#and god last year i said multiple times to shifty that i wished i had a fandom that i could wallow in as a happy place distraction

[silveredsound]

How you go from harry styles to hockey I will never understand.

I was going to make a little joke, as I do, (would have been v hilarious, best joke ever pls know this) and leave it at that. But like, it's been raining for over 24 hours, it's 2am and it might be good for me to reflect a little.. So sorry anon I am going emote all over your ask (which (the ask) sounds a bit judgey tbh but the written word is NOT a great conveyor of tone so that might be on me.)

On one hand it's just fandom. And, I think it's been pretty clear that as much as I love Henry Stars, I'm not like, a 'Harry is the be all and end all of all music creation and creativity and actions.' I like him for the good and the bad, and I don't leave critical thinking at the door. (Not saying I'm the only person to do this, just that it's hard sometimes in fan spaces and Stans definitely do..)

Which, can make it hard to participate in fandom as a lot of people are not great at irony, or accepting that someone else can say, god damn that is a terrible song - and that it's okay for that to happen. It doesn't mean that the person who expressed the neg opinion is not still a fan of the artist they were speaking about. Same with if the artist you are a fan of does something that gives you the ick.

I def learnt this when Harry went to Google Camp the first time. Like obviously I've been around 1d fandom in some way since 2012 ish I think it was - and it was my own reaction to Harry going to Camp Douchebags the first time that made me go, oh jeez Silv, you are a bit too involved in the parasocial relationship here. Like I was genuinely upset that he'd done something I thought was so dumb and wanky.

Anyway, clearly I still loved - love - him and I celebrated him and spent a fuckload of money on him and engaged in fandom and etc etc. But I just did at that point I think turn a little from heading in a very blinkers on version of fandom to one that's def more me - where you just get to have fun, make fun be creative, make friends! and have a bit of a perv depending on the silk cream vanilla ice cream outfit Harry might be wearing in Nashville.

I like RPF. I mean I like all transformative works and fandom extending and enhancing source material via creation, but I don't have an issue with RPF. I believe in 4th wall. And I clearly have written 1d fic. A lot of my good fandom mates, and real life best friend(s) are people I have met through sharing a love of writing in fandom spaces. Obviously all the best writers in 1d went to Hockey. And I stayed here. And I tried. I wanted to be where my friends where. I had fomo and I was lonely! My fandom had changed in a few ways all around the same time.

But Hockey is very confusing, (for starters as I often say to Angela or Joanna, snow is fake) and nothing clicked for me - it seemed large and I had no idea where to even start and I didn't really try.

But I think the change in some fandom fellow participants, and also anons being mean when they would get even a glimpse in their peripheral that I might have vaguely indicated that Henry did something that I thought was dumb or embarrassing, or just not that good, (it's no fun sharing a thought and feeling chatty about it, and wanting to engage with other people's thoughts if some random is going to anonymously tell you that you are a dumb c*nt and should delete etc etc so I stopped sharing any thoughts at all.) Of course Nick leaving breakfast and then R1 altogether - as well as obviously my whole life narrowing to a point that was just tend Mama- work - tend mama - work - tend mama - sleep - grow a tumour - tend mama left me not so much time for proper joyful engagement.

And then, in Jan/Feb this year, I think as I'd been looking at book reviews and as soon as you search for a book on tik tok they push book tok romance reviews into your feed and I think then that pushed an actual hockey clip (which is a really shite 4th wall issue as is the whole Kraken thing etc) and I can't even remember what it was but I know I then swiped through and watched other videos on the account and like 1d being adorable shites repeating stock answers and sitting on top of each other I was intrigued by what seemed to be very dumb and very entertaining.

But Silv, you cry, what about the emotions! You need emotions! Ah, yes, see, because I am nothing but devoted I had followed Angela and La's hockey blogs, and something La posted grabbed my attention and I followed a link and read an article and I was like. Oh, I want to read more about these kids. So I did. And after a little while I reached out to La and was like, um, I think I get it. And I posted something about the Fantilli Bros and then Max reached out and tbh I don't think anything says it better than my wide eyed enthusiasm reply. (You are probably by now thinking, Silv why is your answer to Max so short, why didn't I just get a paragraph? This is an endless essay with no conclusion or indeed a thesis statement, (that is if you have even made it down to here) & anon I can only apologise.)

I am really enjoying learning so many new things, being welcomed into a new space of connection and joy and silliness and emotional breakdowns. It's been so lovely to meet new people who are so excited to share their niche interest with you and no one minds how many questions I have and everyone searches out Primera and Important Past Instagram Posts from the archives - and of course reconnecting with people who I have always been friends with, fandom changes didn't change that, but it's delightful chatting much more often. The other day Angela and I watched an Avs game together via Tumblr chats, which was delightful, to learn about the team and to talk about random other things, and I've spent my last month of Saturdays watching umich with lovely people who La introduced me to, and having MANY EMOTIONS. (It's like hanging out all posting about a show's fits and one liners and if he's going to sing medicine but it's many pantomime gooseberrys. The performative homoeroticisim, wild hair, jokes, punching (only now during not pre show work outs ) and very goddamn impressive skill and physicality is actually pretty similar). Meghan and I have been able to chat through our very similar horrible experiences with cancer and mums with cancer and it's been so lovely and strengthening to be able to share that experience with a person who beyond gets it, and then also I've been able to announce to her that I want to write a fic about 5 ways Nolan saw god with the UMich Bible Study Group but didn't find faith. which is obviously a completely ridiculous concept but equally worthy of discussion. It's this that I love so much about fandom friendship - you share SO much because you are sharing something that gives you intimate joy, so the relationship always starts from a place of an automatic mutual understanding and empathy - and from there we make it our own.

But also, I really like the game. Like I love watching them play, all of them! It's fast (obviously - and oblig have to say - ice is slippery) and it's hard - and they make it look easy. When one of the special players (they are all special, but one of the ones who play almost with innate ability) makes a pass or a turn sometimes it's almost almost magic, like how the fuck did they see that gap between four players, and did you see how they kept the puck a moment longer so they could release it perfectly into the lane !! Hot.

The game can be all encompassing and it's SO SO SO silly. Like it's the dumbest sport. It's The Show. I'll put on ESPN and stream a match while I'm working during the day (the time difference is perfect for once) and I'm spending time cos I want to, learning the rules and the logistics and business side of it all. And of course, the differences between college hockey and the show. Idk. It just clicked on so many levels for me.

And so, I have no idea why it took me so long to transition from Henry to Hockey, but I am not surprised I did now that I have - it def wasn't something that I was bloody expecting. And Anon I will say this, the last few years of my life have been sad, hard, and tbh shitty. Now, I know what it's like to have fucked years, so I am not saying this to try to be and show off but 2024 feels a bit better. I feel clearer, I have started to lose some weight (15ish kg so far depending on the time of the month) and now I have a meeting w a PT on Tuesday as I actually don't care what I weigh but I want to get stronger and reduce my visceral fat as it will be better for hormones which is better for lessening my cancer reoccurrence %.

God knows it's (2024) not all roses, I literally had surgery again a fortnight ago and the cost of living in Sydney is giving me so much anxiety. I am still a terribly disorganised mess, my work is undergoing a complete restructure (thanks NSW gmnt) and my clean washing is NEVER folded and put away, it's always in the basket - but I feel so happy and entertained and creative - I am writing again! like it's joy. It's ye olde you are who you are at this moment but you are also the 4 year old you and the 15, 27, 34 year old you - girlhood (non gendered concept of not literal interpretation) and I love it. 💛🩵🌱

[youwerenevermeanttofeelalone]

Pretty Girl | Damian Wayne

✦ pairing — older!Damian Wayne x Plus Size Reader (she/her)

✦ word count — 3.9k

✦ request — I was wondering a Older Damien Wayne x plus size shy reader, where they were friends since young and were each other’s first and broken up. Now older they meet up at their high school reunion and maybe Damien still loves her and her being a shy, jealous person when meeting his date. And idk if you do this but if so maybe smut after the end

✦ warnings — angst, a little bit of jealousy, nsfw, smut, it’s talked about beforehand but still: unprotected sex (please don’t do this), vaginal sex, oral sex (female receiving), fluff.

❖︎・・・・・❖︎・・・・・❖︎・・・・・❖︎

You were regretting having let Jon convince you to attend a high school reunion. There wasn’t a single person you wanted to see that you hadn’t met up with prior to the event.

Jon said it would be a good opportunity to relive fun experiences. He promised he’d be with you the entire time. And he kept his promise — until Damian arrived.

Your anxiety spiked up, Jon could hear it clearly. He could also hear Damian’s heartbeat when he saw you. Swallowing harshly upon realizing the youngest member of the Wayne family had brought a date, you excused yourself.

