien invasions--to the point where superheroes have become so ingrained in public life that their identities are semi-public knowledge but Nobody Gives A Shit. it’s like asking folks about their local legislators--people are aware that they exist and perform a Function in society and that a minimal amount of research would reveal who they are, but most aren’t keen on/interested in doing that. as a result, keeping up a secret identity isn’t the priority it used to be. and That’s Fine! the titans universe is its own beast with its own internal mechanics and as long as it’s internally consistent, let it deviate from its comic origins as much as it wants to.

oh typical emmram, i can hear you say. scrambling for explanations to excuse careless writing and plot holes. well, dear Strawman I Just Made Up, you may be partially right--there was a time when i would’ve waved my ‘the author is dead’ flag, but (i like to think) i’ve matured since then. but also: have you considered that plot holes aren’t really plot holes if you can successfully use what’s been established about a story’s universe to explain them away and that it’s significantly more fun? 

with this background in mind, i can appreciate more than ever that titans plays out more like an intense, soapy family drama (with perhaps higher stakes than your average soap). this was never a show about a bunch of disparate heroes coming together and finding purpose in order to defeat a common enemy. this was always about a bunch of kids who grew up in a world where vigilantism and superheroing and magic and alien invasions are just an accepted part of life, and the deeply dysfunctional ways they keep coming together and pinballing away, over and over again. there’s no point where each of the characters have definitely Gotten Over Their Issues so they can all gather together to defeat the big bad; it’s why this late in the game we can have rachel looking for people to connect to and relate with that aren’t a series of adults who claim to protect her but only keep her in the dark; hank at the bottom of a self-destructive spiral; dick barely picking himself up from rock bottom, and kory falling apart at the seams. 

so anyway, that’s it on this edition of Emmram Tries To Give A Grand Unifying Theory of Titans; let’s move on to the actual episode.

2. rose’s story could’ve been so good, you guys. actually you know what, scratch that (she types, on a computer while having 20+ years’ experience in knowing how to use the backspace key), it’s a great story that got muddled in the process of the show trying to tell a number of great stories all at once. this season has been inexorably building up to dick grayson becoming nightwing, using his unreliable narration to build up suspense as we see him battle personal hangups and the fallout from literal decades of trauma to gain a sense of equilibrium and a renewal of purpose (it can be argued that even now, on the cusp of actually putting on that dang costume, he hasn’t really learned anything--but i’ll get to that later). if this is the main story that this season is trying to tell, then taking two gigantic detours for episode-long flashbacks and building up to jericho’s death as much as they did makes perfect sense. it also makes sense to set slade up as a foil to dick, in that they are both caught up in their heads and make self-absorbed decisions to protect their ‘children’ but dick comes through with the realisation that that’s a crock of bullshit. 

but that’s not the case, is it? there are so many things going on at once but they’re all orbiting around this throughline of ‘dick becoming nightwing’ and so we only get the barest glimpses of some relatively complex character motivations and development going on with the others. 

2.25. in this episode’s flashback (we’re still getting flashbacks! in literally the penultimate episode of the season! god i have never wanted to take a red pen to anything more) we come to a number of weighty realisations: the extent of rose’s powers, her feelings of otherness, her desire to connect with her father so that she doesn’t feel alone in her otherness, how desperate she is to connect with him--so much so that she’s willing to throw away her entire life and undergo physical mutilation in service of his revenge plan--and how...learning exactly how her brother died and... being with jason??? made her change her mind??? ok that last one’s a bit muddled, but i’ll try and make sense of it.

as far as i can see, there are four big turning points in rose’s story so far:

a) that moment in the car when slade invites rose to join him and reveals that he’s basically been funding her ‘normal’ middle class life till that point. i can imagine how destabilising that realisation might be to rose, and why she might think going along with slade, no matter how weird and how abrupt, is how she’s going to live a life true to who she is

b) but imagine actually being taken in by the titans, being given shelter and support and succour by a group that her father had described as ruthless and manipulative. i can imagine her still being on board with slade’s plan, but maybe the reason she didn’t do all that she could’ve possibly done while at the tower to sabotage the titans might be because she’s actually interacting with these people, and while they might be a Hot Mess, they aren’t actively cruel or vindictive. i wish the show had woven in more scenes of rose interacting with the others, of her learning intimate things about their pasts, of her bonding with the younger titans’ struggle with their own ‘freakish’ natures. rose hardly seems to have any presence at all after her intro episode, and that’s a pity.

c) dick’s confession about what actually happened with slade and jericho. it’s more complicated than she was lead to believe--her father was actually complicit in her brother’s death. it’s a very confusing moment for rose, who’s already (probably) feeling the first stirrings of guilt, unsure, really, about her devotion to the father and brother that she’s known only for a little longer than the titans themselves, and slowly coming to the sick realisation that slade used her as a pawn in his game against the titans. 

d) jason latching onto rose is understandable--he saw her as the only person making the effort to connect with him when he was feeling vulnerable and rejected by almost everybody else. jason practically bleeds a need for connection and acceptance. i don’t think rose anticipated that jason would come with her, or be as attached to her as he is--but she sees in him a sensitive and struggling soul baring his heart to her, and in herself the kind of deception and secrecy that she’d originally wanted to rebel against. so she finally comes clean with him, and thinks they should help the titans against her father.

i mean. i might be making some assumptions (actually i’m making a lot of assumptions, to be fair), but i’m just trying to work with what the show’s given us, which is... not insubstantial, but haphazard enough that it’s easy to forget that rose exists sometimes. 

3. i fell asleep right after watching this episode for the first time, and apparently at some point before actually sleeping i appear to have had some kind of Great Insight about it because in the notes app on my phone i typed in “dick bruce concept of justice” with no further explanation.

i’ve spent the better part of this evening trying to retrace my train of thought, and i think it went like this: essentially, i was curious that dick was so broken up about jericho dying that he banished himself to a five year long lonely journey to seek penance that ended with him voluntarily getting himself arrested, but didn’t seem all that cut up about zucco dying or basically ordering the deaths of the scientists at the asylum in 1.07. betraying jericho and the older titans’ trust in him is a far greater burden on him than being responsible for the death of people who have wronged him or hurt the people he loves. but this is also a man who has internalised batman’s mission and ethos for the better part of his life, so he can’t actually come out and admit that. instead the two things come together to form one conclusion: he killed jericho, and he must be punished for it. 

(i also imagine locking himself away in prison was a result of growing up under the influence of batman--who responded to trauma by embarking on rigorous, brutal, solitary journey of penance and extreme self-discipline. batman doesn’t ask for help. batman goes to the batcave and rides it out.)

so when dick finally breaks himself out of jail, it isn’t because he’s come to a great realisation about his self-destructive behaviour (although he’s aware of it on some subconscious level); it’s because he realised the thing he was punishing himself for didn’t actually happen. he hasn’t really learnt a lesson. to be fair, he would need some pretty intensive therapy to untangle the things running through his head, so it seems quite believable that this is the way he gets back on his feet in time to be nightwing.

4. i know people think that the conversation between rachel and kory was awkward, and uh, it kinda was a little bit, but it makes sense that they can talk like that to each other. rachel wants to protect dick but feels confident enough with kory to lash out at her; kory is unafraid to be vulnerable or sad around rachel which just feeds into the trust that rachel has in kory. i don’t know, i thought that conversation was a nice way to both re-establish this dynamic and give some insight into what kory’s feeling.

5. god, mercy graves--a family woman!--tenderly wiping the blood off gar’s chin after having turned him into her own personal killing machine is just... so unsettling on so many levels.

5.5. it continues to KILL me that gar had so much faith in the titans right up to the very moment he had his fucking skull opened up and his brains messed with against his will: an undeserving loyalty to a family who took his easygoing acceptance of their shitty treatment of him at face value and essentially threw him to the wolves. how do you even start recovering from this? i feel like we’ve gone past the point where a few heart-to-hearts could help.

6. man, hank spiralling the way he did was too brutal to be anything but deeply uncomfortable. i’m sure the teenager who bought hank’s suit from him was supposed to inspire hank and remind him of his place and purpose as a titan, but it came off as kind of a cruel joke. hank has been putting his body out on the firing line over and over and over again, and his lesson is to be told that he isn’t putting himself out there enough? yikes.

7. stu and lily and their collective disdain for dick grayson’s drama are my new favourite characters on the show and deserve their own damn spin-off. MAKE IT HAPPEN DC

#titans #titans spoilers #meta #rose wilson #dick grayson #koriand'r #jason todd #rachel roth #hank hall #garfield logan

[reimenaashelyee]

Inspiration and Calling

“Where do you get your ideas from?” “How do you choose which book to do?”

