#I need more sweet dad homelander content ���

[themeraldee]

The Boys | 2.08 What I Know

[boop-le-snoot]

PARTY FAVOURS I CHAPTER 21

First time reader click here

TWs/SUMMARY: Wanda fluff, Loki fluff, we're getting a whole ass friendship! Dad sucks. The outfits are neat tho! Check the end for a mood board 😍

a/n: dress inspo and aesthetic visuals can be found here, here and here. (Paolo Sebastian, Firefly Path gowns and Viona Ielegems photography).

"Gi-i-irl..." Wanda drawled, seeing me arrive with Tony, both of us freshly showered and still hazy from the amazing orgasms. God only knew what she'd seen in both of our heads - if judging only by the vivid, crimson blush she spouted, it was definitely something very NSFW. Bruce already sat at the dinner table, quietly slurping his soup, his back and shoulders the most relaxed I'd ever seen. He gave me a knowing smile once he noticed my presence in my usual spot by his side.

The rest of the team appeared completely oblivious, preoccupied by their food.

"So, about the party. Got any costume ideas?" I cut straight to the chase, unwilling to wait for Wanda to start asking for details right in front of everyone.

Steve, Bucky, Pietro, Thor and Natasha all answered affirmative, the latter whacking Clint upside the head and firmly stating "no funny business". I couldn't help but wonder what kind of crazy shit the Bird had in mind and was kind of disappointed at Nat's intervention. A good chaotic moment was always worthwhile in my opinion!

The other bird, Sam, approached Bruce with caution as he wondered if the scientist was interested in doing a paired costume with him, only to be interrupted by Tony declaring, with childish glee, he had a "wicked project" that he and Bruce would be doing together. The scientist gave a resigned sigh and apologized.

Sam wasn't deterred by the slight setback; he approached Clint instead and after being given an okay from Natasha, the Birds decided to pair up. As they should, if you'd ask me.

"I have a costume but I need some accessories. Wanda, Lokes, join me on my lil' shopping trip?" I prompted, wanting everybody to be included. I was fully prepared for Loki to scoff and dismiss my invitation but the Asgardian nodded after a second of brief speechlessness. Didn't anyone invite him to birthday parties as a kid? Either way, Thor gave me a grateful smile, like a proper big brother. Both Asgardians had grown visibly closer during the past couple of months which made me hide a secretive smile behind a spoonful of soup.

It turned out, Loki hadn't exactly been introduced to the buzzing beehive that is NYC. He didn't get out much and when he needed to be somewhere, the man simply teleported to the desired destination. As convenient as it must've been, I still expressed my outrage at his lack of experience doing the usual "touristy" things that, in my opinion, every non-newyorker was obligated to do when visiting. Yes, even if said visitor had literally traveled across different galaxies.

Wanda wasn't much better in terms of city knowledge. According to her, she'd lived here for several years already but never bothered to go beyond the borders of the block surrounding the Avengers tower. The witch didn't have friends outside of her teammates (therapy. they all needed so much therapy. y'all...) so she simply saw no point in going anywhere beyond the local mall.

Which was trash. I mean, I loved Hot Topic and Forever 21 as much as any other young adult with depression and anxiety but it was literally impossible to wear clothes made out of cheap cotton and polyester all the time. I'm pretty sure I would have hives and ulcers if I attempted that.

"We're going on Sixth Avenue and that's final. No friend of mine will be wearing shit from Wal-Mart at a Stark party," I interrupted Wanda's defensive stuttering, using my other hand to summon an Uber.

"That is good advice," Loki, previously silent, added in a sweet tone. I counted on the fashionable Asgardian to be on my side and with his schmoozing skills, I didn't even have to drag Wanda inside the car by, like, her hair or whatever. The three of us barely fit into the small Toyota anyway.

A thought struck me when I had to consciously avoid stepping on Loki's leather shoes and keep away my elbow from Wanda's stomach. "Mister? I'll give you a hundred bucks cash if you turn around and drive to this address," I hurriedly rattled off my home address, delighting in the way the driver nearly did a U-turn at the mention of crispy dollar bills.

We arrived home quickly. Wanda gaped in mild disbelief at the size of my house while Loki looked about as interested as he'd ever be. His face was akin to an expression one made while smelling fresh manure. Opening the garage, I was greeted with an unpleasant surprise of my dad's outrageously painted Corvette standing neatly by my white Range Rover.

Loki looked and felt considerably less tense in the back of my car. The subtle signs of discomfort all but left his face replaced by slight wonder as I explained how to adjust the temperature and turn on the heated seats.

Dad met us at the gates. "You didn't come in to say hello," He pouted. His breath reeked like a five-day drinking binge hangover and he looked a dead man.

"We're in a hurry, dad. There's a lot to be done," I replied curtly, hoping to get rid of him fast. I hated being sober around my drunk father. My fingers twitched on the steering wheel.

"You're like your mother, always busy," Dad's laugh was coarse and bitter. "But at least you find time for Stark and his friends. That'll do your future real good," He clapped once on the hood of my car, heading back to the house with a wave of his hand, just in time to miss the disgusted shudder that ran through me.

I knew my dad well enough to understand the implications of what he meant by his words. In his world, fucking way up to the top was considered the norm. I'd rather cut off my own foot than use Tony that way.

"Sorry you had to see that. I thought he was still in Cali," I gritted my teeth, pulling out of the driveway.

"I'm sorry you had to experience that. I have no kind words regarding your father," Loki's look was sympathetic in the rearview mirror.

"Or your mother," Wanda added, messing with her seatbelt. Loki nodded tersely.

"Aight, aight," I sighed, set on improving the mood. "Let's not poop this party. We're getting some absolutely delicious beverages and wasting my money on outrageous pretty things. My treat."

Wanda's protests were drowned out by Motorhead and Loki's grumbling was overshadowed by Guns'n'Roses. Their resistance didn't stand a chance. Few blocks out, the witch was singing along to November Rain, heavily accented and terribly off-key, and the Asgardian watched New York city intently behind the protection of the tinted rear windows of my ride. He seemed mesmerized by the crowds and the variety of colorful shop fronts. This was the the one and only reason I eased off the gas pedal and drove the speed limit for once.

The atmosphere was, well, magical. Looking at my two companions, I discovered the familiar city anew with every question they asked, every remark they made. The desire to ask in turn about their homelands melted like the tension I was harbouring after the run-in with my father. Content and warm, I had my attention divided between Loki and Wanda juggling their wonder back-and-forth between themselves and the absolutely crazy NYC traffic.

So what if I parked in a no-parking zone just to get us the most delicious coffee in the city? Loki, the resident tea person, ordered himself something unpronounceable, something that made the barista twitch. Wanda got a sugary-sounding vanilla-white chocolate perversion. I just got a mocha, having had outgrown my adolescent desires to experiment with "how sweet can I make this coffee before I literally puke?" beverages.

With a laugh, I instructed them to pose in front of the nearest reflective surface to brag about our coffees on Instagram - this café deserved more recognition. My companions reluctantly obliged.

I wonder if the barista realized just who had bought the coffee - Loki was quite a media darling when it came to fangirls. Tony's PR team did a wonderful job on the Asgardian's redemption arc. The trickster only fueled the utter devotion his fangirls had for him by being extra nice and charming in every video I've seen. I guess you can't out-mindcontrol manners outta somebody, he was raised a prince after all.

