#if that's your kneejerk reaction you really need to step back from the game and i'm so serious

[transrathma]

i'm allowing myself to be excited for this upcoming year of dragonflight and the war within to follow idc i allowed myself to be excited for dragonflight and i haven't been disappointed. i think the most important thing about this current expac and the upcoming ones is that both developers and players allow themselves to genuinely enjoy the game. i feel like theyre showing us a lot of transparency and sincerity in what's going on with the game these days so honestly i'm taking everything in good faith atp

[daryl-dixon-daydreams]

Words: 5,229 Pairing: Daryl Dixon x Reader Reader pronouns: she/her Era: Alexandria Warnings: Language, typical TWD stuff A/N: This is Part 7 of a series! Find the previous parts on the Masterlist! Summary: Daryl continues to worry about Y/N and wonder about her past, but they continue to bond inside the safe walls of Alexandria.

Your name: submit What is this?

From that day forward, you and Daryl were almost inseparable. The growing closeness between you was obvious and spending your time together was like a subconscious habit you couldn’t break.

When he wasn’t around you, Daryl felt like something was just missing and it seemed you always ended up together, even if it was just to do nothing.

Not too long after your last bad run-in outside the walls, Deanna insisted on having a town get-together as a morale booster. There would be food and a bonfire and supposed comradery. You were lying on your couch when there was a knock on the front door earlier in the day. You winced from the continued soreness in your ribs as you climbed to your feet and when you rounded the corner into the hall you could see Aaron on the front stoop.

You immediately gave him a look when you pulled open the front door.

“Y/N,” he said with a smile. “How are you feeling?”

You nudged your head as a way to say “come in��� and Aaron stepped inside. You walked back up the hallway and stood in the kitchen, waiting for him to follow. “I know that isn’t why you came by,” you said.

“It is too!” he argued. “Well… it’s at least one of the reasons…”

“Uh huh.”

“Tonight—”

“No,” you interrupted.

“But just—”

“Aaron, you know I hate this pretend bullshit…”

He sighed heavily. “It’s not pretend. It’s real. This place is real.”

“And so is what’s out there!” you argued back. “Daryl and I just almost died. That just happened! Am I supposed to forget about my busted ribs or this,” you asked, gesturing to the bruising on your neck, which thankfully was starting to fade at last.

Aaron’s face softened and turned apologetic. “No. Of course not. But if we stop trying, if all we do is think about what’s out there… what’s the point of living?”

Goddammit. He had a damn point. You sighed heavily and closed your eyes for a moment. You shook your head. “I hate you,” you said sarcastically.

He smiled. “Love you too. Starts at 7. I’ll wait for you to show up, and if you don’t, I’m going to come get you, okay?” He started to head toward the front door but turned around halfway. “Oh—and hey, maybe think about bringing Daryl with you?”

You narrowed your eyes at him. “…what’s that mean?” you asked suspiciously.

“What? Nothing! Just—you two are kind of alike in some ways. You know he won’t go unless someone drags him,” Aaron said.

“Uh huh…”

Aaron only grinned back at you. “I’ll see you tonight,” he said. You heard him open the front door and returned his shouted goodbye.

“Fuck,” you said aloud. You needed a shower and something to wear that would hopefully cover up worst of the bruising on your neck… At least you could count on dim lighting conditions since it was a bonfire.

That evening, Daryl was sitting on the steps of the house hoping, waiting to see if you would step outside. Finally, he saw you coming out onto the porch, shutting the door behind you. You were wearing a long sleeve thermal, with the sleeves partially pushed up to accommodate your wrist brace and the still balmy evening air. You had a light scarf looped around your neck, and Daryl knew that was purposeful. He got up as you came down the stairs and strode toward you.

You saw the archer and couldn’t help but smile at him as he approached. He had that stride, leading more strongly with one shoulder and foot than the other.

“Hey.” There was something about his deep voice that instantly put you at ease and you paused in the middle of the street.

“Hey,” you returned. You noticed again that his hair was shiny and looked soft, clean. He’d obviously cleaned up. “You going to this thing?” you asked.

He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck and shrugged. “I dunno. Was thinkin’ about it. You’re goin’?” he asked.

You nodded. “Gonna try. I guess,” you said with a laugh. “Aaron talked me into it…”

“Yeah, uhh—yeah, he came by here earlier, too.” Daryl rocked on his feet a little bit. He wished he was better with words because he really wanted to tell you that you looked beautiful, even just in your jeans and thermal, bruises and broken wrist and all. “Well, if you’re headin’ there I’ll walk with ya.”

You nodded and Daryl fell into stride beside you. As you approached the center of Alexandria, you could already hear loud laughter and conversation and there was a warm glow from lanterns and the bonfire. Kids were running around playing the kinds of games you did when the world was free—Ghost in the Graveyard and Hide and Seek. You shook your head as you took in the scene, your feet faltering a bit. “Surreal, isn’t it?” you said vaguely. Daryl couldn’t help glancing at your expression. Far from looking content or like you were enjoying the domestic scene, your brow was furrowed and there was a faraway look in your eyes.

“Mhm,” he acknowledged. “C’mon. Let’s get a drink at least.”

You followed him through the crowd, feeling somewhat more at ease, more okay with him beside you. Daryl handed you a cold beer and grabbed one for himself, nudging his head over toward the reservoir just outside the circle of firelight and bubble of conversation. As you left the refreshment area you snagged a bottle of whiskey too. You collapsed down onto a wooden bench with a sigh and stared toward the water. You took a long drink from your beer and drummed your fingernails against the glass. Daryl was standing nearby, his blue eyes narrowed as he stared out over the water.

“Hey,” you said, drawing his attention. “Come on and sit by me at least. Then they can’t accuse us of being totally anti-social.”

He let out a small snort in place of a laugh and rolled his eyes. His stomach fluttered a little as he complied and took the other seat next to you on the wooden loveseat, spinning his beer anxiously in his hands. The bench was small; your shoulders were almost touching.

“Look what else I got,” you said, reaching down and lifting up the bottle of whiskey. Instead of the reaction you expected, Daryl just gave you a calm but perceptive glance.

“Ya plannin’ on gettin’ drunk?” he asked sharply.

You stared down at the bottle in your hand and your eyes fell again on the brace on your wrist. “Maybe,” you said quietly, not even really sure you had said it aloud.

Daryl’s brow furrowed more deeply. “Why?” he drawled.

You shrugged. “Does there have to be a reason?”

He licked his lips and leaned back in his seat. “Usually is one, whether or not there needs to be.”

He was annoyingly observant. You’d known him a matter of weeks and he always seemed to see right through you. But you simply uncorked the bottle and took a pull. It burned your lips and left a warm trail all the way down into your stomach. You chased it with another sip of your beer and tried to distract yourself by just staring out at the water again, looking at the glowing orbs of porchlights in the distance reflecting there. Every so often you could feel Daryl’s eyes on you.

“What?” you said, finally turning to face him. You were only a few inches apart. You thought you saw his cheeks grow a bit pink for a moment, but in the dim light you couldn’t be sure.

“Nothin’,” he said, turning away and gazing out across the water the way you had been just a moment earlier.

You sat together in silence for quite a while and although it felt tense at first, both of you relaxed into it. You alternately sipped from your beer and took pulls off the whiskey, a dangerous pattern because you weren’t paying any attention to how much you were drinking and you were a lightweight even before alcohol was a rare commodity.

But the longer you sat, the more you felt like there was a bubble in your chest, growing bigger and bigger and waiting to burst. Finally, you couldn’t hold out in the strenuous anticipation any longer and spoke what was on your mind. “You ever wonder how this place is going to fall?”

Your words were quiet and definitely a bit slurred. Daryl’s eyes snapped over to yours which were already on his face, surprising him as they flickered back and forth between his, holding his gaze steadily. He gulped and nodded. “Yeah,” he admitted.

“Or when…” you added.

“Yeah…” he agreed again. “I do.”

You sighed and turned back to look at the water. “I think about it all the time,” you said softly, and Daryl thought he heard your voice break. You stood up abruptly and whipped your empty beer bottle into the water, watching the ripples expanding across the small pond. You wavered a little on your feet and Daryl jumped up, hands extended in case you needed to be steadied.

“I think ya better slow down on that booze,” he growled.

You simply gave him a defiant look and took another pull from the bottle. You held it out to him but he only stared you down.

“Nah. If you’re gonna be stupid, then I’m gonna be sober. And I’m gonna get ya some water,” he said, turning to leave. His momentum stopped when he felt your hand gentle on his arm. He looked back at you in shock and couldn’t help the kneejerk way his body stiffened. But it was only from surprise. A split second later his stomach flipped at the feeling of your hand there and he wished you would never take it off. But you had obviously perceived his tension and you withdrew it quickly.

“Sorry,” you mumbled, sinking back down onto the bench, wanting to kick yourself for grabbing onto him.

The archer was left puzzled and chewed his bottom lip as he considered you a moment. “I’ll be right back.”

You were alone on the bench, waiting for Daryl to return, your head more than a little hazy from the whiskey, when footsteps approached. You knew they weren’t Daryl’s. They didn’t have his cadence and his footsteps were almost silent, even when he wasn’t hunting or tracking. You turned to see Spencer and internally groaned.

“Isn’t right that you’re over here all alone,” he said, walking around and sitting in the seat that was Daryl’s without any invitation.

“I wasn’t,” you snapped, leaning away from him.

“Look pretty alone to me,” he said, downing what was left in his drink glass and actually taking the bottle of whiskey from you to refill it with a healthy share.

“Yeah, well, that seat—the one you’re in—it’s reserved. Already taken,” you said, snatching the bottle back.

He scoffed. “What? By that redneck? Seriously?”

You shot a sharp glare at Spencer, but knew the sting was likely diminished by the glazed look in your eyes on account of the booze. “You know his name. It’s Daryl Dixon. Not ‘that redneck’.”

“Whatever,” Spencer laughed. “Guy’s a nobody. Who cares?”

“I care. Now get the fuck out of his seat,” you growled.

Spencer only smiled back at you. “I think you’re just afraid that if you let me sit here, something might actually happen between us… Come on. You know there’s something here—as much as you fight it. Some spark.”

You stood up abruptly and stepped away from him, scoffing. “What the hell is wrong with you? I feel like I’ve been perfectly clear with you over and over again. Did you forget that I punched you out?” He seemed impervious to your refusal and only stood up too and stepped closer to you.

“Come on, Y/N. You know you want this,” he said, reaching a hand out and trailing his fingers down your arm.

You shrugged him off. “Don’t. touch me. I won’t tell you again.”

He soured somewhat immediately. “What is your problem? Is it seriously something to do with that hick you’re always hanging around? You have something going on with Daryl?” he said, mockingly. “Seriously? What a fucking joke. He’s a mess. Just some—dumb redneck. You deserve way better than him. You deserve someone with their shit together, someone who will string together more than two words at a time. Someone like me.”