The short answer is, I don’t know?? Or rather, I can’t explain it. Or RATHER, I don’t think the real answer will be helpful, or even make sense, to anyone else except me.

Inspiration

Personally I don’t think anyone should worry so much over when or where their ideas will manifest. They will come.

But before we understand what I mean when I say “chillax, bro”, let me address a couple of assumptions about inspiration:

Inspiration as a Set, Determined, Concrete Process.

“If I don’t figure out how Inspiration with a capital I works, I will never find it. I will never be a real artist.”

What I’m referring to is this prevailing idea that that there’s a mystical Ideas Machine inside your head you need to find that, once you activate it, will instantly and forever feed you ideas, confirming your destiny as a creator. I mean, isn’t that the core implication behind “where do your ideas come from?”? It implies that there is a routine that all seasoned creators have obtained; a hidden knowledge to be passed down; a videogame-like skill to be levelled up to. Basically, people who ask this question… who don’t ask it solely out of plain, mundane curiosity… are looking for a clue to unlock their Ideas Machine.

What ends up happening is like the hundreds of Pocket articles I have read that tries to crack the code of what makes a start-up manager or self-made billionaire Productive. You wake up at 4 am. You drink the purest herbal tea from the Organic Highlands. You use the Pomodoro. You put robots in your brain. It’s hopeless. How one person finds inspiration or productivity is so individual that really, there is no One True Answer. No guaranteed process. No Ideas Machine.

Equating inspiration as survival or work.

This is the danger zone, imo. You know why? People who draw or write for fun (usually as a hobby) never ask where ideas come from. They just draw. They just write. The first time the question enters a hobbyist’s mind is when they transition from creating for themselves to creating beyond themselves; that is, to put up work for an audience, to get a book deal, to start a creative career. Some people remain stuck in this questioning stage and panic over whether they are a real artist who can make money if they can’t find the mystical Ideas Machine that seasoned creators seem to have. And we already know that doesn’t exist.

Which is why I think there’s no need to worry about the time and place of ideas/inspiration. There’s no need to find a process, or to base your capital value as a creator on the production of ideas. Just chillax bro. Eat a delicious meal. Watch a Netflix movie. Lie down on the grass. Laugh with your friends. Be cheerful, live well. As long as you’re living on this planet and experiencing the joys of society like Uncle Karl says you should, your brain will know what to do. Inspiration will come.

TL;DR be patient. Trust yourself. And eat your favourite dessert sometimes.

Marx recognized that the science of capitalistic economy, despite its worldly and pleasure-seeking appearance, “is a truly moral science, the most moral of all sciences. Its principal thesis is the renunciation of life and of human needs. The less you eat, drink, buy books, go to the theatre or to balls, or to the public house [ Br., pub], and the less you think, love, theorize, sing, paint, fence, etc., the more you will be able to save and the greater will become your treasure which neither moth nor rust will corrupt — your capital. The less you are, the less you express your life, the more you have, the greater is your alienated life and the greater is the saving of your alienated being. Everything which the economist takes from you in the way of life and humanity, he restores to you in the form of money and wealth. And everything which you are unable to do, your money can do for you; it can eat, drink, go to the ball and to the theatre. It can acquire art, learning, historical treasures, political power; and it can travel. It can appropriate all these things for you, can purchase everything; it is the true opulence. But although it can do all this, it only desires to create itself, and to buy itself, for everything else is subservient to it. When one owns the master, one also owns the servant, and one has no need of the master’s servant. Thus all passions and activities must be submerged in avarice. The worker must have just what is necessary for him to want to live, and he must want to live only in order to have this.” (link)

P.S: UNCLE KARL IS TELLING YOU TO TREAT YOSELF. That’s praxis!!

Here’s another quote I like that’s also relevant, but less “destroy late stage capitalism” and more “wow isn’t the world beautiful”:

Develop an interest in life as you see it; the people, things, literature, music – the world is so rich, simply throbbing with rich treasures, beautiful souls and interesting people. Forget yourself.

Henry Miller

That’s my answer for “Where do your ideas come from?”. The ideas comes from being alive. To develop and grow that garden of ideas – that is, life – , you have to immerse yourself in it. Not for money. Not for comments or followers or social media. Not for external confirmation that you’re a Real Creator. But for your own joy. For the love of living. When you immerse yourself in the garden you lose yourself. That’s what Henry Miller is talking about.

When you give in to the garden, it gives back to you. Being alive is inspiration. Inspiration is being alive.

James Webb Young’s five-step technique for producing ideas touches upon how living life is essential to creativity.

Calling

“How do you choose which books to do?” is more esoteric. I think the answer is more a Reimena Yee thing than it is most artists’ thing, though people like T.S. Eliot have come pretty close to describing my answer:

I choose the book which compels me.

This thing is not easy to describe. I don’t know. I am not sure if other comics creators operate primarily like this, or think of their work this way.

It’s different from the feeling

of finding a concept you want to write about

of being overexcited and hyperfocused by said concept

of self-indulging

It’s all of those feelings, but there’s an edge to it.

I have a few ideas in the backburner. Some of them are books I want to do. Some are books I really, really want to do. And one or two of them are books that compel me.

The sensation is like finding the perfect pet in the animal shelter. You see a dog or cat and come back to it over and over again. You can’t explain this feeling you are feeling, this deep-in-the-gut instinct that you’re meant for this animal. Eventually, you listen to your gut, you take the plunge, and you bring it home. Turns out, you’re right.

That’s what I mean by “compelling”.

There are certain books which I return to over and over again. In the beginning, the special book plants an imagery in my mind’s eye, then it plays it repeatedly. If this doesn’t stop after a year, and if I still feel like I’m meant for it, I accept my calling and take it.

But accepting the book comes with the simultaneous feelings of excitement and fear, joy and resignation. When I actually work on it, there’s not really a hyperfocus or overexcitement. It’s more like I’m listening to what it wants to be, and I carve it into existence slowly. When I feel the joy it’s not exactly self-indulgent… more like relishing in a purpose. It’s work. It’s a calling.

Sometimes a calling will be equated to passion. People talk about passion like it’s a feeling that burns and consumes you and motivates you to work through unreasonable hours or expectations. You know, the passion that exploitation thrives in. That’s how you know you are a Real Artist, they say.

But I have never felt passion like that? When I experience passion, I feel that I love the work. That I want the calling to happen. But there’s no anxiety in it. I don’t feel that I must get it done quickly or cater it for mass appeal, though I do have a preferred deadline and a hopeful expectation for an audience who will appreciate my hard work. But even if I break the deadline (maybe it has to be delayed another year) or end up having no support/audience, I am not worried. I just think “Well, it’ll happen regardless.” or “Yay, it’s already real. I am glad I did it.”

It’s got no fireworks. No algorithmic hurrah. No romance. I don’t go Natalie Portman Black Swan over the calling. Is that unimpressive? I don’t know. I only know it’s purposeful. And that it feels right. Maybe the word is not passion. Maybe the word is trust.

Maybe passion and trust are two sides of the same coin.

That’s all part of the “compelling” I feel for some books. They are the ones I don’t worry about because they are the ones I know will happen. So I pick them and give them the love and attention they ask for. It’s not a one-way relationship either. When you give in to the garden, it gives back to you.

So really, the answer to both questions is “I don’t know.” Because like, if you boil down my answers down to their most blase they are basically “Enjoy your life” and “Do what you like” – which are good answers in general, but don’t say anything about marketability or success or finding validation in an external party like a publisher or art director. They are useless answers.

Then again,

Maybe they are not.

#thoughts #inspiration #craft

[gaslampsglow]

(Pictured: 1/30th of a rough weekend.)

So saturday afternoon, my boss (supervisor? team lead? superior officer? that weird nebulous stage between “coworker charged with keeping the group in line” and “Manager with capital M”) wheeled a massive skid of boxes over to my workspace and asked if I could take on a special project.  We had a massive batch of lots from the same sake to shoot and document, and it needed to be done by someone with neurotic attention to detail.  Obviously I said yes.

Each of the boxes on that skid were, like the one pictured above, stuffed to the brim with hundreds of photos.  And I mean hundreds.  There were photos from every decade since the 1890s, there were black and whites, postcards, color prints, slides.  Kodachrome, Ektachrome, Polaroids, negatives pulled from positives, newspaper clippings copied and imaged with an enlarger. Contact sheets, proof pages, negative images of halftone screens, all the hallmarks of an absolute darkroom wizard.

All trains.

Thousands of photographs of trains.

And behind that first skid he wheeled another skid, loaded with even more.