It wasn't raining but the autumn chill seeped into the tiny spaces between my layers of clothing. I already managed to regret my fashionable dark academia inspired outfit at least twice, however the matching vibe all three of us had was positively dashing. Loki, wearing his usual onyx black and dark green. Wanda with a burgundy sweater dress and thigh high platformed boots - sweater dresses, out of all things, had no business looking this good on anybody. But she pulled it off.

"You said you've got a costume. Mind sharing what it is?" The witch said, curiously peeking into the windows of a nearby vintage boutique as we took our leisurely stroll with steaming paper cups keeping our fingers warm.

"A fairy dress. It was custom made for me last year and I actually didn't get to wear it. I need some jewelry to go with it," I explained, stopping to show a photo of the dress on my smartphone. "And some shoes, too. Let's hope the party will be held completely indoors, otherwise I'll freeze my ass off."

"Custom made?" Wanda squeaked, looking at the garment in wonder. Loki gave a vaguely approving nod.

"Yeah, there's a company that makes these fantasy dresses. You want one? What did you have in mind for your costume anyway?" I switched the topic quickly, seeing how Wanda withdrew into herself slightly. I heard from Peter she grew up poor, in the middle of a war and I didn't want to make her feel bad or anything. I wasn't good at these things...

"I thought maybe I could match with you," She replied, slowly taking a sip of her coffee.

"Sure. There are a couple of shops with really cute dresses that fit the aesthetic." Marchesa. We need a Marchesa store. And a Zuhair Murad - if there was one on this stretch of road. "What about you, Lokes? Anything in particular strike your fancy?" I asked our silent companion, frantically googling the information I needed.

"Black," He answered moodily.

"Boo, you whore," I rolled my eyes at his scoff. We had watched the Mean Girls recently and he got the reference, immediately raising a sarcastic eyebrow. "You know, you could do so much with this pale aristocratic look you've got going on. How about a medieval vampire?"

"Like Lestat? He's fucking hot," Wanda and I understood each other promptly. She jumped on the bandwagon immediately.

Combining my blunt honesty and her adorable fawning over a fictional bloodsucker, we managed to convince Loki into going on a hunt for brocaded, velvet suits and blouses with ruffles for his look. The trickster revolted at the mere suggestion of procuring some fake fangs, instead magically making them appear and showing them off in the middle of the crowded sidewalk, much to my and Wanda's delighted shrieking. He looked, I daresay, very attractive, like a porcelain figurine. Delicate but dangerous.

We arrived at the store that showcased beautiful, airy dresses of silk, chiffon and tulle. The lace was delicate and the seams invisible. I ushered Wanda into a dressing room with a shop attendant that was quietly but strictly instructed to not discuss the cost of the dresses and hide the price tags.

"I want it to be a gift. My friend here deserves no less than a magical experience," I explained quietly, winking at a bewildered Loki.

"Why did you do that?" He asked once Wanda was given a selection of several dresses in flattering colours and led into a separate dressing room.

"These dresses, they're special so they're a bit pricey. And knowing Wanda, she'll make a scene and refuse to let me buy them for her," I idly twirled my phone in my hands. "But every girl wants to be a princess and it's kinda sad she never got to be one. It's more than just a dress, it's more than feeling pretty, although it's a big part of it. She'll feel on top of the world."

Loki nodded. I'm certain he didn't understand it - being a man and all - and I wasn't sure I understood it completely, too. I never lacked pretty or expensive things, always got whatever I wanted whenever I wanted. But for a moment, I thought how it must've been for Wanda - seeing all these girls on TV, looking like pictures - and never having the chance to experience that. A concept that made me so sad, I was tempted to ask the customer service person for a glass of scotch. Being poor sounded depressing as hell.

Suddenly, Loki's cool, large hand landed on mine. "Thank you. I am certain Wanda will be the most beautiful lady at the ball."

I stared at him. Loki understood.

"Well, I... I don't know how finicky you are on gender labels for clothes, but there were a couple of blouses you might want to check out. They've got the neck ruffles and shit." My throat suddenly seized up and I had to clear it before speaking, steering away from the uncomfortably emotional moment. Thankfully, Loki wandered off without as much as a word.

THE TAG LIST IS NOW OPEN! @another-stark-sub ​ @mostly-marvel-musings  @vozit ​ @littlegasps ​ @pilloclock ​ @shereadsinquiet @downeyreads ​ @hermione-grangers-wife ​ @individualistfem ​ @sleep-i-ness @capbrie @lillsxd @agustdowney @dee-vn @justanotherblonde23 @fanngirl19 @persephonehemingway @softie-socks @schemefrenzy @letsby @cutenessloading @romeo-the-cactus @jelly-fishy-babie

& the promised aesthetic

[love-dreams]

pairing: minghao/reader | thriller

content: mermaid/siren!minghao, implicit character death, drowning, sailing

quillstarters halloween challenge day 4: she/he gasped for breath, breaking over the waves, just to see a dark shadow flitting in the water. then, the flickering of light shining off aquamarine scales. she/he heaved again, trying in vain to paddle away. finally, there was the voice. “aw, poor little human, what are you doing? trying to escape...”

wc: 822

a voyage across the seas.

escaping across a small strip of ocean.

your family and you needed to leave your homeland to escape the danger persecution from the raging mobs and gangs present there. it all sounded so simple in your head. when looking at the maps in front of you, it seemed the most logical to escape by this route. 

your family had foolishly, stupidly decided to take a short cut along with several other naive families. 

your neighbors had warned your family about this particular waterway. how no merchant or sailor ever made it back.

you and your family had laughed it off, paying no attention to the town’s folklore.

that was obviously the greatest mistake of all of your lives.  

the voyage started off calm. the soft rocking of the boat helped calm your nerves as your father and multiple other men let the sails catch wind. 

your mother and your younger brother stayed up on the deck with some other voyagers. people who were in the same boat (no pun intended) as your family. surprisingly, there were many other families just like yours. 

“y/n, why don’t you go upstairs and enjoy the salty air? it’s a beautiful day outside.”

you looked up from your book to come face to face with your father. he had a beaming smile on his face and his hair was rustled messily by what you assumed was the strong ocean winds. 

you shook your head, a small smile sneaking onto your face. “no thanks, dad. it’s comfortable here.”

he straightened up, sighing, “alright. you stay down here then, don’t go exploring where i can’t find you. i’ll be with your mom and brother.” he took one last glance at your seated form before closing the door behind him. 

you let out a small breath of relief and turned your attention back to the pages open in front of you. 

up above, you could hear the impact of soles on the wooden deck and the muted sound of voices and laughter. the more you listened, the more compelled you felt to join them up there. 

you shook your head, dipping your conscience back into the inked text. “after this book,” you vowed.

it must’ve been hours you spent, under the deck of the boat, turning page after page. you were so engrossed in your book that you could ignore the grumbling of your stomach. the world around you faded away as the world inside the inked words surrounded you. 

when you finally turned the last page, the back cover resting nicely against the pages, you leaped up to your feet, pushing open the door and hopping up the stairs.

“dad?” you called, “is dinner ready yet?”

when you reached the last step, your breath hitched. 

no one was there.

the deck was clean of people. not a single member of your family was visible.

