#and so I didn’t know the common English name for the acid I had been handed

[cantate-domino]

Idk if you're still interested in chabad but uh I'm dating a lesbian ex chabadnik and let's just say they're not.... uh... awesome? They just have a lot of pr but my girlfriend literally has trouble reading English because they didn't teach her she had to teach herself when she was 12.

Seeing as she’s ex Chabad I’m going to assume that this isn’t her only grievance with her upbringing, but it certainly is an ineffective anecdote to prove a point to me, a person whose English writing, speaking, science, and math are noticeably affected by her schooling being exclusively in French until age sixteen. Not that this is the exact same, and I empathize with anyone who feels like they weren’t educated properly, but if “not taught English” is your main qualm then you also have an issue with international schools, immersion schools (like mine), indigenous language schools, any diaspora community schools, homeschoolers, etc. If that is your opinion, fair enough, but you and I disagree.

[junicai]

tackled.

| summary | Mark hasn’t been in a group without Aria before. He doesn’t know how he’s going to manage without her there.

| word count | 2.4k

| warnings | none

| era | circa. December 2018

n/a: to the anon who requested more superm stuff, i hope this is to ur liking~ a little bit of background before i start writing some actual scenarios for the team :)

Aria wasn’t quite sure how to function; or how to deal with the fact that she was sitting, legs crossed, back ram-rod straight, in one of the smaller conference rooms with Lee Sooman sitting across from her looking a world more comfortable. 

Taeyong on her left and Lucas on her right, Ten a seat down and Mark beyond that. The plastic seats were less than kind to her aching tailbone, but Aria was mildly (read: incredibly) more preoccupied with the thought that she was wearing a faded hoodie and black workout leggings that were old and worn, sitting in a conference room with Taemin, Baekhyun and Kai. 

She was pretty sure the day couldn’t be going much worse. That was until Sooman's voice snapped her from her inner turmoil and she looked up at the CEO, raising a bottle of water to her lips with a lightly quivering hand.

“Aria, you’ll be joining as their eighth and final member.”

Water rushed down the wrong way in her throat, the muscle spasming as Aria choked and banged a closed fist against her chest. Taeyong’s hand flew to rub circles in between her shoulder blades, patting gently as she heaved, trying to re-catch her breath.

She takes it back. It just got worse. 

“Sir?” Aria wheezed out, taking in a stuttered breath as she looked up from the table to meet the CEO’s eyes. 

“SuperM is a concept group designed to take those that excelled in their respective groups and use that as the foundation to create something bigger. You’ve all made a name for yourself; both within the group and individually.” Sooman took a breath, lifting his hands to drum his fingertips across the wooden table. The dark oak was glazed, and Aria belatedly realized that this conference room was so small as it was the CEO’s personal room. His name was imprinted on the front of the door, gold paint enhancing the grooves made. 

He continued talking, focusing his attention on each individual member from his seat, explaining their ‘roles’ so to speak. Aria caught small snippets, chest still rising a beat too quickly for it to be ignorable and her racing mind building up a cascade of thoughts that were rising up in tandem. 

Baekhyun you will be the leader - Taemin as - I think it’s important, no crucial that you remember - this is not a time for - you’ll understand my expectations in time - a common ground for those that - merging the eras -

Aria flinched violently when her name was called, head snapping away from where it was boring holes into the wall just over Taemin’s shoulder. She had yet to make eye contact with a single one of her seniors, having taken a single glance around the room upon arrival and dropped herself into a near 90 degree bow. 

“What with the incredibly - albeit unexpectedly - positive response that came with your inclusion in the various NCT units, myself and my team think it fitting that you’d belong in a group such as this one. Obviously your English speaking skills are a benefit, although I am not so sure that your accent will be as tolerable to the American media as Mark’s here would be. But I’m getting ahead of myself, we can circle back to that in due time.” Sooman leant back in his chair, resting his arms against his sides. 

He looked satisfied with how the meeting had gone - given that all but one member of the newly established team had signed their agreement into another contract, having handed out a thinly spaced document a few minutes prior. 

Aria sat back, pen cradled in her hand as Sooman shuffled through her contract in his hands, as he had refrained from giving hers out with the others. The CEO dismissed the other members, calling for Aria to remain seated for another few minutes. 

As the seven boys stood from their chairs with muffled screeches from the rubber capped legs on the chairs, Taeyong let a hand brush over Aria’s shoulder once. His face was pinched into something, lip caught between his teeth but Aria waved him off with a smile that didn’t lift her eyes. 

Exiting the room, Mark glanced back over his shoulder catching a glimpse of Sooman already leaning forward in his chair and Aria sitting up straight. Attentive. And then the door swung closed, clicking shut with a soft snick and Mark couldn’t see either of them anymore. 

It had been a week. 

Mark had meant to ask Aria what Sooman had wanted to discuss with her privately, he really had. But between schedules and commuting and a million other things that had appeared on his ‘To-Do’ list overnight; he hadn’t found the time.

Either he crept in to the dorms a few minutes prior to the clock striking twelve with barely enough energy to take a shower, or it was Aria slipping in on light feet, sliding in to her bedroom with a quiet goodnight. 

She had been disappearing more often; despite the fact that Mark was near certain that she didn’t have anymore schedules than the rest of them. Not even Donghyuck had been gone as often as her, and the two of them were prepping for NCT Dream’s next album together.

The thought settled bitterly in Mark’s stomach, so he brushed it aside. A million other thoughts filled the space left; equally as acidic. 

Had she signed in to the group? Had she declined? Was there something else going on that Sooman needed to talk to her about? Was she going solo? Was she leaving them? He knew that she’d been offered the opportunity before - it nearly decimated her and Donghyuck’s friendship - but had she accepted this time? Is that where she was going? Why hadn’t she talked to anyone else about it? Why hadn’t she talked to him? 

His head was full of these thoughts running on a cycle. He tried his best to shake them out. 

The dorms were never full anymore - someone was always gone doing one thing, or practicing another, or discussing something else. 

Mark thinks that this was his least hectic day in the last seven. But it was definitely the most stressful.

His hands were sweating and he rubbed his damp palms against the black material of his joggers, an anxious bounce in his knee. Lucas was leant against the wall beside him, tapping a finger against his thigh. 

Scanning around the room, Mark saw his seniors - his groupmates, as odd as it was to acknowledge - in various degrees of unrest. Taeyong appeared relatively calm, although Mark could recognize the tense set of his jawline and he made a note to remind the leader that he had to stop grinding his teeth unless he wanted to do some damage. 

Ten had his phone in his hand and an earbud in one of his ears, seemingly engrossed in watching a video. Mark could see the dangling headphone jack; unconnected to the phone. The video was paused. 

As for a first practice together, Mark assumed that this was not how it was meant to go. How were they meant to perform together if they couldn’t even start a simple conversation? 

None of the NCT boys had seen the choreography for their first single yet, Mark hadn’t gotten around to asking had his seniors managed to get a sneak peak or not. He didn’t think he ever would, at this rate. 

The practice room was quiet, filled with an unsettled air of anxiousness although that may have just been the younger boys projecting, as Taemin looked entirely unbothered, with Kai leaning over his shoulder. 

Baekhyun’s head snapped up as the door to the practice room was closed, shifting up from his seated position on the floor to greet their choreographer. 

“Ah, hello,” He began, nodding his head in a greeting bow.

“..Hi?” Came a smaller voice than he was expecting. 

“Riri?” Lucas said, pushing himself off the wall. “Hey, you alright?” 

Aria was shifting from her left foot to her right foot, hands twisting the fabric at the end of her hoodie. Taemin tilted his head, and noticed that it was the same hoodie she had been wearing the week previous. 

“What’cha doing here, Ari?” Ten asked, moving to stand closer to the girl. 

“I’m here for - for practice? Right?” Aria turned the questioning on him, glancing at Ten and then turning her gaze on Taeyong. “Right?” 

“For SuperM?” Mark was confused. 

“Yeah?”

Aria had her eyebrows pulled together neatly, staring at Mark, who’s face had crested through about eight emotions in the last second, finally settling on a rather odd mixture of relief and pure, childlike excitement. 

“Mark wha-” She cut herself off with a yelp, hands flying to grip Mark’s shoulders as he tackled her around her middle. “Mark!” 

The boy in question only squeezed her tighter, lifting her off the ground a little. Aria squirmed in his grip, but as soon as Lucas’ arms were added to the equation she went lax, knowing that her chances of escape had just dropped to zero. 

“Dude- oh my god,” Mark was laughing, a light breathy laugh. “Dude I thought you didn’t sign it? What was all the secrecy about?” 

“What... secrecy?” Aria wheezed out. “Mark I can’t breathe-”

“Oh, sorry sorry.” 

Aria was put back down on her feet, but Mark’s arms didn’t leave her middle, choosing instead to tug the girl into a hug. “You kept disappearing, I thought-”

Mark hissed in pain when Aria pinched his hip. “You’re such an idiot.”

“What?”

“You know you can talk to me?” 

His cheeks flushed pink. 

Luckily, Lucas saved him from the conversation, pulling Aria out from Mark’s arms and into his own. This hug was more violent, and Aria was lifted and swung around in a circle once, twice, before demanding to be put back down. 

“We’re in a group together!” Lucas was beaming down at her, and Aria couldn’t help but to grin back. “Yeah we are!”

“Group hug!” Ten yelled, and suddenly Aria found herself in a tangle of Mark and Taeyong and Lucas and Ten’s arms, the four boys hugging her tightly. 

Aria laughed, trying her level best to fit them all in her own hug. They stood there for a minute, arms entangled in a rather terrible mimicry of a knotted ball of yarn. 

“Ah hyung, they’re so cute.”

Taeyong coughed, and the five-person cuddle unraveled quickly. 

Aria spun around to see Taemin, Baekhyun and Kai all standing together on the opposite side of the room. Taemin had a fond look on his face, while Baekhyun had his tongue caught between his teeth to stave off a smile.

“Not to ruin the moment or anything, but does anyone know where our choreographer is?” Jongin peered down at his phone. “It’s been twenty minutes, are we in the right room?”

Aria cleared her throat.

“Uh, about that bit.”

Mark’s head snapped over so quickly he might have given himself whiplash. “Ari?”

“I might? Be your choreographer?” The statement came out more like a question, and Aria spread her hands out in front of her. “Believe me, I’m not quite sure how that one happened either, but if it’s going to be a problem I really have no issue with, like, not doing it? I know I’m the youngest and I don’t want to be rude or anything I-”

Mark tackled her in another hug. Aria was pretty sure her ribs were going to be bruised after this.

“Literally shut up.”

“But!”

“Shut up!” 

“You’ll do a great job, Aria.” Baekhyun smiled over at the younger girl. “Do you have anything prepped, or have you heard the song yet?”

Aria shuffled awkwardly. “I have something? It’s only a rough draft really, and obviously its subject to change because, well you’re all here and whatever suits you best is the best option so,” She took a breath. Taeyong slid over to put a hand on her back, but said nothing, still waiting for one of the older members to take the lead. 