Marketing felt that these were dump lots, that no one would spend any money on them, based on a few test lots that had been up for sale for a few days.  Several other people, my boss included, felt that the product was great but the documentation was poor.  Whoever shot the test sales had clearly not known what they were holding, nor did they seem to care, as they took four or five photos of piles of photos and called the whole thing done.  For most items we sell, thats not a bad way of doing it.  After all, to hit our daily numbers, most lots need to be shot in less than ten minutes, preferably six.  You take a master shot illustrating the item, you take three to four angles or closeups showing details, then you document any damage or irregularity.  Minimum four photos, usually about eight or nine, try not to shoot more than twelve.  And if you’re shooting something that feels too niche or junky or tacky to make money, you spend less time with it so you have more of a buffer when trying to capture the tiny fucking watermarks on stupid crystal glasses.  And a good general rule is that the more items are in a lot, the less they’re worth.

But all of these rules fly out the window when you are selling to Train People.  You may have known a few.  The ones with the model railroads in their basements, exactingly crafted to perfectly represent a particular rail line, or period, or place.  The history buffs that out-obsess all other history buffs.  No special interest is more granular, or more specific, or more seemingly mercurial to the untrained eye.  They’ll fork over good money for a piece of rail history, but no one wants to buy blind boxes of photos sight unseen, hoping that they represent whatever line or time or place they’re looking for.  And this treasure trove not only was astoundingly well organized, but almost every single photo was labelled with information, frequently detailing the make and model of the train as well as the time and place the photo was taken.

So my boss told me to sift through, document anything that seemed important, spend as much time as I needed and take as many photos as I want.  I shot nothing but photos of trains from 1:30 to 7:30pm, taking about 40 minutes per box (each box being sold as a separate lot.)

Get in the next morning at 7:00am, keep going.  At around 10, while I’m grabbing the next pile, a woman stops me and introduces herself as one of the Editors.  We normally don’t see editors, as they’re four or five rungs up the ladder from photography, and most of their work is digital.  They curate the overall estates and sales, revise and correct the research cataloguing does, order photo reshoots when necessary, and generally have the final say on many pieces of what hits the site.

This particular Editor is the one overseeing this sale, and was friends with the man who owned all of this stuff.  So I get a little more background: all of these photos were from a Rail-spotting magazine run for 25 years by a local Cincinnati man.  Train Fans would send in photos from all over the world to be featured, and this collection was essentially the man’s life’s work.  The proceeds from selling all of this (and the piles and piles and piles and piles of other items) go to supporting the hospitalized mother he left behind after his death.  So The Editor is deeply invested in making sure that not only is the work well represented, but that it makes top dollar, so that her friend’s work is sold to collectors rather than junk dealers, and that his mom gets a big check to pay for medical care.

Which means that she is profoundly unhappy with the performance of those earlier-mentioned test lots, and livid that attribution fobbed the whole thing off without doing much documentation, and that marketing thinks this all is worthless, and came hunting my boss to make sure that these photos are being shot properly.  To say that she seemed skeptical of my care and attention to detail is an understatement.

“Well, I do want you to know that I’m putting a lot of time into these.  I’m looking at every photo, pulling all that are in color, pulling any that are photographically impressive with high contrast, and paying particular attention to local lines.”

“You mean the ones marked as being shot here?”

“Well, sure, but also the rail lines that I know pass through Cincinnati.  The next box I’m shooting I know is a bunch of B&O so I’m excited for that, since I drive under an old B&O bridge as I leave my neighborhood.”

“B&O?”

“You know, Baltimore and Ohio.  Its the oldest full service rail line in the country.”

“...I guess you are the right one to do these.”

Which is about when the other player enters the scene, one of the two company Founders.  She and the Editor had both been on this sale for months, starting at the house packing and organizing this estate, which was so cluttered and filthy and untamed that the Founder called in a personal favor and flew her pal Matt Paxton (one of the Professional Cleaners from the show Hoarders) out to help cut through the muck.  So now, months later, in the final hours of a giant project, the presentation of the whole thing is on me.  And the decision makers for the whole company are standing around my workspace while my boss shows the work I’d been doing so far.

I was a little stressed.

But as they flipped through, I could see everyone become visibly less tense.  My boss explained, “If I had given this to any other photographer in the building, they would have grabbed the first ten photos out of the box, shot just those, then moved on to the next one.  I picked Corey because he loves history, and he’s willing to do the work.  He’s shooting sixty and seventy photos for each of these lots.”

Which, uh, was a pretty great feeling, not gonna lie.  I’m not used to receiving kudos, even just verbally, from bosses, let alone people that high up the food chain.

Of course this was tempered by finding out that this whole sale was going live that night.  

This meant that I had about 20 more lots to shoot by 3 in order to give cataloguing enough time to write descriptions and hit complete.  It was, at this point, 11:15.  The race to finish was not fun, with my boss jumping on the sweep next to mine for the last two hours, as we steamed across the finish line around 4:30.  At that point, I was kaput.  Completely finished.  I spent the last three hours at work sleepwalking, came home, and melted into my chair.  I told Jo it was an incredibly stressful day.

And it was.

(Hey look, its Cincinnati!  Back when the Inclines were running.)

But I keep thinking about that feeling.  Because this isn’t the same stress I’m used to.  And I know this seems so obvious or blase, but every job I’ve had has been stressful.  I mean, every job is stressful in its own way.  But I’m not used to that stress being...rewarding?  In the same way that art or film or woodworking, creation for my own purposes, is stressful.

I know I’m saying “the sky is blue” as if it were a new discovery I’d made, but I’m so unused to feeling job pressure that resolves not as misery but as accomplishment.  Three years at Lowe’s and every day was “oh no, I have to do this again tomorrow?  How!?” and finding victory in the tiny little footholds of humanity that I got from one customer out of a hundred.  I emotionally have no idea how to process “my boss and my boss’s boss and their boss are all impressed with my random assortment of knowledge and ability to organize information.”

This is not a complaint, mind you.  Not even a little bit.  Just a very gratified confusion.

Anyway, if you’ve read this far, thanks.  As reward, have a photo taken sometime in the 70′s about a block away from my house.

#Wyrd Mysteries #cincinnati #ohio #railroad #my job is weird

[emeraldwaves]

AU list 10xiv Mikorei

AU Requests

xiv)  Youpissed me off in class so I threw a book at your head and now I’m in detentionand jesus fuck I hate you so much and the teacher made me apologise and waityou’re cuter up close and the way you talk is kind of nice actually oh fuck no. HI SHINY HERE I AM YEARS LATER FINALLY GIVING YOU THIS. BUT I HOPE YOU LIKE IT CAUSE I HAD A LOT OF FUN @its-love-u-asshole for betaing!!

Title: SpeechlessRating: TWC: 2,572Pairing:  MikoreiMikorei Week Day 6: Free DayAo3Summary: For once, Suoh finds a way to get Munakata to shut up.Tap-tap. Tap-tap. Tap-tap. The sound of his fingers rolling against the desk were grating on Munakata’s nerves. Of course, it didn’t help that his mood was already quite sour to begin with. First of all, he didn’t get detention, so this was unheard of, completely unheard of. And second of all, he had been a victim in this particular case! And yet, somehow he was also getting punished.

He should’ve expected nothing less. Not when it involved Suoh Mikoto.

“Could you please stop?” Munakata hummed, his voice filled with disdain, a hint of spite in his tone as he asked Suoh the very simple request.

“Ah?” came his monosyllabic response.

“You know exactly what I’m asking,” Munakata scoffed.

“Mmm…” Suoh grunted. Leaning back in his chair, he slowly slouched down, his neck leaning against the back of the chair. He puffed out a large breath of air, his bangs swooping upwards, only to flop back down against his forehead.

The red-haired boy was a complete nuisance-always ruining Munakata’s time, or landing him in detention for the first time as he had done today.

Weismann, their history teacher, had given them both detention after the incident in question. He claimed this was the best way for them to try and get along. Munakata however, politely disagreed. As there was absolutely no way he could imagine himself ‘getting along’ with someone as deplorable as Suoh Mikoto.

For as long as he had been at Shizume Academy, Munakata had been a model student. Perfect grades, student body president, and president of the puzzles and chess club (they had added the 'puzzles’ part when Munakata had insisted upon doing so), Munakata was flawless.

Well, flawless minus one small fact; when it came to Suoh Mikoto, Munakata Reisi was undeniably at a loss.

The two had had problems since their first year when they had been in the same class. Munakata had, of course, been the top of the class, and Suoh Mikoto had been rather close to the bottom. At first, Munakata offered to tutor him, assuming Suoh could use some of his sagely advice, but instead of accepting Munakata’s generous offering of his genius, the interaction had gone somewhat unexpectedly.