“dad?” you called again, a hint of desperation seeping into your voice. “mom? brother?”

no one answered. 

you walked out onto the deck. the air was cooler than downstairs, with none of the strong winds blowing. instead, it was humid, and a misty fog was starting to settle in. it didn’t seem like there was anyone steering the boat since it was just mindlessly drifting. 

you started to panic, running around the deck, calling your brother and your parents’ names. you ran down to the lower deck and back up, hoping to find anyone on the ship, but it was like they had vanished. 

the fog was getting steadily thicker, its tendrils sneaking onto the deck of the ship. the wooden sails creaked and groaned, and the hull was scratching against something at the beneath the water. 

you jolted, suddenly the ship had hit something. its motion stopped abruptly, the fog clearing away slightly from jarring motion. 

it showed you the shoreline of an island.

your breath hitched in your throat as relief settled back into your system. 

“hello?” you yelled out, hoping for anyone to answer. 

then, you heard it.

that sweet, honey voice. 

your eyes widened as a shadow appeared in the midst of the fog. your heartbeat picked up, a sense of relief washing over you once more.

“do you know where we are?” you questioned. 

the shadow refused to answer. instead, it was getting closer to the ship.

the melodic voice rang out again, singing an unfamiliar tune. this time you responded back.

“excuse me! me and my family were on a voyage across the..”

your voice died out in your throat. your throat choked up, and your body tensed itself. 

he had finally shown himself. a tall, lanky build with a beautiful magical voice. 

but all you could notice was the piles of bodies stacked around him like walls.

“hello, human. my name is minghao...

..not that you’ll remember after this.”

with a voice of the angels, he lured every single one of you off.

[thatfoxnamedfinley]

**SPOILERS AHEAD** So I just rewatched The Boys again and I have some character thoughts...

*folds hands on table*

Initial Thoughts: This show is fucking awesome. I feel like after seeing it the first time I was so dumbfounded by how different it was that I wasn't taking in all of the information. The second watch through was, I think, needed for me. Characters are, even if some are pieces of shit, all defined and different from each otzher. And the story is fucking bonkers.

FAVORITE CHARACTERS, in no particular order;;

#Frenchie. I love this character. Intelligent bastard with a heart of gold. I hope he’s as much of a fan favorite as I want him to be. He was forcibly dragged into this situation (by a guy who still owes him $40k of all people, and I want that backstory). The little things revealed about his character I absolutely love. The thing about his dad taking him in the middle of the night from his mother...taking him out for walks once a week to tell him he loves him but then when he tried to run away to go back to his mother, he would always find him then...chained him up? Is that what I was picking up? That’s why he was so triggered by Kimiko being trapped and unable to return home. The story he told about his first kill...”I carry them all with me. They’re like scars in a way, you know?” My HEART. His character is just so magnetic with the time the show gives him. His dynamic with Kimiko was so sweet and pure. I find him charming and a presence I want to see a lot more of in the future seasons.

((also, um, did anyone know that Tomer Capon, the actor who plays Frenchie, was in the IDF [[Israel Defense Forces]] as a paratrooper squad commander of a special forces team??!!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!??! WHHHHAAAATTTTTT))

#Homelander. Whoops? First off, I love the actor Antony Starr. I watched his previous series as it was airing a few years ago on Cinemax called Banshee and it remains one of my favorite shows ever. I have an autographed poster. So I’m aware of him, and he’s FUCKING AMAZING. I have not seen a villain as creepy and threatening as him in a long time. Most fans agree. Anytime he’s talking to someone or about to do ANYTHING, I’m just like-

Stories are as good as their villain, and when you have a villain like this the stakes are real. THE PLANE SCENE I SCREAMED. WHEN HE TOLD STARLIGHT TO KEEP YOUR HANDS BY YOUR SIDES YOUNG LADY I SCREAMED. HE LIT UP STILLWELL AND I SCREAMED.

#Starlight. I love that she is a character with good intensions, even if she still has to compromise to stay in The Seven. It’s an interesting narrative to talk about that sometimes your dreams may not be what you expected. And that it was a situation of her mother trying to live vicariously through her daughter. I feel like she’s just so pure and tries to be uncompromising even though she has to be. She’s a character who seemingly becomes stronger and more sure of herself every time she’s wronged and I like that.

- - - - - - - - - -

LEAST FAVORITE CHARACTERS, in no particular order;;

#A-Train. While I understand his character and his arc, I still didn’t like him. The addiction angle is usually cliche in some ways but it was approached differently and I liked that. Regardless, his character

#Translucent. He was a character we’re supposed to hate and appropriately so. A dude who has diamond skin but also peeves on women in the restroom. Dope (not!).

#The Deep. Same feeling as I get with A-Train. I get what he’s supposed to be but I still don’t like him. The dolphin scene was weirdly funny, but it could of been any character and it would of been weirdly funny. I felt no sympathy for him when his gills were “raped”.

CHARACTERS I’M INDIFFERENT ABOUT, in no particular order;;

#Queen Maeda. She’s complacent enough in what’s going on around her that it makes me roll my eyes at her sometimes, but it’s also clear that it bothers her. I think she just has let it all happen so many times now that she doesn’t know how to get out. But that does not excuse all the shit that she has let go down. So, I currently don’t like her or dislike her. Merely watching.

#Butcher. While he’s fun to watch because he’s nuts, he’s also toxic as fuck. He’s got a fairly one track mind and little regard for other’s emotional states if it distracts from his mission. His backstory is painful for him, but he filters it out horribly and copes horribly. He still makes me smirk or chuckle at times with his dialogue but it doesn’t escape me that he’s kind of a dick too. So. Don’t like or dislike.

#Hughie. I have complicated feelings towards him. I don’t even know if I could tell you why. I have a hard time with him potentially having feelings for Starlight mere weeks after his girlfriend blew up in his arms. I don’t blame Starlight, she has no idea at first, and Hughie is just using her initially for info, but it still doesn’t fully sit right with me. He’s grown some balls as the series progresses but he’s still not someone that I’m actively rooting for. Yet.

- - - - - - - - - -

CHARACTER DYNAMICS I’m most looking forward to in season;;

#Frenchie with literally anyone. He and the dynamic he has with Mother’s Milk intrigues me. For someone who says he can’t work with Frenchie, he’s been quite protective of him in many ways while also making efforts to understand him emotionally. First to tell him that going out wasn’t safe for him. Consoling him about Kimiko. He may reprimand Frenchie but he really is gentle with him. His words may bite at times but it’s normally because of his wellbeing. I’m still wondering if he is meant to be a mother figure of some sort? Frenchie with Kimiko will obviously continue to sprout into more wholesome content. I think even Frenchie and Butcher have a potential to be a really good dynamic if they play it in that way.

#Starlight and Queen Maeve. Seeing Starlight be who she used to be, but ultimately be better than her really pushes Maeve’s character to be more interesting. Starlight pushes her into possibly taking action, and she’s someone I can see in the future switching sides if Starlight continues to influence her by showing her moral choices and standing by her.

#Homelander and Butcher. Now that Homelander is aware of Butcher, that dynamic will probably be something explosive. And Butcher is a pretty rough character with a death wish and self destructive tendencies...and Homelander doesn’t do anything but push him closer to that edge.

OK that's all I feel for now

k thanks bye

[thefinalexperiment]

Black Satin (8/10)

Pairing: Billy Russo x Reader

Warnings: suggestive content, fairly unhealthy relationship lol they’re both kind of sociopathic, villain reader, implied cheating, consented cheating kind of? it’ll make sense if you choose to read it

Previous parts can be found in my masterlist thanks to dumblr and the link censoring.