“Can you show us? None of us have seen the demo yet, just Jongin.” Taemin grumbled, poking the boy in question in the stomach. Jongin flicked him back. 

“Uh, yeah? Yeah, I can do that.” 

“Wait wait, Ari. Is that what you were talking to Sooman about?” Mark caught her wrist to stop her from leaving the practice room. She had lost the hoodie a few hours ago, and her hair was pulled back into a sad looking ponytail. Tired and weary, all she wanted to do was take a hot shower and spend the next three hours with her face buried in her pillow. 

But Mark’s question made her stop. “Uh, yeah. Yeah he just wanted to talk to me about my, responsibilities in the group, so to speak.”

If Mark was a little less exhausted and a little more alert, he would have caught the odd phrasing, but he was a lot more exhausted and a lot less alert than on a regular day, so it flew right over his head. 

“Ari, that’s incredible. I’m so proud of you.” He went to pull her into another hug. 

“No! Ew get off what’s with you today! Why’re you so cuddly, get off get off you’re gross and sweaty.” She knocked her hands against his chest to try and get him to move away.

“I’m just proud of you~” He sang, swaying her back and forth. “Was gonna miss you if you didn’t sign with us. ‘Dunno what to do without you in my team.”

Aria’s protests died down slowly, and her fists stopped to rest on his chest. She snorted once, poking him in the chest. “Don’t lie, you just didn’t want to be the maknae, you can’t fool me.” 

“No~” Mark continued to whine. “Really, was gonna miss you.” 

“Okay, okay, you big baby. I’m not going anywhere - you’re going to have to try harder than that to get rid of me. Now let go, I want a shower.”

[benevolentsam]

Fine

TW for graphic descriptions of eating disorders

WC: 2000, also on my Ao3

This is how Sam found himself on his knees in a rest stop bathroom in bum fuck nowhere.

His fingers were halfway down his throat and he was retching. He hadn’t eaten anything in the last day and a half, only drinking coffee and energy drinks. Jess might come to him in his sleep again and he didn’t know if he had the heart to face her. Since seeing her on the street, white gown hanging in the wind, Sam couldn’t control his thoughts. Angry thoughts.

You killed her Sammy.

And of course Dean would tell him otherwise, tell him that he’s a good and kind and selfless but he’s not. His mind wouldn’t stop saying awful things to him, so he had to do it.

He was in control of his own body; he was vomiting bile and stomach acid and that was his choice.

“Hey, Sammy, what’s taking so long?” Dean’s rough hands were knocking against the splintering door. If he pushed any harder, it would fall off its hinges and Sam would be exposed in all his bulimic glory. He gave a weak grunt, so Dean knew he was still alive. “We set off in ten, so hurry it up.”

Sam blinked back the tears, swallowed the slime in his mouth and stood. The ground was moving underneath him, he was certain, or maybe it was just him. He spat out the remnants of vomit. There was a bottle of water in the car he could use to wash his mouth out with. Dean would never know.

He sank into passenger seat, taking slow sips from the lukewarm water. A quick side glance from Dean told him he wasn’t as subtle as he thought he was being.

“You okay, Sammy?” Dean said. He hadn’t taken his eyes off Sam since he sat. “You’re looking a lil green.” Sam hummed, but Dean was looking for something else.

“I’m fine, dude, I promise,” Sam smiled shakily. “The whole thing with Bloody Mary freaked me a bit, but I’m fine.”

“If you’re sure.”

The car pulled out of the rest stop parking lot, and Sam let the sound of Dean’s tape fill the air. It was better than Dean knowing.

They left another hunt, the Hookman, and Sam felt okay again.

It had been a week since he’d last made himself sick. There hadn’t been the familiar clawing in his throat, no acid sloshing in his stomach. He was managing with coffee, milk and sugar as well, and one meal a day. His stomach was still angry, growling, but Sam was managing.

They were in the car when the rumble happened. It was early in the morning, checked out of their motel at sunrise, and Sam was starving. The front cab shook as his stomach grumbled, and Dean just gave him a look. Maybe he was worried, Sam could understand. Sleep had been running away from him and Dean. Dean noticed things he’d never let onto.

“You hungry, little brother?”

And Sam wanted so desperately to say no. That this was the best he’d felt in weeks. That he’d finally managed to find a way to make himself feel whole, food and all.

“Yeah.”

“What for? I’ll stop wherever you want, dude.”

They pulled into a diner in the next town they drove through. It was bigger than what they were used to, but the waitress was nice – flirted with Dean – and they served oatmeal as well as grease and meats. So Sam ate oatmeal, strawberry jam, tried not to run to the bathroom and cry.

It wasn’t enough.

When they stopped off at a gas station, Sam offered to pay. He bought as much candy as he could fit in his pockets, Dean oblivious in the front seat. Chubby little Sammy, still with his baby fat and all. The chocolate melted in his pockets while he waited for Dean to look away. Sneaking bites between stop lights and bathroom breaks.

And when they stopped for the night, a no name motel off the highway, Sam was so full of sugar he felt sick. He threw up in shower and hoped to Hell Dean didn’t hear him.

There was something evil inside of him, Sam was sure.

That was the only reason that Sam had for his premunitions. On the way to Lawrence, Sam made Dean stop every few hours so he could make use of the bathrooms. The knees of his jeans were starting to turn dark with dirt every time he knelt over a toilet bowl.

Their first stop, Dean had insisted on them getting food. More than anything, he insisted on Sam getting food because he skipped dinner the night before. They caught the lunch rush at a drive through Burger King. Thank God, because when Sam said he didn’t want fries he could pass it off as not wanting to wait.

When they stopped for the fifth time, Dean started to get suspicious. Sam’s hands were starting to shake every time he got back in the car.

“You know I’m not mad at you,” Dean told him.

“Huh?”

“I’m not mad at you,” Dean repeated, “for having these visions or whatever. I wish you’d've told me but, you’re not bad for having them.”

Lying, Sam, he’s lying. Evil little monster you are.

“Okay.”

“So you can stop going to the bathroom to cry or whatever.”

“I’m not crying,” Sam said fast. Too fast. He coughed. “I’m not, I just feel sick, okay?”

“Not okay, you’ve been feelin’ sick a lot lately,” Dean said. He took one hand off the steering wheel and slapped it on Sam’s forehead. “Are you like sick sick? We’ll stop off at a drugstore and get you some meds.”

“Dean, I’m fine, it’s just the visions, they make me feel nauseous.”

Dean nodded, because he couldn’t dispute it. Lying would keep Dean off of him for a while.

There were dark spots in his vision. Splitting migraines and shaking skin, field of vision narrowing so fast it sent the world spinning.

It should have been a simple salt and burn.

And there Sam was, half collapsed to the floor, stomach lurching at the emptiness. Starvation and sickness went hand in hand, and Christ, Sam was sick.

Dean was still off with him, you hurt him, Sam, of course he hates you, and Sam was clinging to a grave to hold himself up. Simple salt and burn. Sam was pathetic, he knew because Dean could manage just fine, and Sam was staggering along. Body empty and bones weak.

He hadn’t eaten since the asylum. The words he said to his brother were still running around his head. If he ate, maybe he would forget but. He didn’t deserve to forget, or to eat, because he had to be the best brother he could be to Dean. Had to prove himself. Had to-

And when his legs gave up underneath him and when the ground became home, he thought that maybe this is what he deserved. Face down in the dirt, in pain. He deserved it.

Dean caught up with him, eventually, saw Sam collapsed and decided that the ghost did it. Sam was too exhausted to tell the truth. So Dean dragged Sam home, watered him, fed him chicken noodle soup, hoped his little brother would regrow.

Sam had to regrow, didn’t he?

When Dean nearly died in Nebraska, Sam nearly died with him.

Sam should have been there to save him. Sam should never have brought him to the shady faith healer. Sam should have been better. Better, Sam, you can always be better.

The food at the hospital was bland. Easy to wolf down without a second thought. While Dean was holed up in his hospital cot with scratchy sheets, Sam was in the corridor feeding dollar bills to a vending machine. He’d emptied his wallet before he was satisfied with how much junk food he had. Empty calories. There was just enough guilt gnawing at his stomach, that he left a few candy bars on Dean’s bed.

It’s a small condolence when you’re going to die.

Sam spent the next few days hunting a reaper and scraping his insides. Dean, barely healed, was doing everything Sam could and more. Sam was hunched over a porta-potty, fist in mouth. There was only so much he could bring up, slime and chocolate, before he started bringing up blood.

He spat it out and pushed his fingers further down.

And at the next motel they stopped at, there was bloody bile when he brushed his teeth.

Sam wasn’t like Max, he wasn’t. But they had something in common with their powers. Dean would never say anything, but Sam noticed he’d been looking at him differently. And why shouldn’t Dean be scared of his own little brother, the freak.

Sam was leaning on their motel toilet, too weak to carry himself.

Evil Sammy. There’s something so evil inside of you.

Maybe if he broke himself, pulled his insides out of him, he could get rid of it. And so he heaved again, hoping to find whatever black sludge was tainting him.

“Sammy?”

Dean was stood in front of him, blurry, three Deans, vision spinning. But Dean was there and he knew that Sam was evil and that he couldn’t get it all out and. He was babbling, Dean shushed him so gently.

“You got it all, Sammy, there’s nothing left inside ya.”

The grip on Sam’s arm was vice tight and he couldn’t move as Sam pulled him away from the toilet. They were sat on a bed, Sam’s vision coming back to him and he could see how angry Dean was.

“I’m sorry.”

And Dean didn’t say anything for a while, just blinked. If Sam didn’t know him, he might’ve thought Dean was hiding tears. But Winchesters didn’t cry, and that was just another reason Sam felt like he didn’t belong. Not like them, Dad doesn’t want you back-

“Sam, are you listening?” Dean asked, voice hoarse. Sam shook his head clear. “You’re all skin and bones, man. I thought it was Jess but it’s not, is it? Why can’t you just eat something?”

The guidance counsellor at Stanford had asked the same thing. His first-year dorm mate, Jess, that one really nice English teacher. Just eat something they’d ask with desperate eyes. And Sam, so broken, would pretend - eat something that he could purge later, and everybody would be happy again.

“Sammy, say something.”

“I’m sorry, Dean, I can’t,” Sam begged, but Dean looked at him like he answered wrong. “I don’t know how to eat normally anymore.”

“It’s not hard!” Dean was shouting and Sam was flinching and suddenly it was quiet again. “I’ll help you but, man, you gotta help me too. I don’t understand all this anorexia shit, I thought it was a girl thing. How do I fix it?”

“I’m not anorexic, and you can’t fix it. Sometimes I just don’t want to eat.”

“Why though? There's gotta be a reason.”

“I don’t know, it’s just nice to know if I don’t want to do something, I don’t have to do it. Everything’s just bad and this, this feels safe.”