“Suoh, I know you are struggling to keep your grades up. Seeing as I am the top student in our class, I thought I would offer my tutoring services to you.”

Suoh had looked up at him, peering through his red, messy bangs. “Hah?” he had grunted, keeping his chin rested upon his palm.

“I wish to offer you my tutoring services,” Munakata had repeated. “I thought this would be of great help to you, since you seem to be unable to excel in this class.”

“Don’t need it,” Suoh had grunted back.

It had been shocking to say the least, and Munakata couldn’t quite remember what he’d responded at the time.

It was then Munakata had begun to observe Suoh. The red-haired boy had one friend, Kusanagi Izumo, who seemed to be far more responsible than him. He, at the very least, didn’t fall asleep during class. There were also two middle schoolers who often crossed the street during lunch to come see him. Munakata didn’t know their names, but one of them constantly referred to Suoh as 'King’ and the other couldn’t stop yelling about how fantastic 'Mikoto-san’ was.

Quite frankly, Munakata didn’t care about Suoh in the slightest, but it was hard to comprehend where his popularity came from.

He supposed he could understand why people found the redhead attractive. Physically, he wasn’t hard on the eyes, his blase, uncaring attitude could be considered 'cool’, however Munakata found it infuriating. How could Suoh trudge through his life like he didn’t care about anything? And how could he possibly not have been kicked out of school yet?

Ever since, the two had been at odds, and somehow had ended up in the same class all three years of their high school lives. Munakata would constantly lecture Suoh in an attempt to get him to actually do his work, and Suoh would never listen, spending most of his time on the roof, or sleeping in class. Half the time, Munakata was convinced Suoh would do things just to bother him.

Their seats were unfortunately next to each other. Suoh would often spend his awake moments in class tapping his pencil on his desk, or capping and uncapping his pens. Munakata was convinced there had been a few times Suoh had smirked at him before dozing off for the majority of the afternoon.

By the end of their second year of high school, Munakata had all but given up. Still, it didn’t stop him from engaging in small quips with the red-haired boy.

And it was one of said back and forth arguments that had landed Munakata where he was now; detention.

At first, Suoh had been sleeping. Munakata hadn’t even needed to look behind him to tell. Suoh’s breathing had been heavy, slightly sporadic-Munakata was quite familiar with the sound after three years. How one person could sleep as much as Suoh Mikoto did was beyond him. There had to be something wrong with him, if he needed to sleep as much as he did.

But now Suoh was awake, and ready to continue being obnoxious. Behind him, he could hear Suoh’s tapping growing louder and more frequent.

There would be no end to Munakata’s suffering it seemed.

“Suoh,” Munakata grunted, turning his head around. His blue locks flipped with the fast movement of his body. “I believe the least you could do for me is stop with the infernal tapping. Since it is your fault this is my first time in detention.”

There was a soft chuckle, and Suoh moved up in his seat. “Ruining your perfect record? Kinda nice to not be so damn good all the time right?”

Munakata was convinced that was the longest sentence Suoh had actually ever spoken to him. Frowning, he pressed his glasses up the bridge of his nose as he took a deep breath. “No,” he shook his head. “It is not nice. I do not wish to be trapped in a classroom as a punishment for something I did not do.”

“Hey, it’s not like I wanna be here with your obnoxious ass anyway,” Suoh yawned, stretching his hands up.

Munakata turned back around, staring at the clock. Only 30 more minutes until he was free…

~~

It had been stupid, to say the least, but Suoh had lost his patience. It was such a rare thing to happen to him as well. Normally, Suoh was fairly relaxed. Or well, as relaxed as one could be when they were surrounded by the noise and excitement of high school.

But Munakata Reisi…that guy…that guy really pissed him off. He thought he was so damn perfect at everything, and really Suoh had to admit, Munakata kinda was. He was incredibly smart, very athletic, and shockingly pretty…far too pretty for a man. Suoh had caught himself staring from time to time. Munakata’s hair was always perfectly straight, framing his thin face. His smile, his genuine smile, (not the frustrated fake one Suoh often witnessed) was beautiful, so much so, that his face practically sparkled.

But holy shit, whenever he opened his fucking mouth, Suoh contemplated punching him. All that beauty was ruined as Suoh would have to sit for what seemed like hours, listening to the other lecture and lecture about how important school was.

All those lectures did was make Suoh hate the guy even more. It didn’t matter how beautiful he was, the second he opened his mouth, all attractiveness was gone.

At first, Suoh hadn’t gave two shits about the guy, but when he kept bugging him and coming over to his desk to either lecture or try and get him to study, Suoh had grown more and more frustrated with the asshole.

So, he started pissing him off on purpose-Sleeping a little bit more obvious in class, tapping his pencil against the desk, tapping his feet against the floor. It was the little things that really seemed to set Munakata off. Hell, it was kind of cute. He’d see Munakata’s eyebrow twitch, then he’d press his glasses up on his face, attempting to ignore Suoh. But the redhead knew he was getting to the other.

And that brought him all the joy he needed.

“I think he’s just trying to help, King,” Totsuka had said one day after school. As per usual, he spent his afternoon relaxing with Totsuka, Kusanagi and Yata.

“That is definitely what he’s doing,” Kusanagi said. “But some people don’t care about school.”

“Nope,” Suoh shrugged. “Plus he’s gotta be a know-it-all about everything. I can’t stand looking at his shitty face.”

But of course, that wasn’t the case at all. Actually Munakata’s face was probably the most bearable part of him.

It was all these things and more which had led to the incident. The book throwing incident. Really what Suoh should have done was punch him outside, but Munakata and his big mouth had made it absolutely impossible to resist some form of retaliation.

The teacher had called on Suoh in class, and as expected, he had been unable to answer the question. It was rare he got called on-most teachers knew he wouldn’t have the answer by now. But, oh how the stars had aligned for today.

Munakata had stood up, as though he’d been waiting all day to steal the question from Suoh. “The answer is 1856. And some people would probably know that if they ever took the time to study,” he smirked.

And before Suoh had realized it, the notebook had flown out of his hand, and smacked directly against Munakata’s face, knocking his glasses clean off. For a moment, Suoh was able to see his dark purple eyes more clear, they were really beautiful. Munakata’s scowl, was not as beautiful.

“…Heh.”

“Did…you just throw…your notebook at me, Suoh!?” Munakata had yelled, slamming his hand down on the desk.

“Both of you! Detention after class!” Weismann-sensei, a normally calm man, had snapped. “We will discuss this in full detail then!”

Munakata’s face had broken. His upper lip trembled, twitching in a mixture of horror, sadness, and anger. His purple eyes were wide, glancing first at Weismann incredulously, then back to Suoh angrily.

As promised, after school Weismann gave a stern lecture about their behavior towards each other. Awkward, unmeant apologies were exchanged between the two, but Suoh didn’t think it helped anything, especially with the way Munakata’s brow seemed to be stuck in a constant frown. Weismann had left then, leaving Munakata in charge. Though the ass was in detention, seemed the teacher trusted him enough not to break the rules, and to not let Suoh break them either.

So yeah, it had been pretty dumb, but wow had it been worth it to see the best look he’d ever seen on Munakata’s smug ass face. Though somehow, the ass had managed to still look beautiful. Suoh resented him for that a little bit.

Which is why he kept tapping his fingers on the desk.

“Suoh,” Munakata hissed for a third time.

“Hm?” he asked, folding his arms when Munakata turned around, as though he were completely innocent.

Standing up, Munakata walked briskly towards Suoh’s desk. He slammed his hand down.

“I apologized earlier, but I’ve never felt so frustrated with you in my whole life! I do not understand how you could possibly keep doing these things-acting as though you do not have a care in the world. When really all you’re doing is bothering those around you, and hurting yourself. What do you plan to do once you graduate from this school? I suppose it will be a miracle if you do graduate…”

Munakata kept babbling, his deep voice stilted and filled with frustration. Suoh hated how nice and smooth his voice was, and how stupid pretty he looked, even when he was going on and on…

Standing up, Suoh met Munakata at eye level and grabbed his cheeks, pulling their lips together in a soft kiss. It was short-lived, as Suoh pulled away quickly.

Ah, the second best face he’d ever seen on Munakata’s beautiful face. The blue-haired boy was staring at him, wide-eyed, his mouth open. He was…speechless, for once in his life.

Suoh leaned in again, pressing their lips together as he kissed him slowly. Munakata’s lips were gentle and smooth. He nibbled on his lower lip for a brief moment, enjoying how frozen Munakata was before pulling away with a smirk.