You physically recoiled from him again. “You’re a fucking joke. Everything you’ve ever had in life has been handed to you and you’ve turned out to be a spineless, spoiled dick. You have no idea what’s out there and you wouldn’t last a day. You’d be lucky to ever be even a quarter of the man Daryl is.” Your jaw was set. “Now fuck off and go find someone else to bother,” you growled. “Try one of the other sheltered suburbanites. They’d probably fall for your bullshit.”

“I can’t believe this shit,” he muttered angrily, but you heaved a sigh of relief as he stalked off, hopeful that he would finally get the fucking hint for once and leave you alone for good. You turned back to stare at the water in front of you, gentle ripples still bouncing off the shore from when you’d tossed your bottle in. Your uninjured hand went to clasp around your wrist brace absently.

You didn’t know that Daryl was only a few feet away, returning with some water for you, and that he had been watching the entire interaction. And Spencer’s words had stung. Sure, Daryl knew Spencer was an idiot and he certainly had no high opinion of the moron but Spencer had also just verbalized some of Daryl’s own deepest insecurities about himself and even… about you and how you felt about him… and that had stung him deeply. But then came your words… and he felt complete disbelief, sure he had misheard. He felt paralyzed for a long moment as he puzzled over what you had said and how you had said it. But you had been forceful and purposeful. Daryl hadn’t imagined that.

He was so shocked that his boots were rooted in place. He stood there with that cup of water in his hand, dumbfounded, before he finally snapped himself out of it and went around the bench to stand beside you. “Hey,” he said, holding out the water. “I just, uhh—I just saw Spencer stalk off. He looked pretty pissed. Was he botherin’ ya? Are ya alright?”

You accepted the glass and drank deeply from it, suddenly realizing that you actually were pretty thirsty. You rolled your eyes. “I’m fine. And maybe now that fucking asshole will finally leave me alone… Idiot,” you mumbled, looking back at the water.

Daryl shifted awkwardly on his feet. His heart was racing as he thought about what you had said. He watched with concern as you took another drink of whiskey from the bottle, this time grimacing a little at the burn. “Would ya quit that?” he asked, drawing your eyes to him.

You studied him for a moment. “Wanna get out of here?” you asked, glancing back at the crowd around the bonfire. Daryl followed your eyes and then looked back at you. His expression was unsure. He was trying to guess at your meaning. “Just—go for a walk or something. We can at least tell Aaron we came,” you said.

He chewed his bottom lip for a moment before nodding. “Yeah, alright. Somebody oughta babysit ya anyway,” he snarked. You pulled a face at him in response and one corner of his mouth twitched up.

“Alright then, chaperone. C’mon,” you said. Bottle in hand, you started to follow the edge of the reservoir, moving away from the glow of the bonfire and the loud laughter and conversation. Daryl walked next to you, content just to walk quietly. You ended up on the other side of the pond from the party, leaning on the railing of the dock and looking back across the water. Daryl walked past you to stand at the end of the dock. You meandered over to him and took in his broad shoulders and muscular arms. You couldn’t help biting your bottom lip. Oh, fuck You are in trouble… you thought to yourself. “Can you swim, Dixon?” you asked him suddenly. He had just enough time to snap around to look at you before you were grinning at him and pushing him hard, your uninjured hand flat in the center of his chest. He went plummeting into the water backwards and came back up gasping as you laughed hard at his expense.

“Are ya frickin’ kiddin’ me?! The hell is wrong with ya?!” he barked at you, treading water. His long hair was plastered to his face. “Oh, yer dead,” he growled at you.

“I’m dead? What are ya gonna do?” You slowly paced backwards on the dock, a wide, genuine smile crinkling your eyes, and the sight of that was enough to make any real annoyance Daryl had evaporate. He couldn’t resist that megawatt smile. “You made it so easy! You were just standing right there at the end!” you said back. “What, I was supposed to just not take that opportunity?”

Daryl let out a chesty growl and pointed a finger at you. “You and whiskey should not mix.” He pushed his wet hair out of his face and swam back to the edge of the dock. “Well…” he said expectantly, staring at you.

You laughed again and shrugged. “Well?”

“At least come help me get the hell out of here,” he rumbled.

You let out a loud laugh. “How stupid do you think I am? I know you just want me to come over there so you can pull me in or splash me or something! Besides, I can’t pull you out. Wrist? Ribs? Remember?”

Daryl muttered under his breath and pulled himself out on the dock, his wet clothes sticking to him, complete with sopping wet boots. He stared down at the water pouring off him onto the wooden deck.

You pressed your lips together in a pleased attempt to stifle more laughter.

“You’re dead,” he growled again, looking up at you. “I ain’t babysittin’ your ass no more. I dun care if ya do fall in and drown,” he barked, starting to stalk toward you to leave the dock.

“Oh, come on, Daryl. It’s pretty funny. I mean, if it were reversed—”

“My damn boots,” he interrupted, giving you another glare.

You stared down at his feet and grimaced. “Right… well… come on. I’ll walk you back to your house so you can change. It’s the least I can do,” you said, trying hard to stifle more laughter at the glare the archer was giving you.

“I should throw ya in right now,” he said. “Maybe it’d sober ya up,” he said, shaking the water from his arms.

“Hey—I probably shouldn’t be swimming! I’m a cripple, remember?”

“Uh huh. Convenient,” he muttered. He started down the sidewalk, leaving wet footprints. You jogged a little to catch up with him and although he could feel your eyes on him he was determined not to look at you, trying to pretend he was still mad. It didn’t last long and when he next looked up you saw that one corner of his mouth was quirked up in a half-smile. Your grin widened. “Ya are gonna pay for this eventually, ya know,” he said gruffly.

“Worth it.”

You walked with Daryl in a comfortable silence all the way back to the house he was sharing with many of his group members, although some had split up and moved in to the other house by now. You froze suddenly at the bottom of the stairs as Daryl climbed them.

“Woah,” you said. You pressed a hand to your head.

Daryl glanced back at you and rolled his eyes, letting out a sharp exhale. “Whiskey?”

“Yeah, it’s like it all just hit me at once.”

He let out a gruff laugh. “It ain’t hittin’ ya at once. Ya been slurrin’ for over an hour now.” He came back down the steps and gently grasped your elbow, his heart jumping as his fingers made contact with you. “C’mon. Let’s get ya some more water.”

You smiled at him a little abashedly as he led you inside. It was the first time you’d ever been in their house and you looked around, taking in Rick’s spare pair of boots by the front door and Judith’s high chair at the table.

“Here,” he said, shoving a full water glass into your hands. “I’mma get some dry clothes and rinse off this pond smell all over me. Thanks to you…” You laughed again and shrugged.

“You look good all wet though,” you said, the words surprising you even as they slipped out.

Daryl’s blue eyes narrowed and he ducked his head, mumbling a gruff “whatever” before disappearing downstairs to retrieve some clothes, completely baffled and unable to come up with any response to that. He hoped you hadn’t been able to see the warmth he certainly felt in his face. He came back quickly with a towel over his shoulder and some clothes under his arm and pointed at you vehemently. “Now just sit down and quit with the damn whiskey. Don’t go anywhere.”

You saluted him and affected a serious face, resulting in him rolling his eyes at you again. But you left the whiskey bottle on the counter and took your glass of water into the living room with you. As you sunk down on the couch, you heard the shower turn on. You unwound the light scarf from around your neck and tossed it down carelessly. Daryl’s crossbow was sitting on the coffee table and you picked up one of the spare bolts from where it was laying on the table and spun it absently between your fingers. You collapsed back on the couch so you were laying out flat and stared up at the shapes of the shadows on the ceiling. They shifted a little as your vision seemed to spin. You planted a foot on the floor to ground yourself.

You knew it was stupid to get drunk… but sometimes you just wanted to try to forget.

That’s where Daryl found you when he came back out, now in his change of dry clothes. “Y/N?”

“Over here,” you said, still spinning his crossbow bolt between your fingers. He looked over the back of the couch at you, leaning on his forearms.

You smiled up at him, just a small one, but it sent his heart fluttering. He was always amazed that that smile was just for him.

“Well, I think I smell a bit less like pond now,” he drawled.

You leaned up on your elbow a little, ignoring the twinge in your ribs. You dramatically sniffed in his direction and he gave you a look. “Less pond,” you said. “For sure.”

Leaning up closed half the distance to Daryl as he looked down at you and you felt suddenly like the air was charged. Probably just the alcohol, you thought to yourself, gulping at the sudden lump in your throat.

Daryl felt it too and he suddenly couldn’t hold your gaze any longer, running away from the feeling. It was magnetic. But he told himself there was no possible way you were feeling the same thing and he straightened back up and just like that the electricity, the heaviness in the air evaporated.

You glanced down at his crossbow bolt in your hands with a fluttering in your chest. “Probably shouldn’t leave these lying around with a baby in the house, ya know,” you said, waggling the bolt at him.

“She ain’t crawling much yet. But yeah… you’re probably right.”

“It’s pretty amazing, isn’t it?” you said. Daryl gave you a questioning look, one eyebrow raised. “Judith.”

Daryl smiled and looked down at his hands on the back of the couch. “Ya. It is.” You liked the way his expression softened at the thought of her.

You strained to sit up straighter, an arm wrapping around your ribs. Daryl watched the tight expression of pain take your face over and then pass and he felt another hot flash of rage about what had been done to you outside the walls. And he had so many questions he wanted to ask you, so many worries… but you were so closed about it…

You spoke again, interrupting his thoughts. “You’re lucky. You have so many people, good people, and—they all obviously care about you. A lot.” Your voice was soft and Daryl finally looked up again and met your eyes with his. He felt a rush of nerves.

“Ya. Don’t make any damn sense, really,” he drawled.

“Makes perfect sense to me.”

Daryl felt those annoying butterflies flit to life in his stomach again. God, you hardly had to say anything, do anything for that to happen. What the hell was wrong with him? “Ya got people, too,” he said. “That care about ya.”

You let out a somewhat wry laugh. “I’ve got Aaron and Eric. Aaaand… that’s about it,” you said. You discarded his bolt back on the table.

“Nah. Ya got more than that.”

Daryl’s response drew your eyes back to his in surprise and you swore that his gaze was flitting between your eyes and your lips. Your lips parted slightly of their own accord. You felt suddenly breathless and the space between the two of you was charged again.

You gulped at the tightness in your throat suddenly and looked away, running scared. “I’m just—I’m not good at letting people in,” you whispered, not meaning it to come out so softly.

“And ya think I am?” Daryl laughed gruffly. “People have a way of gettin’ in anyway. If they want to.”

You were struggling to come up with something to say to that when the front door suddenly opened. Daryl straightened up and you let out a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding. You suddenly remembered you weren’t the only two people in the world.

“Oh, good! Daryl, you’re—oh!” It was Carol. “I didn’t realize we had company!” Her voice had been much more relaxed, much lower when she first spoke, but her tone and face suddenly brightened when she realized you were there.

You climbed to your feet and gave her a tight smile. “I was just heading out actually. It’s late,” you said, shooting a glance over at Daryl. He rubbed a hand awkwardly over the back of his neck.

“Ya, alright. I’ll walk ya out,” he murmured. He could feel Carol watching the two of you all the way across the kitchen and up into the front hall.