“Listen to me, if anything’s keeping you safe, it’s me. Not your fucked-up brain that thinks eating is bad. Me. If you need control over whatever bad things are happening, I’ve got you, little brother, okay?”

And Sam didn’t want to talk about it anymore, because his stomach was growling and angry again. So, he said okay.

“Awesome, now we’re grabbing food. You can choose where, but you are eating. And I’ll be dammed if I catch you chucking up in a toilet again.”

It would be fine, Sam decided, if Dean knew. He was tired and fucking hungry and things would be fine. Dean was there to hold him if things span too far out that Sam had no control. Even if Dean didn’t understand, he was there and that’s all Sam really needed.

They took off in the impala to a diner downtown, so Sam could finally eat.

[hero-philia]

One out of Twenty

This is my present for @new-noveltea​, who was assigned to me as part of the BNHA Spring Time Event (@bnhaclaimedmysoul​) - Because she doesn’t ship herself with someone, I decided to go for a platonic story! I hope that you like it, Ash (^o^)

Summary: First days are hard, especially if you don't understand a word of what’s going on around you. But the enterity of class A is here to help you out! (English dialogue is written normally, Japanese dialogue in italic)

Words: 2856

On this particular morning you found yourself following a man that you had only heard of before. Completely dressed in black he didn’t seem like the most heroic guy, but people throughout the country called him such. Admittedly, it hadn’t been too easy for you to follow the news reports on TV, which featured a pretty fast spoken Japanese - A language that wasn’t yours in the first place.

The steps echoed through the empty hallway, where normally dozens of students were gathering. But the bell had sent them into their classrooms a few minutes ago when you had been waiting in the teachers’ lounge to make a fool of yourself in front of everyone. 

You gulped in order to suppress the memory how you had forgotten half of your introduction speech and had switched to English instead, even if you had known that most of your audience wasn’t able to understand you that way. At least you had earned quite some chuckles as you had changed the language in the middle of saying that your Japanese basically sucked, but that you were capable of speaking English.

For now you didn’t have to talk to anyone since the man in black didn’t seem to be interested in a conversation with you. He had simply advised you to follow him after the glorious embarrassment that many high ranked heroes had witnessed. What a good start.

Wherever the two of you were headed, you could just assume that it was your classroom. A room filled with strangers was waiting for you, maybe expecting you to come. Who knew what they had been told in advance. You didn’t know anything for sure at that point.

Nevertheless you hoped that you would be able to sit down again soon as sleep-deprivation was getting the best of you. The adrenaline in your body kept you awake and functioning, but your eyes started to feel heavy. Probably it hadn’t been the best idea to send you to school two days after your arrival in a completely different country with a new time zone. Last night the jet lag had robbed you of many hours of sleep, leaving you running on three - not consecutive - hours of rest. 

On a Monday. At eight in the morning. Definitely not the ideal combination.

Your teacher didn’t leave a lot of space for thinking when he stopped next to a gigantic door. For a second you fought the huge to look up in shock until it opened with ease. Once it had swung open, you caught the first glimpse of your new classmates. 

With the backpack on your shoulders you straightened your back and put on a smile before stepping in. Nineteen pairs of eyes followed the movements of their teacher, though many scanned you as soon as they had noticed your figure. Except for a pretty grumpy looking blonde in the second row and a another boy, whose red and white hair got your attention, with absolutely no expression on his face, everyone seemed like they wanted to ask questions about your presence.

Without caring about the reaction your teacher walked to his desk only to sigh loudly. He went on with a monologue that you didn’t understand at all. The words he mumbled didn’t match any of the vocabulary you had learnt as preparation for your stay. Your thumbs started to twist around each other while you tried to translate at least one sentence.

To absolutely no avail you listened to the short speech, focused to not show your struggles openly. Finally a word came up that you had heard before - ryuugakusei. You celebrated the achievement with a growing smile, which wanted to disappeared when it hit you what that meant. Ryuugakusei happened to be translated as exchange student. It was your turn to speak again.

„Introduction, please,“ the man in the front announced in English with a look in your direction. 

For some reason a boy with curly green hair gasped aloud to hurriedly open his notebook and stare at you with curious eyes. His hand practically ready to write in the speed of light. As no one said something about it, you tried to refocus on the task.

The words of your Japanese introduction, that you had carefully constructed with the help of four online translators last night, deleted themselves for the second time today. Failing at the teachers’ lounge was one thing, but not being able to introduce yourself in front of your own class was something you didn’t want to risk.

So screw the rules!

You pulled out your phone from the pocket in your skirt - god bless whoever made that decision - and opened the notes with your sentences. Before anyone would even have the time to stop you, you began to read them out loud. Saying your name, your age, where you were from and many details more.

„I will stay for the entirety of your second year. Let’s do our best together!“ You concluded in the end. 

Of course you took a short bow while your classmate gave you a round of applause for whatever motivation. Probably to praise your bravery, because your grammar and pronunciation must have been off completely. Then your teacher allowed you to sit down at the empty seat behind the green-haired boy. 

The following lesson progressed pretty much as you had expected it to. Not that you understood what it was about, though you could finally switch off your brain for a few minutes and silently take a breath. 

Shortly after, the bell sent you back into attention mode. You watched how everyone got up, went to the wall to your left, grabbed a box with a number and aimed for the door. While you were pretty much busy with trying to figure out what was going on, someone placed their hand on your shoulder. A girl with dark hair in a ponytail stepped into your sight.

„My name is Yaoyorozu Momo and I’m one of two class presidents. Our next lesson is quirk training at the gym, so just follow me. Your costume is waiting there as well,“ she said in a soft voice. 

„Your English is really good,“ you blurted out in surprise. „Thanks for telling me! I’ll be in your care, then.“

On your way to the gym the hallways were filled with students that were also changing their rooms right now. Even though the floor had looked kind of pretty in its empty state, seeing it being crowded gave it the impression of actually being in a school. No matter how many people you passed, most of them still stared at you. 

„They are excited to see a foreigner here. In Japan we aren’t used to being around people from Europe or America, that makes you really special,“ Momo explained with a giggle.

Her explanation made sense, yet you wondered why they were more excited to be faced with a foreigner than your classmates with quirks that affected their appearance. You literally had a boy with tentacles and a person with a bird head in your class. Having such a quirk was seemingly more common than being a foreigner, you thought. 

This whole center of attention thing went on in the locker room where you got reunited with your hero costume. A while ago you had handed it to an official of the exchange program at your home school and never saw it again. Until now. 

„You look really cool! I’m Ashido Mina. Call me Mina,“ a girl with pink skin commented. Her English pronunciation wasn’t the greatest, but it was easy to understand her name. Finally someone that you could actually call by name. 

Thanks to her a huge round of introductions started with the girls. At the end you knew like three names for sure, half of them to a certain extent and the rest was forgotten. 

Unfortunately the lesson itself asked even more of your brain since every student was asked to demonstrate his or her quirk. From what you could tell, some of them had arranged complete shows to present their abilities. Only you were attending without a certain plan, but the teacher hadn’t chosen the water area of the USJ for nothing. 

The blonde boy set off various explosions while yelling like crazy, a red-head didn’t even flinch when his hardened skin collided with the fire, another boy with black hair escaped the water last minute before a second blonde electrified the whole artificial lake. Last but not least Mina improvised a dance with elements of her acid simply consuming the ice that the boy with the scar and the resting bitch face had created.

„Okay, you are next,“ Momo made sure to let you know. 

When you stepped out of the group of students, you swore that the boy, who had been called ‚Deku‘ by the angry fire guy multiple times, intently wanted to pull out his notebook that obviously wasn’t there because he was wearing his hero costume. 

You bowed a little in front of your classmates to get their attention, „Please watch me!“

These very few Japanese words were certainly enough to do so, which made you feel their glances while you were walking up to the water. Your movements made the skirt part of your dress jump a little, but you didn’t have to worry about showing too much skin thanks to the pair of black shorts underneath.

„Our little exchange student knows what a lake is, doesn’t she? Can’t wait to see her face when she finds out that the water is not carrying her,“ Bakugou joked with crossed arms. For him and all the others it looked like you were headed for a dive. 

Instead of stopping at the sandy area, you continued to walk even after your shoes had touched the water. Like walking on normal ground you went on as if nothing had changed, causing the first mumbles of your classmates. 

In the middle of the lake you stood still, not moving at all. Everything you did was to focus on the water and the energy inside of your body as you took deep, yet calm breaths through your nose. Even your eyes were closed. From their perspective it looked like you had no idea what to do now that you had made it there. But then you opened your eyes, unknown to them.

Out of nowhere a huge wave surrounded you while it pushed itself towards the coast into all directions with your position being the center. Your classmates only gasped at the growing wall of water that was making its way into their direction. They lost sight of you when you disappeared behind the water. 

Preparing themselves to go into defensive mode, they didn’t know what was going on or what your intentions were. Soon enough you broke through the surface from behind, again using the water like normal ground and simply touching the monstrous wave with your index finger. 

As it had never existed, the wave got smaller within seconds. In the blink of an eye the lake returned to its not harmful state. 

„SHE DIDN’T EVEN GET WET!“ Mina cheered at the realisation that you had bursted through water, stopped a gigantic tsunami and walked on water without the tiniest sign of a water stain on your clothes or hair. 

An absolutely strange battle broke out when half of your class gathered around you during a heated conversation with each other. At some point you were sure that you understood the word quirk, but that was as much as you were able to translate again. So you tried to not look too confused once your mind wanted to convince you that you had heard ‚lunch‘ somewhere in between. Too many voices to keep track of asked you things that you didn’t even understand.

„Everyone! Back in line! This behaviour is inappropriate for future heroes. Just imagine how our new classmate must feel in a situation like this!“ The main class president interrupted the chaos, at least that was what you remembered from Momo. 

„But we want to talk to her!“ A third blonde boy exclaimed directly next to you, shooting a wink of glitter at you.

„Right, we need to talk to her!“ This time it was Mina that spoke, or rather yelled.

„You just want to have her all for yourself!“ Somehow this statement from the electricity dude shut up everyone, except for the class president that suddenly sounded like he was defending himself from accusations. 

Even after a few minutes had passed nothing really changed. You were still standing in the middle of people that were arguing with each other, especially since the teacher had ended the lesson. And you hadn’t gotten closer to finding out what the whole issue was about until Momo finally decided to help you out.

„They are fighting because all of them want you to join them at lunch. Welcome to the chaos that is called class 2-A.“

So they did what every aspiring hero with pride would do to solve such a problem - A representative of each squad had to participate in a battle of rock, paper, scissors. 

Several disappointed grumbles and screams of victory later Mina pointed her hand towards the ceiling: „I WON! SHE WILL EAT WITH US! THE ONE AND ONLY BAKUSQUAD!“

Everyone went back to their own squads, which made you realise that your translator wouldn’t be around during lunch. She had offered to come along, but Mina and three boys had told her that they would be fine. In the meantime you questioned at least Mina’s English skills when you got changed again.