        “Just keep playing the part of the innocent girlfriend, okay?” Billy had said to me. “Give Madani everything she wants, and I’ll take care of the rest.”

        And that was why I was sitting here now, waiting to talk to Dinah Madani. Finally, I was led into the same room where I’d met the woman herself that first time. I sat down, across from a camera she had set up. It didn’t look to be on, but I’d have to be extra careful of my words regardless.

        I gave a sigh, feigning frustration.

        “Do I need a lawyer, Agent Madani?”

        “What?” She lanced at the camera. “Oh, no. That isn’t for you… Listen, (Y/N), I’m sorry to keep dragging you into this, I really am, but you should know that I now have hard evidence connecting Billy to his criminal activities.”

        That was news to me. Did she have Frank Castle? Billy said to give her what she wants… so that’s just what I’ll do.

        I let my lower lip tremble, as if trying to repress tears.

        “I- I believe you… I didn’t want to… b-but I thought about what you said, about… any reason to be suspicious. There was just too much he wasn’t telling me, I could feel it.” I gave a fake sniffle and swiped at my eyes. “What do you need from me?”

        Dinah came around the table to sit next to me. Her way of being comforting, I assume.

        “I don’t need anything from you, (Y/N). I… I wanted to offer you protection.”

        I was unable to disguise my frown of confusion, so I played into it.

        “I- I don’t think Billy would hurt me,” I stammered, “…Would he?”

        “Honestly, at this point, I don’t know what he’s capable of,” Dinah said.

        I sighed, running a hand through my hair, attempting to look like I was losing my cool, businesswoman composure.

        “Okay. Okay… if you think he might hurt me, then… I want to be protected. And I want to help you catch him, however I can.”

        Dinah nodded.

        “Alright, then… Come with me.”

        She led me to another meeting room, where a man and a little girl sat together.

        Micro.

        Another man stood in the corner, arms crossed. That must be Frank Castle. Hm… if I can get into his good graces, I could give Billy an edge over him.

        “Gentlemen… this is (Y/N) (L/N). I brought her here to keep her safe from Russo.”

        How sweet.

        “Come on, Madani,” Frank Castle said. “What are we waitin’ around for? We’re wasting time.”

        Dinah sighed.

        “Alright… Just give me half an hour to finalize things.”

        With that, she was gone. Maybe now would be a good time to get into Frank and Micro’s good books. I didn’t want to seem too eager, so I subtly sniffled, dabbing at my eyes with the sleeve of my shirt, glancing nervously at Frank.

        “(Y/N), right?” came the voice, not of Frank, but of his friend, Micro.

        I looked up at him, nodding just a bit.

        “Y-yes… Who are you?”

        “I’m David,” he said. “You’re… you’re Billy Russo’s girlfriend, aren’t you?”

        I glanced at the little girl, pretending I didn’t want to talk about it in front of her. The clever girl cleared her throat and looked at her dad.

        “Dad, I’m gonna go ask if somebody can get some food, I’m kinda hungry.”

        He nodded to her, and as soon as she left the room, I sighed.

        “Yes… Yes, I’m… I was Billy’s…” I stopped and shook my head. “You must think I’m really stupid, huh? Not to see the truth about everything he was doing…”

        “Hey,” Frank spoke up, “Don’t. He fooled me too…”

        I looked up at him and smiled softly.

        “Frank Castle… he always spoke of you so highly… I wish we could’ve met under better circumstances.”

        He gave me a look  I couldn’t quite read, which I found odd. I could read everyone.

        “Yeah…” he finally said. “Me too.”

        Just then, Madani walked back in.

        “We have a problem.” The three of us looked up at her expectantly. “Frank, there was a new message on the phone you used to arrange the swap. Russo wants her, too, or else the deal is off.”

        I put up an expression of panic.

        “No, no, no, I can’t- Why does he want me? Is he going to kill me because I came here?”

        “We can’t do that,” Frank said firmly. “We can’t drag her into this.”

        “He was very specific. He said ‘I know you know about the woman. You bring her for me or you get nothing.’”

        “He’ll kill my family if we don’t, Frank!” David said agitatedly.

        I let myself pause at that.

        “Your family?” I crossed my arms tightly over myself and sighed. “I’ll do it.”

        “Kid, are you sure?” Frank asked me.

        I took a deep breath, then nodded.

        “I can’t let anyone lose their family just because I’m scared…”

        “Russo won’t touch you,” Dinah promised vehemently. If only she knew how much I wanted him to touch me. “We’ll rig it so the deal doesn’t go down right. He has no idea Homeland knows about it, he thinks it’s just David and Frank, operating independently.”

        I nodded again.

        “Okay… So… I pretend like Frank abducted me?”

        Dinah nodded.

        “That’s the plan.”

        “Then… I’m ready.” I looked at David, trying to seem as sincere as possible. “Let’s save your family.”

---

A/N: So, I'm thinking maybe one, possibly two more parts, then this series will be done! Let me know what you'd like to see happen before we wrap up!

Series Tags: @gollyderek @the-scarletsandwich @kaetastic @sweetgoodangel

Billy Russo Tags: @harrysthiccthighss

Everything Tags: @coconutknees​ @hollymac79​ @jordan-ia​ @ace-marvel-chick​

[fyeahwonderbat]

Can you do a Mother’s day story, please?

“Good evening, son.” Bruce changed the tone of his greeting without any notice, drawing his inspiration from Alex’s uncertain appearance at the manor. He stood arms cross, scowl heavy, feet planted wide apart as he witnessed the disheveled attempt of his eldest son (with his wife) to sneak into the west wing hallway undetected after failing to arrive at the time he committed to.

The surprise was visible behind the wavy strands of sandy blond hair that covered his face, proving that Alex was no sleuth like his father was. “Oh, uh… hiii, daaad.” He greeted him like he was a child caught stealing some ice cream from the kitchen, rather than a grown man crawling in through the window of a well lit hallway of a house as guarded by security cameras as Wayne Manor was. It wasn’t the foolishness that irritated him, oh no.

It was that cheeky smile that sent him into the role of the authoritarian parent that he reveled in.

“It’s not me you should be talking to. It’s your mother.” scolded Bruce.

“Well, if she was the one who found me like this, I would have said hi to her too.” Alex said, knowing full well that he was getting on his father’s last nerve. He witnessed the grown man before him fumble with his grip on the window frame, rocking back and forth while he tried to calculate his next move, only to fall forward. The noise his body made when it hit the hardwood was so heavy, Bruce hoped that it hurt him, even a little bit. But he knew that the only man in the world born with Amazonian strength would have felt nothing more than a mere tap on his side when he landed.

Disappointment written on his face, Bruce decided to try guilting his son in order to draw out some sign of remorse from his otherwise cheery disposition, “Penelope arrived at noon, Silas came by for dinner and Iris made sure to call to let us know that she’d only be able to make dessert, but is now sleeping in her old room so she can have breakfast with us in the morning.”

“Wow, what a… happy family we have here.” Alex chuckled, clearly intending for his words to be taken with a grain of salt. Unable to find a single reason to frown, he managed to keep his grin in tact while he rose up off of the floor and fixed up his outfit. As per usual, he was wearing his tattered jeans and a stained graphic t-shirt for a band or a show that Bruce had never heard of before. His sneakers were worn, but they couldn’t compare to that old rucksack that he got for his eighteenth birthday. The one his mother had selected, the one he had paid for, the one they had filled with the necessities he’d need to travel abroad.

That was three years ago.

