#until I'm back in the proverbial saddle | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

hoochieblues · 3 months

Note

for the wip ask meme, please can i have as much as you feel comfortable sharing about 'funk hole' (an inherently funny combo of words, onomatopoetically speaking) or failing that the nanananana HANNIBAL (im assuming hummed to the batman theme tune)!

Thank you! You can have both! :D (oprahwinfreybees.gif )

Ngl, Funk Hole's title choice is like 50% 'oh this would be an attention grabber heh heh' but the phrase was also WW2-era slang, capitalising on the anger/fear that people were using country hotels or resort towns to hide out away from the bombardment and fighting ('funk hole' having originally been military slang for a dugout). The press really went after certain areas for this, including Torquay, where I lived for... like six months at one point, and distracted myself by reading a lot of local history. (side note: the majority of my family's from Kent/London, and when you listen to people's memories, or just look a map of V2 bomb sites, you can extra see why the idea that wealthier folks were just paying to avoid the reality of war generated so much rage.)

So, it's a queer romantic drama set in 1940s south Devon, in a (mostly) fictional quaint little country hotel run by an eccentric old lady, with help from her quiet, bookish nephew, a socialist conscientious objector saddled with the first name Raleigh. Poor bastard. Cue the cast of weirdoes living in the hotel - a mix of neurotic oddballs, well-heeled assholes, self-styled bohemians and Artsy(tm) types - until a new guest arrives: a recently disabled ex-pilot recovering from his injuries, his stay paid for by a wealthy relative.

You know where this is going. But I promise it's going to be an interesting or at least enjoyable journey. Probably. idk, this one's still largely notes on a proverbial napkin, but it's got all that good potential: the dissolving myth of 'England' in the post-Edwardian mess of the early-mid 20th century; the rapidly changing roles and boundaries of class, gender, and identity; hurt/comfort with graphic skin graft recovery (I read multiple books about Harold Gillies and now everyone else must suffer); characters forced to come to terms with lives and worlds irreparably changed by things beyond their control... and so forth. With luck, I might actually get to writing up the first draft later this year.

Aaaand then there's the Batman Hannibal AU, a concept which is largely @emungere's fault and that is the story I'm sticking to. It is entirely skates dangerously close to crackfic and is not to be taken at all seriously.

More beneath the cut if you dare.

Essentially, Hannibal is Alfred. Mischa is Batman, Chiyoh is Robin (kinda), and Commissioner Crawford has a perpetual headache. And Will Graham is... Dog...Man...?

The Lecter siblings coped with the death of their parents in different ways. Hannibal largely withdrew from society while Mischa secretly became The Bat, a vigilante who fights crime but does not kill, despite the fact that assholes are constantly breaking into Lecter Manor to rob/murder the city's wealthiest siblings. Fortunately, Hannibal's there to keep things neat and tidy... and cater spectacular menus for his beloved little sister's charity galas.

Things get complicated when Chiyoh lays a little too much smackdown on one of The Bat's enemies, and they bring him back to the estate to recover. This one's still in super early stages, but I cannot resist sharing the visual that would never ever leave my head. I'm sorry. Not very sorry, though.

________________________________

Shreds of moonlight glanced off the brickwork and made ghosts of the gasoline rainbows in the puddles underfoot. The alarm still blared in the distance, shrill and ignored. Wherever the figure had gone, they were trapped in the alleys now. No way out. Mischa stole forward, boots silent on the greasy asphalt.

Chiyoh sniffed. “Smells like wet dog.”

Mischa shot her a frown. Rain beaded the tight slick of Chiyoh's hair, as dark and smooth as her high-necked black suit. Behind the mask, her gaze stayed firm. Mischa felt her lips twitch.

“What d’you expect?” she murmured. “It’s rough out there.”

Chiyoh sighed and looked away. Movement deeper in the alley drew their attention, and they crept forward. Mischa drew breath to call out to the thief, but something shifted in the dark.

A dog ran out of the shadows, a scruffy white-and-brown little thing, barking and showing his teeth. He stopped a few feet from them, stubby legs planted determinedly square, and let out the squeaky small dog version of a baying howl, back end quivering with over-excitement.

“Buster!” A voice called from the depths of the alley. “Leave!”