“You’re really uptight Munakata, y'know that?” Suoh whispered. Leaning down, he slung his jacket over his shoulder. “You should learn ways to loosen up.” He walked to the front of the classroom, pointing up at the clock. “That’s time. See ya.”

He waved his hand once, and walked out of the classroom, wondering if he would ever be able to kiss Munakata again.

~~

He’d kissed him. Suoh had kissed him. Suoh had been his first kiss. It had come out of the blue, though knowing Suoh he’d probably done it to annoy Munakata, or to get him to shut up. Either were viable answers.

Munakata touched his fingers to his lips, and his wide eyes slowly turned towards the door. Had that really just happened? Had Munakata Reisi really kissed Suoh Mikoto? And…did Munakata want to do it again?

Scrambling to grab his stuff, Munakata ran out of the door, chasing after Suoh. It wasn’t hard to catch him, since he walked so damn slow down the hallway.

“What…was that?!” he growled, walking next to him. Suoh didn’t stop walking, he kept dragging his feet slowly down the empty hallway.

“Hm?”

“You know exactly what I am referring to!” Munakata said.

“I kissed ya.”

“I know you did,” Munakata sighed, rubbing his forehead. “Why?”

“Cause you were pretty.”

The blue-haired boy blushed, stopping in his tracks.

“And you wouldn’t shut up,” Suoh said, stopping to turn and look at him.

Munakata frowned and folded his arms. “Well-”

“Did ya’ like it?” Suoh asked, walking towards him, and Munakata immediately took a step back.

“What?” he blinked.

“Did ya’ like it? I mean you came running out here after me,” he snorted.

Frowning, Munakata pursed his lips. He…had liked it admittedly. Suoh’s lips were dry, but they had felt interesting against his. They’d made his stomach flip flop and his heart pound faster than Munakata could remember his heart ever pounding.

What he really hated though, was Suoh having the upper hand. Clenching his hand around the front of Suoh’s shirt, he yanked him forward, kissing Suoh again, pressing their lips together hard. He took a large breath in through his nose before pulling away. His purple hues filled with a plethora of emotions–anger, frustration, lust…

“Guess ya’ did,” Suoh chuckled. “Hope we can do that again.”

Brushing past him, Munakata scoffed, walking once again. “Perhaps, if you can actually stay awake for a whole day of school.”

“…Deal…” Suoh grinned, following after him.

Perhaps Weismann’s plan to have them get along had worked after all. Maybe not in the way he had meant…but it had worked, though Munakata still found himself frustrated with Suoh. But just maybe, Suoh had awakened a whole new kind of frustration.

#mikorei #mikoreiweek2017 #munakata reisi #suoh mikoto #k project #k project fanfiction #day 6 #free day #humor #high school au #au #one shot #just a silly fun request tbh #shinyphoenix

[timeagainreviews]

The Panopticon Conundrum

Hello friends! It’s been a full week for me. How about you? My wife had surgery and is still in hospital. (It’s a good thing though!) Last weekend was UK Pony Con in Nottingham. I went dressed as a Jodie Whittaker "Doctor Hooves." A few people got it. Most everyone else wanted to know where my tie was. I also did a Doctor Hooves art piece that sold at £80 for the RDA. It was a great weekend. My boyfriend is on the committee for the convention, so I go every year. There's a lot that goes into putting on a convention, oftentimes it's like a second job for him. Lots of time and effort is put into a successful event of such magnitude. It's really gone to help me appreciate other cons out there.

If you've been paying attention to Twitter, there's been a slightly trending hashtag “#boycottpanopticon.” It's not exactly blown up, but people like Gail Simone and Paul Cornell have both tweeted about it. For those of you not in the know, Panopticon is an old school Doctor Who convention that stopped running around the beginning of the 2005 series. However, they recently decided to reboot the convention. This past weekend was a sort of test run with "Panopticon Lite," which featured an impressive guest lineup of Paul McGann, Daphne Ashbrook, and India Fisher. It was a regular Eighth Doctor affair and I'm sure went off without a hitch. So why the boycott?

Enter Panopticon's website. Hoo-boy is it a mess. It was a tweet about their stance on cosplay which piqued my interest. According to their website, cosplayers open themselves up to getting "a custard pie in the puss," or doused with water. I'm not joking. Or rather, they aren't. This has something to do with Comic Relief, as cosplayers are given the privilege of donating £20 for an immunity badge. One might feel like this is a clear way of saying "cosplayers aren't welcome," when the alternative is "pay up, or get assaulted." Their stance against cosplay is further solidified when further down the page they mention that some cosplays will have to clear the rights with the owners of their IPs. Specifically Daleks, Cybermen, K9 and other full-body costume monsters. I've never heard of a con doing this. This isn't like Disneyland, where costumers need to "Disneybound," to avoid association with the company.

Why so much hostility toward cosplay? A majority of Panopticon's newfound critics seem to agree that it's a hostility rooted deeper than cosplay. To many, this hostility is toward the new fandom, which scans when viewing the evidence. The website reads like a bunch of the old guard fandom griping about younger fans. It's very "Old Man Yells at Cloud." Let's start with the basic fact that the con stopped around 2005. That may seem insignificant, but to me, it sounds like sour grapes. You've been keeping that Doctor Who torch burning for years, and you stop just as it bears fruit? Not to put too fine a point on it, but that sounds gatekeepery. Feeling ostracised because a new generation didn't have to live through the wilderness years is a weird reaction to your favourite show coming back.

In comic book conventions, you see a lot of hostility toward cosplay from the old fans as well. Walt Flanagan from AMC's "Comic Book Men," went through the growing pains of cosplay acceptance throughout the run of the show. You saw him go from a guy who thought it took attention away from the creators, to a guy who dressed in cosplay several times. It's an expensive, arduous, and stressful process to put together a successful cosplay, I should know. It's a labour of love on par with organising a convention, running a fan club, or writing fan fiction. Furthermore, it's here to stay. You may as well be yelling at a cloud.

It goes even deeper than cosplay. I mentioned that it's difficult to run a convention. I've had lonely evenings watching TV while my boyfriend was stuck working on the rota for Pony Con. Panopticon's organisers are not unfamiliar with running a convention. They know how hard it can be. Why then do they hate their stewards so much? In their section about stewards, they go on to tell potential attendees not to expect the stewards to know much of anything other than where the bathrooms are. They don't expect them to even know what day of the week it is. Now I get it, sometimes volunteers are just in it for the free ticket. Some people are morons. Some people are just plain helpless. But one of the things I learned from one of my favourite Pony Con volunteers, Tom, is that some of them are incredibly hard workers. The fact that the organisers seem to have such disdain for their workers isn't just crass, it's downright cruel.

Those of you who know my blog know I can be a snarky bitch at times. It's me having a laugh. I can get behind a convention trying to come off as a little bit more personable by infusing some humour. But as Twitter user drwhofan_194 said "It's unprofessional to joke about stuff which makes your attendees feel unsafe or unwelcome." Which is absolutely true. You can't assume everyone who isn't laughing has no sense of humour. Because for some, being in a giant room full of strangers is hard enough without also having to worry about a custard pie to their face. It's your job to maintain a safe environment, and if you can't take that seriously, why should anyone entrust their safety with you?

I would love to say that the website stops at custard pies and decrying the help, but it doesn't. Of course, it doesn't. This immaculate train wreck is still careening off the side of a cliff. You can also count on a good old fashioned bit of sexism. In a now edited section about seating, there was a comment made about how everyone wants to good seats so they can bask in the glow of Tom Baker, or even sneak a peak up Katy Manning or Frazer Hines' skirts. Twitter users well versed in being deliberately obtuse were quick to point out that Frazer was a man, meaning it wasn't sexist, because equal opportunity. Now I get it's a joke. Katy is sexy and Frazer wears kilts, I get it. However, I also get what it feels like to be a female fan of Doctor Who. I know what it's like to cringe every time you hear a male fan slime on about the companions' bodies. To have to hear male fans call Jenna Coleman a stuck up cow because she doesn't want to be casually assaulted by fans. I know what it feels like to be worried that every male fan I meet will eventually come onto me, like so many have in the past. Comments about looking up Katy Manning's skirt aren't just childish, they're alienating to women.

One has to wonder if that's not slightly the point. Was the language used by the organisers meant to push certain groups away? On the homepage, they go on a bizarre rant about morality and common sense. The words "traditional values," are even used. There's a vagueness like a man having an argument with someone over the phone. You can somewhat piece together the conversation through context, but who he's yelling at is a mystery. It reads like a person who has gotten into one too many flamewars online. They seem to see themselves as white knights, here to put the fandom right. Which is funny because I wasn't aware it was broken. Furthermore, I'm always very suspicious of anyone who seems to attract so much drama to themselves. If you're getting into heated arguments about Doctor Who, you need to reevaluate some shit in your life.