You stopped in the entryway to turn and give him a small smile. “Thanks. For tonight,” you said quietly. He gave you a dumbfounded look.

“I didn’t do anything,” he murmured. “’Cept not kill ya after ya pushed me in the damn pond.”

You laughed at his confusion. “Yeah. You did.” You turned to leave but froze once again with your hand on the doorknob. “Oh—and you can tell Carol she can knock off the suburban sweetheart act with me, okay? I’m not buying it. I’ll see ya, Daryl. Goodnight.”

Daryl spun around to see Carol standing at the end of the hall, her eyes narrowed as she stared at the space you had just occupied. “Did ya hear—”

“Huh,” Carol interrupted. “Yeah. She’s the only person to figure that out so far.” She crossed her arms over her chest and nodded before looking back at the archer. “I like her.”

Daryl rolled his eyes. “Ya, she’s annoyingly observant. Rick tell ya she knew he was a cop immediately, too?”

“Well, sorry to interrupt your date,” she said with a small smile. “She didn’t have to leave just because I showed up.”

“Would ya quit?” he rasped gruffly. “Wasn’t a ‘date,’ alright? We’re just—” he shrugged and Carol raised her eyebrows at him knowingly.

“Wait—why is your hair all wet?” she asked, moving closer to Daryl.

He groaned and rolled his eyes again. “She fuckin’ pushed me into the damn pond,” he admitted in a low growl. Carol let out a loud guffaw.

“Oh, yeah. I definitely like her,” she said with a grin. “You should bring her around more often. Let everyone get to know her.”

Daryl rolled his eyes again and headed for the living room to collect his bow. “Quit tryin’a meddle, would ya?”

Carol laughed and tried to look affronted. “I haven’t done anything! God, you’re so sensitive,” she teased him. “What’s that?”

Daryl’s hand closed around your scarf, which you had discarded carelessly on the floor. “Y/N’s.”

“Little warm still for scarf weather isn’t it?” Carol asked, peering at it curiously.

“Ya. She was—she was wearin’ it because of the bruises on her neck. One of those assholes was—” he broke off as he remembered turning the corner and seeing the guy on top of you with his hands around your neck. He felt another hot flush of rage. “When we were outside the walls, one of ‘em was choking her. She’s got marks all around her neck. Probably didn’t want anyone else seein’ em.”

“God. I couldn’t see them in here. It’s too dark,” Carol muttered. “That’s horrible,” she said. Daryl nodded, feeling the soft fabric between his fingers.

“Mhm.” He gave one more nod to Carol. “G’night,” he said, heading immediately for his space in the basement, the scarf still dangling from his hand. He flopped down on his back on the bed, running the soft fabric between his fingers. His stomach was turning as he thought of you, that brilliant smile you gave up so rarely staying in his mind’s eye. He squeezed his eyes shut and chewed his bottom lip, trying to banish it. The hell were all these damn feelings? The archer finally let out a frustrated sigh and set your scarf down on his bedside table before putting out the flame of his lantern and rolling onto his side, chasing sleep.

[bigskydreaming]

Uh.....if you mash together pre-Reboot and New 52 continuities the way we all just tend to do anyway, you know who would have just as much to say about Bruce resuscitating the Joker after Dick killed him in Last Laugh?

Duke. Who does the math and realizes, wait, the fucking clown was actually DEAD, like, game over, the world rid of the problem that is him and the shit he does....and Bruce...actively cancelled this out, whereas if he’d stopped his OWN kneejerk reactions long enough to realize that reviving the Joker wouldn’t erase what Dick had done or lessen Dick’s awareness that he’d crossed that line, literally all it would accomplish is to have all of that remain true WHILE bringing the Joker back into the world and thus creating more potential victims of his in the future?

Victims like....Duke’s parents.

Aka can someone please drag Bruce Wayne’s butt to therapy because his complete inability to bend or budge on the specific issue of killing has 

1) caused his eldest son no shortage of severely debilitating emotional issues all stemming from his deep-seated fear of losing his father’s love due to situations like with the Joker and with Blockbuster 

2) caused and perpetuated his continued estrangement from his second son, whose actual literal death was so devastating to Bruce he was in real danger of getting himself killed before Tim came along and yet upon his actual return from the grave, still took backseat to Bruce’s fixation on a rule he set FOR HIMSELF long ago, because it was always made fairly clear that Jason could have been persuaded to change his methods in regards to fighting all other crimes if Bruce could find a way to make an exception in regards to the Joker, who has hurt all of their family so often and so severely, and that’s not even getting into the shit with the Penguin in RHATO

3) contributed to his third son’s feelings of estrangement and not being deserving of a place in Bruce’s family, in the aftermath of Tim’s entirely understandable DESIRE to see his father’s murderer dead, without even Tim actually acting on it before earning Bruce’s judgment, and with a likely extension and continuation of this divide being evident in how opposed Tim is to going to Bruce for help whenever Ra’s pops up again to be all “I’m outside ur house in the bushes spying on u thru the window, will u join me in remaking the world in our - sorry that’s a lie, I meant my - image, plz check y/n,” because again quite understandably, Tim fears being caught in the middle of Ra’s and Bruce’s ideological war because he’s afraid of Bruce deciding its because Tim is more open to what Ra’s says than he actually is, and the conflicts that could arise from that

4) almost destroyed any chance of a healthy and loving relationship between he and his youngest son before they even got a chance to start one, due to his own issues with a past Damian had literally no ability to opt out of, even if he had been given alternative viewpoints to the morality of killing, as taught to him by the League - Damian was a ten year old child who could not be expected to have the resources to leave the League and their expectations for him, without help, even if he had previously been able to conceive of a way of life other than the one laid out for him from birth

5) I don’t even know where to start with Cass and the whole shit with Deathstroke and like....I just. Yeah

6) As noted at the start of the post, had Bruce simply not intervened to resuscitate the Joker, like didn’t even need to kill him himself, like if he had simply NOT BROUGHT HIM BACK TO LIFE (like and people wonder why Dick was so convinced Bruce would judge him for not stepping between Blockbuster and a bullet to save that villain’s life when not even a year prior, Bruce had established the precedent that apparently in his mind, if there was even a possibility of resuscitating an already dead villain with a body count like the Joker’s, that was apparently what needed to be done)....but like....no Joker after the Last Laugh, no Jokerized Thomases a few years later....not to mention how that could have altered the chain of events that unfolded with Jason’s return and attempt to get Bruce to kill someone who would now already be dead.

Like....Bruce. Buddy. Pal. This vow you made - again, for YOURSELF - to never kill in any scenario, because YOU were afraid that YOU wouldn’t be able to stop yourself from doing it again, and again and again...it might have been born from a place of good intentions, but the stringent, utterly inflexible way you apply it to your own family, with zero allowance for context, let alone exceptions, is actively hurting them in any number of ways, AND HAS BEEN FOR YEARS.

You need to get some nuance. Nobody’s saying YOU yourself have to go out and start gunning people down, but there have to be room for more opinions on this than just yours...especially when it comes to the choices OTHER people make on this matter, for born of THEIR moral compasses. Your moral compass has allowed you to give yourself a pass on some pretty fucked up things, so you need to just NOT, with the whole treating it as the be all and end all of Right and Wrong.

I mean in my professional opinion, of course.

Also also also, I would just like to point out that another factor that in my mind, makes the Last Laugh story and the fact that Dick DID in fact cross that line once and kill someone, even if they were later revived.....

This is important, and potentially central to SO MANY of the internal conflicts within the Batfamily, most of them between Bruce and various of his children....

BECAUSE IT DISPROVES BRUCE’S FEAR OF THE SLIPPERY SLOPE IN REGARDS TO KILLING BEING LIKE...A UNIVERSAL LIKELIHOOD, RATHER THAN JUST A PERSONAL FEAR BASED ON HIS OWN SELF-AWARENESS.

Bruce’s entire thesis about never killing even once, even with someone like a Joker, is because he believes once you start down that road, you’re never going to stop....with him frequently shown as seeing Jason and his actions as proof of that basic premise....because ultimately, like with the Penguin, its like even when Jason has gone a long time without killing anyone, Bruce is convinced that its only a matter of time before he breaks his promises or finds another ‘exception’ he feels he can justify....because again, Bruce so often fixates on this idea that there IS no stopping. With it being very easy to see how this also extends at times to concerns about Damian and the possibility of him killing again, given his own past.

But when you take Last Laugh into account.....and acknowledge the fact that Dick has killed as a bigger deal than the comics or most fics have ever really allowed it to be....

Suddenly you have to take into account that yes, Dick has killed once...

AND ONLY ONCE.

Years and years and years ago....and never done it since. 

And that’s a potential GAME-CHANGER for so very freaking many of the conflicts that keep their entire family so divided....because so many of them are sprung from this one central source.....which is based on this one specific fear Bruce has for himself and has since applied to all of his children as well....

To such an extent that when one of his children crossed this line for the first time....BRUCE HAD TO UNDO IT.

Even though Bruce said at the time he resuscitated the Joker so that Dick could live with himself, not have to live with having killed a man and what that might do to him.....Dick still had to live with himself, still had to live with having killed a man! It very much informed his character moving forward, was a central part of his fears in situations even tangentially similar, like with Blockbuster. Bringing back the Joker didn’t actually change ANYTHING for Dick, other than....render all that kinda meaningless, because he had to work through the emotional issues of having killed a villain....who didn’t even stay dead, and continued to kill and ruin lives.

Nope, I maintain in actuality, Bruce resuscitated the Joker so that HE could live with what Dick had done, not have to live with one of his sons having broken the vow that was so important to Bruce himself, and what that might do to him, Bruce...and his relationship with Dick, or even just his ability to continue to have a relationship with Dick. He was driven to ‘reverse’ what Dick had done, IMO, so that HE didn’t have to face it, could in time pretend that it hadn’t really happened, it didn’t count, his world order was still intact.

And that’s a level of denial that’s actually pretty damn characteristic for Bruce in a lot of ways.....and IMO, the real source of so much of his conflict with his children.

Because then once Jason came along and already had eight heads in a duffel bag by the time Bruce realized who the Red Hood really was.....it was too late for Bruce to do anything about it, to stop reality from crashing straight through every barrier Bruce tried to throw in the way to keep from having to face the moral quandary of one of his children (that he so often saw himself in) taking the step that he’d so definitively feared ever taking.

Its not that Bruce was able to ‘forgive’ Dick for killing the Joker that one time, and not the times Jason has killed, because Bruce loves Dick more.

Its because Bruce DIDN’T forgive Dick for it. HE DID HIS BEST TO PRETEND IT NEVER EVEN HAPPENED.

And the reason that didn’t happen with Jason....was because it was never even an option. By the time Bruce was confronting his son as JASON.....instead of a mysterious masked vigilante....there was zero possibility of reframing this in his mind or undoing any of it like he tried to do when he resuscitated the Joker.