“You haven’t changed at all, Alex,” Bruce complained. “I thought the Peace Corps would have helped fine tune this willy nilly attitude of yours.”

“Did… Did Bruce Wayne just say ‘willy nilly’?” Alex asked, sounding absolutely thrilled to have been present at that very moment to witness such a thing.

The way his jaw clamped down in response to his son’s teasing was nothing new and neither was the irritation that usually caused him to respond to Alex in such a way. “I’m very tired,” he admitted for the sake of defending himself. Then, he turned away from the source of his frustration and began to stomp his way down the hall. “And so is Diana. You know how busy we are, and how much today means to her.”

“Of course I do, because she means the world to me.” Alex admitted freely as he caught up to Bruce. He fixed the strap of his rucksack on his shoulder and carelessly followed his father without any clue as to where he was leading him to.

Dissatisfied with his actions in comparison to his words, Bruce felt it was fair to interrogate him then and there. “Then where were you? Did your transcommunicator break?” “Nooo,” Alex answered slowly. “The… connection doesn’t reach where I went.”

Bruce didn’t need to hear another word. He knew exactly what that meant and the anger he felt - the brand of fury that he felt belonged specifically to his half-Amazonian son - threatened to choke the words he had rising up the back of his throat. “Themyscira!?”

Though he stopped walking, Alex did not. At the very least, he took two more paces forward than his father before he agreed to their standstill and stopped himself from reaching the staircase. His broad shoulders rose up to meet the curly mop of hair on his head before falling back dowards, indicating a rather heavy sigh escaped him. Bruce saw a glimpse of awareness in that single action but it wasn’t enough to soothe his aggression. It wasn’t a secret between him and his sons that he did not want them attempting to visit the isle of the Amazons, but there was one son in particular who could never seem to listen.

(One of his sons with his wife, that is.)

“I had my reasons, dad.” Alex implied that he had a proper excuse all without providing one.

It mattered not to Bruce. “And I have mine whenever we have this conversation! Your grandmother never seen me as her family, so why would she accept you? You know what she did to your mother - why even she isn’t allowed back there, after all she’s done to save the world time and time again. Do you hear anything I say to you!?”

“Bruce?” Came a gentle call from behind one of the many doors in the west wing.

“Dammit.” Bruce cursed, knowing that their argument was about to be cut short.

“Dad,” Alex whispered. “Just let me explain-”

“If you wanted to tell me anything, you would have done so before-”

And that was the end of their dispute, for the time being, as the bedroom door of the master suite swung open and a robbed Diana came out into the hall. “What on Earth is all this stomping and yelling about--Oh! Alexandros!?”

“Hi, mama.” Alex greeted her so genuinely, his smile could be heard in his words.

Bruce merely stepped aside and did his best to refrain from rolling his eyes while the two of them hugged. It had been almost a year since Diana had last seen Alex in person, and she always complained that video calls were never enough. The two of them had such a precious bond that was visible to someone as cold hearted as the Batman, and given that it was Mother’s Day, he didn’t want to let his ‘sourness’ ruin the mood, as his ‘sweet’ wife referred to it as.

“I’m so happy you’re here.” Diana sounded rather emotional as she stroked Alex’s messy hair. Bruce watched her look over her ‘little warrior’ as if he had just come inside from a scuffle in a sandbox; no matter how old he got, she always treated her firstborn boy like he was much more fragile than he actually was. He had assumed it was because she had grown up believing that men were not as strong as the Amazons of Themyscira, but her relationship with Silas was nothing like what it was with Alex. She saw something in him that needed to be protected.

Which would most likely explain why Bruce was always tougher with him.

“Of course I’m here!” Alex exclaimed. He moved back just enough so he could see his mother, but not so much that he’d have to let go of her waist.

Diana, having felt the separation more than he did, immediately calmed herself so that she could cock her eyebrow at that beaming expression of his. Without hesitation, she reminded him, “Where was this attitude for my birthday then? Or any of our family holidays? Or your birthday, for that matter?”

When Bruce thought that Alex might buckle, he instead chuckled at the barrage of questions being flung at him. “There was something special about today, that no other day could compare to!” He cheered.

“Oh please,” Diana hummed low, warning of his disbelief. “Do explain.”

Intrigued, Bruce arched a brow now too. He eyed that massive backpack that his son took with him all over the world and wondered what could possibly be inside of it. Did he bring his mother a shield from her homeland? Maybe a book on the history she’d missed out on while having been exiled? Something that she could only get on the island of Themyscira?

To his surprise, Alex didn’t go anywhere near his bag. He simply reached into the pocket of his pants and pulled out a piece of paper. It looked crumpled and worn from the trek it must have went on to get all the way to Gotham City, much like his relationship with his own son.

“What’s this?” Diana wondered aloud, clearly unaware of the backstory behind her gift.

Softly, all Alex had to say was, “Just open it, mama.”

Forever the curious type, Diana didn’t need to be told twice to throw open the creased halves of the letter and scour the page with her wide-eyed gaze. Once the letter was in her hands, Bruce was incredibly nervous, somewhat wishing he’d had the chance to look over the contents of the letter from her home if only to make sure that it wouldn’t cause her any pain. He could hope all he wanted that Hippolyta would say something kind to her daughter for the first time in centuries, but from his experience with her, the chance of something amicable being written in that letter was highly unlikely.

“Alexandros… What…?” Diana was teary-eyed once again, only now she was also shaking. Bruce took a step forward, ready to pounce if his wife needed his support.

Never without a look of pure joy on his face, Alex nodded at his mother. “It’s only an offer to the Reform Island, but it’s a start.”

“What? What is?” Bruce demanded to know.

Diana, on the other hand, collapsed against her son, unable to speak as she held onto him for dear life. That grip looked like it channeled all of her strength, but Alex could take it, and he did so happily. Over his mother’s shoulder, he looked to Bruce and finally revealed what the surprise gift entailed, “After I performed a few trials for the gods amusement, they guaranteed that mama could barter for an end to her exile on Themyscira. She only has to pray to Athena and a date will be set.”

“You performed trials for the Olympian gods?” Bruce, tackling each point of the reveal at a time, started with the most startling fact in his eyes: his son could have fought Ares or Zeus alone!?

Alex laughed off the concern, “Nothing as horrible as what Hercules went through, so I think it’s safe to say that they like me more than him.”

“You’re amazing, my darling.” Was all Diana could manage to say while battling with her current state of emotion. She refused to leave the crook of Alex’s neck, burying her head there to hide her tears should they fall.

Seeing the exchange of pure emotion between his wife and his son made Bruce reel, and he quickly realized that his focus had been wrong at first. No matter the circumstances, Alex had done something that not even Diana herself had achieved. He had done something that Bruce had never figured out how to do: he forged an opportunity for his mother to see her mother again, and even presented to her on Mother’s Day. It wasn’t a holiday that could have dated back to ancient times, but the title of the day managed to elevate the gift giving that Alex did.

His overly cheery, eternally optimistic, always smiling from ear to ear son, Alexandros Wayne.

And all of that sunny disposition was a testament to his wife, Diana Prince-Wayne.

“I’ll see you two later.” Bruce mumbled to the two of them as he decide to take his leave. He patted Diana’s shoulder with the most affection he could provide her with in that moment, while also staring down Alex with a firmness in his eyes. It wasn’t as cruel or harsh as it was when he fell through the window. No, now, he glanced at his only Amazonian son with a type of pride that was earned by him. He could grill him further in the morning.