I could go on about the website, but at this point, I'm curious to see Panopticon's reaction. Other than the minor edit here or there, they've been shockingly blase about the whole thing. Reportedly going as far as to say it was “a form of market research to see who had a sense of humour.”  This could be particularly damaging as I've already seen users saying that even with an apology, they "wouldn't let [their children] near this event in a hundred years." It's amazing that a convention that was well established as the go-to Doctor Who convention for years, can squander so much goodwill with such a stupid website. At best, it's a PR nightmare. At worst, it was done on purpose. The fact that someone had this much power to take the concept and run with it, suggests that whoever wrote this dribble is rather high up in the organisation. It's one of those "Who watches the Watchmen?" kind of scenarios.

If the organisers have nobody higher to answer to, perhaps the last bastion against their smug minded drudgery is Twitter user walsallmatt's proposed boycott. Has Panopticon killed itself mid-regeneration, or can they come back from this fiasco? They've already situated themselves as the kind of people who will decide the real fans from the fake ones. Would any kind of apology make that ever seem fun? Will they lose potential guests like McGann or Manning due to this bad press? I'm sure there will still be a devout following that will come regardless, but is it enough? Even a convention with a rich history like Panopticon cannot simply rest on its laurels. Doctor Who didn't justify its return by banking on nostalgia. It built upon what came before and moved with the times when it was necessary. At this point, it looks like the only way we'll see Panopticon return to its glory days is with a time machine.

#doctor who #panopticon #fandom #convention #whovians #whovian #panopticon lite #tardis #cosplay #paul mcgann #india fisher #twitter #daphne ashbrook #frazer hines #katy manning

[winterscribe]

That Vampire Hunter D thing I’ll eventually write coherently

So now that I’ve FINALLY found the Vampire Hunter D Fandom I’m working up the courage to share some of my headcanons (my stupid anxiety makes it irrationally hard) The problem is a lot of my headcanons require at least basic knowledge of the fantasy world that I started when I was 14?Ish? And the Ocs I created. Like I decided to yank D out of his post-apocalyptic hell world and put him into this peaceful world populated by non-assholes, or in some cases, slightly less homicidal assholes… ok the number of assholes is much less than on the frontier, and even the homicidal ones usually need a good reason to be homicidal. None of this “I’m gonna experiment on thousands of individuals and put my son through a living hell for shits and giggles” - LOOKING AT YOU DRAC, LOOKING AT YOU!  

Anyway it’s really long and rambly so READ MORE-

Anyway I’m gonna make a series of posts explaining the basics, who’s who, How D got there, basic worldbuilding, that kinda thing. I’ll go through and link ‘em as I finish them. And I’ll make a masterpost because there are a few tags on my blog about the world and D’s family.

Now, since this world was started when I was 14 there are some things that are a little...odd. Names that Stuck and I can’t change because I’ve been calling it that for over 5 years, plot lines that involve characters from a different franchise but i haven’t figured out how to replace. Seriously I have GOT to figure out how to replace Fucking LOKI. FFS I haven’t liked that character for 2 years WHY is he STUCK THERE

I’m currently worldbuilding and planning a few novel’s based on Avaleara’s life, but the first 2 would be before she met D so I don’t think anyone would be interested. I’m gonna write certain scenes though, like Avaleara and D’s first kiss, the emotionally overwrought scenes that bring them together, stuff like that. But hey, if you like really overthought worldbuilding and sprawling sci fi/fantasy worlds, lord knows i could talk about Rev’haros for hours, so feel free to hit me up.

Story

D’s Part of the story line starts when Avaleara was punted through the barrier between universes by her uncle’s failed experiment and ended up on the frontier. By sheer happenstance, she landed right in front of D, who pretty much ignored her because she wasn’t trying to kill him and he needed to get to a job. Avaleara decided “Hey, there’s a fifty fifty shot he’s heading towards civilization, Im’ma follow at a respectful distance” Now, while Avaleara is decidedly Alien in appearance (aprx 6 ft tall, really dark purple skin, has horns, bio-luminescent markings, ALIEN) she has interacted with humans before, has even been to an Earth before, (Multiverse ftw) she has a pretty solid glamour already prepared, so while D knows what she looks like cuz he saw her, she can blend in on the frontier.

Except yah’ know, she doesn’t speak the language cuz the only Earth languages she knows are Japanese or English from circa 2000. Her trying to figure out the frontier dialect is like someone who speaks old English plopped down in the middle of modern day- She can sorta kinda figure out the gist but dear god is it difficult and makes her headache. On top of that since she comes into town a few hours after a Dhampir, well people don’t want shit to do with her, so she keeps vaguely wandering after D. I haven’t figured out the turning point yet, but eventually D interacts with this strange woman trailing aimlessly after him even as he cuts through an incredibly deadly forest and other such frontier horror ‘scapes that should have gotten her killed but didn’t. Because it’s D, he has a better grasp on “ancient” Japanese (Also I headcanon that his mother was of Japanese descent because Tony Thornburg) So they can communicate better.

Eventually they sorta travel together (Again I need to flesh this out) for a few years. About a decade of sorta traveling together (though niether of them will admit it, and certainly won’t admit that they enjoy eachother’s company) Dracula decides to be an asshole. For Hand Wavy reasons he comes up with a test for D and Left hand, that involves poisoning D. (IDK i’m kinda toying with the idea that Dracula had another success that was better than D, and decided to get rid of him, buuuut that would mean another character and i think it really goes against canon so idk if i’m gonna go that route)

The thing about Avaleara is that she is really possessive (part dragon) and fiercely protective of those she’s attached to. So Drac didn’t count on being hit with 900 pounds of sheer protective RAGE. Seriously Avaleara is the kind of person who, if she has something to protect, she will get back up no matter what she gets hit with. Spear through the heart? Bitch please she has two and you just handed her a weapon. Cut off an Arm? Regenerative powers and a history of being tortured so she doesn’t even flinch at the pain? Fire? She’s been burned alive before and it awakened her latent dragon genes. Water? She was born with an innate gift for controlling it. (so i kinda gave her every power I ever thought was cool, oops. HI MARY SUE)

She doesn’t kick Drac’s ass, but she does seriously wound him which is enough to startle him and, since he’s already accomplished poisoning D, he retreats, firing off a psychological attack as he goes. At that point Avaleara has one of two options. Use the last of her strength to fight off the attack, or draw the poison from D into herself (I had a reason for this but it's in a notebook buried in a box somewhere. God I hate moving) Another thing about Avaleara- if it's a choice between saving her life and saving someone else's, she will save someone else's. Every. Time.

So She saves D’s life, but falls into a coma fighting both the poison and Drac’s attack. At this point, her father, Maruketsukai (there’s one of those names I can’t change) appears, because her family had been keeping an eye on her but hadn’t pulled her back home cuz reasons. D does not trust the guy that appeared in midair. D owes Avaleara a debt because she saved his life. D also wants to know how the fuck she managed to wound the Sacred Ancestor. D is a stubborn bastard who will recklessly enter a portal to another universe because he owes someone a debt. He will also stand guard at their bedside for 5 years while they are in a coma because they saved his life.

(I think this is still in character- I mean he wouldn’t do it for just anyone, but shit this person fought Dracula and lived. For Him. yeah he’s gonna stick around and make sure they’re safe before he fucks off.)

His protectiveness earns him the undying loyalty of Avaleara’s family. Like, he’s obviously straight up ready to cut his way out of the room if they so much as breathe wrong in her direction. Ordinarily death threats aren’t the way to endear yourself to your in laws but Maruketsukai and Nikara are… not ordinary.

During the 5 years that Avaleara is in a coma, D learns a lot about her world, her family, and her past. Like the fact that she’s second in line for the throne, and that a previous lover had betrayed, kidnapped, and tortured her and that she had extreme PTSD and massive trust issues because of it. That’s why they had left her on the frontier, because for the first time in two thousand years, Avaleara had sorta trusted someone, or at least, didn’t seem overly paranoid about them, and they wanted to see what would happen.