Bruce’s vow is all well and good for him....but the thing he’s never faced, because he’s afraid to face it, afraid it could permanently destroy his connections with his family....is that he doesn’t get to make that choice for his children. That it doesn’t make them terrible people to feel differently about the importance of not even allowing a man as destructive as the Joker to die, in large part based on their having entirely different life experiences than Bruce himself, that lead them to feel differently on specific matters like this one.

And I think the most effective starting place for that dialogue, that confrontation, realization....is for BRUCE to face what Dick did all those years ago, AND the fact that in Dick’s case, history has NOT repeated itself since.....that Dick truly did kill a man, kill the Joker, in every way that mattered....and HE’S STILL DICK GRAYSON. The person he was didn’t change, not fundamentally, not in the ways that matter so much to Bruce on every other level. Killing the Joker didn’t make Dick a killer, other than in the specific context of that specific situation.

And that to me, is such an important conversation to have within the construct of the Batfamily and their interconnected conflicts, a confrontation that could actually force Bruce to start shifting his perspective in regards to his CHILDREN’S choices, not necessarily his own....and with that ultimately spreading into each of the individual conflicts Bruce has with his various kids, and allowing for some actual PROGRESS to be made on those fronts, instead of it always just being the same old fight, with them all endlessly running in circles.

[musicprincess655]

Atsushi is covered with dog hair, soaked to the bone, and his ribs ache from laughing.

His shifts with Kyouka do that to him. She’s not particularly funny, but something about trying to wrestle a wiggling dog through a bath sends Atsushi into fits of giggles, and the warmth in Kyouka’s eyes every time he laughs like that is enough for him to keep the habit.

“I’m home!” Atsushi calls as he enters the bunker. The doors are reasonably soundproof, but the bunker has started to feel like a home to Atsushi, and he’s used to announcing himself when walking into his home. Atsushi makes his way back to the shared bathroom, stripping his wet clothes off as he goes. It seems like no one is home, so a towel will do for a run back to the room.

When Atsushi steps out of the shower, he expects the hallway to be just as empty as it was when he went in. Dazai in the hallway makes him jump.

“Hello, Atsushi-kun!” Dazai waves. Atsushi takes in his position, squatting against the wall as if he were sitting in a chair. Atsushi doesn’t want to know. He, in fact, knows better than to ask.

“Dazai-san, what are you doing?” he asks. He’s still wrapped in just a towel. He’s exhausted.

“New suicide method,” Dazai says. “I read it in one of the books we stole a while back and I’ve been thinking about trying it out ever since.”

“Why are wall sits a suicide method?” Atsushi asks.

“Wall sits?”

“They used to make us do them at the orphanage when we broke the rules,” Atsushi says. Sometimes his thighs still burn from the memory. “They’re hard on your legs, but I don’t know how they would kill you.”

Dazai considers him for a moment, and then he pounds his fist in his hand.

“This wasn’t a suicide book!” he exclaims. “It was a torture book.”

Atsushi is exhausted.

“Why would you try to kill yourself now?” Atsushi asks. He grabs Dazai’s hand when Dazai reaches out and pulls him to his unsteady feet.

“Chuuya had some business on the other side of the West Block, and he’s most of my impulse control.”

“Please never explain your relationship to me.”

“Well, now that I’ve failed to kill myself yet again, can I get you some tea?” Dazai asks. “This place gets too quiet when everyone leaves.”

Atsushi is once again suddenly aware that he’s only wearing a towel.

“Let me get dressed first.”

When Atsushi steps into Dazai and Chuuya’s room with a quiet pardon the intrusion, now appropriately clothed, Dazai is doing his level best to burn everything to the ground.

“You don’t need the heat that high to make it boil!” Atsushi says, shooing Dazai away from the stove and instead turning the burner down to a reasonable level, one that isn’t threatening to lick the walls. “Is this another suicide thing?”

“Chuuya makes it look easy,” Dazai pouts. “He never lets me do anything. Except chop vegetables. With supervision.”

Atsushi has a new appreciation for Chuuya’s patience. He’ll never call Chuuya short-tempered again.

“You’re not much for cooking?” Atsushi asks.

“Never really learned,” Dazai says. “I didn’t have much of a reason to before I left No. 6, and once I was out here, there wasn’t much occasion.”

“I keep forgetting you grew up in No. 6,” Atsushi says. “And you knew Fukuzawa-san. What happened?”

“It’s kind of a long story,” Dazai says. Atsushi waves his hand at the kettle. They’ve got time. “Well, as we’ve discussed, I had limited tolerance for my guardian. He was fine, I guess, but I was a rebellious teenager with parents that didn’t want me around. If I’m fair, I was a nightmare.”

Atsushi can see that. Dazai’s a bit of a nightmare now.

“So you used to hang around the detective agency?” Atsushi asks.

“Fukuzawa-sensei taught me the tricks of the trade,” Dazai says. “It was just him and Ranpo-san back then. They found Yosano right before I left.”

“You left?”

“Was taken. Semantics.” Dazai shrugs, like it’s no big deal. “Like I said, I was rebellious. My parents were No. 6 officials, really high up. They didn’t have much time for a kid, but they decided they should have one anyway. Something something do our duty something. Mori-san is a distant relative, so he looked after me. But as you can imagine, the perfect outlet for me was poking at No. 6’s secrets.”

“Oh no,” Atsushi says, because he suddenly understands very well what happened to Dazai.

“Oh yes,” Dazai says. “I have to admit, I’m surprised they were able to list me as a suicide victim. I figured they’d say I was executed for crimes against No. 6. Then again, maybe my history preceded me. If it had been suicide, it wouldn’t have been my first attempt.”

“Really?”

“Like I said. I wasn’t an easy kid.” Dazai sighs. “Anyway, they dragged me to the Correctional Facility, threw me in with Chuuya, gave my parents the chance to get me out, they refused to sacrifice their positions in No. 6 for me, Chuuya and I escaped, and the rest is history.”

Atsushi freezes, because there is so much to unpack there that he doesn’t even know where to start, much less the fact that he’s pretty sure the rest is not just history. It takes him through pouring hot water over teabags to decide where he wants to start.

“Why was Chuuya-san in there?” he asks. Dazai leans in, tea clutched between his hands, a conspiratorial look on his face.

“Chuuya was a science experiment,” Dazai says. “They were trying to figure out enhancements. I’m not sure what they were trying to do with him specifically, but what ended up happening was superhuman strength.”

“How superhuman?” Atsushi asks.

“I know you’ve seen him pick up things around here,” Dazai says. Atsushi nods. They’d been moving some furniture around in the room he shares with the Akutagawa siblings, and he’d gone to offer to help Chuuya lift a bookcase. Chuuya had done it on his own, easily, without looking like he was doing more than picking up a book. “That’s not even a fraction of his strength. He could probably punch down the wall around No. 6 if he set his mind to it.”

Dazai and Chuuya have quite the backstory. But they’re not the only ones here who do.

“Akutagawa and Gin, what happened to them?” Atsushi asks. He knows it has to have been something. Akutagawa showed up in a typhoon, shot and running from No. 6. Gin has burn scars on her back. Atsushi has seen her pull up her shirt to put ice on them on particularly bad days. He’s not sure how the two are connected.

“No. 6 killed their whole village,” Dazai says. “I don’t know why, and the two of them were too young to remember. All we know is, No. 6 went into their forest and burned it down, and as far as we know, those two are the only ones that survived.”

“And No. 6 hunted them down for it,” Atsushi says. Dazai nods.

“Gin managed to make it out of No. 6, and we found her,” he says. “Akutagawa wasn’t so lucky. They took him to the Correctional Facility for a few months for testing.”

“Just long enough to implant a tracking chip in him,” Atsushi says.

“We got that out as soon as we found him,” Dazai says. “And all’s well that ends well, as they say.”

“What could one village have that threatened No. 6 enough for them to burn it down?” Atsushi muses, more to himself than to Dazai.

“That’s the question, isn’t it?” Dazai says. “Why? The siblings were too young to remember much about the people they grew up with, and they spent years on the run before they were finally free. If they knew anything, they’ve forgotten it by now. So what was in that village that meant it had to be torched?”

“It was outside No. 6, right?” Atsushi asks.

“Far enough away that No. 6 still hasn’t expanded enough to take that land in,” Dazai confirms. “As far as the siblings remember, and as far as we can tell, the village never interacted with No. 6.”

“Maybe they weren’t a threat,” Atsushi says. “Maybe No. 6 wanted something they had.”

“An interesting theory, and one we can’t pursue,” Dazai says. “There’s no records to be found.”

That makes sense, even if Atsushi’s sense of curiosity keeps turning the new information over and over, looking for new connections.

“No wonder Akutagawa hates No. 6 so much,” he finally says. “No wonder he’s so angry.”

Understanding Akutagawa isn’t a comfortable feeling. Sympathy is even less so.

But with a story like that, it’s almost no wonder that Akutagawa sees the world as cruel, as a place where the right to live must be taken. Akutagawa has spent his whole life fighting for his survival, and it might be easier for him to see the world as a zero-sum game. Maybe admitting that what happened to him was horrific, was cruel and unusual, maybe that hurts worse than just thinking this is how the world must be.

“He’s actually gotten a little better about that temper since we found him,” Dazai says. “I really did think I was going to end up having to kill him in his sleep.”

“Isn’t that a little extreme?”

“He’s angry, and when his anger takes over his mind, he gets reckless,” Dazai says. “That makes him dangerous. He was a threat to us all. That was what I thought then, and it’s what I thought until recently.”

“What happened recently?”

“Well, you, first of all.” Atsushi must be making one hell of a face, because Dazai laughs. “You didn’t inspire some change of heart in him, that’s not what I meant. Akutagawa…well, he has his shortcomings, but he’s got a good brain in that head of his. His kneejerk emotional reaction might be violence, but if he can override that, he’s good at thinking on his feet, and he’s good at a support role.”

“And I make him override that emotional response?” Atsushi is pretty sure he causes that response half the time.

“Akutagawa is someone who needs an emergency brake,” Dazai says. “Gin works a little bit, but she’s nearly as angry as him. And Chuuya enables them both, but they probably need someone like him. I can admit Chuuya is better at dealing with Akutagawa than I’ve ever been.”

“An emergency brake?” Atsushi asks.

“You make him think twice,” Dazai says. “Especially since you can take point enough for him to step back and think, but also because you challenge him. And that deal you two made? If killing as an option is taken off the table, he really does have to use his head. It was a stroke of brilliance. I never would have taken you for such a manipulative person, Atsushi-kun.”

“Isn’t that a little bit of the pot calling the kettle black?” Atsushi asks. Dazai is the last person he wants calling him manipulative.

“The pot happens to be right,” Dazai says. “I’m not trying to insult you. I’m trying to say the two of you are good for each other when you’re not trying to kill each other. Maybe even when you are. It’s good to have someone who challenges you, right?”

“I guess,” Atsushi says.

That sympathy for Akutagawa squeezes in his chest again. Even though the boy Akutagawa used to be is long gone, Atsushi still remembers the vulnerable look in those too-big eyes all those years ago. There was a time they could look at each other without fighting, and Atsushi is old enough to recognize that most of the fights they’ve had in the last month are fights he’s picked. Akutagawa largely leaves him alone, and it’s getting harder and harder for Atsushi to convince himself he still hates Akutagawa.