Both Jon and Damian followed you with their eyes. Jon shook his head, aware of what was going on. He of course couldn’t burst into the bathroom and console you, Jon had done it a few times throughout high school when Damian wasn’t around for whatever reason and your nerves got the best of you but this time it would look like something else since you guys had arrived together.

Ever the shy sweet girl, you had often told him he shouldn’t worry. But Jon cared, and he could see how the predicament of physically following you was tearing Damian apart too.

Jon greeted Damian and his date curtly, only with a nod. Glaring at his best friend, he motioned for him to follow him to a more private area.

Faking a smile, Damian asked his date to wait for him.

“What do you think you are doing?!”

“Attending the reunion you told me I couldn’t skip. I assumed you would be happy.”

“You’re so full of crap.” Jon shook his head, crossing his arms against his chest. He had always been able to read Damian like a book, the same way Clark did with Bruce — his powers helped, but he didn’t need them, not when Damian was more expressive than he presumed.

Damian gave it all away by staring at the hallway, fixing his eyes on the door he had hidden behind with you multiple times.

“Aaaaand you’re a moron,” Jon added.

He would never say it out loud, but Damian knew Jon was right. Walking past his best friend, whom he genuinely adored and appreciated, Damian went back to his date. She was chatting up with people like she had known them for years.

They quieted down when he arrived, solemnly nodding their heads in attempts of greeting him respectfully. He searched the room for your best friend, forgetting that she had moved out for college and never returned to Gotham.

He acknowledged his date by name, “Would you do me a favor?”

Nodding, she listened carefully as he guided her away from the curious people.

You wondered if there was something wrong with you. Not with the way you looked or anything like that, just… just with you. Shyness had never gone away like your parents hoped when you were a child, and it had never bothered you until now.

Your chest tightened more and more at a fast pace. It felt different from anything you had experienced before. Huffing out, you leaned on your forearms against the skin and looked at your reflection in the mirror.

A blurry face was the only thing you found. Blinking rapidly, your reflection only turned blurrier. The bathroom felt hot, you would have broken into a sweat if you hadn’t been wearing a dress.

The bathroom door creaked open, startling you. You had expected to see a former classmate, giving you a tight smile and a pitiful look. You would’ve preferred that.

Damian’s date closed the door behind her. “Are you alright?” her voice was gruff, but you could tell the question had been genuine.

You nodded, avoiding her eyes. “The second stall is the best,” you murmured.

She ignored your comment and went straight to the point. “Could you please come out?”

How dare Jon send her to convince you? Hadn’t he realized the reason you couldn’t stay there was because you were miserably jealous?

The door opened again, that time you saw the ex-cheerleader captain enter. As you had predicted, she smiled at you and gave you a pitiful look — her eyes focused on the woman accompanying you for a fleeting moment, in how different the two of you were.

Feeling your throat lock up, you nodded again at Damian’s date. She opened the door for you, letting you out first.

Damian was outside the bathroom, with his hands behind his back and his attention solely on the door. His date walked past him without sparing him a glance, but you couldn’t.

You had never been able to ignore him and his magnetic aura, the hope of that changing vanished the second you saw him enter the gymnasium.

Unconsciously, you looked for Jon. It was unusual for him not to be around Damian. Feeling the familiar weight of Damian’s gaze on your face, you stood beside him.

“She’s pretty,” you told him honestly in a rasp, avoiding his eyes.

She was, everyone thought so. He felt shitty for bringing her there, not because he had lied to her or anything but because he had been right and you would react harshly. It was all he wanted, a reaction from you, a sign no matter how small that you were still interested.

“Jon’s not ugly,” he countered, fully aware that you weren’t dating his best friend.

Shrugging, you put more distance between the two of you. “Have a nice evening,” you wished him before walking away.

You couldn’t do it. Being around him hurt more than it should have. Relationships ended all the time, yours had expired because that was how life worked. There hadn’t been bad blood between you, but now you wished it had.

When you entered the bathroom to stay away from the gorgeous couple you partially had done so to make up an excuse to leave. Jon wouldn’t believe it, but he could never stay mad at you so it didn’t matter.

Still having feelings for a high school sweetheart was something out of romantic comedies. Everything about your relationship with Damian had been, to be completely honest. Childhood friends, the popular guy and the shy chubby girl, a sad break up that she didn’t get over of when he had moved on.

You had dated people after him, but every relationship had fizzled out for a reason. And the reason was green eyes and cocky smiles. You had lied to yourself and blamed it on your social skills, you weren’t outgoing enough and it was a turn-off for some — but the truth, the truth was worse, it had never been a turn-off nor a problem for anyone because you knew how to choose your partners. They simply weren’t Damian Wayne.

Waving goodbye at Jon from afar, you failed to notice you were being followed until you reached the parking lot.

“(Y/N), come on.”

You had missed the tone he used when saying your name. It hadn’t changed since you last heard it.

“I have things to—“

“You can't lie to me,” Damian cut you off.

“Uhmmm, could you just… leave me alone?”

He knew you didn’t mean it. “No.” Damian grabbed you from the wrist upon seeing the hesitance on your face. “Can we talk?”

“Not a good idea.”

He hated your short answers and the fact that you didn’t seem to trust him anymore. Fuck, he should’ve listened to Jon. To Jon from all people in his life!

“Please? There’s a new coffee shop nearby, it won’t take long.”

“I don’t want your girlfriend to think anything bad.”

Damian sighed deeply. He would sound pathetic. Fuck it. “She’s not my girlfriend.”

Oh. So he had fully moved on, then.

He saw heartbreak in your shifty eyes and couldn’t stop regret from overwhelming him. You weren’t able to speak, too surprised by the revelation to try and hide it anymore. She was everything you envisioned him with, pretty and mysterious with smooth skin and cold eyes.

God, maybe you had never been enough for his standards and now it was catching up on you. Or maybe his taste had changed. Either way, you couldn’t do anything about it.

Snatching your hand off his grip, you continued your path toward the street. Your legs felt heavy as you crossed the parking lot, like they used to after having to do a presentation in front of the entire class when you were a teenager.

The difference was that Damian had been there to steady you. He’d always tell you how well everything had gone and how proud he was — no one believed he could be that tender or attentive but you had seen it with your own eyes and felt it at every level of the word.

He hadn’t tried to run after you this time. A part of you had wished for it to happen, it would have been nice to not feel like you were drowning in your one-sided very much alive romantic feelings. Who even loves someone for that long?! You had never thought it would be possible, how could it when Damian and you had fallen out of love? Turns out only he had.

You reached your apartment complex in one piece, walking slower than you had intended and forcing yourself not to cry. The empty elevator, usually comforting, felt way too big.

As the doors slid open, you stepped outside with the intention of calling your best friend. Telling her she had been right would be everything but fun, and telling her it would have been easier if she was there would hurt.

Turning the lights on, you kicked your shoes off and walked directly to the kitchen. You needed a glass of wine — or the entire bottle, yes, that.

“Did you really forget to doublecheck for intruders like I taught you?”

You jumped, dropping the glass in your grasp. Damian was behind you in a second, apologizing for startling you.

“What are you doing here?”

Glass shards crushed under his shoes as he shifted. “I need to talk to you.”

You stood on your toes, trying not to hurt yourself as you stared down at the shattered cup to assess how to get away from the shards without touching Damian.

“Could you uh… move?”

“Will you leave me here standing like an idiot?”

It took you a moment to shake your head.

As you cleaned, he snooped around. He had never been inside your apartment. Damian had been about to drop by once, but he decided it would be for the best if he stayed away. He had only lied to himself with good intentions that hurt him more in the long term.

He still kept tabs on you. His siblings laughed, saying he was whipped after all those years. Only his father understood the way he felt, perhaps because Bruce himself had gone through that with Selina or because he was glad his son was finally comfortable with being human and the vulnerability it came with. The truth was more simple: he cared about you and there was nothing he could do to stop that.

Every time he had heard you were dating someone else it broke his heart. He had dated around too, but much less than you had — he didn’t have time for non-committing relationships, and he didn’t want a committed relationship with anyone but you.

“Did you hurt yourself?” he asked when you joined him in the living room.

“No,” you mumbled.

That should have been the moment where you offered him something to drink, but you were hoping the visit wouldn’t extend for more than five minutes.

Damian wasn’t sure how to touch upon the subject. Small talk wasn’t his thing and you had always felt uncomfortable with it so that wasn’t an option. Why couldn’t he just say it bluntly? That was his specialty, you had always giggled at how unsubtle he was.

“I still love you.”

“Is that why you’re getting married?”

“What?” Fuck, he had been such an idiot for not explaining himself with the proper words. “I am not.”

“Oh.” You made a pause, staring down at your lap where you let your hands drop. “Well, you took her as your date to something important and you said she wasn’t your girlfriend so…”

He didn’t consider a high school reunion as important, but he easily kept that to himself. “I thought you would take someone else when Jon told me you would be there,” he explained, “I didn’t want to look like an idiot in front of everybody, that’s it.”