Tonight, he was Diana’s darling son and they deserved their time together.

He left them alone, wandering into the master bedroom and closing the door softly behind him. Bruce stood there in awe of what he had truly just learned, unable to fathom what it was Alex had done to make the gods bend to his will. An achievement that even his parents couldn’t obtain now belonged to him, and yet, he saw what Alex had done as a testament to his parents. In all honesty, it belonged entirely to Diana. Through an accomplishment of his son, he was once again - for the umpteenth time over the course of their tumultuous relationship - he couldn’t help but marvel at the woman who had agreed to be his wife, who agreed to be the mother of his children.

He was so glad that Alex came home, because Diana truly did deserve the most joyous Mother’s Day, and he gave that to her. ((Belated by a few days, but I hope you all enjoy! I figured I should use my WonderBat kids at some point, and this seemed like a really cute way to do so. I hope you like Alex, and this cute little drabble! ~ Maiden))

[aimeesuzara]

How We Learn to Hate Our Skin or, a Late Blossom into Self-Love, When Growing up Brown in a World that Makes You Want to Be White (For A History of My Body Blog Series)

 In the summer of 2016, I arrived in Santiago de Cuba with a dance group, and the first thing we attended was a performance by Danza Del Caribe. There, in a dark theater, with very few people in attendance, emerged the lithe, dynamic dancers -- the music, driving and sensual, the bodies, athletic and slim —the dance, modern, though there was something distinct about the movement that was very Cuban, its expression, the undulations of their torsos and hips.  Soon, there was another dance featuring traditional drummers and singers and all in costumes, reenacting a fiesta in the streets, and now, I could see the Afro-Cuban roots, the movement beneath the movement.  The music and the dance immediately seized us, a welcome that was neither superficial nor subtle.  Outside in the night, we piled into cars where Jacob Forever's song "Hasta Que Se Seque el Malecon" blared, and I realized I was listening to this song for the first time in Cuba.  I realized: I am IN Cuba!  That I had taken Cuban dance, from folkloric to Cuban salsa, and had become nearly addicted to dancing casino to Salsa-Timba, needing to dance at least once, if not three times, a week, faithfully attending class at my gym taught by one of the leaders of this very trip -- had always seemed strange if I were never to come here. Of course, it was a privilege to travel, a privilege that is very “American.”

As a person whose culture has not quite suffered the amount of co-opting that other cultures have (what comes to mind is yoga-fied Indian, anime-ed Japanese, kitschy or cutesy Chinese, boy-band Korean, luau'd Hawaii, cigar-and-salsa Cuba – to name just a few)-- I always wonder, "when and if this happens to us, how will I feel?" for example, how would I feel if I went to a Filipino tribal dance class from, say, Mindanao, and all of the attendees were white?  Sure, they could learn the language and the gestures, but could this be right?  And what if the consumers of such traditions had never been interested in my country nor never attempted to know and understand and have true relationship with not only the symbols of, but the actual inhabitants or descendants of my islands? I always imagined entering a class like that and basically losing my mind, giving everyone a piece of my mind.  And yet I, too, have done my fair share of being fascinated by and borrowing and romanticizing cultures other than my own -- I am guilty of it, certainly -- I do not deny that living in India in college, studying Buddhism and Hinduism and an extended stay of 9 months,  then returning here to attending yoga classes where few if any people were actually Indian -- that I was participating in the consumption of culture.  I also do not claim that my fascination with Cuban culture, spirituality, history, are entirely devoid of romanticism, idealizing.  And yet, there is something here to consider.  I do not consider myself a part of the (at least racial) dominant class.  That I have grown up with economic comfort, an excellent education, and two parents who lived together and were committed, raising me with everything I needed -- that I grew up with at least some semblance of identity connected to a homeland -- I do not deny the privileges I have inherited.

But as I've gotten older, I realize that my suspicion that we were always second-class citizens in many peoples' eyes, in the system's eyes; that we are dispensable, as labor, as intelligence, as optional colors to throw into a melting pot that somehow was and should be neutral, in other words, white; that I have never nor ever will experience whatever it is to feel I was neutral or normal or the regular, that things were made and meant for me; though I strove for, and lived at times under the illusion that I could be, a part of it.  As a child, I wanted my mom to have m & m's and pizza and popcorn around like the other kids; not soy sauce, fish sauce, hot peppers and rice.  I wanted us to sit down to an “American” Thanksgiving Dinner, since that's what everyone else did.  This became instated, at my insistence at the age of eight or nine: we had turkey, canned cranberry sauce, powdered whipped potatoes.  I was content to be like the other kids, not realizing that what was being replaced was whatever Filipino we had left. For a mother who was not that into cooking, those small symbols were what we couuld and should hold onto.  My Dad's Adobo; my mom's pancit; the ginataan that I half-loved and half-was disgusted by; the odd sweets and bottles and jars filled with sugary beans and coconut jelly for making Halo-Halo.  Instead, I opted for the can-shaped gelatinous cranberry sauce, not knowing how easy it was to make fresh sauce from scratch; the microwaved dinners like Hungry Man's potatoes and gravy and meatloaf, also not realizing that these were the easiest foods to make from scratch; popcorn and eggs, likewise, easy to to make and inferior when made in our enormous microwave oven.  I fought hard to lose our culture in order to be  part of the crowd, only realizing later that I would never the part of the crowd.  I would always be different, exotic, cute.  I would always stand out, could not really hide behind my hair like I thought I could; wearing black as a teen probably made me stand out more; I could never be "goth" -- my melanin prevented this. 

The illusion of belonging to a dominant class was broken at moments of my parents being talked down to; or my mom being called "cute" --my lunchbox food called weird, and people fascinated by my hair and eyes.  At a point in fifth grade the adoration turned to a silent segregation, and I distinctly remember sitting, as though on a faraway island, looking at my increasingly distant best friend, freckles and blue eyes, and her other newer best friends, blond and red-haired, all pale like Strawberry Shortcake and Barbie and Madonna; all perfect American little girls, as they became a click and left me with Jasmine and Keisha, whom I liked and got along with but also resented because they reminded me of my darkness; somehow being with the two black girls made me feel that all together we were just this big blotch of ink; a shadow on the playground; invisible and disappearing while the rest of the world marched on. A child of ten does not invent such a feeling, and especially not in a small town like Pasco, given that race or racism was never directly talked about by my parents nor in school, that my friends were all oblivious to the subtle ways in which racism was being perpetuated and carried on by their parents.  I remember Luis and Juan and some sense about them being just weird or less-than; I remember Pedro who broke his arm doing antics on the slide; they were Mexican and were seen as the comic relief; they were the jokesters, the pranksters, and so they were loved.  But in a sort of adorable, little-brother way, not to be taken seriously, and certainly not to be the object of a crush.  There was my Indonesian friend, also adorable and smart but never to be the object of a crush; crushes would be reserved for the classically white-cute Jeff or John. (*all names have been changed)

I probably had picked up on or heard snippets of my fathers' frustration, when he was deflated or downright angry about the dynamics at the hospital.  It seemed that the Filipinos were helping the Filipinos but not enough (and what was it they need to help each other for, I wondered?) and the Indian doctors had to leave; and the white doctors all supported one other were not supporting him. We left the Tri-cities nearly losing everything, in debt and abandoning the beautiful house on the hill; I disappeared for years from the scene and moved like a nomad across the country five times before I was a sophomore in high school.