It’s very nearly like they’re friends, although Atsushi has never had a friendship like this.

“Oi, Dazai, what trouble did you get in while I was gone?” Chuuya is back, throwing the heavy door open easily. “Oh, Nakajima. What are you doing here?”

“We’re having tea,” Dazai says, holding up his mug to demonstrate. Chuuya turns to Atsushi.

“Did he try to burn the place down again?” he asks.

“I took over the kettle,” Atsushi says diplomatically. He respects Dazai, but not enough to save him from whatever wrath Chuuya has for him.

“Good man,” Chuuya says. “Clear out so I can kick my shitty husband’s ass.”

“You’re abusive,” Dazai whines. “I didn’t even get in any trouble today.”

“Likely story. Get over here.”

“No!”

Atsushi ducks out. He’s almost certain that was foreplay, somehow. He really never wants either of them to explain their relationship to him.

“Oi, Jinko.”

Atsushi might still be caught up in his conversation with Dazai, but rather than the automatic response he usually has to Akutagawa, this time, he actually stops to listen.

Akutagawa throws a piece of paper at him.

“Your dad says he’s glad you’re alive,” Akutagawa says. Atsushi unfurls the paper with shaking hands to see familiar handwriting.

“You told Fukuzawa-san I’m here?” he asks, voice gone high and breathy.

“It’s not that big a deal,” Akutagawa scoffs. “I wanted his help with something. That’s all.”

Atsushi lets that go, because this is a kindness from Akutagawa, and he doesn’t know how he’s supposed to keep up their dynamic when Akutagawa can be kind, when Akutagawa inspires sympathy, when Akutagawa is human.

“Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it.” Akutagawa turns, and Atsushi swears his cheeks have flushed a little from the acknowledgement. “Do you think Gin will make stew tonight if we ask?”

Atsushi follows Akutagawa inside, already preparing to help him wear Gin down by asking.

[puckermansjake]

who: jake puckerman & lauren zizes.

where: apartment balcony on homecoming night.

what: just like the first party, jake meets lauren outside for a little chat.

warnings: n/a.

I'll be here. Jaw was clenched tight in an attempt to bite back the smile that dared to play wildly on his booze soaked lips. Out of everything exciting that had happened during the night, seeing her seemed to top it all. With a solo cup in hand (filled with straight vodka), Jake bounced between crowds, being greeted and praised with every step he took. Hand after hand fell roughly onto his already sore shoulder, but he powered through every congratulations until he'd reached the balcony door. As assured, she was still there. Swallowing hard, Jake slid back the glass door and stepped out, shutting it behind him with a quiet thud. The night was breezy, much cooler than it'd seemed on the field not even two hours earlier. "Hey you," he greeted quietly, bottom lip snaking between pearly whites as he edged closer to her. "I'm beginning to think you don't even like these things," he pointed out, glancing back toward the party inside before settling against the railing.

While drinking for the night had seemed to lose its luster for Lauren, she was more than happy to indulge in other options. The blunt had been pilfered from her teammate's boyfriend before she'd lost the pair to the pull of the party, and she was glad she didn't have to share it with them. Instead she smoked in the cool silence of the evening, while texting Jake and trying to keep her smile in check. She didn't think he'd be at the party but then suddenly there he was, asking about her and wanting to meet up. If she was at all flustered by his need to seek her out, she wouldn't let it show. Instead savored it like the smoke she held between her lips before pushing out in a thick stream. And then he was there, edging towards her and she, clad in her leather jacket and leaning against the railing offered him a slow smile. "Hey yourself. What gave it away?" The thought made her laugh, and she indulged in that too because they always came easy with smoke...and him. "I usually need a break with parties. Too much noise, too much people. It's nice to be on my own, you know?"

Truth be told, he was more excited about seeing her there than the actual party itself. Sure, it was cool to celebrate the big win, but the icing on the cake had been her attendance in the first place. A single hand found it's way into the pocket of his jeans, the other still wrapped around the solo cup that had fueled his quickly rising blood alcohol level. "Just a guess," he replied smoothly before lifting the cup to his lips, it's contents not so smooth as it warmed his entire being. "Guess you could say I needed the break too." Between the congratulations and the offer of booze, he needed a moment to just... breathe. "Can't believe you're hearing my say this, but I could honestly call it a night right now and be completely fine," he admitted, tongue falling against his bottom lip as he glanced over her way. "Puff, puff, pass," he trailed off, brows rising teasingly as he leaned into her gently. "It was cool that you came tonight. I know football isn't really on your top list of things to watch, but it meant a lot." Even if he couldn't really explain it past that, it meant something. "Wasn't so bad, was it?"

"What, and miss out on all those offers? Crush the dreams of so many Ginsburg co-eds, wanting their chance with the star baller?" Painted lips parted in a grin, because she really enjoyed teasing him. Though, it served another purpose, her inquisitive nature wondering what he'd been up to. Having his attention, with the way it seemed so focused on her wouldn't fluster her as much if she knew he was distracted enough elsewhere. But then here he was, admitting to wanting to end his victory party early. "Calling it a night, does that mean the concussion's kicking in, or..." It was easy to keep her flirting lighthearted, and she took another slow pull before passing him her blunt. "I came out here specifically not to share that, y'know. But you did play a good game..." And he was always surprisingly sweet in that way of his, springing his honesty on her only to dart away, but she figured she'd keep him a little distracted from the get away a little longer. "It wasn't bad at all. Like I said, I don't mind going, when it's something I wanna do. And I wanted to go. Soak in the homecoming vibe. See you play. Without you knowing til later, of course."

“Can’t win ‘em all,” he exhaled, amused by her challenging words. Of course he had options, some more reliable than others, but it was hard wanting anything outside of what he currently had in her presence. It was confusing, yet perfectly satisfying all the same. “What’s your name again?” A quiet chuckle followed the playful question, her name practically etched into his mind at this point. Not that he’d ever admit to such a lame thing. “Well, you shoulda thought of that before you said I could tag along,” he trailed off, pulling his hand out of his pocket to carefully take the blunt between two fingers. As he had many times before, Jake lifted it to his lips, taking in a long inhale before releasing it into the night air. “Got any tips? Y’know, from what you saw?” Jake took another quick hit before passing it back, his curiosity getting the best of him as he smiled down at her, all too caught up in the moment and gentle head high that was slowly settling in. “You look gorgeous,” he complimented lowly, voice a quiet rasp. “Not that you don’t usually look good,” he added, stumbling over his own thoughts as he fought every urge to dip out.

"You're such a jackass," she replied, nudging him with her shoulder. Watching him take that hit, her kneejerk response had been concern. He seemed no worse for wear now, making light of it all, but it didn't change the fact that she had been worried. "I don't think you need any tips from me. You seem liked you knew what you were doing, and did it well." One look at his gameplay and it was easy to see why the program had been so dogged in recruiting him. Lauren might've been over football, but she knew football, and Jake was talented. She inhaled slowly, letting the smoke settle but his compliment, quiet and quick as it was caught her off guard. "Oh." the smoke billowed out behind it and she shook her head, the fuzzy feeling not the only reason her cheeks were flushed. She reached out, fingers brushing the nape of his neck, thumb barely grazing his dark curls as she offered him a smile. "Look at you, being all sweet tonight."

"Keep talking dirty to me," he shot back, taking her shoulder nudge with a quiet chuckle of amusement. Everything between them was easy, but then again, maybe that was just how she was. "C'mon, nothing at all? Alright," he nodded, tongue falling over his bottom lip in an arrogant manner. He knew he was good, but it never hurt to get better. Not that he'd ever ask anyone else for constructive criticism, that shit was reserved. Her short reply made him question if the compliment had been too much, or just enough? Either way, the few moments in between had been long enough to down the two, maybe two shots and a half of vodka he had left. It was her fingers against his skin that chilled him though, despite the booze warming his core. "I always think you're gorgeous," he shrugged, setting his empty cup on the railing in hopes it wouldn't be carried away by the gentle breeze that flowed all around them. "Shotgun me," he challenged, moving around to pin her against the railing, his hand on each of her. "Y'know, if you're up for that," he added, voice low as he smiled down at her.

Lauren rolled her eyes, but still managed to laugh because he had that effect on her. She really enjoyed their back and forth, even in those moments where she couldn't see where the hell his head was. Which was often. There were times when it was easy to read, maybe more than he realized. Like asking for tips on his game. She had no strong criticism of his skill, but found it interesting that he was so interested in knowing her opinion. And his reaction to finding out she'd been at the game and had seen him play. Lauren liked that he was eager for her attention, in that way, even if he was totally cocky about it. "I'll make you a list for later," she promised. Because she was distracted, maybe a little caught off guard by his compliment and the casualness of it all. Lauren watched him down the rest of his drink, his words still hanging between them, and she wondered how he was just able to do that. And it was her initial reaction to shrug it off as regurgitated moves he probably practiced on damn near every girl that crossed his path, but there was the other part that suspected it wasn't the case here. And that made her wonder why. But then he was standing in front of her, their difference in height never more apparent and issuing his request, as if framing it as a challenge would be the only way she'd give in... and Lauren licked her lips, needing to pause before she spoke. "You want something, then say it." Her fingers tightened at his neck, keeping him in place while she took a slow drag from the blunt, holding the smoke until her lips hovered near his, parting just enough to let the thick cloud escape in a steady stream to his mouth.

Even with a wild raging party unfolding inside, there was no other place the male wanted to be but outside with her. It wasn't something he could explain, nor was it something he wanted to. If questioned, he'd dodge it better than he dodged the defensive line of his opponent. "I'm still waiting on that playlist," he pointed out, more so a gentle reminder than anything. He was curious as to what she'd put on it; what she'd assume his musical taste would be. There was no doubt that she'd get it right though, because she was Lauren after all, and she'd proven herself quite resourceful over the month or so she'd been around. A whole month had been spent playing this game with her, not that he labeled it as such. He was genuinely interested in her, but was the feeling even returned? Did it even matter if it was? With his body hovering so close to hers, Jake swallowed hard, feeling incredibly high by the mix of her, the booze, and the blunt between them. Fingers curled around the railing tightly, fighting every urge within to kiss her the way he wanted to. Nodding, Jake leaned forward, forehead falling against hers as he inhaled her exhale of smoke, the smooth burn filling his chest as he lingered against her. After a few short seconds, Jake exhaled to the side, only to return his gaze to her. "What about you? Do you want anything?"

"I didn't forget about your playlist." She'd been distracted lately, by a healthy balance of schoolwork and social things, but in her spare time there'd been some serious effort put in to fulfill the promise she'd made to him in their early interactions. The smoke was heady and she welcomed the familiar fuzzed out feeling; it paired well with the moment they were in. The railing dug into her back, not in an uncomfortable way but a necessary grounding as Jake pressed closer, his forehead meeting hers. The questions, always with the questions. The lack of clarity would never not work her nerves, mostly because in this moment, what she wanted most was to figure out what the hell he wanted. The push and pull never made sense, considering his reputation and the rumors she heard and it was frustrating to feel like there was an extra step involved when it came to just their interactions. Making her work for the attention that he couldn't stop giving her anyway. And maybe part of her knew that wasn't the case, but she didn't really know anything. Because he wouldn't say anything. It was enough to irritate, but not knock her out of the moment. And that was definitely thanks to the smoke. Her grip loosened at his neck, fingers sliding to grip his chin, keeping her gaze level with his. "I want you...to tell me what you want, Jake."