In her excitement the pink girl practically dragged you back to the classroom where you grabbed your lunch and were then pulled to a place outside the building. Early in the morning it had been too cold to go out without a jacket, but now the warm sun of spring warmed your skin. 

It didn’t need any words to express your awe once you got to see the meeting place of the BakuSquad: A gigantic tree that blossomed in a corner of the yard. 

Wherever you looked at the ground, it was covered in white to pinkish petals from the tree and this way it wasn’t a big surprise that you had some of them on your head only a few moments after your arrival. The boys were already waving at the two of you arriving, except for the explosion boy as you had named him for now.

You sat down on one of the wooden benches that were standing around the tree, allowing you to sit close to the others but not too close to feel cramped. The first thing you did was to explain your quirk without words because your Japanese wasn’t good enough. 

Four of them widened their eyes at the sight of the water from your bottle hovering in the air above the ground. There you parted them into to two floating bubbles with only the movements of a finger to show what you could do. One bubble froze to ice, the other began to boil from the increasing heat you were providing, yet again with nothing more than a gesture. 

„But I can’t undo it, if I change their form. Now I’ll have to wait for the water to cool to drink it and I’ll use the frozen part as ice cubes to fasten the process,“ you admitted. 

You were met with questioning eyes that were exchanging glimpses with each other like they were trying to communicate. Just like that your smile turned into a rather insecure smirk.

„Idiots, she said she can’t undo it,“ a different voice grumbled. „And you definitely need to learn more Japanese to not fall behind in the future!“

It caught you quite off-guard that the explosion boy out of all people was able to speak English on such a high level. His scolding left you speechless for a moment and it stayed like this long enough for the others to regain their voice.

„Ooooh, Bakubro, what would we do without you?“ The boy with black hair said dramatically with the back of his hand touching his forehead as he leaned back a little. Not to be forgotten should be his very broken English and heavy accent, which he maybe did on purpose.

„We really love youuuuuuuu,“ the red-head followed suit.

All four of them launched themselves at the grumpy blonde at the same time, making him fall over in the process as he cussed words that no one would voluntarily translate. His friends didn’t get demotivated from his reaction and continued to hug him until he was about to use his quirk out of mere revolution purposes.

But they all turned around to look at you when you bent over laughing at the sight of them. Soon enough they giggled along, except for the explosion boy of course. Though even he had to admit that he had to suppress a chuckle. 

Welcome to the chaos that is called class 2-A!

-----

Posted: April 28th 2020 | Requests: Open | Match-ups: Closed

[redantsunderneath]

On Analysis - Introduction (the “why” part)

“He had the feeling that everything he saw was a broken-off piece of some giant blank thing that he had forgotten had happened to him.” ― Flannery O'Connor, Wise Blood

Maybe some broader personal context would help understating why in god’s name I write shit about how Age of Ultron is a remake of Eraserhead and Marvel crossovers are inherently about self hating creatives going to war with editorial. Like everyone else, I love a well told story but want to be surprised - seeing Star Wars is still the single biggest event in my life in supercharging my interest in narrative art.  But from early on, I had this left brain/right brain conflict going on. I was super interested in details and loved anything that required getting all the pieces to understand (that one episode of Speed Racer where they explain all the buttons I only saw once but I must have excitedly told everyone in the schoolyard about it 2 or 3 times) and I’ve always been down for the even the shittiest world-building that makes you dig for details (maybe this why Star Wars’ gesturing at a larger canvas lit my fuse so hard and how my introduction to Marvel comics became the second stage rocket booster 3 years later - see my retropseudonostalgia post). This also is probably common, especially here.

But it’s the right brain impulse became an overriding unconscious attractor. I saw The Man with the X-Ray eyes very young and had some serious nightmares, but mostly remember actually wanting to recapture that dread.  This became a pattern.  Anything that unsettled me or made me feel weird, my brain interpreted as a good experience. 1977 was a real flashpoint for me: Star Wars, sure, and 8 is the right age for Thanatos to start haunting you, but I also got super fucking sucked in to the Prisoner and imprinted on BBC’s Dracula (especially the baby eating scene where I remembered the brides actually eating the baby on camera until the clip showed up on YouTube and, turns out, it was just a cut to a flame effect and the baby eating was all in my and Q anon’s head). The thing that unites these later two is a the feeling of Unheimliche, or something - a sort of out of body experience due to transgressive touching of something in the reptile brain, recognizable but hard to formulate in language.  

Again, not saying this is an unusual experience, but I sought after this diencephalonic impact aggressively and spent years chasing this particular dragon before I figured out what I was doing. Rank and file horror didn’t cut it because I wanted not only to feel it but to understand what it was telling me and doing to me, to wrestle with it, so needed to something resonant to be there. Kubrick’s one neat trick was having an entirely rational approach to relentlessly assembling this kind of ineffable experience… depth of meaning by design.  I think Christopher Nolan is only popular because we have so few architect directors today so we’ll take a B- stab at it (though the thematic waters he sails on are a bit shallow). This is what I was doing receptively, wanting to cognitively reverse engineer the texts that moved me and autopsy my reaction .  There were elements the things that got to me had in common - there was an existential abjection that felt like a kind of rapture, a transgressive daring in showing me something I shouldn’t see, a experience of Mark Fisher’s version of the weird and/or the eerie, but most of all a feeling that there was a story underneath there being told in an abstract language that I innately understood but my conscious mind couldn’t quite get to.

On the other side of my brain, I was sparring with narrative structure and was captivated by the way periodical narrative produced this fuzziness and that trashy or disreputable forms were better at doing some really complex things. After a late 70s of consuming everything I could, like sitcoms no-one remembers, 1930s and 40s franchise B movies, Godzilla, ABC hourlongs (it was the time that Fantasy Island and the Bionic Woman strode the airwaves), etc - just absolute garbage - Comics hit me in 1980 and hijacked my brain for half a decade.  This mostly satisfied that architectural impulse, though, and the need for the uncanny reasserted itself as a shifting obsession to pop/rock music, “hard” books, and catholic moviegoing (and I guess some of that right brain stuff is intrinsically libidinous and the pubertal timing seems right).  

My childhood book consumption till 77 was all atlases, history, and encyclopedias.  77 to 83 it was SF/Fantasy.  The one work of fiction I strongly remember as a small child was There’s a Monster at the End of this Book which is a work of absolute intersubjective terror that implicates the crap out you - I never bought the ending and saw it as a necessary contrivance to make it OK for kids but I repeatedly endangered Grover anyway, enjoying the transporting dread, and learned meta in Kindergarten as a bonus! But in 1984 (during the Sarajevo Olympics, that’s etched in my brain) I read Moby Dick, which was my first formative struggle with understanding subliminal story.  I was already in love with symbolism and conversant with nuts and bolts MFA program bullshit, as any ironically pretentious HS student would be, but reading that and writing about it and other “tough” books (especially the next year in Junior English where I learned to write, full stop) taught me I could think about this stuff and hold these abstractions in my head long enough to see what was happening under the waterline.

Movies really dominated the late 80s, though, and I became obsessed with everything from the Godfather to Die Hard, but I was only just peaking under the hood, until the left brain brought me back to TV and and thinking about narrative structure.  Twin peaks (and Wild at Heart) made me a real Lynch fan and I sensed what I sought was in that direction, but it wasn’t until I watched the whole show and movie in one weekend in 1997 that I had my conversion experience. Moby Dick opened the door a bit, but that weekend kicked it in.  My first real resource for understanding (other than HS English, a couple of hits of acid, and dorm room bull sessions with sort of smart people) was alt.tv.twin-peaks where there were many amateur scholars trying to understand the red room and above the convenience store scenes, complete with ascii maps.  

The final inciting event was Inland Empire.  The thing about David Lynch that is so perfect for my hobbyhorses is that he works within a scene entirely intuitively, connecting to really primordial stuff, and puts everything together by “painting” with feelings instead of paint, never thinking about it, just knowing when it’s right. But he usually works with a writer and editor who helps shape everything into something at least fitfully comprehensible for someone wanting to follow the surface story. You get the general idea and can meditate on the areas that are clearly not “real” in some sense and require either aesthetic surrender or a lot of thought and one hell of an interpretive toolkit - you can see the frame even if you don’t understand every bit of the picture.  Inland Empire, which he made with no other behind the camera people, is pretty much all the mind-blowing bits with very little skeleton, an abstract painting with no frame. This forces you, if you want to understand in any way beyond just enjoying the moments viscerally, to effort like hell.  The project of this for me, the reason I started this Tumblr, was using the internet for procuring and learning to use interpretive tools and, in so doing, writing my way to constructing an understanding of this one movie.  As a result, my approach to all narrative art was changed.  I figure it is time to unpack this into a framework and try to recall the specific things that helped me get here.

[nerianasims]

Billboards #1 1965

Under the cut.

Petula Clark – “Downtown” -- January 23, 1965

I love this song to bits. I don't entirely know why. Petula Clark obviously sings it wonderfully. There's that little bell that sometimes chimes in. There's a pattern to the song that makes it feel like Broadway, which is, of course, downtown. It's a fantasy version of a downtown in a big city. One thing I love about fantasy is a sense of place, and that's what this entire song is dedicated to. It's an unusual subject for pop music, and it's great.

The Righteous Brothers – “You’ve Lost That Lovin’ Feeling” -- February 6, 1965

How does one even talk about this song? It feels somehow eternal. This is Phil Spector's production at its best. But Bill Medley's singing is the point. This song is one of the greats.

Gary Lewis And The Playboys – “This Diamond Ring” -- February 20, 1965

Gary Lewis is Jerry Lewis' son. Unlike his father, he does not consist entirely of annoyance-producing molecules, but the song's not good either. In it, the guy's fiancee dumped him and he's selling the diamond ring. A boring, bland heartbreak song that belongs three years or so back.

The Temptations – “My Girl” -- March 6, 1965

My mom used to sing this song to me when I was a little kid. I think a lot of parents sing this song to their little girls; it's that kind of love song. Yet it's not irritatingly antiseptic. It's about true love. True love can be a lot of things. This song is every superlative you can think of. Brilliant in every aspect.

The Beatles – “Eight Days A Week” -- March 13, 1965 

It's a good, but not great, Beatles song. Very fun, with a lot of interesting things musically, like the bassline (as usual) and whatever George Harrison does with his guitar.

The Supremes – “Stop! In The Name Of Love” -- March 27, 1965

Finally, Diana Ross actually sounds kinda pissed off. It's also got more of a rock edge. She's still begging, and not threatening to leave the guy's cheating ass. Yet, though there is no explicit threat, I feel like there is an implied ultimatum here.

Freddie And The Dreamers – “I’m Telling You Now” -- April 10, 1965

It sounds like this guy is exaggerating his English accent. Considering the British Invasion, probably. He cackles like a monkey on acid, which is the only interesting thing about the song, which is otherwise a bland love song. Though the cackle is interesting, that doesn't make it good. It's creepy. I don't like this one.