D spends a lot of time with Takashi and Mizuki, because they speak Japanese. Takashi is the son of Sesshoumaru and Kagome. (Yes from the anime Inuyasha. I did mention this started when I was 14 right?) That’s why he speaks Japanese. Also He drags Avaleara and Mizuki to Earth occasionally which is why Avaleara has a human glamor. Its interesting for D to meet another half breed who is so blase about it, but Takashi grew up in  La’ Shevare, where genetic modification for the express purpose of interspecies breeding has been a thing for several million years. Pretty much no one is a pure blood. But since he’s also the nephew of Inuyasha and has listened to his father express his regret over how he treated his brother, he at least partially understands where D is coming from. Sorta. Academically. Ok not really but he tries. And totally has a talk shit get hit policy when it comes to D. Like call Takashi a half breed, make fun of his heritage, whatever, so long as you don’t make fun of his parents, he don’t give a fuck. Call D a half breed, make fun of D’s heritage, prepare for at least 3 broken bones. Probably more. Seriously. He’s 45 years older than Avaleara, held her in his arms as a baby, grew up with her and fell in love with her sister. She’s Family.  He was helpless when the man she loved broke her and twisted her into someone else, was helpless during her recovery because she wouldn’t let anyone in to help her. The moment D popped up, planting himself between Avaleara and any perceived threat, was the moment he became Pack. And you Do Not Fuck With a Dog Demon’s Pack.

Eventually Avaleara wakes up, except thanks to the psycological attack, and her previous ptsd related issues, Avaleara first thinks D is a hallucination. It takes awhile for it to set in and stick that he’s not. D sticks around, convincing her that he’s real and she’s not going insane, and just being really patient when she freaks out and thinks she’s seeing things, because hey, it was his asshole dad who did this to her so he kinda feels responsible. Plus he’d still really like to know how she wounded him.

It boils down to - Avaleara has spent the last 2 thousand years studying a variety of fighting techniques from all over the Rev’ Haros System, a system whose recent history spans back a few million years. D may know all the fancy vampire tricks, but 10,000 years is a drop in the bucket, a single lifespan of a person from Rev’ Haros. The whole system is so much more advanced than even the vampires at their peak, just because they’ve had the time to develop so far. The average person could go toe to toe with greater nobility if they had to, nevermind the people who are actually trained. Not to mention their fighting styles are so different, so alien to anything on Earth, that Dracula was at a significant disadvantage from that alone.

Avaleara happily agrees to train D in some of these styles. He doesn’t plan on sticking around long enough to learn them all. But he does, and she happily teaches him everything she knows until he is literally the only person who has a prayer of killing her. Shes very proud. Their sparring matches are epic and terrifying.

#vampire hunter d #god i'm so nervous putting this out there #like this has been my brain child for YEARS but i was never gonna share it #I love these characters ok #i poured my heart and soul into #Avaleara #please be gentle

[wellmeaningshutin]

Short Story #77: Whatever.

Written: 3/27/2017

Late, no matter where she was going, no matter how special the event was, Ellen was always late, wherever she went. Although, she took pride in knowing that she was a special breed of late comer, that she wasn’t one of those people who always showed up past the planned time, just due to simple carelessness, or an inability to understand how to budget time, but she always did so on purpose, because she wanted people to know that they were hardly worth her time, that she was somebody you had to wait for, she was better than them. Ellen was horribly insecure. She used to be one of those people who were always twenty to thirty minutes to every event, trying to make sure that she wouldn’t miss a thing, trying to show her friends how much they meant to her, but this never went well, so she decided to try being on time, perfectly, by the minute and second, but then she started to realize that sometimes that this was not good enough, and it started to feel worse than being early. When she was early, she would have to wait for much longer, but it was clear that it was because of her, so waiting was never as bad as it was when she was on time, because when she was on time, when she was there at the agreed upon time, and people still had yet to arrive, it made her feel out of the loop, it made her feel like she wasn’t worth very much to her friends. So, she began to show up late, but then she found out that she was only arriving right when everyone else did, and all of the sudden it was like she was on time, she had been equals with all of her friends. This didn’t help her insecurities, because she couldn’t handle being equals, she had already felt like she had been routinely slighted, felt as though she was worthless, so she had to return the favor, being on par with everyone else wasn’t good enough.

After four months of being ridiculously late to hang outs, parties, social events, all of that, she finally realized something about all of the other late comers. Seating herself at a restaurant table, while the friend she was supposed to meet already was ordering her brunch, the waiter was surprised to see that there really was supposed to be a second person at the table, mainly because he assumed that Ellen’s friend was just lying about a friend that was on the way, so she could feel less embarrassed about eating alone. It happened too often. When the waiter was surprised that Ellen actually showed up, dropping their professional mask for a second, her friend remarked, “Yeah, she’s just not good at budgeting time is all.” At that moment, Ellen realized that a lot of her friends were terrible at managing their time, and she was probably lumped into that group. Once again, she had been some sort of equal, and she worried about that for the course of the brunch, not able to focus on her friend who was jabbering away about her 23rd birthday party, and if she hadn’t slipped a frazzled Ellen an invitation to the party, she would have never had known that it existed.

Through a very insecure, anxiety riddled, self hating train of thought, Ellen realized that all she had to do was separate herself from the time budgeting group, from the people who were simply careless, and form a group of her own. All she had to do was find a way to stand out, even if she knew that she was late on purpose, that wasn’t enough, she had to make sure that everyone else knew. She had to make sure that everyone would feel insulted about her late arrivals, but in a way that would reflect poorly on them, a way that would stick to their psyche’s and turn them into the insecure ones, while Ellen could care less, because she was busy being above everyone. Everyone would know that there were only two people who were worth her time: her and god.

The three nights before the party started were spent crying, screaming into a pillow, insulting herself in the mirror, hiding under her blankets, hoping that she wouldn’t have to start the day, and, in a state of panic, typing the words “How to be loved” into Google. On her wall was a post it note, with written instructions on what to tell people if they called, texted, emailed, IM’d, or whatever, and wanted to know what she had been doing. It read: Tell them you’re working of a hangover from a crazy party the night before, tell them about how amazing and exclusive it was. Nobody had contacted her in that time period, most of her friends were starting to distance themselves from her because she was always late.

On the day of the party, she spent about an hour getting ready, making sure that she looked amazing, like a female lead, in some comedy, who had been cheated on, and was dressing herself up to make her irresistible to her ex as a part of some convoluted revenge plan, possibly with the aide of the guy’s mistresses. That’s what she was going for, but she ended up dressing like she usually did, except with the additions of lipstick and a push up bra. For a long while, she mainly just sat and waited for the party to start, waiting for hours on end, desperately hoping to get to the time when the party could start, so she could show up, late as hell, and let everyone know that the party meant nothing to her, so everyone could clamor over to her to try to impress her. Twiddling her thumbs, she looked at the clock, twenty minutes until the party started, but an hour before she would have to leave her house. “They don’t mean nothing to me,” saying this to nobody but herself, “I don’t need them, I don’t care about them. I’m better.” Eyes darting back to the clock, then to the corner of the wall, “I wouldn’t care if they disappeared. It would make no difference to me. I’m happy enough on my own.” Looking down at her lap, at her hands, “Happy, happy, happy.” Repeating the word until it didn’t sound real.

When it was finally time for her to leave, she sprinted out of the house, almost forgot to lock her door, locked it, hurriedly opened the car door, threw her purse in, realized she wasn’t wearing shoes, bolted back into the house, leaving her car door ajar, crammed her shoes onto her feet, livid that she was going to be late to be late, then had to awkwardly hobble to her cars in heels, which she hadn’t had a firm understanding of how to walk in, so off she went, moving like a six year old girl who put on her mother’s heels, trying not to fall over, having to fall into the front seat instead of awkwardly trying to sit down. When the car started, and the radio came to life, she was greeted with a song she couldn’t understand the appeal of, some well loved, slow, acoustic song that somehow seemed to use every cliche about love, and she nodded her head to it as she drove off, trying to convince herself that she loved it.

On the way to the party, she almost hit a squirrel, then spent a long time about how she could make it into a story that would grab everyone’s attention, put all eyes on her. She figured that she should probably change it from a squirrel to a rabbit, and instead of almost running it over, she should have seen a bird swooping down after it, when she was at a stop sign, but she was able to get out of her car on time and scare away the bird, and save the poor rabbit, who turned out to belong to a local child, who thanked her profusely for making sure that their prized pet was able to continue on with its life, that she had kept it safe and was a hero in the child’s eyes. Behind her, somebody honked their horn, which allowed her to snap out of her daydream, realize that the light was green, and continue to the party.

When she finally arrived, she checked the time and saw that she was delightfully late, so it was okay to enter, which was something that she wanted to do more than anything. Before she awkwardly stepped out of her car, she made sure to practice her face in the rear view mirror, just so that she could make sure that it seemed blase enough. When she finally stumbled to the door, struggling to keep balance, she hesitated, because she wasn’t sure if she should knock, and make somebody answer the door for her, or if she should just open it and walk right in. If she knocked, she could make whoever opened the door seem like a servant, but it could also make it seem like she needed validation to enter the party, like she was too she or pathetic to take matters into her own hands, like she cared too much. If she walked right in she could seem like she didn’t care about whether or not knocking would be appropriate, but if attention wasn’t focused on the door it could detract from her big entrance, she could accidentally come in unnoticed, or people would just think that she was pathetic for having to let herself in, instead of making somebody get up and open the door for her.