"I didn't think you had." It wasn't like he knew her all too well, but he knew her well enough to know she wouldn't back down from a challenge. It was one of the many things he liked about her, not that he had a list or whatever. She was strong, independent, and seemingly unfazed by his antics, no matter how hard he tried. Then again, it wasn't like he'd put in a ton of effort for something he wasn't even sure she wanted. Knuckles lightened with his tight grip on the railing, an attempt to keep himself from running. He wanted her, wasn't that obvious? By the way his heart pounded against his chest and knees dared to give in, he assumed it to be so, but maybe it wasn't. "I want you," he hummed smoothly, eyes never leaving hers. He was supposed to be the confident jock who could have anyone he wanted, yet he'd never felt so fragile. One breath of rejection would be all it would take to make everything crumble, to burn whatever bridge they'd built in a month's time. He'd spent so long bouncing around the truth that finally uttering the words aloud left him scared for what was to come.

There was some weight in that 'want'. And with a clearer head, maybe she'd break it down. Dissect the details of it all, because it was deceptively concise. What was in that want? Something physical? Something more? It was too damn vague to tell. But it was honest. And the flicker of something in his eyes, something she couldn't exactly place, told Lauren as much that he'd meant it. So she kept it simple, taking his words at face value because it took no manual to interpret. Closing the distance, there was no hesitation in her movements, just a small hitch in her breathing before her lips met his in a bold kiss, fingers brushing at his jawline.

It wasn't much, but it was what she'd asked for, right? She'd asked what he wanted and against all odds, he'd admitted the truth. While most would've brushed it off, it was damn near impossible to water it down. He'd took a leap of faith and to his surprise, she'd matched his eager stride. No words were shared in agreement, but the feeling of her lips against his was all he needed. A single hand moved from the railing to rest against her face, a gentle attempt at keeping her close out of fear it'd end all too quickly. Tongue swiped teasingly against her lips as thumb rubbed gentle circles against her skin. Who needed liquor and weed? The only high he needed was against her lips.

Lauren leaned into his touch, lips parting with a moan when Jake deepened their kiss. It was a heady feeling, feeling her cheeks flush against the warmth of his hand and though the temperature outside was chilly she felt overheated. Her hand fell to his chest, fingers gripping his shirt to keep him close because she wasn't ready for the moment to end just yet. This wasn't her usual, making out with someone in a public place, where anyone could happen upon. But it was late enough, and she was buzzed enough, and he was tempting enough that those thoughts were put on the back burner.

Every part of him burned with a fiery desire for the female against him. The way her fingers lingered over his skin and lips hung against his made him want her that much more. The quiet moan that settled between them forced a hand to her side, fingers curling into the material of her shirt the way she gripped his. She was far more exciting than any house party and offered more of a high than even the win itself had given him. She was everything he needed in that moment and while their lips worked eagerly, he wondered if perhaps that statement extended past the moment. Not that it mattered. They were having fun, right?

A shiver raced down her spine and Lauren rocked against him. The noise of the party had long faded into the background, leaving only the sound of their lips meeting the gasps between them. He was so damn good at this, unfairly so, and Lauren chalked her up her responsiveness as instinct. She liked kissing, and Jake knew what the hell he was doing; she wouldn't overthink it. Instead she indulged, nipping at his bottom lip and soothing the hurt with a swipe of her tongue. The sound of shouts nearby made her jump, the chorus of voices from the passing pedestrians fading quickly, but breaking the moment between them. She leaned away--only slightly--head dipped back to the sky and she took a deep breath, licking her lips as her laughter pierced the quiet. "Shit..."

Was it bad that the football player wanted nothing more than to leave the party? Even with the limitless booze and chicks, all he wanted as to fade away in the safety of her suite, or maybe even his own room. To do what, well, he wasn't quite sure. Hand slid down to her throat, fingers curling into her skin lightly as she teased his bottom lip with her teeth. Just as quickly as it'd all started, it'd all came to an unfortunate end with a quiet laugh that left them both in need of air. "Tell me why we haven't done lately?" Jake grinned, forehead falling to rest against her shoulder as he bit back the wide smile that played on his throbbing lips. Sighing, the male pulled back, only enough to catch a full look at the female he'd yet to fully capture. "I think I could get used to these outside meetups if it means that'll happen every time," he teased, arms now wrapped loosely around her waist. "Even when it drops down to negative thirty out."

"'Cause we have to go to class at some point," she replied, still giggling. It was a good question. Not like she didn't want to. But with classes and all the extracurriculars on her plate, she was still working on getting the balance right for the new semester. Or at least, that was the simplest answer. Since that weird text conversation about homecoming and the situation they'd both misinterpreted, perhaps Lauren, even subconsciously kept her distance, keeping their interactions to online or in the case of the library, someplace neutral. But now was good, in the quiet and cold and her gaze met his. She flicked the remnants of the blunt off the rails as Jake's arms curled around her waist, and she draped hers on his shoulders, careful not to press down too hard on the one where he took the hit. Despite his insistence, she was sure it was still tender. "Think your fan club might miss you dippin' out at every party. And besides, once it hits the 30 degree weather you're not seeing me outside. Better enjoy it while you can."

“Do we? ‘Cause I’m pretty sure I could just wing it,” he teased, fingertips dancing against her back gently. He had football, classes, a tutoring service he wasn’t willing to admit to, and frat stuff that kept him on his toes. It was one reason, he assumed, that they hadn’t hung out as much. “You say that like you aren’t part of my fan club,” he grinned, quiet chuckle following. She was better than the girls who practically drooled over him and maybe that was one of the many reasons he enjoyed her company. Plus, she’d already asked more about him than anyone else had ever bothered to. “Southern girl isn’t built for the winter, huh?” Not that he could blame her, the snow could get wrecked. “You never said what you wanted,” he hummed, eyes flicking down to her lips to avoid her gaze. It was childish, but he was curious.

"You're ridiculous." It was paired with a smile, because everything felt hazy in a really good way and it might've been from the smoke but a tiny part (teensy, really) of it was him. She liked hanging around him, but he didn't need to know that, his ego didn't need anymore stroking. She was sure he'd gotten enough of that from the game. "Fan club? Me? Now I know you must be concussed..." Her fingers grazed the hair at the nape of his neck. "You're alright.   And please, winter is fine but freezing cold? Y'all can keep it." The light talk shifted once more, and Jake's words made her pause, briefly. "I wanted to kiss you" she told him simply, dipping her head to catch his lowered gaze. "So I did."

"Yet you stick around for some reason." For whatever reason that was, Jake couldn't complain too much. She'd put up with his bullshit on numerous occasions and yet, there she stood. Chuckling, Jake's head dropped momentarily, his tanned cheeks glowing a light shade of red (of which he'd blame entirely on the cold) and not because of her, of course. "What's a winter like down south? Does it drop below forty? Do the swamps freeze over? Educate me." If time allowed (and the party did too), he had no problem with staying outside and talking to her until the sun came up and everyone was ready to settle in. It was a good time and quite honestly, he needed a break from the chaos that erupted within the apartment behind them. "Great minds think alike," he joked, words easy as he leaned down, lips pressed against hers once more. This time it was softer and much shorter as he pulled back, smile wide. "You should want that more often."

"Well," she started, attempting to dim her smile because it wouldn't do to laugh in his face just yet. "I didn't say you weren't entertaining with it. I like ridiculous." It was too dark outside to completely make out his expression, but she felt the flush in his cheeks when she leaned in, briefly pressing her cold one to his warm skin. "See? Not used to the cold, but you are. It can hit below forty. It's snowed in New Orleans before. Nothing like up here, that's for sure. The swamps can freeze but ain't thick layers of ice. Wouldn't recommend trying to walk on it." Lauren welcomed the kiss, surprisingly tender as it was and Jake's grin when he pulled back only made her lean in again, cupping his still warm cheek to follow through on his words, letting her lips glide over his once more in a brief press. "Something to look forward to for next time."

“So, you like me?” It was just like Jake Puckerman to pick and choose what he wanted to hear. He smiled down at her eagerly, surprised at how easily she held his attention. Then again, he had no doubt that she had that affect on everyone. “Can’t say I wanna go ice skating with alligators doing their thing under me, waiting for the ice to shatter. Sounds like a death trap waiting to happen. Was last year your first big snow?” Growing up in Ohio, Jake knew all too much about snow and the monster it could be. Still, the north had it far worse than he ever did, but he was still better prepared than she was. Brows furrowed lightly as she pulled him down for another kiss, this one being a surprise as they parted once again. “Next time,” he nodded, thumb brushing against her bottom lip softly. “You tryna kiss me again next party or what? ‘Cause it sounds like it.”

Lauren rolled her eyes. "I don't offer my roommate's twin bed to any old rando frat guy." It was a good answer, the most neutral one her fuzzed out brain wanted to decipher at the moment. Because things were good and chill between them and he smelled nice...and she was definitely higher than she realized. She shook her head at Jake's question of snow, vaguely recalling a vacation with her family years ago. "Nope. Went to Colorado when it snowed, back when I was fourteen. It was so fuckin' cold but really pretty. I remember my thinking I wanted to live someplace where I could feel different seasons." Lauren sighed, feeling the heat on her lip from where Jake had touched her and she smiled at the question. "Guess you'll have to wait and see for the next party. You know where to find me."

"Maybe soon you'll offer up yours," he challenged, head shaking. They'd both expressed their dislike of the twin sized hell-bed, but part of him wondered what it would be like to actually fall asleep by her side. Then again, he shook the thought away before it lingered too long. That was dumb thinking, perhaps to be blamed on the booze and the head high that dared to consume him whole. "Colorado, huh? Shoulda been a cowboy or something." There was a song like that, right? "That's cool though. College was the first time I ever got out of Ohio. West sounds pretty badass though. Might have to fuck around and try it out sometime." Nodding, the body exhaled deeply and stepped back, allowing a bit of space between them as he glanced back at the party. "I hope you have a good night, Lo. Seriously, you deserve it."

Lauren didn't know how to respond to that, but then again, maybe it was better not to. She liked the way the question lingered in the air, the silence feeling less definite. 'Maybe' was a good place to be. Her hand cupped his cheek, thumb smoothing against his skin while listening to Jake reflect on his own travels. "You should get out there. Take a road trip sometime. It's beautiful." It could've been a song, the words he'd rambled, but her mind was blanking and it was just nice to be near him and not think too much. But soon he was stepping back and glancing towards the noise of the party and no doubt the crowds of people probably looking for him. The 'deserve' of it all confused her. She certainly didn't do much for that happen. Didn't play in a game that made all this celebration possible. Still, she nodded. "I'll be alright. Think I'm gonna head out in a little bit. But you get back. Enjoy your victory party."