But that is another story.  Let's begin with the body here and see where it all changed.

In Houston, Texas, I learned, as abruptly as you could at the age of 11 in sixth grade, that yes, we were second class citizens, people who should go back "home" (and what home was that?) and who smelled (this being the Indian slur applied generically).  Or it was "ching chong" which really got me because immediately the sound summoned the most slanty-eyed cartoon I could imagine, someone who couldn't even see through the slits of their eyes; and I was proud to have large, almond eyes, eyes my father and others said were due to my Spanish ancestry.  Deer eyes, round eyes, eyes that were expressive.  And I loved to sing, and talk and dance, so how could anything be Ching Chong from my lips --what a bunch of gibberish; I knew nothing about Chinese culture, but I knew no one spoke like that.

I remember, too, that in Texas, my two best friends and I clung to one other, protecting one another from the harsh slurs and taunting and just plain stupidity of the typical hormonal 6th-grader.  We created a fortress by linking arms and always walked together in the narrow halls.  I remember being conscious of Shalini, our Indian third, being made fun of for her hairiness and/or her odor.  Grace was nearly perfect, I thought, but her being Vietnamese and me Filipina, still, we were Asian and this was something, apparently, bad.  Our biggest steretotype was perhaps to be too smart (how terrible). But this also had to go hand-in-hand with, or mean, not-attractive. God forbid you could be brown, smart and pretty at the same time; that idea was only a fantasy.

There is something that extends beyond the number of incidences that I may be able to name that were "racist" -- micro-aggressions, and simply systematic and historical realities that, once you are aware of them, you could not become unaware.  It was only much later, after college, that I became aware that we live in a society built upon slavery, and exploitation, and the murder of brown-skinned people who lived here before. Then I learned that in my islands there were indigenous people before came the Spaniards, and the Dutch, and the British, and the United States, before capitalism and westernized culture infected the minds and hearts and bodies; I learned that people in my islands wished to lighten their skin and go to great lengths to be light, to appear or be white, to speak white, to be Western, and to look down upon their own even before coming to the USA-- the exact process described by Fanon and Cesaire as internalized colonialism, internalized inferiority. I inherited the internalized inferiority complex: I wanted blond hair and blue eyes; I wanted a tall nose; I wanted to lose my melanin and tried to hide my shadow in the brightness of light-skinned people for much of my childhood and teenager-hood. I bought into believing my parents were less-than with their strong accents and "foreign” ways. If I did not -- how else would I ever belong?

It had to be systemic: how could a 10-year old invent the kind of complex that I recall dawning upon me like a heavy mist, a poisonous web, that I breathed into my lungs, that permeated my body.  To be ashamed of my parents' tongue, our skin color, our bone structure, our food, our culture, to be ashamed.

To be ashamed as a woman may be something very universal, and especially under Catholicism, the gift of the conquistador to the natives of our islands and the other islands they descended upon.  But to be ashamed to also be brown, to also hail from what I learned later were islands resembling, no, are actually, Paradise?  Why and how could we feel ashamed of this?  Why and how could we feel ashamed to come from Paradise, where people are warm, loving, communally-minded, resilient, culturally rich, creative, how can you possibly hate the place you came from that was Paradise?

The shame of our own bodies as brown and Filipina is a sad and shared experience.  And now there is the irony that while in most of the world, it's more superior to be light, but there is also the fascination, the desire to be darker, to nearly consume, our golden skin.  The irony that while lightness gains privilege, those same privileged envy – no, desire -- our melanin, our eyes and hair.  To be envied yet to be looked down upon at the same time.  To feel invisible in one moment, unimportant, seen as part of the help or someone who cannot speak for herself; and then in the next, seen as extremely intelligent, eloquent, and exotic.  I never really knew how to accept the "compliment" of being exotic; was I a fruit?  Was I something to eat?  Why not be beautiful, like a fully-conscious and complete and (in my mind, neutral or standard) person could be?  Couldn't I be complex and whole, too? Could we focus on normal things like ice cream flavors and what we liked to do, rather than dwell on the uncomfortable differentness of our bodies? I would have preferred to be smart, interesting and cool than to be exotic, any day.  The journey of loving this body and this skin has been many years in the making.  People are often surprised, because they see me as very Pinay proud, embracing my heritage and loving my body and brown skin.  It’s been an evolution.  For those of us who have lived outside of the liberal or progressive Bay Area, we’ve been exposed to different messages.  Even IN the liberal Bay Area, we have to fight to drown out the noise; to make our own voices of self-love even louder.

[mrsrcbinscn]

Based on a photograph Franny found of her mother, and her mother said she was singing You’re so Vain in the photo

 CW: mentions of war and genocide but no descriptions; the film takes place before 1975 so it wasn’t actively happening

Title: Dear Phnom Penh

Executive produced by: Franny Sor Robinson

Release date: April 22nd (Cambodia); May 6th (special screening at Pride U), May 8th (worldwide)

 Franny produced and selected the music for a movie set in pre-Khmer rouge Cambodia with dialogue in Khmer, French, and a little in English. The backdrop of the film is Cambodia, 1973, two years before the start of the Cambodian genocide.The main character is a university student named Pen Chenda, in the midst of her coming of age during the Cambodian Civil War (1968-1975) that led into the Khmer Rogue years (1975-1979) and subsequent genocide. Chenda almost can’t remember what life was like before there was war. Her older siblings tell her and their younger siblings stories of what peacetime was like, but her oldest brother laughs and says it wasn’t peacetime at all. Her oldest brother supports the communists, her father is a Lon Nol supporter, this causes tensions in their family mostly through snide comments at dinner and muffled shouting heard from outside her bedroom while she works on her coursework in one scene, and then is getting dressed to party in another.

 The Cambodian Civil War is in the background of the film, it is not a film about the Cambodian Civil War. It’s about Pen Chenda, a twenty year old university student, trying to pass her classes, earn money at her part-time job at a hotel for European tourists, maintain a social life, and keep her father and brother from ripping each other’s throats out while carrying on a clandestine romance with San Mittapheap / “Pierre” San, a journalist five years older than her who speaks fluent French and English and often works with French, American, and Australian journalists covering the war. One of her sisters snitched to their parents that she was sweet on a journalist because she blamed Chenda for telling her parents that she sneaked out of the house one night, but really it was another sister who ratted on her, and her parents forbade her from seeing him.

 “You know what happens to journalists and their families because they can’t keep their noses where they belong. Do you want to be collateral damage to your husband’s folly?”

 But Chenda is in looooooove and he’s so intelligent, and insightful, and he’s helping her improve her French and English!

 There’s a scene at a bar where Chenda sings You’re So Vain, like Franny’s mother in the picture, when a wealthy classmate of hers is being rude and hitting on her despite her repeatedly rejecting him that night, and even earlier in the movie.

 There’s another brief scene in the bar where Chenda’s dancing with her friends, then she sees the time and is abruptly like “gotta go bye!”

 After Chenda leaves the bar, she meets Pierre for street food instead of going straight home. They munch on chicken skewers and walk through Phnom Penh. A banana seller who clearly lost one of his legs to war hobbles on crutches and drunk!Chenda directly acknowledges the times they live in for the first time in the film.

 “Do you think the communists are right?” She asks Pierre after the man passes.