Well, he made you look like one instead.

Damian rounded the coffee table in the middle of the living room to sit down next to you.

“Look at me?” You denied him. “(Y/N).” Still no reaction. “Beloved, please?”

Your breath hitched. His heart almost melted right there. Carefully, Damian placed his knuckles under your chin and pushed it upward. He then softly cupped your cheek, feeling the acceleration of your heart rate as your jugular jumped under the tip of his middle finger.

You finally stared into his eyes. Hundreds of times you had gotten lost in them — before your first kiss, throughout the first time he made love to you, the first time you were introduced as his girlfriend… his eyes had always grounded you while letting you drown in them.

“Tell me you still love me,” he pleaded.

“I don’t think I have to say it,” you admitted. It was painfully obvious he still knew you perfectly.

“I need to hear it.”

Not strong enough to deny him, you whispered, “I still love you.”

His mouth was on yours immediately. He kissed you fervently as his free hand rested on your thigh while one of your own flew to the back of his neck. Damian was elated with the effusiveness you were kissing him back, holding his head in place and taking control of the kiss completely.

It had been so long since he had you for the last time that he had forgotten what arousal really felt like. His senses were too alive as your tongue explored his mouth, dizzying him with every sigh that escaped you.

Your fingers trailed down his torso, slowly yet firm. He caressed your thigh, so soft and tempting. He couldn’t wait to sink his teeth on them again. In consequence, the bruising kiss came to an end — you bit down his bottom lip, pulling on it as you stared into his eyes.

Damian grunted, withdrawing his hand from your face to grip your waist. Your hands slid down in reaction, the one on his nape to his back and the one on his stomach to his crotch. His bulge twitched under the weight of your warm palm.

He sighed your name, aching for your touch. It was borderline pathetic how easily you got him going. You leaned in to kiss his jaw, not taking your hand off his crotch but not applying more pressure either — Damian moved his head so he could kiss you on the mouth, impatient to get more of you.

“You don’t know how much I want you,” he interrupted the kiss to say, wet mouth on top of yours as he spoke.

You giggled, cupping his bulge. “I think I do.”

His grunt sent chills down your spine. Damian’s grip on your waist tightened as he pushed you to lay down on the couch. His lips were immediately on yours again, sloppily kissing you while his palms dragged up your thighs. Reaching the rim of your skirt, he stopped to ask for permission to lift it.

You granted it to him, nodding as your nose brushed his. He slipped his hands under the material first, taking his time to trace your thighs.

“I missed you so much,” he said against your jaw before dragging his lips down your neck.

You angled your neck, giving him as much access as he needed. Feeling his smile on your skin, you started to unbutton his shirt, struggling to get past the middle. Damian’s fingers brushed your clothed core, making you whine loudly.

Bunching your skirt up, he pressed his knuckles against your core, using his other hand to hold the skirt so it wouldn’t fall. You pushed him off you, sitting up and eventually standing off the couch.

Assessing you would take the dress off, Damian finished the job you had started with his shirt, with urgency, throwing it to the side. He was about to start undoing his pants when he caught the sight in front of him.

There had always been something stupidly hot about seeing you in mismatched underwear. You looked down at your body, just to check what it was he was staring at. You hadn’t really paid attention to what you were wearing when you left the apartment, too unmotivated to attend the reunion to really care. It had ended up playing in your favor. Good one, (Y/N).

The sound of his pants being unzipped ignited something in the pit of your stomach. Out of reflex, you rubbed your legs against each other.

You assumed he would stand up when he kicked his shoes off and discarded his pants, but Damian instead got into his knees, placing his hands on your back. Trailing open-mouthed kisses over your thigh, from the outside to the inside, he pulled your panties down, giving you mere seconds to kick them to the side. He used to finger you first, but this time around he skipped it — probably because you were too aroused already. Pulling you toward his face as he grabbed you by the ass, his mouth latched onto your clit.

Gasping in pleasure at the sensation of his tongue licking a stripe from your clit to your entrance, you gripped his hair. Damian buried his face between your thighs, letting you pull him as closely as you needed. His nose bumped against your clit, tongue dipping into your entrance.

You moaned his name, tugging on his hair. He swiped his tongue upward, shifting his face to now suck on your clit. Your hand slid down to the base of his neck to which you held onto, closing your eyes tightly when his finger brushed your entrance from behind.

“Okay,” you breathlessly said, pulling his face from between your thighs. “I need you.”

Teasing you was far from his head. Damian jumped to his feet, meeting your mouth in a needy kiss as he guided you back to the couch. You tasted yourself in his hot tongue, parting from him only to find you weren’t satisfied and kissing him again.

Damian almost ripped his underwear off, too eager to really care. Kneeling between your thighs, he stared down at you as he asked, “Condom?”

“Pill,” you assured him, a little abashed. “Unless you’re not—“

“I’m clean.”

“Cool.”

He snorted, brushing his tip up and down your slit as he held his shaft on his hand. “Ready?”

You nodded, bucking your hips up and pursing your lips in excitement. Damian entered you slowly, leaning over at the same pace. With his face in your cleavage, he waited for you to get used to him again.

“Fuck,” he cursed through a groan. You were warm around him, walls clenching up in reflex as your chest heaved over his face.

Placing your hands on his biceps, you whispered for him to move. He complied, huffing in pleasure on your skin. Sucking on the uncovered parts of your chest, Damian let his hands trace your sides for a moment.

It wasn’t enough for either of you. He shifted, leaving a kiss on your lips as he pulled away from your torso. Still connected with you, Damian gripped your hips and started a quicker pace.

Grabbing your thighs, he pulled you closer to have you rest your calves on his shoulders. The new angle made you squeal. He would draw blood from his bottom lip if he continued biting, but he couldn’t stop himself. His initial plan had been to take his time but it was getting harder to follow said plan.

Gripping the edge of the back of the couch, you gazed up at him. “It’s okay,” you breathed out, “go faster.”

You didn’t have to tell him twice, Damian pulled his hips back only to slam into you. You had really missed the burn only he could give you, rocking into you faster the more you tightened around him.

He ghosted your clit with his thumb, circling it lightly as he found a rhythm with his hips. Cursing as you arched your back, you bucked against his thumb and cock.

His moans were like music to your ears, eyes clenched shut and Adam’s Apple bobbing as his thrusts grew sloppy. Your head fell back with a particularly deep thrust, the strangled moan coming out of your mouth only prompting him to move his thumb faster.

He had you leaving out a string of whimpers rather quickly. Your reaction went straight to his cock, ragging his breathing as your walls clenched at every stroke of his cock against them.

Opening his eyes as he felt sweat drip down the side of his face, Damian hovered over your equally sweaty body, kissing you through your orgasm. Your hands flew to his shoulders where you sunk your nails in attempts of keeping him close, repeating his name between short kisses as he relentlessly fucked you.

“Come for me, pretty girl,” he moaned as your walls squeezed his cock.

Your mouth hung open after a long whimper, you just couldn’t take it anymore. He watched as your pretty face contorted in pleasure under him, hands sliding down his biceps as you came undone around his throbbing cock.

He called your name through a cry, resting his forehead on yours. “You wanna cum?” you whispered a question, feeling him twitch inside you.

“Shit,” he groaned, nose bumping yours, “yes.”

Cupping his face, you hummed. Damian’s muscles tightened under your touch and over your soft body as he finished inside you, warm cum coating your walls.

He stayed there for a few moments, catching his breath. Eventually, he slipped out of you slowly. You whimpered, feeling cum drip down your folds. Damian smirked in satisfaction upon noticing the semen flowing down your thigh.

“White door to your right,” you instructed him. “There are clean towels under the sink.”

Handing you a damp towel, he waited for you to take it to then withdraw his cellphone.

“Gotta go?”

He shook his head. “Letting Dick know I’m fine.”

You reached for your panties, standing up in order to slip them on. Damian pouted, dropping the mobile device onto the couch as his hands were placed on your waist.

“I love you,” he said.

You said it back, having missed telling him just because you could. “I love you more.”

He could have fought you on it, but he preferred kissing you softly, breaking into a smile in the middle of the kiss when you wrapped your arms around him. You dropped your head onto his chest as the kiss ended, leaving a peck on his sternum.

Sliding his hands toward your lower back, tracing it up, he stopped at the clasp of your bra. Damian whined, “We didn’t even take this off!”

Giggling on his skin, you slightly parted from him to gaze up. He lifted both eyebrows suggestively, making you roll your eyes. Placing your hands on the sides of his torso to put more distance between his body and yours, you told him, “I need a nap first.”

He took a hand off your back to motion for you to lead the way to your bedroom, never not in the mood for cuddling you.