He had a party to attend, even if part of him wanted to chill with her. He had an appearance to make, more so to celebrate the big win with those who were eager to congratulate him. Nodding, Jake took the words as encouragement. Maybe after he graduated, he'd have the means to see the world for what it was. Until then, he was good with google images. "It was cool you came," he shrugged, head buzz heavy. "I'll see you around." It was half a question, half a statement. Of course he'd be seeing her around, but when and where was the question. With that, Jake turned and headed back inside, only pausing at the sliding glass door for a few short seconds before being swallowed whole by the crowd inside.

[southwindscoffee]

sensitive

I’m thinking today about the word “sensitive,” likely because it came up yesterday in two different contexts.

 Context One.

 In writing my book, my very diligent editor flagged insensitive language—words like blind, dumb, idiot, stupid, freak, tribe. Words that I used to use routinely and now avoid. While I cuss quite a bit in my writing and the characters also have slurs slung at them by enemies, the book doesn’t have any language that one might find objectionable.

 Or so I thought.

 I’ll admit that my first reaction to removing lines like “I’m such an idiot” or “I’m freaking out” was resistance. The lines can be funny, punchy, to the point. They’re common. And, I thought, is someone really going to object to those words? The world is getting too sensitive.

 But “idiot” has connotations of psychiatric illness and “freak” can refer to a circus freak, i.e. someone who is physically deformed or has an extraordinary medical condition. Those aren’t connotations I want associated with my work. I’m not going to make fun of the mentally ill or physically deformed. The point of sensitivity reading is to make sure the language doesn’t unintentionally do something it isn’t supposed to because of my cis White privileged background. I genuinely do not want to step into something I don’t mean.

 Plus, English evolves and so do I. My editor was right that I want to be a leader and ahead of the game as far as language use. I can’t fix anything I’ve written before, but I can make sure new work is better.

 So, I deleted insensitive language and substituted other words. An example: instead of saying, “don’t freak out about Jason” (or something similar) I changed it to “tamp down your Jason kink,” which is now one of my favorite lines in the whole book. By avoiding common but insensitive language, it forced me to be more creative and accurate. Win-win.

 I’m very happy with the way the book turned out.

 But then I read a review that objected to a line.

 And it ruined my day.

 (I’m exaggerating, but there were real tears from me, multiple times.)

 The character’s line wasn’t intended to be taken literally. It was a flippant line from an imperfect character. A throwaway (like most insensitive language).

 Fuck.

 I can justify it all I want. But the bottom line is that the reader was sensitive to it, so despite all my efforts to take out insensitive language, I have a phrase that someone doesn’t like. Out of 87,000 words.

 Context Two.

 This bothered me.

 For a variety of reasons.

 First, I genuinely did not want to offend someone unintentionally. (This is separate from having a bully in a book call someone a bad name. I would hope that no one would think I approve of bullying for obvious reasons. Books just are better if there are villains in them.)

 Second, I was annoyed because I thought I had fine-tooth combed the book specifically for sensitivity issues. (Or rather, had others do it, since I cannot see these things.) Thus, I also had that same original kneejerk reaction—that they were being too sensitive. Hadn’t I gone through this already?

 That made me argue (to myself)—at what stage do we sanitize writing so much that it becomes bland? Plus, (more arguing…) the character is flawed. If he did everything perfectly, the book would be boring. And more justification: I ran it past a gay friend and he said he says it all the time, it’s completely acceptable, and that “no gay man” would object. Even so, do I apologize? If I apologize, does it mean I did something wrong? Is it wrong? I don’t think it is, but I don’t want to hurt someone … (And so on.) Blah, blah, blah, I can justify it all I want.

 Third, though, the review bothered me because I am sensitive. I’m sensitive to what that reader was saying about my writing. I’ve written about this before, but I truly believe that readers have the right to their opinions and bad reviews help because they keep away people who feel the same way. But personally speaking, I can’t read them. (And incidentally, this wasn’t a bad review, just one phrase royally pissed off the reader.)

 I’m the kind of person who will pull up some throwaway, thoughtless comment someone made YEARS ago, and have it still affect me. Couple that with being a people pleaser, and I can pretty much torture myself for the rest of my life. So, for self-preservation reasons I have to step back.

 I could tell the part in the review from the reader objecting to my line was going to bother me—and it did. Probably for all of the above reasons: I want people to like me, I don’t want to hurt anyone, it was a joke (and I am not excusing jokes, because those can hurt the most), maybe we’re all too sensitive, maybe I’m too sensitive, maybe I should’ve taken it out, maybe I should fight for it because character flaws, maybe it’s not that serious/bad/objectively offensive, etc.

 So, what is the solution here?

 In the grand scheme of things, I think the throwaway line is either (1) not objectionable or (2) objectionable but from a flawed character. Yes, I realize that’s contradicting myself, but this is my blog and I can be inconsistent.

 I guess what I mean is I hope most readers won’t be so sensitive that it will stop them from liking the book (if they like the sort of book I wrote). The phrase is mild. My character didn’t actually believe what he said. Perhaps the reader is just too sensitive. (As I am.) Perhaps the reader is allowed to be “too sensitive.” (As am I.) 

 But if readers do find it objectionable, I hope they will take it with the spirit it was intended—a flawed character making a joke, and sometimes those jokes fall flat with some audiences. He made a mistake, and he actually got called on the carpet about it both from a friend and realizing it himself at the end of the book. So maybe it was a growth point for him. Maybe he needed to be imperfect so he could grow and learn.

 Like me.

 As far as the second issue, me being too sensitive, well … I’m not sure I can change that. I have thicker skin than I used to have and I also have protective mechanisms in place (I don’t usually read reviews unless people send them to me) that take care of my thin skin. I don’t also think necessarily that being sensitive is a bad thing. And like I said, I learned with this book on what to do the next time.

 Bottom line: I’m not perfect, the book isn’t perfect, the character isn’t perfect. Even though those are presented as ideals, I suppose it’s much more interesting to not be.

 And, if it does offend you, I’m sorry to have caused offense. It genuinely was not meant.

[hellzyeahthewebwieldingavenger]

A few ideas for developing Spider-Man

i’ve harped on and on about how I want Spider-Man to be the sum of his experiences (well mostly...we can skip the experiences of Howard Mackie’s run) and to develop further as a character.

Often times I’ve talked about that along the lines of him being married, having a kid and so on. 

However for the sake of variety and to demonstrate us Spider-Fans/detractors of Post-OMD Spider-Man, don’t wrap everything up around one issue, here are a few ideas OTHER than Peter getting married or having a kid which could be used to advance his character in the immediate/near future.

In a way the post-OMD run of Spider-Man has made developing Spider-Man pretty easy.

 All you need do is have him be competent then you could call it a day.

 But I’m looking to go a step further than that. Peter is intelligent, but he can be prone to guilt trips or acting like an idiot. It can be sometimes difficult to discern when that’slazy and bad writing or legitimate instances for his character.

 So I’d make an active effort to not have Spider-Man as his default act that way, which he was prone to even at times under the good writers. Make the whining and the guilt tripping a thing of rarity.

 You could achieve this a few ways but one way would have him maybe acknowledge that flaw in himself and recognize that to a large degree he acts like that out of habit. Then resolve (perhaps by talking to say a cop of a similar experience) to actively try to not be that way.

 This would be put to the test during a time period where he is perhaps depowered somehow or otherwise out of commission so he legitimately can’t do anything other than just be normal for a little while. Hell maybe his leg is broken or something so he really does just need to be normal for awhile. During his down time no big crisis unfolds. He hears about crimes in progress but has to learn to let some of them slide. Over the course of like two months say he gradually acclimatises himself to this life style and when not being bombarded with stress from being Spider-Man finds he has time to do some serious thinking and take stock of a few things.

 Now sure you COULD use that as a launchpad for him trying to get MJ back, and as I’ve said it’s been OOC on an ongoing basis for him to have not been trying to do that. But for the sake of argument lets pretend that it’s not OOC for him to do that and he isn’t focussed upon his love life.

 So Peter on his break takes a look at his life and puts into practice his new philosophy towards his guilt and his whining. He recognizes that a lot of that is kneejerk reactions and deep down he isn’t intrinsically guilty over more than half the things he beats himself up about. So he embraces that, along with the reaffirmation that he isn’t who he is because he’s trying to make up for one big mistake nor that he helps people out of concern that he’ll have to live with further guilt. He reaffirms that he helps people because it’s the right thing to do.

 At the same time due to his down time Peter has been able to reconnect with old friends and faces and this has made him appreciate them and their roles in his life all the more. He recognizes that his friends and family (and if we were going down that road, MJ in particular) are important to his  emotional fulfilment and to keeping him stable.

 He also comes up with ways to balance out his life a little better but concedes that things won’t ever be perfect due to the randomness of his lifestyle. To this end he realizes a 9-to-5 is out of the question and uses his free time to organize a series of flexible part time jobs between which he could support himself. These jobs include

 ·         Being a lab assistant at ESU

 ·         Substitute teaching/tutoring at Midtown High

 ·         Freelance Photography at the Bugle

 ·         And working on the Bugle’s tech side a little bit

  If we were to go about the romantic route maybe Peter could figure in some ways to better protect MJ and her loved ones too, along with all his friends. This would be tricky though because whilst within Peter’s abilities going down this route has the unfortunate problem of making him retroactively look like an asshole for not considering those options before and also runs into territory where it’s not really a Spider-Man story anymore if you get too high tech.

  And if you give the character the perfect solution to the problem you rob the series of tension. So he can’t give all of Peter’s friends boosted spider tracers and equip them with forcefields or something. But I’d try to find a more grounded solution which would allow him to provide a bit better protection for his friends and family that wouldn’t make him retroactively look like an asshole.

 Regardless one legitimate method I’d have Peter take better precautions with is by either using a holographic image projector (circa Civil War) as an extra layer of protection for his identity or, just wearing like a domino mask under his regular one. This way even if his mask is damaged his identity can still be protected. Admitedly maybe that’d be a little too far off the beaten path. He could however conspire with Reed Richards or whoever to create some kind of computer program to cover up any public records of his DNA or blood, thus preventing anyone taking a sample from him or from a crime scene from sourcing it’s origin.

 However by favourite method for addressing this issue is for him in his down time (presuming he still has his powers, but just can’t go into action somehow) to investigate his abilities and come up with some new ways to use them. One such method would be using a thin lining of webbing to better secure his mask.

 He could use some of the martial arts training he learned from Shang Chi or Captain America to meditate a little bit and explore the reach of his Spider Sense and wall crawling powers. In Slott’s Spidey/Torch mini-series it was established that Peter’s enhanced powers from the Other allowed him to make his mask stick to his face. Peter lost these powers but I’d have him essentially learn to exert a bit more effort in order to achieve the same effect without even thinking about it, though it’d take more effort than when he had the Other inside him. This is not that far of a stretch as Peter and Ben Reilly have been shown to be able to stick to surfaces even whilst asleep or unconscious.