Ten minutes passed before she stopped staring at the door, snapped out of her analysis paralysis, and decided to just walk in, pretending to not care about what people thought either way.

However, she was dismayed to see that there was nobody to see her big appearance, nobody to see how little she cared about them, nobody to fawn over her amazingly detached and uncaring nature. Sure, everyone had showed up, at least from what she could tell, but its not like any of them were in the state of mind to even acknowledge her existence. Instant rejection, to her, had began to feel like a nightmare, and she almost threw up on the spot, almost ran out the door crying, but something deep down inside of her, that couldn’t bear to be invisible, knew that she had to soldier on, that she had to prove that she cared less about these people than they cared about her.

Not acknowledging anyone who was lying around, she moved into the kitchen, deciding that the cool thing to do would probably be to make a drink. Stepping over a limp arm, and a dark pool, she surveyed the liquor bottles that everyone had brought in (it had been a potluck style bar, where everyone brought their own favorite liquors, and the idea was to show the diversity of everyone’s tastes while getting people to try new things, because there was a rule that nobody could drink what they brought, and nobody could pour themselves the same drink twice in a row), making sure that she didn’t even look at them, made sure to look right through them, and said to herself, but loud enough for anyone to hear, if they were able to, “Ugh, is this all there is. Whatever, I guess I can make do.”

After pouring herself a glass of clear rum, and mixing it with orange juice, she walked towards the living room, trying to make sure that her slow steps were deliberate. She considered taking off her heels, which would make her seem very casual about the event, like she was just letting loose and did these kind of things all of the time, like parties were something she was starting to get tired of, instead of something that she was lucky to be at, however she decided that there was way too much blood on the floor and that was probably a health risk. She would rather try to look cool while she walked in heels, than accidentally step in one of those puddles or stains, and get some sort of disease. Sure, maybe she would love to get all the sympathy from getting AIDS, but then she would also have to deal with all of the negative attention that came with having AIDS, it really wasn’t worth it.

On her way out of the kitchen, she tripped on the splayed out arm, tripped, causing her to bang her head on the corner of the dinner table, and spill her drink. After picking herself off of the ground, making sure to not accidentally touch any of the broken glass, she turned around to yell at the person who made her trip, but then she realized that it would be difficult to tell who the limp arm belonged to. Furious, she tore off her heels and threw them into the kitchen, near the drinks, and then stood up and pointed at the severed arm, shouting, “Whose arm is this?”

No response.

“Not cool guys, thats, like, a serious party foul. Whoever left that there owes me a hit of a weed cigarette. Unless,” scratching her head, “unless nobody here has one, then I guess pouring me a shot is fine. Actually, whoever left that there, you should take the shot.” Struggling to remember universal party rules, unaware that none really existed, “Actually, pour a shot, and then take off an article of clothing, and, or… wait…” suddenly an idea, “Whatever, I don’t care.”

After stepping over blood, glass, the severed arm, she made another drink, deciding to ignore the rules that were posted by the bottles, shouting for everyone to hear, hoping they could hear, “I’m ignoring the rules, because I don’t care about rules.” Then, “Also, I didn’t even get to try my last drink, so in a way this is all pretty fair.” Drink in hand, she made her way into the living room, to sit down and chill with everyone, wondering if “chill” was still a thing that people said, but she soon realized that there were no seats for her, every single one had been filled. It would have been a great moment for her to show that she didn’t care, and she could have just sat by the fireplace, but that had a pile of intestines resting on it, and the floor was almost completely soaked with everyone’s blood. She considered intimidating somebody into moving, but she had trouble picking somebody who she could safely boss around, and ended up selecting the headless person, since she had no idea who they were, and they would be unable to complain.

Almost crying out when the knocked the body to the floor, she was horrified to see that the person had shit all over their chair, but she had to keep calm, she had to take advantage of the situation. How could she, though? Pondering this, she wondered if she should make fun of the person, pointing out the fact that they were way too wasted and couldn’t handle their liquor, but she also didn’t want to risk saying this since she was a lightweight, and didn’t want to open herself up to mockery and derision further down the road. So, figuring that she had to really prove that she was blase, she slowly placed herself down in the chair, trying not to think about the warmth of it, how it felt like she was lowering her bony rear into a puddle of mud. After she was sitting firmly in the seat, she decided to down all of her drink all at once, in order to to make the whole situation seem more tolerable, while also appearing as fun and easy going.

If anyone was able to see her, at that moment, they would have been worried about how uncomfortably tense and nervous she had been.

Attempting to make her eyes into that half-closed, could-care-less look, she surveyed everyone who was around her, and she started to realize that she probably stood out. The girl to her right, in the other recliner, had her throat cut open and her torso had been drenched with blood. The couple in the love seat had been disemboweled, and the girls organs were leaning out of her gash and were placed inside of her boyfriend’s body hole, and Ellen assumed that it was his intestines that were on the fire place. On the sofa there was a man was no arms, which made Ellen realize that he probably made her trip, and it probably came off as rather dickish when she told him to take a shot, and next to him was a guy with slit wrists and no eyes, and a girl who appeared to be fine, except for a serious looking dent in her head, that exposed a little bit of her brains. Ellen felt like she was out of dress code, and figured that everyone had probably noticed it, if they were able to.

Not knowing how to deal with her discomfort, she peeled herself off of the recliner, navigated the bloody carpet, that felt sticky and soggy under her feet, and turned on the speaker system, inserted her phone into the aux chord, and put on some ABBA, to get everyone dancing. After uncomfortably spasming to to Dancing Queen, trying to get the party guests to dance with her, grabbing their arms and tying to pull them up, making eye contact as she thrashed around, she realized that they could feel uncomfortable because she was caring too much, so she decided to not care, and dance even harder. “Oh yeah, I love this song so much, usually you don’t hear great music like this at parties, but I know all of the good stuff. People always tell me how great taste in music I have, but I’m always like ‘Whatever’, because it is just whatever. You know? Just, just go with the flow and let yourself, whatever. I’m the dancing queen, nobody at this party could take that title away from me, even if they tried.”

When the song was finished, she was devastated that nobody had danced with her, so she decided to tell herself that she was just being so cool that she was starting to become intimidating. Everyone was just unable to handle her, so let out a loud, “Whatever”, and decided to pour herself another drink, but didn’t leave the kitchen until she was about three shots deep, also known as her limit.

Returning to the living room, party central, she looked around and tried to get things going, to become the life of the party. “Okay, so, so lets all play a game, alright?” Looking around, nodding to everyone, “Lets play a game of truth or dare. I’ll go first, because I’m the dancing queen, nobody else could beat me so whatever.” Pointing to the guy with the slit wrists, “Uh, Andy, truth or dare?”

In a deep, mock male voice, she pretended to speak for Andy, “Uhh, truth.”

“You’re such a pussy, I’m going to make you pay for that. Okay, so, what’s your biggest secret? What’s the, what are you the most embarrassed about?”

“I am…” pausing to try to make something up, roadblocked by the alcohol, “I’m insecure, I’m worried that nobody likes me.”

“Well, you.. Fuck you. Nobody likes an insecure person, you should be more like me. Just go with it, like,” wiggling her body, “just let loose. Just look everything in the eyes and say like whatever, and then.. Whose next? Wait, no, that’s not right, you’re next. Pick somebody and ask them the question?”

Deciding to make things more realistic, she approached the corpse, put her hands inside its cold, wet mouth, and moved it around when she pretended that he was talking, “Uh, Ellen. I pick you.”

Pointing a slimy finger at her face in mock surprise, “Me?”

“Yeah, truth or dare?”

“Hmm, well I have to go with dare, because I’m not a whiny pussy like you.”

“OOOOHHHH”, she said, pretending that everyone at the party was impressed with her.

“Alright, then, um.. You have to, I dare you to..” For a moment she froze, because she had never played this game outside of middle school, and she was wondering what people her age dare each other to do. Like many lonely people her age, she had made a terrible mistake, and referred to her late night viewing habits, “I dare you to fuck Steve.”

“Fine, whatever, I’m not a chicken, I can do it.” She stumbled around and made her way over to the guy with no arms, and as she unzipped his pants she said, “The poor guy can’t even get himself off, anyways, am I right?” When she laughed at her own joke, she pretended that everyone was laughing with her.

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