[snowflake-apocalypse]

“English is a difficult language. It can be understood through tough thorough thought, though.”

“You need to stop.”

It’s been six months since the formation of Global Justice’s new aces, “Team Go-Possible”. Though, the rhyme and reason of it was wrong, Shego was actually enjoying the partnership with her former rivals. Dare she ever admit it out loud. The three grew to have a good dynamic, she thought. Between conversations about world events and the audacity of Club Banana creating a brach-off store, to the double-edged sarcasm they dished out to their adversaries in combat.

Team GP’s missions took them near and far around globe. This time, it was a nuclear power plant in the blustery Netherlands. Some madman claiming the greed of the world has grown to great. That he was the salvation it needed. His answer to said salvation? Implode the richest nuclear power plant in the world to prove his point.

This has got to be the seventh extremist kook we’ve taken on this month.. though the dude’s not wrong..

Kim and Shego are in route to the mountain side factory. Shego landing their sleek jet on an empty field with concentrated ease.“Okie dokie, let’s go get Mr. Doom Gloom before he turns the mountain side into a mushroom cloud-.” Shego powers their craft down, switching various instruments this way and that.

“-Don’t know about you, Kimmie but I’m looking forward to the bocca coffee. No stupid avalanche is going to ruin that.”

Double checking her equipment, Kim spares the woman a glance. “Heh, glad to know where your priorities are, Shego.-” Kim directs her attention to their mission control via comm link.

“-Hey, Wade you got a lock on our position?”

“Always do.” From GJ headquarters, the tech wiz of the team zooms his screen in on their target.

“That is the most creepy, heartwarming thing I’ve heard from you, Load.” Shego quips, donning her green and black cold weather apparel. When she accepted Betty’s offer, the one thing she swore is that she was keeping her colors.

“Uh..thanks? Anyway, I’ve scanned the interior of the facility, the reactor is located in the south side of the building.” Through the wrist-worn Kimmunictor, a holographic layout of the factory appears. Detailing the whereabouts of their target, only one heat signature appears on the layout. The reactor, they assume.

“Wade, this guy is working alone?” Kim quizzical asks, zooming in on the projection.

“From my latest update, yes. The building has been evacuated for safety. No other intel I’ve collected suggests multiple culprits.-“

Wade swipes through the limited file he has on their perp. He had an uneasy feeling about this caper, but couldn’t justify it from a hunch. “-But, please still be careful, you two.”

Shego, after getting one last solid look at the diagram, closes her hand on the blueprint. “Will do, dad. Thanks.”

——

Approaching the bolted door of the factory, Kim still voiced her concerns., “Y’know, I just wished we had more information on this guy.”

Shego directs a small concentration of searing plasma at the deadlock, freeing the door. “Yeah, well I wished they’d appear at GJ’s doorstep. Or just stayed home.”

Cautiously pushing the door open, Shego scans the left side of the interior, while Kim covers the right.

“Okay, Wade. It looks as empty as you said.- Wade? Wade.” Kim, only being met with silence, tries and fails to reach their partner. Somewhere along the trek, the so-called incorruptible signal was lost.

“Fan-freakin’-tastic. Guess the altitude is the weakness.” Rolling her eyes, Shego marches on. “Let’s just shut this joint down before we get any more surprises.” Despite her quiet tone, Shego’s voice echos throughout the vast building.

Creeping through the corridors, the women stay on alert. Passing abandoned offices, break rooms, only Kim’s quiet chatter fills the space. “Hey, about that coffee, you also want to stop at Portugal of the Little Ones?”

“Are you serious, Possible? You want to visit a tiny replica city in Portugal?” Shego raises an eyebrow in Kim’s direction.

“...Yeah.”

If you don’t stop making that damn face...

“..Okay, fine. Portugal.” Shego huffs in faux annoyance. The pair rounded the corner to the vast power center of the facility, the two spot the ticking time bomb.

“Bingo!” Shego exclaimed, running up to the reactor. Which had been armed with specialized munitions.

“This is new.. Newer. What the hell kind of explosive is this?” The younger agent puzzles.

The device, almost cybernetic, jet-black with a single blinking blue light. Upon closer examination, Shego makes out a faintly marked two-pronged arch on the surface. Gaping at the realization, she snaps of her shock.

“No.. No way...”

“What’s up? What is it?”

“This looks like a prototype product of Gemini’s splinter cell scientists. Before he broke off to W.E.E. It’s not on a timer, it’s remote detonation.”

“Gemini? Hold on, then how is some random guy get a his hands on-“

Before Kim could finish her statement, a man’s honeyed voice breaks through the atmosphere.

“Well, you always were the most observant of the team, Shego. Bravo.”

On the grated deck before them, stood a man. Medium build, piercing blue eyes, a mop of brown hair turning grey. All pulled together by a navy trench coat and tactical cargo slacks.

“Sorry, don’t think we’ve met. Unless I’ve taken you hostage or saved you from a flooding city before.” Shego deadpanned, hands resting on her hips.

Leisurely leaning on the rail of the balcony, a shiftiness displayed in his eyes. “Oh no, I didn’t expect you to be familiar with me. But I have been following the folly of Global Justice’s new dream team. I must say, you are quite the force to be reckoned with.”

“And we really don’t want you to find out why.” Kim interjects, conviction lacing her voice.

“-So if you could hand over the remote, shut down the detonation, then maybe we can reach an agreement.”

“Possible. Kim. Of all the people in the bloody world, I thought you would be one to know.. it’s never that simple.” Faster than her reflexes, the man draws a sleek laser-gun from his coat and fires upon the unsuspecting woman.

Center mass.

Direct hit.

“Gah!” With a cry, Kim covers the wound with her hand, bracing herself on her knees.

“Hey!” Shego booms. Hands ablaze, she charges their suspect... no, enemy now.

Kim, biting back the shock and pain, rises to her feet.

Damnit... Sloppy. Get up, Possible.

Kim averts her concentration back to the reactor. Without Wade, she scrambles to find a bypass way of disarming the bomb.

Firing scorching blast after blast, Shego dodges the rounds aimed at her. The room being filled with the leaden smell of burning metal, as the balcony gave way to the force of plasma.

“I swear, that god-forsaken organization is more concerned with the stock market and shiny toys than actual global security-and you! You radioactive madwoman, turn your back on your very profession! The Emerald Rage can’t even decide who’s side she’s on!” Anger and outrage boiling from the man the closer she got.

“Yeah.. y’know your twenties when you’re trying figure shit out... a lot of grey area and robberies in there.” Flipping onto the grate, Shego faces the man with a controlled fury.

“Oh, also I’m on my side and no one else’s. Which, coincidently is the side that doesn’t want a giant crater in the middle of the Netherlands!” Weaving between a few more shots, Shego disarms the man. She restrains him in a firm, plasma-fortified grip. Not enough juice for a second degree burn, but it sure wasn’t comfortable.

“Hello.” The welcome rolling off his tongue like an invitation.

Abruptly Shego is met with a viscous head-butt and a solid tungsten bracelet around her wrist.

“Grrr-! What the hell-!?” Collecting her wits, Shego paws at the metal. Kicking up the intensity of her powers in hopes of liquifying the substance.

Her foe stands back in smug satisfaction, watching her ferocity slowly turn to languid effort. Her flames spasmed, then doused like a candle in the wind.

Shego lightheaded and pale, collapses with heavy bang on the cold metal.

Crouching next fallen woman, he gingerly strokes her raven hair. Conceited grin never leaving his face. “Oh, my my. Did dear Mother Director not tell you about the adverse correlation between tungsten and the Aether comet? I don’t blame her. Must’ve been frightening for her to raise super-powered children, especially if she had no way of controlling them.”

The clamber drawing Kim away from her task, horror at watching the strongest person she knew hit the floor. “Shego!”

“No, no.” Motioning to the button on the detonator remote, he actives the explosives. Sending the entire right side of the structure up in blazing destruction.

Kim instinctively covers her head, in an effort to shield herself from the blast. Evading wooden beams and falling debris, Kim steels and drives on towards her ally.

Producing a small syringe from his coat, filled with a concentrated supply of the fatal alloy. He methodically pushed back the sleeve of Shego’s fleece, carefully injecting the liquid into her bloodstream.

“My father, Jeremiah Asbell had so much passion for his work. So much drive to create a better world. What did he receive for his endeavours? Scorn and betrayal by the very people he supported!-“

Jeremiah Absell.. Absell.. Dr. Absolute. Wait, he had a kid?

“-All to be handed back by some punk children who should’ve been left in a crater.”

As the tungsten courses through her system, melds with her mutated cells, Shego braces the pain gripping her body. She clenches her teeth, fighting for some kind of spark of her dwindling power.

Thanks, Betty. Chalk this up to another ‘I got your back, kid.’ move. Trust sure ran deep there.