 As part of this rethinking of his powerset I’d have him redesign his web-shooters. Nothing too high tech just something to show he’s thinking about this stuff. I’d reintroduce the LED version of the web-shooters which debuted back in ASM #296-297 which warned him when he was running low on webbing. I’d similarly state though that due to the wear and tear of his job as Spider-Man it’s likely that the LED won’t work 100% of the time meaning we could still have him run out of web-fluid when needs be.

 Similarly I’d have him retool his utility belt in order for it to carry a few more basic necessities, like a few medicines you might carry with you in your pocket, and make it air tight so they won’t be compromised. Peter would acknowledge his physiology makes these redundant but it’s better to be prepared in case someone else needs them.

 Once Peter is ready to get back into action he’d acknowledge that he’s out of practice and needs to start slow and readjust to the larger scale crimes, allowing us a ground up look at his new approach to things. And seeing this approach work for him he gradually builds up his confidence and performance.

 All in all we’d get a Peter Parker who would be

 -          Less guilt ridden and whiney

-          A little different in his powerset but not radically so

-          A Spider-Man with a more believable occupational life but still one ripe for drama

-          More considerate towards his friends and trying to make more time for them

 Or you know maybe instead of an arc where this happens these changes occur for Peter incrementally in the course of other stories.

 I’d also have him be a bit more confident and leading in a situation, rather than say the guy in the corner of Avengers meetings spouting one liners.

 A lot of this could be explainable via Peter getting older and seeing the world differently. He would be more confident because he’s so veteran. He’d be more considerate to his friends because how you feel about the people you really care about is different at 35 than 25. He’d think up these new methods of superheroing and would consider himself and his life differently just because he’s been around the block for so long.

 I’d never make him cynical or jaded, that’s not who he is at heart. But I’d make him very much not someone who’s growing up but who has grown up, been grown up for awhile and is trying to take better measures for his life despite the potential for chaos. Have him modestly plan for the future whilst still living for today, since he knows how easily he or anybody else could lose their lives.

 In this regard what I am suggesting is just a further extension of Peter’s JMS’ era characterization where he was written as the sum of his experiences and the early 30 year old he was rather than a mid-twenties douchebag or a manchild.

 On the superhero side of things I’d have him also take on a bit more of a Captain America or even Superman role. In so far as younger crooks and heroes alike would look on him in a very different way from the crooks he’s tangled with in the past. To older guys of say Sandman’s age Spider-Man is a punk kid. To people closer to Spider-Man’s age who began a career of crime around the same time as him, he would be one of the new daily hazards they had to face. But to younger crooks getting into the game Spider-Man would be a lot more impactful. A figure of fear and a fact of life they wouldn’t underestimate and would either surrender to on the spot or seek to take down to build a reputation.

 For most younger heroes they would look on him the way he looked upon Captain America, only moreso given that many of them would be aware that he began his career at their age and was in many respects a ‘self-made man’, no mentors to instruct him or anything like that. This would make Peter feel both old and give him a sense of...I guess ‘shepardliness’.

 He’d be conflicted over younger heroes because on the one hand he wouldn’t want them to get hurt and would want to advise them to stop in fear of that. on the other hand he knows that’d make him a massive hypocrite. So in a sense Spider-Man, whilst not being one of the younger heroes like Ms Marvel would be something of a defender to them and a mentor figure. I’m not saying he’d regularly patrol the city with like Ms Marvel or anything. Rather when he encounters them he’s going to be taking charge giving them friendly advice. Thing Wolverine and Kitty Pryde but not even that involved.

 Essentially he’d be the guy telling guys like Iron Man to lay off Miles, Kamala, the Young Avengers etc since he knows where they are coming from. But he’d also be the first guy to tell them to get the Hell away and let him handle things when the situation gets too dangerous.

 Possibly you could take this to the point where yes he does get a sidekick but obviously not one like Alpha.

 And the final touch...give him a manly beard. He’s a grown ass man he shouldn’t look like this:

 And maybe he shouldn’t look like this either:

 But what about something in between like this?

 Which is kind of an extension of this anyway:

[akashicrecordsgaming]

Alola, A-L-O-L-A Alola - Pokemon Sun & Moon

Well, it’s been long enough since SM came out that we should have all got our kneejerk reactions out of the way, and it’s been long enough that I’ve cleaned it out once and I’m starting it again (Shameimaru has too), so buckle up cause I’m gonna say some bad things about the sacred cow. Yep, that means spoilers too.

I don’t normally start with Narrative but good lord the pacing in this game is absolute garbage. It has probably the slowest start of any Pokemon game so far - the entire first island (of four) is just mind-numbingly slow and boring, with most of the game mechanics unavailable, and while being on rails early on isn’t unusual for a Pokemon game, it feels incredibly blatant in SM, to the point of being obnoxious due to the presentation. As the game continues, it looks like we’re going to reach a high point when a Nihilego busts into the Aether Facility, but then it just... continues being totally tepid. Then it looks like you’re going to reach another high point where Lusamine goes completely bonkers and fuses with the Mega Beast, except then you don’t actually fight her - you battle her exactly like you would a trainer, despite the fact that she’s just turned into pokemoncthulhu.

In general, SM’s plot feels pretty thin on the ground and schizophrenic. The world-building is really stellar, but there’s no sense of pressure, unlike the previous two games - there’s no big effects on the weather threatening to wipe everyone out, the villains haven’t managed to steal a march on you and build a doomsday laser or anything like that. In theory, you even go into fight Lusamine because you’re on a rescue mission.

On the positive side, the island challenge idea is a lot more interesting than gyms usually are (in part because the premise of a gym - that is, you’re dojo hunting, a practice that hearkens to Japanese jidaigeki and martial arts films, although it allegedly has its roots in real life - has become diluted over time), and they do a much better job than usual worldbuilding. Unlike previous regions, Alola really seems like a place where people live and have lives, rather than being a series of hubs to train your Pokemon in.

A spot I think might be an issue of real contention are Team Skull. On the one hand, they’re hilarious; on the other hand, while villain teams have always been pretty goofy (except arguably Team Rocket who are pretty worrying since they’re a legit mafia and sometimes undertake straight-up terrorist action), Team Skull are really hard to care about, which becomes a problem when the game sometimes expects you to drop what you’re doing and put them in their place, since the tone is pretty wobbly.

Overall, while SM deserves praise for actually mixing up the formula in a main-series game (which hasn’t been done before - all experimentations on the formula were relegated to side games), it’s obviously been a shaky process for them, and SM’s tone and pacing are wildly schizophrenic, which isn’t improved in the post-game (unlike ORAS’ amazing Delta Episode).

For Narrative, I give SM a 3 out of 5: it has a fantastic concept which is hampered by a schizophrenic execution, but the attention to detail elsewhere is spectacular.

I could talk about the Audio but being real here, I’d basically just be sharing my opinion of the soundtrack, without any real objective basis near or far. If you’re interested, that opinion is that it isn’t as good as XY or ORAS’ soundtracks, but it’s still a Pokemon soundtrack so it has great tunes and the audio quality is just fine.

Instead, let’s talk about the Technical side of things. Although the game essentially runs on the same engine as XY and ORAS, they’ve changed up the UI a bit, putting moves on the right and letting you see known type effectiveness against the target at a glance. You can also now check your move details straight from the combat menu, and tapping Y twice auto-applies your last-used item, which is great when you’re on a catching spree.

On the other hand, let’s not even freaking talk about the PSS replacement. Well, we will talk about it because otherwise there’s no point in having this site but jeez. You’re now only online when engaged in Festival Plaza (and then you have to go through a double-prompt to actually get online). Want to interact with a friend? You need them to also be on Festival Plaza, and online, at the same time as you, then refresh your guestlist until they turn up, then make them a VIP to guarantee you’ll be able to interact with them at all. Yes, you can make this easier by disabling other aspects of the system, but then you’re disabling other aspects of the system to get it to do something that should be simple, and overall it’s a huge step back from the XY/ORAS PSS system. Forget about pickup trading/battles - they’re gone.

I’m also going to have to dock the game for being really laggy when it wants to be. Apparently this isn’t a problem on the New 3DS but it was a big one whenever the effects got a bit interesting; my 2DS chugged like an autistic fratboy.

All things being equal, I’ll give SM a 3 for the Technical: it took some steps forward, and some steps back, and came out about average.

Let’s talk about the elephant in the Gameplay room first: I like Z-Moves. They’re a lot of fun, they add some surprise swing/comeback potential, and they generally don’t feel as incredibly powerful as Mega Evolutions in the previous two games have been. The little dances are also great, particularly since several of them incorporate actual hula choreography.

In terms of challenge, this game manages to be more challenging than ORAS or XY, largely because of Totem Pokemon: when they come in, their own take on Z-Power activates, giving them stat buffs, which helps to avoid the traditional problem with creating a challenge in a a boss fight in Pokemon; setting up has a big opportunity cost, in which time (because the AI doesn’t normally switch) the player can just swap to something more useful for hosing whatever the boss is trying to do. On top of that, several of the Totem bosses are dangerous picks to begin with: Totem Wishiwashi’s Schooling gives it incredible stats even before its Z-Power kicks in, Totem Mimikyu gets a free turn to do whatever it wants thanks to its unique ability... and then there’s Lusamine’s Clefable in her Cthulhu-Lusamine form, who is probably the hardest Pokemon in the game to get past. It’s not very threatening - it’s limited to Metronome (Shameimaru assures me it has Cosmic Power and STAB Moonblast but it used neither against me) - but even with a big level advantage and possibly a type advantage, it’s an incredible wall.

There’s also a sort-of-new gimmick regarding how most Ace Trainers now work: they won’t even look at you if you haven’t beaten everyone else on their route, but their fights all involve a clever tactic or a showcase of a game mechanic that wouldn’t be out of place in the competitive scene. The very first Ace Trainer, for example, runs a suicide lead with Stealth Rock and a Red Card to force you to start switching and taking entry damage, and it gets more interesting from there.

Unfortunately, the game does tend to fall into the same rut most Pokemon games do, but let’s be honest: if you’re old enough to be reading this site of your own volition you probably knew what you were getting into when you bought the game. It also revamps some older concepts, such as replacing the widely-disliked HM system with Ride Pokemon, which isn’t perfect, but it’s definitely a big step in the right direction. It’s a shame the Ride outfit looks so dorky though.

Oh, and I had a weird glitch when I fought Kukui: he broke all the rules and used two Z-Moves in succession, but that might be because my ailing 2DS was in sleep mode for like 18 hours between rounds, so I’m not weighting it as a Big Huge Bug.

For Gameplay, I’d rate it a 4: it’s definitely moving in the right direction and is a step up from previous Pokemon main-series games, but it’s still weighted down by a few flaws here and there.

Overall, SM represents a pretty bold new step for Pokemon, with an attempt for a main-series game to put its narrative front and center. That said, it’s clear that there’s a long way to go in terms of presentation and execution if they want to continue the trend in a fashion that will satisfy both brand-new players and franchise veterans.

And the awesome JoJoMon pictures is from this guy’s tumblr..