Wayne Fontana & The Mindbenders – “The Game Of Love” -- April 24, 1965

"The purpose of a man is to love a woman, and the purpose of a woman is to love a man." Whoo boy. Dated. But the song is 55 years old. Attempting to put that aside, the music is good. The lyrics sound pushy, though. Also it gets terribly repetitive at the end. Meh.

Herman’s Hermits – “Mrs. Brown, You’ve Got A Lovely Daughter” -- May 1, 1965

Was it once usual for guys to go to their ex-girlfriends' mothers to talk of their heartbreak after the girlfriend dumped them? This song is painfully "look how English I am! You Americans like to throw money at English pop singers, right?" It wears out its welcome quickly.

The Beatles – “Ticket To Ride” -- May 22, 1965

It's interesting how the Beatles seem to have matured five years in one. I can't imagine this group having performed "I Want to Hold Your Hand." The harmonies and rhythms in "Ticket to Ride" are far more complex, the sounds are more varied, and the lyrics are much more mature. His wife/girlfriend is absolutely determined to leave him, and he seems taken by surprise. Yet there are hints he shouldn't have been: "She would never be free when I was around." He goes on, "My baby don't care." Yet underneath there's the suggestion that she simply hasn't got it in her to care any more, because he's exhausted her. Layers of harmony and layers of meaning. It's an intelligent heartbreak song, and those are rare.

The Beach Boys – “Help Me, Rhonda” -- May 29, 1965

I know Brian Wilson was a musical genius but I usually don't like the Beach Boys. It's the lyrics. The narrator was dumped, now he's begging Rhonda to be his rebound. Lucky Rhonda. Then they sing "Help me Rhonda/ Help, help me Rhonda" about five dozen times. Not for me.

The Supremes – “Back In My Arms Again” -- June 12, 1965

Urgh. Don't listen to the Supremes' #1 hits close together. She's got her man back because she stopped listening to her friends' advice. In isolation, there's nothing wrong with that. After all the songs about rotten cheating assholes whom the narrator is desperate to keep, though, it's super uncomfortable. Also using the names of the two backup singers as the friends who give bad advice is in poor taste. And "Flo, she don't know, cuz the boy she loves is a Romeo"? You solely date Romeos! Taken alone, without the context of the other songs, it's good, though I still don't like the strange insult toward the backup singers. Taken with the rest of the Supremes' hits, though, I'm not happy. Especially considering these were all written by men.

The Four Tops – “I Can’t Help Myself (Sugar Pie, Honey Bunch)” -- June 19, 1965

The Supremes weren't the only people in Motown singing about being hopelessly in love with someone who treated them badly. That's what this song is about. I like it, though the line "I'm weaker than a man should be" is a bit wince-inducing these days. But it's an honest sentiment about how men often feel they're not allowed to be idiots over love, though that's a near-universal human experience. Anyway, good song.

The Byrds – Mr. Tambourine Man -- June 26, 1965

The original version of this song was by Bob Dylan, but the Byrds didn't like it, so they changed the sound and ditched a bunch of the lyrics. The lyrics they were left with don't matter at all. This is all about the music, especially the guitar. It's mellow without being soporific, groovy without requiring drugs to understand. It's nice.

The Rolling Stones – “(I Can’t Get No) Satisfaction” -- July 10, 1965

The Rolling Stones were almost never nice. They went straight for the gut -- or gonads -- found all the nastiest things that people are afraid to say and embarrassed to feel, and hung them up on the front porch. "(I Can't Get No) Satisfaction" sounds kind of silly today, since it's been played and overplayed so much. But that beginning riff still goes straight to the back-brain.

Two years before, pap like "Hey Paula" was clogging the airwaves. Funnily enough, it's the same subject matter: Goddamn I want to get laid. (The idea that Mick Jagger had trouble getting laid is pretty ridiculous, but anyway.) And then there's the critical bit about hating advertisements. They managed to stick a cultural criticism into a song that's about wanting sex. When you can't get no satisfaction, everything is annoying, and things that were already annoying to begin with start to feel unbearable. The Stones go harder in every way than any #1 before them.

Herman’s Hermits – “I’m Henry VIII, I Am” -- August 7, 1965

And here's the opposite. This song must be meant to be annoying, right? One of my friends and I used to sing it at our parents to drive them nuts, and that was before Ghost. It was their fault for exposing us to it in the first place.

Sonny And Cher – “I Got You Babe” -- August 14, 1965

Cher with Sonny is eternally confusing. Though their marriage didn't last, their love was real, and Cher was heartbroken when Sonny died. But anyway, the song. Sonny saying Cher has a "little hand" is goofy. Actually the whole song is kinda goofy, especially the beat that seems to be made of kazoos. Cher's got this powerful, deep voice, while Sonny has a squeaky little thing, but somehow they mesh. The sentiment is sincere, and a good picture of what it's like to be in a happy relationship. It's good.

The Beatles – “Help!” -- September 4, 1965

John Lennon was only 25 when he sang about being "younger, so much younger than today." But for the Beatles, that could have been two years before. They got so famous so fast and so young, I don't know how any of them lived through it. And that is what this song's about; Lennon called it a "public freak-out." But it's still universal. I love this song, and it helped carry me through some tough times.

Barry McGuire – “Eve Of Destruction” -- September 25, 1965

I remember when I first heard this song on the radio in the car with my mother, I asked her what "Old enough to kill/ But not for voting" meant. That's when I learned people used to not be able to vote until they were 21, though young men could be drafted at 18. I was absolutely stunned, and obviously it stuck with me. When you're a little kid, you tend to think the people in charge are generally fair. Then you find out that's not true at all. That's what this song is about, to me.

The McCoys – “Hang On Sloopy” -- October 2, 1965

Speaking of fair, I'm about to be totally unfair. I hate this fucking song. I had to play it endlessly in middle school band, and then I had to play it AGAIN in high school marching band. And the flute part in the arrangements was the most boring thing that has ever been conceived. I hate this song and I will not be listening to it or thinking about it more than this.

The Beatles – “Yesterday” -- October 9, 1965

Why do people in songs lose their significant others so often because they said something wrong and they don't know what it was? That can't be common. Anyway, this song is beautiful and sad. I'm kind of tired of all the covers of it though.

The Rolling Stones – “Get Off Of My Cloud” -- November 6, 1965

I'm listening to the original mono version of this, and mono sounds very strange these days. I keep wanting to check that my speakers are plugged in. Anyway, thanks to Jagger's marbles-in-mouth singing, I can't understand a word of this song except "Hey! you! get off of my cloud!" and I've never known the lyrics until now. And they're not important. Even the chorus isn't that important. This is all about the beat and the music, neither of which I find interesting for the entire length of the song. Not for me.

The Supremes – “I Hear A Symphony” -- November 20, 1965

A thoroughly happy Supremes song! I think Diana Ross is more suited to happy lovesongs than what she had been singing. She has a lot more emotion in her voice than she has before. The violins are lovely. I love this song.

The Byrds – “Turn! Turn! Turn!” -- December 4, 1965

I have always found this song slightly annoying. The Bible verse set to light pop thing doesn't do it for me. The music isn't anywhere near dramatic enough. This should be operatic, or heavy metal, or something else with serious weight. This is thin.

The Dave Clark Five – “Over And Over” -- December 25, 1965

This song is a bit of a throwback to three or four whole years before. It would have been good then. At this point, it's pretty boring. It's about going to a party he didn't want to go to, hitting on a girl, and getting turned down. The snare drum beat is very repetitive, and so is the melody. A big meh.

BEST OF 1965: "My Girl", with stiff competition.   WORST OF 1965: "I'm Telling You Now"

[borisbubbles]

20. SAN MARINO

Senhit - “Freaky!”

Before we start, SORRY for not updating sooner. PED hit me sooner *and* harder than I anticipated and one of my tooth fillings dropped, so I’m currently on painkillers. Also the EBU’s online ‘replacement show’ for the first semifinal... :shudders: 

However, allow me to bring some happiness into my life (and by proxy, yours), by discussing the one, the only, the true 2020 Queen of EuroTRASH....

...

...

... Samanta Tina, in a few updates. 🤭

Until then, let’s dish on Senhit.

Entry Analysis. 

Hang on. Senhit you say? THIS SENHIT?

Yes, I am FOREMOST cuckoo-completely for the fact that SRMTV dug up this haggard frump from her crypt and forced her to do Eurovision simply because they had no other options <3 (and also because they had an Azerbaijani hand-me-down more on that in NF Corner). I always liked Senile Drunk Auntie Senit more than probably should (yes, “Stand by” is boring but 2011 is a dungheap, LET ME HAVE MY RANDOM FAVES OKAY)

Second of all, the accompanying transformation of Senit into SenHIT. We went from this:

to this?

LIFE IS GOOD WHEN YOU’RE IN A FREAKING(!) MIDLIFE CRISIS. 

Holy shit, what a transformation into... idek what to describe FREAKY!’s video clip as? A neo-neon-nightmare, featuring aggressively sexual grinding by Senhit, inflicted upon half-naked men in a setting that borrow heavily from Hatari’s BDSM couture? It’s fucking BONKERS. 

 May I also remind you that Senhit is EVEN OLDER THAN *BICENTANNIAL WOMAN TAMTARATAM* and despite this she manages to sell her sexual aggression as a something *FUNNY* without making herself look like a desperate tart? HER POWER. 😍

I also have to mention the fucking MARKETING campaign that accompanied this mad, menopausal circus of bad taste. You diehards probably noticed the San Marino 2021 mugs (those HIDEOUS teal/pink/sand coloured mugs <3) like I did and like me probably thought it was an elaborate hoax? Turn out... it somehow *wasn’t* a hoax and you could order them on Senhit’s personal website??? WHAT??? Btw, forget about the mugs, how about PERSONALIZED CONDOMS?

SOLD OUT lmfao <3 Bet most Senhit fans never actually used a condom before <3

All of this hogwash for a song that can best be described as an irrideemable pile of disco dreck. 😍  God I was SO on board with UNIRONICALLY stanning San Marino for once. #YesWeSen. 

and... then Eurovision 2020 was taken away from me, you and Senhit, and my appreciation towards her quickly dried up before it could settle as unironic stanning.😬 Sigh. BUT WORRY NOT QUEEN’S GOT YOU COVERED.

<3

NF Corner

Oh my fucking god, yes, the codswallop that was “Digital Battle Eurovision”. So, after months of silence (other than Senhit nasically spoiling her participation on social media, which no one really took seriously because come on, it’s Senhit) San Marino held something that was supposed to pass as a “national final” and it’s the shoddiest thing I’ve ever seen in the 8 years I’ve been following the preshow <3 

Okay so... This is where Azerbaijan come in. You may not know this yet, but “Cleopatra” by Efendi was, at some point during development, given to San Marino. I’m not sure about the exact details, but from what I heard and assumed, Azer’s broadcaster Ichtimai decided they didn’t need “Cleopatra”, so they gave the demo to San Marino, who then recruited Senhit to sing it in. Sounds like fan fiction and fortunately for us the recordings have made they way to the yubtubs so I can prove you it is gospel. Observe:

Senhit - “Cleopatra”

YES QUEEN OF THE GAYS <3 (lol I should keep my opinions on Efendi’s Cleopatra hidden for now, but spoilers I am going to fucking RIP that crock of shit to shreds once I get there).