With a flicker of ginger hair catching her attention behind a wall, Shego arduously motions her head to face Kim. Olive meets emerald eyes.

After all of the years they spent trading blows, like scorpions in a bottle, after the late night discussions they���d have when neither could sleep... they both knew that look. The look of unwavering determination meeting one of unabated stubbornness. With all of the unknown wild cards revealed, Shego couldn’t afford both of them being killed.

Mustering as much strength as she could, Shego discreetly raises her hand, stopping Kim in her tracks.

Don’t you dare.

[seductivejellyfish]

Musings

The first English translation of Homer’s Odyssey was completed in 1615, by classicist, dramatist, and poet George Chapman. He begins: 

The man, O Muse, inform, that many a way

Wound with his wisdom to his wished stay;

The first time I read the Odyssey was the summer before ninth grade. I had applied to a bougie private high school that I later chose not to attend, but as an acceptance gift they sent me a beautiful golden book, the Robert Fagles 1996 blank verse translation of the Odyssey. His first line: 

Sing to me of the man, Muse, the man of twists and turns

driven time and again off course, 

    At the time I had only the vaguest notion of the plot of the epic. I knew, or I thought I knew, that it was the story of Odysseus and his journey home, punctuated with an endless series of wild monsters and treacherous encounters. When I opened the book I was shocked to find that the Odyssey begins not with the adventure of the titular hero, but back home in Ithaca with his mopey abandoned son. My second shock came shortly after, when the goddess Athena descends to earth to inspire said mope, and does so in the form of Mentes, a man. 

    I reread the lines to make sure I hadn’t missed anything in the confusing clamor of ancient verse. Athena disguised as a man? Surely that couldn’t be right. But it was. Every single disguise of Athena, sans one, was a man. Not only that, there were multiple scenes where mortals recognize her for her true nature and yet still regard her in her guise. In those moments she existed as goddess and mortal, female and male simultaneously. It was almost too much to handle.

400 years after George Chapman, Emily Wilson became the first woman to translate the Odyssey into English. She hurled a book through a millenia’s glass ceiling and when it landed it opened to: 

Tell me about a complicated man.

Muse, tell me how he wandered and was lost.

At age 14 I wandered from a tiny private Jewish middle school into Boston Latin Academy and was promptly lost. Trapped in the practices of the past 300 odd years, every student was required to take 3-4 years of Latin. The first year was relentlessly boring. We bumbled our way through the textbook, memorizing endings and grammatical rules as though the language was a series of mathematical formulas and not something to be read and spoken and learned. 

In tenth grade I cut my hair. For years I had kept my waist-length hair in a thick side braid and in a day it was all gone. I can’t for the life of me remember what was it that made me do it, or when I got the idea. At some point I started telling people that I was thinking about it, and then I started telling people that I was going to do it, and then I did it. Anybody who has gone abruptly from long hair to short knows the miracle of the first shower: the giddy lightness that moves from your neck down through your whole body. 

We started reading real Latin in class and suddenly the language became alive. I wrestled with the text to produce a messy grammatical translation at the bottom of my page and then neatly rewrote a more pleasing version alongside the columns of poetry. I doodled all across the back of the pages--beautiful Greek men with flowing hair, columns and bays, Icarus, wings outspread, falling into the sea. Aphrodite descends to earth in disguise as a young huntress. I search between the pages for Athena. 

Near the city of Crete lived an unremarkable but blameless man and his unremarkable wife. So scared was he of the pain of raising a daughter that he delivered the ultimate warning to his wife: if their child should be born a girl, she must be killed. Only a boy should live. We all know the story--with the dropping of the ultimatum, the course of the tale is sealed. The mother will have a baby girl and she will be unable to destroy her. In this tale there are no babies in baskets, or foundlings left in the woods. Instead, instructed by a goddess, the mother conspires with a nurse to raise the child as a boy. The father names the child Iphis, after his father, and the mother is happy because the name suits a boy or girl and it removes part of the burden of the lie. The child grows up fine and beautiful, with all the best features of the male and female. Their disguise is unquestioned, and they grow up happy, sharing their childhood with a friend, Ianthe. We know this story too. Young love blossoms, and soon the two are engaged, to the delight of father and the despair of mother and child. 

I read this story properly for the first time, in Latin, in the summer of 2020, with the help of my Greek professor. At the beginning of our Greek class the year before we had each chosen Greek names. I was fascinated by the gender play in this story, and so I stole the name Ianthe from it. I am drawn much more to Iphis, of course, but I find the name Ianthe more lovely. And perhaps it is fitting that I embody that fascination with the choice of the name of the character so in love with Iphis, whatever gender they may be.

Burning with love and chafing at the equal ardor of Ianthe, Iphis cries out in despair to the gods. 

    “If the gods want to spare me, then they ought to spare me already! If not, if they wish to destroy me, then at least deal me some regular harm, according to the laws of nature! Never has love of mares consumed a mare, or of cows a cow: sheep love rams, and stags chase after does, the females of their own kind. Thus too birds couple, and amongst each and every type of animal, no woman is seized by feminine desire. I wish I were no woman!”

We reach this part of the poem and I am compelled to stop and reach through the text, to try in vain to comfort the grieving lover. You’re not broken at all, poor girl. You’re not alone.

    My professor asks me if I knew the story when I chose my name, and I tell her that I did. I am always aching to be recognized, to be seen, but at the same time I want to reassure her that this angst of Iphis’ which dominates the text is not a pain I have had to bear. Blessed by my circumstances, I have never once resented who I am. I have never been made to feel unnatural, and I have never felt alone. Again, perhaps it was right that I chose to become Ianthe, the unwitting and undisturbed bride who manages to never hear a thing about the anguish that surrounds her betrothal.

    The end of the story offers a neat resolution-the goddess hears Ianthe’s prayers and transforms her into a man. Light the marriage torches and sound the bells! I am torn in every direction. I don’t know what’s more important--the love of a woman for a woman, the ability for a character to straddle the line between gender, or the transformation from woman to man. Despite knowing that the social construct of gender in Roman times is far from the one I exist within, I can’t help wondering about Iphis after the curtains close. Are they happier as a man? Are they a man at all, or a woman in the body of a man? Was gender ever anything for them other than a weight around their neck, or a performance to play? I translate and translate and wonder what pronouns to use, reading the word woman again and again. 

Iphis leaves a gift in the temple, dedicated to the goddess with an inscription:

DONA: PVER: SOLVIT: QVAE: FEMINA: VOVERAT: IPHIS.

A boy pays this gift, which a woman had pledged, Iphis.

I take a spoken Latin class and think of using neuter endings for myself and then I don’t. I go from “she/her” to “she/they” to “any pronouns.”

O Muse, instruct me of the man who drew

His changeful course through wanderings not a few,

Trans. John William Mackail, 1903.

Athena comes to earth as Mentes. Aristophanes jests with his tale of the original third androgynous gender as pretty boys vie for spots on the ground next to Socrates. 

Tell me, O Muse, of the Shifty, the man who wandered afar.

Trans. William Morris, 1887.

The goddess commands that Iphis live as a baby girl until she can grow into a man. I bind my chest with medical tape and stick socks in my jeans and write my first original ancient Greek poem. 

Tell me the tale, Muse, of that man

Of many changes,

Trans. Herbert Bates, 1929. 

Telemachus strings up a line of women like caught bird for the crime of being sex slaves and translator Fagles kills them again when he calls them “sluts” and “whores” where the Greek says “sleeping.” 

This is the story of a man, one who

was never at a loss.

Trans. William Henry Denham Rouse, 1937

I’m letting my hair grow out again, in an undercut this time. Quarantine has seen me take at last to the clippers, shaving the sides and leaving the rest to grow. It’s long enough now to tuck behind my ears. I’ve spent my Saturdays chanting the Odyssey in a sing-song up and down my house and yard. I’ve memorized over 50 lines by now, but none as powerful as that eternal first. Someday I’ll translate it too. I imagine how appropriate it will be to have a little “trans.” before my name.

The first word of the Odyssey is Ἄνδρα, Andra-man. I take the man inside of me, right next to the woman and the thing which is neither, and I work on translating myself. 

[wexhappyxfew]

| CHARACTER STUDY |

>> Private Daniel Jackson [Saving Private Ryan]

>> Sergeant Hazel Parker [The Soldier of Stars - Band of Brothers Fic]

A little while ago, I was talking to Linda ( @wecomrades ) and she had just read of a portion of one of my Band of Brothers fics, The Soldier of Stars, where it portrays my main OC, Hazel Parker, who is a sniper, as whispering prayers each and everytime she shoots her rifle. And so she sent me a message, saying how it was very similar to Private Dnaiel Jackson of Saving Private Ryan. And I was like, OMG THATS WHO SHE IS BASED OFF OF! And well here we are!!