 Pierre is silent for a long moment, and the film’s score even fades out. It’s dead silent before he replies. “I think Prince Sihanouk and Lon Nol aren’t friends of the people. But I don’t know that Pol Pot is either. I think Ho Chi Mihn in Vietnam has better ideas than Pol Pot has got. And I think any leader that calls for blood louder than he calls to end suffering does not deserve to be a leader. I’ve heard rumors that he himself isn’t even one of the downtrodden he claims to fight for.”

 “Do you think Cambodia will be at war forever?”

 “I think France and America had no business being in our land in the first place, and war won’t ever stop if they’re still here. And if they leave...I don’t know that it will either. It’s like they’re begging us to flee to their borders to survive, but I’ve been to the West. They hate us there. Don’t destroy our homeland, and we will stay in it.”

 “My father supports Lon Nol. My oldest brother supports the communists. My sisters and I aren’t allowed to have an opinion on politics, but I’m afraid I have one and it’s that both Ba and Akrun are idiots. I’m worried most about the war destroying my family. Is that selfish?”

 “You love your family, don’t you?”

 “Yes.”

 “That’s why you’re worried, yes?”

 “Yes?”

 “Then no, I wouldn’t call that selfish. Love isn’t selfish. If it’s selfish, it isn’t love.”

 “The Bible. Are you just now telling me you are a Christian?”

 “No, just familiar with them. I happen to think they had the right idea about that quote. Are you?”

 “No, just familiar with them.”

 “I shouldn’t walk any close to your house. Your father will give you hell if he sees me...I’ll watch you walk in from here.”

 Chenda kisses Pierre and tells him she loves him, waves goodbye, and runs the rest of the way to her front door.

 The film ends in the next scene, with Chenda riding her bicycle to school the next day. She stops at a newspaper stand while waiting to cross a street and happens to look over. She spots a paper with the front page story having Pierre’s by line and she scrambles to pay for it before she’s clear to cross the street. 

 “My husband writes for this paper,” she fibs. “I want to keep his articles for our children.”

 “You have children, student?” says the newspaper stand guy.

 “Someday.” She manages to roll the paper up and put it in her backpack just before her time to cross the street.

 The camera slowly zooms out to reveal a scene of a bustling 1973 city and ultimately fades to black and the credits roll.

~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~

 A selection of questions and answers Franny’s answered about the film in interviews:

 What made you want to make this film? And how did you do it? You have some background in acting, but this is your first time being with a project from start to finish.

 Thank you, that’s a great question. So, the idea’s been with me for a long time. As anybody that’s followed my career will know, or who knows me in my personal life, I can’t shut up about three things. Cambodia, social justice, and banjos. When I was about to get married, my mother and I were goin’ through her photos that she managed to get her hands on from Cambodia. There was a picture of her at a bar singing with a microphone in her hand. I had no idea she liked to sing, at least not publicly, so I was like “Mak, this you? For real?” And I asked her if she was singing, like, a Pen Ran song or something. She looked at the picture and said, “No, no, I was singing...Carly Simon. You know the one. The-” and then she starts singing You’re So Vain! I know that American music found its way around the world even in the 1970s but I really did not expect that to be the story of that photograph.

 I’ve always wanted to make a film or a tv show about pre-Khmer Rouge Cambodia. All of the content about that country that we really see in the West is like...it’s Genocide porn. Films like The Killing Fields, and First They Killed My Father, those are important. Those are both great films. But Cambodia is more than that now and it was more than that then. I wanted to tell a story about young people in Cambodia right before everything went to hell; in a way, I wanted to make a film that was a love letter to my mother’s and my aunts’ and uncles’ youth. I wanted to pay homage to the ones I got to meet, and the ones who didn’t make it out the other side alive. That photograph of my mother put the idea in my head when I was 22, but for years it didn’t develop very far.

 Six years ago, I sat down with my go-to music video director for my Cambodian-market content, and one of his friends who had directed a few low-budget films in Cambodia, and I told them what I wanted to do, and all I need is to meet with some film writers to discuss a storyline, and who would the two of them recommend. They linked me up with two film writers, one that was very in demand in their indie film market, and one who did some more mainstream work. They became the two main writers on the project.The director my friend introduced me to was the director, and my friend became the AD. I’d already conducted interviews with all of my relatives who were willing to speak on their experiences in Cambodia in the 60s and 70s. You know, my cousins and I’ve worked on several projects together. A documentary and a couple books about our family history. So I already had a wealth of recorded interviews worth of research.

 We spent two years workshopping the script and storyline, and finally were ready to start casting.

About the ending. Why did you and the director and screenwriter choose to end it like that?

I wanted the film to end abruptly with no neat tie-a-ribbon-around-it ending. This isn’t a story about the end of a life, or even the end of a specific season in someone’s life. It starts and ends in the middle of a period of Pen Chenda’s life. It’s a slice of life period film that has a love story, a family story, and politics and war seemingly in the background but by the end, you realize that the conflict in her country was in the foreground of the film all along. It’s a story about a young woman trying to live her damn life in the middle of a civil war.

What do you say to people who say the film trivializes the conflict at the time? I’d ask them why they think every other aspect of life at the time doesn’t matter. Life doesn’t stop just because war’s come to your country...until your city, your town, your village is hostin’ the fightin’, you still go to work, you go to school, you fight with your mom and dad, you fall in love. Some of my mother’s oldest siblings got married in the middle of the Cambodian Civil War. They had babies.  My mother was a university student in Phnom Penh just like Chenda is in the film. This isn’t a film about the bloodshed of war; it’s a movie about the people it affects long before they see violence with their own eyes.

 I can’t help but wonder what happens to Chenda and Pierre after the movie’s ending. Do you have any insight into that?

 I think with the way the movie ended, with them on very good terms, we can assume that they got married. I think history clues us in on the rest. Considering Pierre’s a trilingual journalist and Chenda is a university student...they would have had to flee before the fall of Phnom Penh or lied their asses off to have any shot at surviving the Khmer Rouge years. 

 How important was it for you to find an all Cambodian cast for the movie?

 Oh, it was vital. I wanted Cambodia Cambodians as much as possible too, and not oversea Cambodians like me, so that their accents would be authentic. I had some potential investors back out when I refused to hold auditions in the US and France to pull from the Cambodian diaspora there. But this isn’t a story set in a time period where a whole lot of Cambodians would’ve gone abroad to travel much less live. 

 The actor that plays Pierre, actually, when we cast him we had to rework the character a little. Originally, he just had a Cambodian name. But the actor, Jean Sok, is French-Cambodian. He was born in France to first generation French-Cambodians, but went to school in Cambodian from age seven through eighteen, studied acting and music in France and London, and he now lives in Cambodia full time. His Khmer is excellent, but there is this very slight -- his time abroad shows. Not as badly as mine when I speak Khmer, but there’s just this little tinge of a French accent that I frankly can’t notice but the local Cambodians on the project did. So we slipped into the script several reminders that he studied abroad in France, that he’s very steeped in French language, even gave him a French name he goes by that he adopted because of his dealings with Western journalists. 

 Apart from him, all of the main cast are Cambodians born and raised in Cambodia. And there is only one other actress with a speaking role that’s an overseas Cambodian.

I read that you’ve recently quit your day job teaching at Pride University in England to focus on your creative career. Are there more film and tv projects in the future from you?

 I have ideas, yes. I’m of course mainly focusing on music, but I am in talks to work on various projects in some capacity. Mostly curating the soundtracks, but there’s acting roles and possible producing credits down the pipe, yes.

[alienfangs-mov]

One of his better moments

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