So anyway, at *SOME* point after giving “Cleopatra” to the San Marinese, Ichtimai must’ve decided that “nope, Cleopatra will be OUR entry, thx” and punted Senhit out of her glorious pseudo-historical trash anthem (more on that too when I rank Azerbaijan), a WEEK before the deadline, (😂🤣) which of course meant that San Marino had to *improvize*. 😅

Enter: a ramshackle SING-OFF between two songs, deadline ON THE MORNING OF THE DELEGATION MEETING. 🤣. Your choices:

SONG #1 A trashy disco song that never would have stood a prayer at Eurovision and would’ve been a disaster in every universe, especially *and* including our own, but was complete lip service towards any vocal Stan Marino.

SONG #2 The English translation of a competent, but somewhat tepid electropop song that Senhit had released in Italian in September, mere days after the 2020 season had started. Good, but nothing too exciting. 

Senhit - Obsessed

And honestly, it seemed clear that FREAKY! would win from second one? It seemed like the clear follow-up to Serhat (sorta?), a perfect fan service song to keep the balding gays busy so they don’t pick up their phones and vote for boring shit such as Gjon’s Tears. However, when FREAKY! won it was revealed it had only won by a TINY margin over Obsessed anyway. What the FUCK was this year honestly and why does NONE of it make sense. 

San Marino 2020 & San Marino 2021

I mean... yes, the second semifinal was compiled of a series of oozing trashheaps and boring smug, and yes, both demographs would provide qualifiers and no, Senhit *never* would’ve been one of them, being stuck in the first half. 

It would seem as if “FREAKY!” was a worthy successor to “Say na na na”, but I don’t think that comparison really works. The only things those two songs have in common is their camp and their singer’s inability to sing (lol have I ever said a positive thing about Serhat, ever, in print? I should counteract that by saying something kind: Serhat is very good at... um... being a dentist. 🙂)

However, “Say na na na” also had a universally positive message, even if it adhered the tried-and-true “BELIEVE IN YOURSELF IF YOU DO THIS BANALE THING” cliché.” FREAKY!” literally is a hodgepodge of acid trippy menopausal nonsense, which I personal find more endearing, but Europe would swiftly whisk towards the rubbish bin for being bad and female. C’est la vie. 

Nada on 2021 yet and given how desperate and scarce with information San Marino are, I expect no news until the literal last minute. I personally wouldn’t be too surprised if they withdrew, but eh, I wouldn’t lose sleep over it. As long as we have Samanta Demon to cover our trip-hop-trash needs, I couldn’t rly care less about San Marino. 

FREAKY! FRIDAY! FACTOR!

I mean, even if you had *any* doubts how well Senhit would score in the category I named after her, let me recap

- San Marino recruited a random-ass-returnee nobody really asked for. - They initially gave her an Azeri hand-me-down trashpop song about a Macedonian-Greek pharaoh - Azerbaijan then took BACK said hand-me-down trashpop song and made it their entry - Which forced San Marino to flimsily put together a last-minute digital NF where you could decide which of these two HOPELESS songs would facilitate their NQ - The deadline of which was set *ON THE MORNING OF THE DELEGATION MEETING IN ROTTERDAM* (aka the literal submissions deadline) - The obvious winner *almost* lost the vote everyone expected them to win (again!) - and of course: the video clip, the website, the emails, the slogans, the CONDOMS. This is honestly what FREAKY! FRIDAY! FACTORS! are made for. Happily take away the first (but not last) perfect score, queen. 

Score: 5 Senhits out of 5. 

[theunderdogwrites]

2020: The Year I Lost My Ass

Well, we reached the end of that toilet roll only to start another one, because that is what we do for as long as we are allowed to continue revolutions around the sun – we keep going.

2020 was a terrible year for so many. My brain is incapable of processing the number of losses suffered on a global scale. Be it jobs, security, rights, sanity, relationships or life. My brain is not just incapable of these calculations, it has plain refused to entertain those thoughts on behalf of my heart. My heart, that sensitive little blood pumping work horse who not once allows itself to stop. Thank goodness.

I don’t believe the majority of people are willing and able to bring themselves to fully comprehend what was lost in 2020.

Here is a list of a few more losses suffered last year:

- People lost their shit. And over the most ridiculous things like toilet paper, having to wear a mask to secure toilet paper and being held to the consequences resulting from not wearing a mask when asked to while attempting to purchase toilet paper. Pause for a moment and let that last sentence hang around in your mind. 2020 made that happen. I didn’t make it up! Recently I saw a news piece showing a man (40’s) lying down on the floor in a Costco to protest being asked to wear a mask. He spoke loudly, he beat his hands at his sides and wildly kicked his legs when an employee asked him to get up. Now, I am not judging for I too have participated in such behaviour MANY times. Granted I was three, but hey… some of us mature faster than others.

 - People lost their damn minds. 2020 should be dubbed “The Year of The Karen”. For those of you not in the know about the Karen phenomenon, here is a description courtesy of Urban Dictionary:

 “Karen is a pejorative term used in the United States and other English-speaking countries for a woman perceived as entitled or demanding beyond the scope of what is appropriate or necessary. A common stereotype is that of a white woman who uses her privilege to demand her own way at the expense of others.’

 Basically, a Karen is a I WANT TO SPEAK TO YOUR MANAGER type person (There is a male equivalent, but it seems no one can agree on the name… Chad, Terry, Kyle, Kevin, Steve). You can often find a Karen on her cellphone calling the police to report a black man who lives in her neighborhood, simply living his life in her neighbourhood. I didn’t make that up either.

 More recently a Karen was videoed in a UPS store claiming that she didn’t have to wear a mask because that space was government property and not a private business. Would it be safe to say that most Karen types suffer from a lack of oxygen to their brain? Possibly. But that would involve science and Karen types DO NOT enjoy hard facts.

 As always when I download my thoughts into reality, I must go within and search myself. Am I a Karen? My immediate answer is: no fucking way. I can honestly say I’ve never once asked to see a manager or called the police to report someone eating their lunch on a park bench. I do not enjoy confrontation. Unless there is a bully involved. Then I will drag that person to hell with me. I much prefer discussion over going straight to the ‘I triple dog dare you!’ approach to the world. (If you got that reference, you are my new favourite) Because that is who a Karen really is… someone who jumps right to the most extreme action in order to satisfy their need to be superior. Truly, we should feel sorry for these people because instead of engaging they’re raging. And how awful must their insides feel… always full of anger, fear and self doubt. I say instead of judging these Karen types or putting them on blast on social media, we should hug the shit out of them. Just grab them and squeeze as hard as you fucking can until they stop talking. Peaceful solutions my friends, peaceful solutions.

 - Pets lost their faith in us. Children a close second. If you are a proud owner of a pet or a child, you know exactly what I’m talking about.

I’ve always operated under the notion that my cat loves it when I’m home and hates it when I leave. 2020 has taught me it might be the other way around. Because our animals are, well, animals we just believe our presence is the greatest gift in their lives. Remember when you were old enough to be left alone by your parents and once you had the taste of that kind of freedom, you just wanted more of it and couldn’t wait for them to go out? I feel it’s like that with our pets now. We might not think animals have a routine or preferences or enjoy some alone time, but we’d be wrong.

I think at first our pets were thrilled. If we are home more it means more time for prolonged petting, walks and the opportunity to ritualistically train us to respond to their caterwauls for more food and treats than normal. But then as the weeks of lockdown and working from home increased, so did our pets desire to kill us in our sleep.

 I’m pretty sure my cat has asked me several times using her feline glare: “why the fuck won’t you just leave?”. It would be naïve of us to assume we don’t disrupt their day with our constant noise making and snacking and scotch drinking that leads to a good buzz that leads to showing too much affection to our pets. To the point where they run and hide when they see us coming. Please tell me I didn’t describe just my own experience.

 There is such a thing as everything in moderation, we know this, so I think it can be applied here. People, get away from your pets. Give them the space you often desire from human beings. Because if you don’t, that random turd in your shoe could be pointing to a much larger, more alarming problem you’re about to encounter.

 I had the absolute blessing of being able to assist in caring for and raising of my three nephews (12,9,6) for the last 11 years. So, when I say: ‘children are always watching us’, I feel I know what I’m talking about. I’ve been mimicked so often by these young boys that I’ve had to pause due to mortification. Children will hold you accountable without even knowing it. I’ve had some behaviours of mine corrected by a 5-year-old and let me tell you, it stings like hell.

 As adults, when our world was thrown into turmoil because of Covid-19, we looked to our medical health professionals and our politicians for guidance. Basically, we searched for those who would lead us. The children – looked to us. And while many adults handled this responsibility the best they possibly could, many more failed miserably and displayed attitudes I can only describe as juvenile, damaging and pathetic. I suppose it doesn’t help if the people the adults are looking to for help are themselves - juvenile, damaging and pathetic.

 When I say we still have not grasped just how much has been lost over the past year, I’m hinting at integrity, compassion and creditability. Three vital qualities you’d hope people want to instill into their children. But if they themselves are unable to display such valuable traits, what does this say for the children who are looking up to them as an example on how to act when life gets challenging?

 For myself in 2020, I gained by losing.

When they locked our gyms down for four months last spring, I came close to being one of those people who lost their shit. While people were moaning about wearing a mask for 20 minutes in the grocery store, I was contemplating if murdering those people could be considered a cardio exercise and would that hold up in a court of law.

To reflect on that time period now (especially since our gyms are closed AGAIN at the moment) the loss of the gyms brought me the knowledge of how important the routine of going to and being in the gym is to my mental health. I won’t launch into how I feel about shopping malls being open and gyms being closed despite their proven benefit to one’s overall health because then I really will lose my shit.

People always say getting to the gym is the hardest part and once they’re there it’s easy to workout. And for many that is the truth, but for me it’s all a part of the workout. Getting to the gym is the psychological effort. Putting in the work at the gym is the physical. You can’t have one without the other. I became so pathetic that I’d often walk to the closed gym from my house, stare at the closed doors and then walk home. 1.5 hour round trip. True story.

Remember a few years back everyone became obsessed with that Netflix show ‘Tidying Up with Marie Kondo’? It is the show where that lovely woman from Japan showed us all how to declutter our homes by getting rid of anything that didn’t bring us joy. Those acid wash jeans from 1989… sit with them… hold them close to your chest… if they don’t make you happy, remove them from your space. Well, the same idea can be applied to people and ideas and even feelings. And 2020 was a great year for simplifying our lives. I’ve heard so many people talk about how they can’t wait to get back to ‘normal’… not me. I’ve already started my ‘new normal’.