When I first started drafting The Soldier of Stars, it was under a different title, had more characters instead of my 3 now, and was sorta a mess, but I cleaned it up with help from a few writer friends. But Hazel always stayed the same - derived from the character of Private Daniel Jackson of Saving Private Ryan was what I always wanted to go for!! And I did!! For a while I had been planning a sort of almost character study to show Hazel’s similarities to Jackson, but never got the time. But now since our discussion, I have been more inclined than ever to finally do one!! Private Daniel Jackson is also my favorite Saving Private Ryan character, and I just KNEW I had to go along with it!! So without further adieu, please enjoy if you wish!! It’s not much, as I don’t want to spread this out, but it’s my general thought process that I had creating the tiny lil sniper I ADORE with all my heart - Hazel Parker. 💛

INTRODUCTION + BACKGROUND

When I first created Hazel Parker as a character, I wanted to create a quiet, introverted character that people of the more introverted side of the fandom could relate to - who was also a strong female character in her own ways, and also a pretty badass sniper :) So I drew inspiration from Private Daniel Jackson of Saving Private Ryan, pretty heavily - similar ways of seemingly approaching the war, firing their weapon and saying prayers to accompany it, being religious, sort of an quieter personality (they can do their job and do it well). I drew multiple different things from Private Daniel Jackson to add to Hazel Parker as a person and the outcome was exactly what I had hoped to get! 

(1) This Is Just Pure Irony

When Hazel Parker was simply just an idea, with no name, no face claim, nothing really, I just spent time watching war films, gathering ideas, personalities, all of that. The name came to me one night a few minutes before I fell asleep and I really just loved the name ‘Hazel Parker’ together, because I felt it was fairly unique, yet it worked for many, many reasons. And then I went and rewatched Saving Private Ryan and found something out that I LOVED and still LOVE to this day. 

The man who was up with Private Daniel Jackson in the bell tower was named Private Parker. And I honestly just love the irony and connection between that, because then I went and created my own Private [Hazel] Parker. I just loved it because Hazel is based off Private Jackson and then there was that connection and I just loved it! :) 

(2) Religion

Private Daniel Jackson is described as a ‘devout Christian’ and he wears a cross as well as whispers prayers directly from the [King James Version] Bible before shooting his Springfield in combat, which is something paralleled with what I made Hazel do as well as a Christian. 

As a child, Hazel had nowhere to look after her father left and Faith and God were really the only things she could follow after and look to, to guide her she felt because there was nowhere else to go and she felt so lost. This follows her into the war year with Easy Company and eventually into postwar. 

But I used her description of being Christian to show the morals she held in war almost constantly and how she viewed the war and how God was with war. 

One of the most pivotal scenes to describe this moment is between Hazel Parker and Shifty Powers in Bastogne (two who grow to become close friends), where Hazel is talking about how ‘God tells her to love her enemies’, but how can she do that when the enemy does cruel things such as this war? She has a power struggle with her Faith in God and in the reality of war and I present this struggle in many different situations - yet she still remains faithful in the end, which I love. God was there for her through her childhood and through war and she respects that. 

(3) Prayer Whispers

Just like what I mentioned above, a bit, actually is the fact that like Jackson, Hazel is a Christian and similarly whispers prayers before each shot she takes in battle. For how morally coded she is, she is not a fan of death but knows she can not avoid it and whispering a prayer for the life she takes it better than saying nothing in her stance, wishing them well in the afterlife and hope God protects her afterwards for what she has done and committed. 

Private Jackson - Psalm 25:2

“ O my God, I trust in thee: let me not be ashamed, let not mine enemies triumph over me.” 

Corporal Hazel Parker - Not Specified

“ By God, rule me and guide me, ever this day, be at my side, to light and to guard.” 

The examples above are just two excerpts of what both tend to say throughout the course of the book and movie and I think this was the major connection that many people made throughout the course of The Soldier of Stars was how Hazel reminded them of Private Jackson. And I felt super happy that in the end, that was what I had initially hoped for when I had started. It was a nice feeling to have. 

(4) Motives

For me, I felt their motives were also very similar - that is Private Jackson and Corporal Parker. 

In my own interpretation from when I saw Saving Private Ryan, Private Jackson just seemed like the sort of guy, who was there for his friends, highly caring, highly intelligent and skilled, he knew his place, and he had this sort of persona about him that said ‘I’ll go where ever the war takes me, as long as this rifle is in my hand.’ and Hazel is VERY similar to that in many senses. 

Hazel Parker, who doesn’t exactly know her place in the beginning of the fic eventually does find her place, and then remains reliable, intelligent, skilled and focused in her position as she does so - along with the idea of ‘Wherever I go in war, I want my rifle in my hand.” 

( Might I mention that both shoot with Springfield rifles ;) ) 

Even though Private Jackson has much more confidence than Hazel does, his confidence is just an outward confidence of her inward confidence. He speaks it, saying he could kill H*tler from a mile away. Now, Hazel would never say that, but she sure could easily think that. She knows by the middle of the book really she’s good and doesn’t need to say it, she just needs to have that confidence in herself - but it is a very similar sort of confidence overall. 

(5) Just some Fun Facts!

It is said that Private Jackson was born in West Fork, Tennessee and I, coincidentally made Hazel Parker also born in Tennessee in Pigeon Forge! They have a bit of the Southern Charm. 

Like I mentioned above - they both shoot with the exact same sort of Sniper Rifle - the M1903A4 Springfield Rifle and are highly outstanding marksman that both Captain Miller and Major Winters put faith in for the two of them in their separate ways. 

They tend to be able to do solo missions, sometimes with or without a spotter. The M1903A4 Springfield Sniper rifle was used by the US Army during World War 2 and feds a 5 round magazine and is bolt action. And one of the things I liked about this rifle is you didn’t always quite need a spotter for it to be in use - most snipers have a spotter with them for calculations and such - but with this rifle, it is not always required, for if you need to drop and shoot, it still is effective.

Private Jackson does this many times, such as in the very beginning on D-Day on Omaha Beach as well as a bit later on when he faces off with a German Sniper in a downpour in Neuville. And then he continues again in the Bell Tower where he meets his death. 

I portray Hazel as doing a very similar thing when she attacks with Easy Company in Brecourt Manor and is positioned up in a tree, before moving to the first gun - a spotter is not required for her to be effective. She does it again in various moments through out the Normandy Campaign such as during the Battle of Carentan, where she kills from above and in the Battle of Bloody Gulch. We see her again in action in Nuenen and throughout Market Garden and into The Island again where WInters has faith to send her up along the dike away from everyone else to battle. 

The last time we see her in this position is in Bastogne in various, different situations where she is effective and makes it work - one of my ALL TIME FAVORITES actually. It is her night time solo mission to recover the body of Private John Julian, which she does with success and it is I feel one of the most pivotal moments for a character like her because by then we know she can fully handle herself in many, many ways. We see a bit of her inner battle there as well which I love because her mind is highly complex, congested and always in a mind-battle, but I love it and we really get to see her inner thought for what they are. 

And, I also sorta based it on Physical Appearance - neither are exactly the biggest soldiers there - as that is where Hazel got ‘Tiny’ for a nickname really, but being tiny as a sniper works for Hazel because she can move around quickly and hide away easily as well, so her build was based similarly off of Private Jackson’s. 

OH fun fact - it seemed to be that when it came to Jackson’s friends, he was not afraid to quite literally kill for them, Hazel was very much made the same way.

Something that goes off of this is Hazel’s repetition of the ‘bright green-eyed, German soldier’ she killed on her first day in the early hours of the morning. He haunted her in different ways throughout the war (she had killed him with a knife which she had the entire war) and by the end we see her confront the man who shot Chuck and put the knife that killed that German, to the man’s throat. By the end she throws down the knife as a signal that she won’t let the German with the bright green eyes follow her anymore, which gave me, personally, strong Jackson vibes in a way which I loved to write :) 

HEY! so this was sort of my view I took on making Hazel Parker similar to Daniel Jackson in many aspects, just taking important bits and chunks that I noticed and incorporating it like that! I really enjoyed making this and Daniel Jackson had always been a huge inspiration so I was excited to make a character similar to him!! I do this with most of my OC’s in various degrees actually, but this one was on my mind for a while so I was excited to finally do it!! Huge thank you to Linda for being so interested in this topic and hyping me up for it!! I hope you enjoyed, my friend! <3 

[unspoken-realities]

Glimpses of reality

June 15, 2020: Saturn. The lead-up to, extent of, and coming down from, a wicked trip. Don’t get it? Watch The Matrix.

I lost a full day.

I took it at 10:30… I was hungry, for breakfast on an empty stomach. Oats I had prepped, blueberries and almond butter to match, but I couldn’t let this get away from me: it was so late in the day already, 10:30, and I needed, needed this in my system early to get me groggy. Let me sleep, get me awake.