The sound of scrabbling paws and footsteps filled up the dark, and a dog pack of varying shapes and sizes burst from the alley. If Mischa hadn’t known better, she’d have said the scruffy little dog looked almost smug. Beside her, Chiyoh reached for a blade, but her hand stopped at her utility belt as three of the larger dogs pushed forward, growling.

“I wouldn’t do that. They’re… protective.”

A figure all in black—black jeans, black sweater, black hat pulled low over unruly dark curls—melted from the shadows behind the dogs. A small blue backpack dangled from his fingers. The kind people who hiked a lot zipped their pets into so that Fido could carry his own snacks and water bottle. Each of the dogs had one, but something trailed from the unzipped backpack in the man’s hand. Even in the dim light of the alley, the strings of diamonds glittered.

“You’re kidding, right?” Chiyoh said, her tone flat. “The Westerley robbery. And you… put….”

She let out a long, weary breath. Mischa lifted her chin. The subway vent behind her hissed. Steam rose, turning white against the cold. It snaked around her ankles, climbing the sleek black of her cape. If he knew who she was, he didn’t seem to care, and that irked her. All of Gotham knew The Bat.

“Who the hell are you, anyway?” She glanced at the pack surrounding him, each with their own little harness stuffed with ill-gotten gains. Seven sets of jaws panted, each furnished with awfully white teeth. “Dog… Man…?”

He stepped forward and clipped the backpack onto Buster, who lifted each paw obediently in turn, never looking away from Mischa. When the guy straightened up, he didn’t meet her eyes, but he wore a hard, crumpled kind of smile.

“Funny. No. You can call me The Packmaster.”

“I don’t think so,” Chiyoh said.

Her hand moved in a blur. The blade flew, silver against the dark. Mischa caught her breath, and it was easy to fall into the rhythm of their training, to read Chiyoh’s body language as easily as her own heartbeat, and to know she was just as readily understood.

Together, no one would stand against them.

#my fic tag #why yes i did spill mischa x chiyoh all over my batman au. oh no the stain is permanent. so sad.#writing tag

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whythewords · 1 month

Text

I think you better wise up, boy

And just as quickly as it began, another dating adventure comes to a close.

As things around me started to get dodgier and more upsetting, I took a little solace in the fact that the one thing that never works for me was working. Three dates we went on, a fucking record for me since the divorce. Also the first woman I've kissed since splitting up with my wife. All seemed well...until it wasn't. I got a text citing the usual story of the last few dating experiences, she felt like the compatibility wasn't there. And just like that, the proverbial saddle that I put myself back in is now being packed up and put away for the umpteenth time.

I should not be relying on these things for my happiness, but fuck does it ever hurt more when everything else is also coming apart at the seams.

We exchanged the texts yesterday to end things off. Then I fell into a funk. Today, my only work-from-home day of the week, was full of inane requests and painful training sessions, each time through I remember how very specific this stuff is meaning it is absolutely useless to me in the rest of my career. The pangs of working for a marketing company, knowing full well that I have never meshed well with sales and marketing and advertising and the people in those worlds. Again, it's been only a year and it's my first job in IT so I can't be too upset...but I think I'm warranted to point out how fucked up it is that what was sold to me an IT job is about 30% actual IT and technology and 70% busywork that they could train any ol' John Doe to do.

There was work being done on the apartment so drills and power tools rang in my head all day causing it to ache. My throat was sore and dry after another useless 2 hours of droning training sessions about an application I will never use again in my entire fucking life after this job. Then I made dinner for my folks. Then those contractors tripped the fire alarm in the building. There's that headache again! Did I mention our washer blew up and we've been doing laundry at the coin laundromat, which I also have to do tonight rather than a much needed workout?

With everything going on: my disenfranchisement with the job, another dating thing crashing and burning, the constant reminder that I am still stuck here in this apartment with my folks, I feel so defeated.

Wanna know the fucked up thing? I almost didn't disable/delete the dating apps after all that. Part of me was willing to think things through: "now wait a minute here...perhaps I am ready to get hurt again!" I don't know what that is. At this point I think it falls somewhere between desperation and psychopathy.

Maybe it's time I go back to therapy.

Then again, therapy's expensive...and I desperately need to find a new place to live....

#online dating #life of joe #not so d

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