The loss of drama has gained me peace and a better understanding of the importance of remaining true to who I am instead of trying to please others in hopes it wins me points. Because it doesn’t. Because its inauthentic and only brings you more loss and more drama. And anxiety. And sleepless nights. And an overall sense of hatred for everyone. 2020 gave me the option to no longer care about the things that don’t make me happy and to embrace the process of letting all that stupid bullshit fade away.

It was a year of gained focus.

It was a year of gained appreciation.

It was a year of gained gratitude.

It was a year of gained love for myself.

 I’m going to leave you now, but not before I share one of my favorite songs by the Tragically Hip:

In A World Possessed by The Human Mind

Just give me the news

It can all be lies

Exciting over fair or the right thing at the right time

Everything is clear

Just how you described

The way it appears, "A world possessed by the human mind"

 Then I think I smiled

Then I think you said, "it's fine"

And quietly I dressed, in a world completely possessed by the human mind

 We're in awe of no one

We've none of their fear

Fighting's goin' nowhere and we stay right here

Where everything is quiet

A little super dangerous

"In the shadow of the law and with colours of justice"

 Then I hope I smiled

Then I'm sure you said, "It's fine"

They got no interest in a world completely possessed by the human mind

 Everything is quiet

A little super dangerous

Quiet enough to hear God rustlin' around in the bushes

Oh, but it was you

Girl, I was so afraid

You said, "You shoulda seen the look on your face"

 Then I hope I laughed

Then I hope I said, "it's fine"

And quietly undressed in a world completely possessed by the human mind

 Oh it was you

Girl, I was so afraid

You said, "You shoulda seen the look on your face"

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mgXphurrsE0

[cherryamoureuse]

paper rings | peter parker (soulmate au)

     Tomorrow was your seventeenth birthday. You were finally going to be linked to your soulmate. Everyone’s connection was different. Some saw specific colors, others shared emotions. Your parents had been the latter. The bond does not show itself until both soulmates are seventeen. You will admit that your heart was yearning and hoping that it would be one specific person. Peter Parker. You were in the same chemistry class as the honey-eyed brunette. The pair of you have never exchanged more than a few words to each other in the two years that you had been classmates, much to your dismay. From the second that you had laid your eyes on him freshman year, you had been his. Today, walking into school had been anxiety ridden for you. While on the train to school, your head was taken up with the thought of soulmates. 

Would your infatuation with Peter suddenly disappear? What if it didn’t? Wouldn’t your soulmate eventually find out your affection was so focused on someone else? What if Peter was your soulmate? 

No, that is just wishful thinking on your part. Walking up the stone steps, you reached the entrance of Midtown High. As cliche as it sounds, you felt your heart skip a few beats as you walked through the double doors. Peter was standing by his locker, shifting through stacks of paper, with a pen loosely hanging between his lips. Feeling your stare, he looked up and gave you a lopsided smile that wrapped your heart in warmth. Quickly, your eyes flutter towards the grounds as you feel your cheeks heat up at being caught. Walking past him, you flash him a smile as you go to find MJ, who would surely be waiting for you by your locker. You greet her with a flustered smile and she eyes you suspiciously. 

“What’s up with you? Your cheeks are the color of strawberries.” She lifts a finger and pokes at your left cheek. 

“It’s nothing.” You assure her as you hide your face behind your locker door. 

“Mhm, this wouldn't have anything to do with a certain nerd named Peter Parker, now would it? She says with a smirk lighting up her features. “You know, if you just talked to him you could already be his girlfriend.” 

“As if, MJ.” You scoff at her. You and Peter are barely acquaintances at this point in time. He would smile at you when you make eye contact and make small talk at the science tables, but that was the extent of it. You were his chemistry seat partner, that’s all.  

“What do you mean? Never forget that you’re the one that’s out of his league.” 

“Sure,” You sigh. MJ had always seen the best in people, even if she was a tad guarded. “Tomorrow is my birthday anyways. I’m gonna find my soulmate.” You do smile a little at the thought. It is important to be independent, but it would be nice to find a forever with someone. 

The two of you walk to English and take your seats.

     The day passes by, and you are finally on your way home. Your apartment was empty, there was a note on the counter from your parents saying they wouldn’t be home for dinner and that there was money on the table for pizza. They were rarely ever home, due to their busy work schedules, but you were used to it. Kicking off your shoes, you make your way to your bedroom to start your homework. As the time goes by, you try not to stress about your soulmate situation. The closer it got to 12, the more anxious you became. Finally, the moment had come as your clock switched from pm to am. You let out a breath and waited. Nothing happened. You didn’t feel any different. Furrowing your brows, you go to the mirror to search for some marking, which was the most common form of soulmate matching. There was nothing to be found. You sat on your bed hoping to feel anything from your soulmate’s end. All you could feel and hear was silence. Maybe your soulmate hadn’t turned seventeen yet. Then a terrible thought had occurred to you. What if you had no soulmate? It was rare but there had been a few cases of people who had no bond. You were reaching all kinds of scenarios in your head when you heard your parents walk through the front door. You rush under the covers and pretend to be asleep, so they don’t ask you questions that would make you cry in your fragile state. You hear the door open and hushed whispers are shared, before it is closed once again. Falling asleep, you try not to focus on the worst case scenarios.  

     You are woken up by a loud voice. Startled, you glance over at your clock to see that it is 3am. There are two voices speaking about salicylic acid? Confusion and alarm are at the forefront of your emotions. There was no radio on, yet the voices continue to converse about science. Opening your window, you stick your head out and try to find the source, but the voices seemed to be directly in your head. An epiphany strikes you. It has to be your soulmate bond. A smile lights up your features as you finally understand. It was a rare connection to have. Music. You and your soulmate could hear whatever music- or in your case, podcast- the other was listening to. An excited giggle forces it way out of your throat as you listen to scientific procedures. Why your soulmate would be up at 3am and listening to a science podcast was beyond you, but you were relieved to know that you were not without a soulmate. You thought about putting on your own music to let them know that you were there, but you didn’t want to disturb your other half. Your eyelids grow heavy and you are once again drifting back to sleep with thoughts of the periodic table. 

     Waking up at 6 am on a Saturday with just 4 hours of sleep under your belt was not difficult to do when you were excited for the prospect of hearing whatever your soulmate heard. There had been no new sounds in your mind since this morning, but you knew that if you began listening to a song, they would hear it and be as surprised as you had been. You had spent the morning racking your brain for the perfect song to play your soulmate. Nothing too heavy, you wanted a soft introduction. Searching your Spotify playlist, you found the perfect song. Holding your breath, you press play on Taylor Swift’s Invisible String. The intro starts and you wait. The song plays and finishes without interruption. You don’t play anything, hoping for some sort of response. Your heart is beating out of your chest as the same opening intro is played back before stopping. It worked, they had heard you! Excitement coursed through your veins. Freaking out, you look for another song to play for your soulmate. After half an hour, there had been no response. You were disappointed, but you brushed it off as your soulmate just getting busy. Around 8, you decided to take a quick shower. Normally, you would be playing music and singing in the shower, but you didn’t want to bother or annoy your soulmate. The silence was awkward for you. Brushing your hair, you decided to throw caution to the wind and play your everyday playlist. The soft sound of Clairo’s Bags fills the room. You keep the volume low as you hum and sing along. Then, Paper Rings starts playing and you can’t help but turn it up a little and sing into your hairbrush. You finish your nightly routine and head to bed. The weekend went by with no sounds on your soulmate’s end. It was frustrating to say the least, but you tried not to get worked up about it. Lover had been your album of choice for the weekend. Paper Rings had been on repeat for almost 2 days straight. You couldn’t help it. The song just elevated your mood. And with the mountain of assignments you had to do, you needed the boost. You popped your headphones in and started your walk to school. Taylor Swift accompanies you through your subway stops. Walking through the doors, your eyes immediately go to Peter’s locker. He’s standing and talking to Ned. He looks up when you enter and waves at you. You take out your headphones and pause your music to wave back at him. His hand stops its movement as soon as you begin waving back. He seems to be frozen in place as his mouth parts in disbelief. You drop your hand and your smile, thinking that you had done something wrong and cringe internally. Wrapping up your headphones, you walk past Peter, whose eyes are following you. His expression stays the same. Turning the corner, you run to MJ, telling her about your soulmate and your bizarre interaction with Peter. 

“Wait,” she interrupts your rambling about how Peter reacted to your wave. “You waved at Peter? That’s so unlike you. Maybe that’s why he freaked.” 

Thinking about it, Peter doesn’t usually wave at you when you walk in. Normally the two of you would exchange only a smile in the mornings. 

     Sliding into your seat in Chemistry, your leg bounces as you psych yourself up to talk to Peter. You wanted to get past the shy responses you always gave him. Having a soulmate had built up your confidence and you were ready to try and be Peter’s friend. You catch his eyes as he walks through the door frame and into the classroom. Your heart flutters, but you will the feeling away. You had a soulmate out there and it was not Peter Parker. This time it is him who averts his gaze and blushes. He walks down the aisle to his normal seat next to you. For some reason, you are hyper aware of his proximity today and you want nothing more than to melt into his side. You shake the thought from your head. What is up with you today? You turn to him. 

“Hi, Peter.” Your voice sounds small amongst the loudness of the room, but his head perks up to look at you. 

“Hi, Y/N. Wow, you’ve never been the one to talk first.” He laughs, but stops as he sees your face fall. You hadn’t wanted to seem standoffish, you were just painfully shy around him.

“I’m sorry, I-I” You blush a scarlet red as you stumble over your words.

“N-No, don’t apologize. It was just surprising. I’m glad you’re talking to me,” He assures you with a gentle, close-lipped smile and a hand on your arm. Warmth spreads around the area where his palm meets your cardigan. You could sigh at the feeling. “Happy Birthday, by the way. Big seventeen.” He rubs his neck. 

“Yeah, thank you. I didn’t know you knew about my birthday.”

“MJ told me.” You nod at his rushed explanation and a comfortable silence washes over. Peter breaks it by asking you a question. “Sorry if it’s personal, but did you find out what your soulmate bond was? Y-you don’t have to answer, I’m just curious.” 

Before you could answer, the teacher began explaining the assignment for today. You and Peter finished the paper just as the bell rang, signalling the end of the class period. Peter offers to walk with you to your locker. You nod in acceptance. You break the silence once you reach your locker.  

“Um I did get my soulmate bond by the way, it’s bizarre. Mine is a music connection, but my soulmate has only listened to one science podcast so far. It was at 3 in the morning too.” You laugh and look over to see Peter looking at you with the same expression from this morning. You see him duck down to pull his phone out of his backpack and frantically untangle his headphones. 

His movements were startling and you reached a hand out to his shoulder. “Are you okay, Peter?” 