By 11:05 I was spacing in and out of my head, in and out of the movie of the morning. I saw the Asian couple in the apartment adjacent to ours and I bathed in its artistic quality; the best film I have ever watched, surely. I was not hungry. I was trying so hard to write an email about my bike, my bike: oops, Jill, you were going to do shit today, oh shit, it’s too late now, it’s 10:45 and I’m fucked, this day is already gone. Fine, fine, one more fucking day closer to… to whatever. Calgary, or death, or September or Max or anything else I decide to distract myself with now. Biking hundreds of kilometres will never be enough, will never be enough to lobotomize your horribly structured cabbage, this horrible thing you’ve begun to rot and destroy. It’s leaking out through your ears, jill, can’t you see?

What happened?

…amnesia

…psychomotor agitation

…cannabis-induced schizophrenia

There are always two of me. DID, then; multiple personalities fraying on the edge. Hippie vs Scientist, who do I need to be? Jill is none of them, nothing, neither, is an entity separate. The one in the film. In the simulation.

Simulation. I repeated that word so many times, rolled it around on my tongue and in my brain so many fucking times yesterday; it will always be my yesterday regardless of the date. It is my yesterday, so close, always so close, but I can never, ever get back to it. It will never be mine again, no matter how fucking badly I crave the itching under my nails, the loopy groovy spaces in my conscious, the shocked realization that it’s been three hours of only 11:29. I played around with “simulation”, digested it, absorbed it, understood the truth, the foundation, yet I forgot the word in more sober settings. Grogginess, a protection from my own awakening.

I’m trying to piece together a timeline. I remember bits and pieces but it’s all black and blue, orange and taffy-string pastel colours stretched rough and thin against a dull canvas around me. It’s a horribly vivid, vague movie that my mother told me was nothing more than a bad high. Wasn’t she there for it? The murders, the screams and blood and paint pouring from all the walls, screaming to match each vengeful drip drop. It was loud, and bright, lasted hours and hours and I don’t even remember it, the earth-shattering event. Everything must have come out of it changed, yet my Snapchat, my search history, even, lacks the vibrancy I experienced. In this movie, I can’t see very far or very well, but I know that any of the paths outside my window cage that I’ve explored through repetitive repetition of revolutions can be boiled down to: left, right, straight. There is no deviance from these paths, these trails, roads, that have been paved and carved out for us, us blind little aliens, to fucking follow. All of it a scheme, a fucking lie.

I don’t remember anything past 11:30. But I knew it was going to drop me like a rock.

I wondered, was it 7 o’clock? Bradley, is it 7 o’clock? Remember, we were clapping for the nurses at 7. When did that stop? A couple weeks ago, three weeks ago, maybe. So, GOD, must only have been March? April? Jill, it was only three weeks ago. And when did we start caring about Black Lives Matter? A couple weeks ago, too. So, Black Lives Matter replaced COVID? People care about them separately, at the same time, they’re both still happening.

But it didn’t make sense to me. I don’t understand, how is that possible? What month was it again, it was July by now, right? Or maybe still late May, I wasn’t sure. Haha, I cackled at the idea that I had no idea what year it was.

Brain damage. Amnesia?

No seriously, what fucking year is it? It was right on the tip of my tongue… 1930 seemed right. Just such a perfect number, a good label for the time. Or, 2021 maybe felt more accurate. No, no, neither was right. 2011? I collapsed under my chair to laugh and cry and wonder what had happened to my fucking brain.

But hey,

That’s when the walls all started coming down.

11:46, my laptop’s history has to say. Monday, June 15, 2020 at 11:46, just over an hour after the pot had gotten into my systems, I had lost myself entirely to its warm clutch. I could’ve been on Saturn, for all that it mattered. So I forgot the year.  Each year was a pointless set of digits that really held no meaning, just piles of calendar tiles framing our lives, providing some phoney backbone to our history binders. What of it, what of a year, of some fucking digits defining us? I had to lay down.

Remember: I was sitting at my laptop at the island, holding my head in my hands. Brad poked his head outside his room, took one look at me. We held eye contact for a shifty moment, me groaning in communication of how I felt inside. Jelly. I thought it was pretty funny, maybe he was just worried.

Then I laid down.

Then,

It came to me.

Did I sleep? Was I just sitting? Everything hurt, everything always hurts, and my mom said that Brad said that I was clutching my chest in pain. But, then I woke up. Into it. Into the realization. The paint came peeling off the walls, the grainy television screen cracked straight down the middle, and I could see the camera lens, finally. It wasn’t real. This whole thing is just a script, some doodles, on a piece of tacky paper. It all comes together, comes full circle. I understand.

I have never, ever, ever, been emptier. That realizing that no matter how hard I try, I cannot escape this rut. This path is one that I did not choose, nor can change, nor was even born with: because birth itself is just an idealization of how we wish things went. No, no. It’s much simpler than that. Some intergalactic cosmic pencil scratches determine who you will be in this very moment, and who you will ever, can ever, hope to be. You are stuck. You are a train hurtling down the track at a thousand kilometres per hour, and even the words you’ve so precisely equipped yourself with to describe such a thing fall short because they, too, are part of the act. You are speeding, rushing, time is falling out from underneath you, but in this moment you cannot do anything other than lay on the beige fucking couch with your eyes plastered open to reality. To your reality, the real reality. No matter how hard you move, your waxy cartoon figure is stuck in this comic strip, this narrative, forever. You have no control. You can do nothing but succumb; close your eyes, go on autopilot, and don’t fly so close to the fucking sun. Give in, let it melt your being and your dreams, any that you thought you ever had, because they’re not yours. Those thoughts, those ideas, were planted in your head by something that has always existed but will never be seen by us, puny shoebox diorama figurines next to construction paper scenery. The world is not real. It’s a trick.

They’re testing you.

Big brother is watching.

As soon as you start telling the others the truth, as soon as They realize that you know, they take you away. Brad starts doing his laundry, and it never stops, the whirling of the wet clothes in the dryer and zippers banging on metal. Stop it, stop it! Stop it, Brad, he’s packing my stuff up right now to ship me off, they’re coming to get me, it’s only a matter of time before they come for me. They know, THEY know, I will be taken away forever and given an immortal sentence to spend. Do you remember the Rick Riordan books which your peers and brother so desperately coveted in middle school, don’t you remember the immortals locked in those stories? Listen, everyone always wanted to be them, but you’ve known, you’ve known, that that is no fucking good. Eternal life, a life full of misery and loneliness and waiting and absolving but never, NEVER, being able to break through the seam of reality. You already knew too closely of death, you would never wish immortality upon yourself.

But once you realize that’s what you have to look forward to, now that you know, how do you recover? WHY would you recover? There is no reprieve in death. Every second that you spend alive leading up to the fateful, miraculous final breath, stretches into centuries of pain and isolation, and you will never be free. The demons you’ve seen now are already too dark to imagine Hell could be much worse. What of eternal fire when you’ve been awake, spewing nightmares, for days? For months, for years?

Upon further examination it all makes sense, the sim.

The fabric, the video game. No, no one will see it because they are all fucking blind and afraid and they will not have their perspectives shifted. Set me into a fire and let me burn. What of fear, in this horrible fake, fake world? What of pain? Does such a thing really exist, to touch me, a cursed immortal? I am beyond death now, beyond age and time. Meaningless things such as hours on a clock or the sun in its sky, for now.

The songs, all the music I’ve ever consumed is pointing me in this direction: it either preaches the truth or so blatantly paints over it. My past stories in dreaming have given me little snippets: my life, always in creative colour. Cartoons, comic strips, songs and books and endless scrolls of my own scripture out the ass. Because, I was trying to tell you, I’ve been trying to tell you this all along: it’s not real. It’s not real. None of this, none of this is real.

And am I the only one?

Maybe, schizophrenia, only maybe if I was the only one. No, no this theory, simulation theory is real, exists and thrives outside of me, and therefore cannot be simply a figment of my imagination. It has to be true. My first worry, amongst the idea, was the brutal fear of joining the others: the others, what happened to them? What did They do to them? Taken away, snatched, pulled swiftly from reality into eternal purgatory. Society locks them up, the word simulation acts as a passcode to the looney bin, but we’re scheming in there, seeing the real world while you SHEEP comply to your puppeteers in this unholy masquerade. They create our wars for us, they make us see Gods and only a tiny, insignificant glimpse of the expansive universe, and they play with the broken Barbie dolls that figure out the truth. The others, where are they? What else have they seen, how else have they been shut up? What is coming for me? WHAT IS COMING FOR ME:?

The world is a structure

The world is a system

The world is a simulation

The world is fake

Society is a system

Society is confining

Society is restricting

Music is an act of deceit

Music is a lie

We will never be free

Death only sentences us to purgatory

We will never be free

Did you know, time is only make believe?

The video shot for 1985 was in studios only yesterday, 2011, and my breakdowns now change my past behaviour. It’s all fluid, it all comes full circle, making it so tantalizing elusive. I can touch it, change it, see and smell it, but I CAN NEVER GET BACK TO IT. LET ME PLEASE, JUST GET BACK TO IT.

—

It’s all a simulation

You know this now

You see the beasts lurking in the background

Every movement and action and thought a preprogrammed electrical jolt on a computer

No movement is new

Nothing is new

It’s all expected and felt

We’re living in a simulation

It’s all controlled

We’ve been brainwashed to think differently

Those that finally realize it are sent to Big Brother, to purgatory, to wait our their sentence

Those ones, them that notice, their movies never end. Their worst fear of eternity is forced upon them. We never get to escape. The normal ones who run under the radar and never succumb to the knowledge are safe and they are allowed to die. The Brads and Debras and Michaels and maybe even the Ellens escape, but some of us never will. We’re sentenced to eternity. In this simulation. Puppets in a grand never-ending masquerade. Nothing is real.

I’m no longer grounded in reality.

I’m floating and disassociated from my lego-box black-framed windowed cage. I’m trapped in the apartment and trapped in this life in this simulation. The same scene plays on repeat as the walls are stripped down, the camera lights fall and the director and actors scatter from the set. It’s just me– I’m completely, 100% alone. I’ll never again have company where I am: like I said, the ones who realize are disappeared to dungeons. As soon as the others realize they begin to ship you off: wasn’t that exactly what Brad was doing earlier?

The music tames us and lets us believe we are rebelling and realizing but it’s all so fake, it’s all a trap. Rock is a government conspiracy to reverse-psychologize tame the wild ones. Wild child… The real ones turned to pot and they realized, they saw it. The music is a lie.

Why are we alive? What’s the meaning?

It’s a simulation. It’s a game. It’s a ploy, a play, already determined and over. In my dreams I’ve accessed the other channels, see the alternate lives and lines and stories but now I understand why: it’s a simulation. None of this is real. None of this exists. It’s all a lie.

Time is not a linear stretch; it is everywhere, curled up and unfurling all around us. Today’s conceptualizations impact yesterday’s behaviour and a decade ago and all the dreams I have had or will ever have. Time is an infinite spiral in the middle of which we are found.

Do you want to know how to get out? Finally you can realize it. You can see it. It’s right here… it has been here all along. You just have to jump. You have to jump. Take no prisoners. No mercy. Jump through the fabric of reality and you will be free. No more lies.

I’m even writing it all down for evidence, for mercy, please… don’t make me go back out there.

I want to be safe and caged and kept and let to sleep. Don’t make me go back out there, please. It’s not safe.

Sometimes pets are more difficult than you anticipate: they bark and have breakdowns and speak when you don’t want them to. They need to be fed and talked to and given attention, given bike tools and laundry soap, calmed down when squirrels get too close to the window. You underestimated this. You didn’t know what you had coming. I’m not just another Hamilton that will take up a bedroom. I am not just a pet that you can shove out of the way or ignore. I am a person, a human, and I suppose I barked too fucking loud and too fucking often, didn’t I?

Fuck, I fucked this up so badly, I derailed the train and it’s hurtling down the wrong track towards a place I don’t want to be my future. I’ll be stuck in this timeline if I don’t pull myself out, if I let myself, I’ll be rotting away in hospital forever. Just forget me there, leave me there. My brain has melted from my head and it’s too late now, memories and identities and facilities all gone away. Disappeared. Unrecoverable.

The simulation, the simulation. I need to scratch the surface and tear down the walls and land among the black empty sky that awaits. Black hole sun, won’t you come, won’t you come? I’m headed for a black hole. I can see nothing different: I’m stuck in a simulation of a life, a creaky roll of film of millennia ago. I am not real, I am a figment of my own imagination. None of this is real. Life does not exist, laughably so. I am utterly despaired and devastated and fated now to eternal purgatory of black hole sun, a doctor’s waiting room that will never call my name. I am stuck here forever.

I’ve done real brain damage, and will not recover. I cannot take care of myself. Move me to hospital and let me lie there and do only puzzles and volunteer food serving to feign satisfaction and distraction. Let me leave, living an easy life, because you know I can’t handle anything more.

It’s a simulation. I’m being watched.

Cannabis-induced schizophrenia… I just needed to crack that nut open.

I have schizophrenia. I’ve always had schizophrenia. Did they know? Why did they never tell me? Only just restrain me, deter me from jumping through the fabric of reality. Convince me not to do this, the drugs. They knew, they always knew that I belonged there, 4F. But they could never admit it to themselves to admit me for good. They always knew.  Everybody always knew. I was always afraid to find my reflection and look myself in the eye: it was never me that I was seeing. They always knew. It’s why they all went along with it, with me striving for false freedom in a world that was never mine to take, but I flew too close to the sun and now they’re all realizing they were wrong. I was worse than they thought. I need to be re-leashed and not released. I am too dangerous for the world and it has already hurt me so, so much. I can be sheltered now, kept out of the sunlight, finally allowed to rest. Please don’t make me go out there again. Give me back to Edmonton.

For what it’s worth,

Really listen.

I am on the beach of Surveyor’s Lake with my dad and stop now, what’s that sound? Take me back there to eating salty multigrain crackers and Twizzlers under a sandy blanket and warm air. Take me back to sandcastles and biking and rope swings and dark, murky water. I was so afraid. It starts when you’re always afraid; step out of line, and the man comes to take you away.

I need to go back on autopilot and stop trying to fly into the fucking sun.

I feel hopeless and unstable. I can’t stay anywhere for very long.

—

Rough pastel windows, pale against thick black carbon panes, my jail. My cage, my prison. My scratchy, bland-coloured surroundings are so glaringly obvious, they all shout one thing: simulation. I’m stuck in it, in this little time warp of being, repeated infinitely, eternally, but now I am dreadfully aware of it. Oh my god, it’s a simulation—it’s a simulation, oh my god, it’s a simulation—it loops over and over, blurry sitting room fading into a whirlwind of nothingness, of complete and utter meaninglessness, in that nothing can ever really matter. Are you kidding? I’m a video in the mind’s eye of another creature, I’ve finally awoken and found lucidity and it’s right here. It’s terrifying, it’s staring me dead in the eyes, and it’s watching me, eye in the sky, the loop of film is unfurling and the main character realizes I’m just someone else’s dream, that’s all this is. There is no meaning to life, because life does not fucking exist… none of it was ever real. It’s a galactic illusion.  It’s a trick, a ploy, absolute hogwash, all of it lies. Lies. Lies. The music swims overhead, taunting you, mocking your freedom and your “original ideas”: there are no such thing. You know some of the musicians, they can hear it and see it, too, but they’ve been spared from the looney bin, or maybe just transmit their message, their warning, despite institutionalization. Their lyrics of a black hole sun, of an eye in the sky, of for what its worth, you can hear it in them, in the raw darkness that they have seen what you have seen. They try to tell you, but it gets lost in the sea of governmental rock conspiracies. Some of the songs, the newer songs now especially, they’re fluff that are trying to bite at the real stuff, the stuff they’ve never even fucking seen. You lose eight hours, ten hours of your life in another dimension, and you don’t write shitty rock and roll any fucking more. You understand it and it thrums through you, no matter how hard you try to stop it, it’s in you and you know, you KNOW, that it HAS to be the truth. Simple, easy, the fabric of reality is a delicate satin sheet floating in the wind. Don’t rip it down… what waits behind it is much worse to consider.

You have no identity, it’s a FUCKING SIMULATION, you’re not FUCKING real. All of this, you’ve just finally woken up and realized it, come out fo your century-long stupor and drugged your absent mind into oblivion. When you try to push through it, move through the jelly and work out What was this character trying to do? What was this plot? Where was it trying to be headed? It was trying to get somewhere, but it got caught in the loop of unravelling realization.

“I was trying to go home, to my mom, because I missed her. I was going to do anything to get back to my mom. I was going to run or walk or bike or do a triathlon, just to get home to my mom.”

When I sit in my dark afternoon room, grounded with sound waves and water startling a dry throat, the hysterical laughing erupts, bubbles from inside. My throat becomes raw with the fury of a thousand years of laughter exploding in just a few minutes. The whole world is laughing, breathing in sync with my raspy inhalations and tears slipping through closed eyes. “Holy Shit, Brad, a FUCKING SIMULATION? You’ve gotta be FUCKING KIDDING ME!”

It’s not so funny once the warm womb of twisted memory begins to fade and you’re left with the dark, unforgiving, horrible bland reality.

What of reality, when you’re this close to the fucking sun?

We didn’t start the fire,

Even when we’re gone,

It’ll still be burning on, and on, and on…