He doesn’t respond. His tongue pokes out of the side of his mouth, as he concentrates on his task. He finally untangles the knots and plugs in the wire, with the headphones situated in his ear. He taps away at the screen. All of a sudden, you hear the all too familiar opening of Paper Rings, your song of choice this past weekend. You gasp as Peter looks up at you and turns his phone around showing you the cover art to none other than Taylor Swift’s Lover album. You reach down and pause the song. Silence falls between the two of you as you try and process what had just happened. 

“Y-You.. You’re m-my soulmate?” You know you must look insane, but there is so much happening in your mind that it’s a miracle you can even form the words. 

Peter watches you carefully as he stands up. “Y-yeah, I mean, I had a suspicion from the weekend and this morning, but yeah. I h-hoped it was you.” He admits shyly. 

Your heart could burst. Here was Peter Parker, the boy you had been hoping was your soulmate, admitting that he had hoped the same thing.  Here was Peter Parker, your soulmate. Before you can even process the words, they are coming out of your mouth in quick succession, “Can I kiss you?” 

He seems a bit startled but recovers and gives a small nod. You reach up to wrap your arms around his neck and delicately press your lips to his. He is hesitant at first, but soon leans into the kiss and places his arms around your waist, bringing you closer to him. You pull away from lack of air, but press your foreheads together. Peter laughs. 

You look up at him and smile. “What?”

“You really like Taylor Swift, don��t you? I’m tired of hearing that song bouncing around in my head. I don’t know how someone could listen to the same song for so long.” 

“Shut up. You didn’t even listen to any music at all.”

“I didn’t want to disturb you. Plus, you listen to enough music for the both of us.”

He leans down again to place another kiss on your lips. His arms are still wrapped tightly around you. You were perfectly happy to stay in his embrace forever. Thanking the heaven’s for whoever was responsible for making him the perfect match for you, you kiss him back. 

I like shiny things, but I'd marry you with paper rings

I hate accidents except when we went from friends to this

darling, you're the one I want

In paper rings in picture frames in all my dreams

You're the one I want

[griimreaping]

A study in Headcannons: Jean Masters edition

This is a compendium of all the headcannons I could find that I’ve posted on my blog and a few that I hadn’t managed to write out yet. Gives some finer details on Jean and overall adds to her story.

There is a small weathered brown leather sketchbook in the front left breast pocket of her work jacket that has a hand-carved wooden pencil bound to the side. Inside the yellowing pages, you can find increasingly detailed sketches of the targets that she’s been given to kill. This book started when she had turned 18 and the first entry is of a stoic and serious-looking man, this would be her father. It’s not particularly well-drawn, though there’s one part of his face that she’s seemed to have spent the most time getting correct and it’s the piercing stare the man wears. A few of the drawings have color put in key places like lips, eyes, or facial tattoos though most are in regular pencil. Maxamillion’s sketch has a small note scratched onto the back that isn’t in Jean’s handwriting and it reads “Studying your target gets you one step closer to killing them.”

   Jean had quite a few tattoos and one iron brand that had gotten taken off when she lost her arm. These tattoos are the major identifying features of her along with a nasty healed bullet wound scar just below her navel.

   Jean was actually entirely homeschooled by her father, and while she’s not a superstar at math she’s pretty intelligent in the street smarts sort of way. Max thought that practical skills were much more important than anything they were dishing out in school so he made a point to teach both his children the arts of protecting yourself, smooth talking, and hitting a target from a click away the basic stuff. So sure, she’s a smart gal but calculus is a mystery.

   While her occupation and previous trauma have steeled her emotionally Jean is actually a soft person underneath all the walls and locks. Some part of her aches for a person to just hold her and tell her things will be okay. She internalizes a lot of emotions and guilt from her past and when it’s dark and quiet those thoughts and monsters crawl up out of the woodwork.

   Night terrors and insomnia are common plagues of the woman keeping her from getting sleep a majority of the time. The few times that she’s had restful sleep is when she’s in the arms of someone else.  And I’m not talking like a one night stand or anything like that, I mean that she trusts this person enough to just melt into their arms and fall asleep. Her work takes a lot out of her and she’s just tired.

Jean has two boats. One is currently dry docked in Morrocco while the other is a 67-meter superyacht by the name of the Sea Widow which is the base for most of Trinity’s mobile operations.

Jean is technically a multi-millionaire. With about 250 million in offshore accounts and floating among various proxy accounts so dirty money can’t be traced. For the most part, she lives rather lavishly.

Jean has been married twice. First one lasting for a few years before the toll of her lifestyle took too much out of the man and he divorced her and left the country. Jean abides by his wishes and does not keep tabs on him.

Her second husband had been a double agent and had her kidnapped and tortured for two weeks which ultimately ended in her losing her arm and her killing him after she’d escaped.

Jean has spinal compression from various hard falls and the connective tissue in her knees is pretty beat up. There are occasional phantom pains from her missing arm and the tissue around where the metal connects to her body gets irritated when not taken care of properly. Partial hearing loss in her left ear from an explosion. There are patches on her body where she has little feeling due to previous injuries, this is most prevalent on her back and left side.

For a minute she had a dependency on painkillers, though after some tough self-discipline Jean got herself away from them and now prefers not to take them if at all possible. She’s tried to stop smoking on several occasions but found that it just made her temper terrible and her hands shake with the withdrawals so she’s gotten down to half a pack a day.

If you were to look around Jean’s home you would notice that there’s a lot of spackled over patches here and there. This is because she forgets the strength of her metal arm from time to time and has put holes in the walls. One of the largest holes that had happened was when she had been trying to hang a painting and she put the entire hammer through the wall.

Weapon of choice is a Remington CSR, collapsible and powerful it’s great for both long and medium range. While the short range stuff is kept to super 625 .45 revolver ( just in case her target decided to hide behind a tank ) or a trusty KBAR knife that’s been lovingly sharpened and oiled.

Multilingual Jean can speak four languages fluently and a handful of others to a conversational level. English, Spanish, Russian, and Arabic are her main languages simply for business sake with those being the biggest contenders.

In the Monster Hunter verse, Jean is unable to fully die. She will sustain harsh enough injuries and enter a state of in between. Due to a pact that she’d made with the grim reaper in her younger years, though when her time finally comes and she fulfills her mission Jean is given just enough time to spend a few moments with her family then simply fade from existence.

Jean can play two instruments, guitar, and piano. She was taught how to play the guitar by her brother Stephan when she was younger, it kept her mind from other things and gave Stephan and her something to do together to avoid their father. The piano she had taught herself after she’d lost her arm in an attempt to gain finer finger dexterity back after the accident. The piano helped her combat the phantom pains that she experienced frequently in the beginning and it also allowed her to become used to the new appendage.

Not a day goes by that Jean doesn’t think about her brother. Stephan had been her support and guardian from her father’s rage and beatings for most of her childhood after their mother died. When he ran away after he turned 18 leaving the then 14 year old Jean alone with the husk of a man that was their father Jean never quite forgave him. It’s this acidic hole in her chest that burns her up inside. There are so many questions that she wants to ask him most of them starting with why. Why did he leave her without saying anything? Why didn’t he take her with him? Where did he go? Where did you go? Jean runs this old film reel over and over in her head at night

Jean wanted kids. She really wanted to be a better person for them and grasped for that white picket fence life for so long that when she had gotten shot in the stomach and had her internals so badly damaged that it ripped that away from her, the woman didn’t really ever recover. There are times where the assassin absently traces that scar on her stomach thinking about everything that could have been.

Dreams are less of night terrors and more like glimpses into a different life. Sometimes it’s hazy memories of picnics with the whole family when her mother was still alive. Sometimes its visions of taking her kids to go see uncle Stephan who lives somewhere in the mountains. Though waking up is always the same, leaving this harsh ache in her entire body when she realizes that all of those dreams are just dreams.

There had been moments when Jean wished she failed in killing her father. Knowing that the consequences would have been her own demise she silently wonders what would have happened. If there was such thing as an afterlife could she have watched the man that had once been a rock for their family fall apart under the knowledge that he’d killed his only daughter and drove his son out of the home? Jean has always wondered.

[tessatechaitea]

Kid Eternity #2

This cover says, "Don't look at who wrote it! Just look at how interesting these visuals are! Sucker."

In my review of Kid Eternity #1, I threw out a few theories on why Ann Nocenti's writing is so weird. After reading page one of this issue, I've thrown those theories out again but in a different way. That makes complete sense if you understand English idioms and also understand that everything Ann Nocenti writes is basically pre-trash.

This is page one of Kid Eternity #2 and it will probably get this review banned on Tumblr.

I have a new theory: Ann Nocenti asked what a Vertigo comic book should be and editor Tom Peyer probably joked, "They're mostly tits and profound nonsense." So Ann Nocenti's vagina gobbed in her underwear and she squealed with glee. "That's what I do!" she chortled merrily! I probably shouldn't abuse Ann Nocenti for writing things I don't understand. I have plenty of choices of other people to abuse for it: my elementary school teachers for not calling me out on doing just enough to get by; my junior high school teachers who let me get away with not putting any effort into big year-end projects (In science, we were supposed to make a stone age tool. I rubber glued a carved-to-a-shoddy point stick to another stick (which was worse than my friend Robert who put some pine needles into a split stick, calling the weapon "Ow"); in English, we had one project based on Romeo and Juliet (because all we did that quarter was watch and read various versions of the play) and I refused to do it because the teacher was wasting my time; in Computers, I found Dan Felipe's project, a trivia program, and I just copied it and used it for my own project (changing all the questions and line numbers and other things to make it seem like it wasn't plagiarized but, I mean, come on! In fairness to me, I only did it because the stupid fucking school changed computers halfway through the semester, dropping the TRS-80s for Apples and my project was relying on the Poke images of the TRS-80 to create an animated sequence)); my high school English teacher, Mr. Borror, for reading nearly everything I wrote in front of the class so that I began to think I was the wittiest fucker in Santa Clara High; my college teachers for some reason or another that allows me to not blame my own lack of ability; and probably my parents because if they were any good at their parental jobs, I wouldn't be writing a blog about comic books. In other words, I'm sure Ann Nocenti is a philosophical genius while I'm just a guy who blames everybody else for things I don't understand. Even if I truly felt Ann Nocenti was an underrated genius whose writings I'm incapable of parsing, I would never ask her to explain what she meant by this first page of Kid Eternity #2. I just wouldn't feel comfortable putting her on the spot like that. It's not up to the artist to explain their art to the foolish audience! Only the Christian Messiah bears that responsibility (and, let's face it, he wouldn't have had to explain every fucking parable if he'd been able to convince smarter people of his bullshit). So if it's up to me to interpret this first page gibber gabber, I suppose I should get to business. Or kill myself. I mean, killing myself would be easier and less painful. And I totally would kill myself before reading more Ann Nocenti comic books except I have plans to cut my toenails in a few months. Before I begin trying to understand this hogwash, I'd like to point out that if she'd written it as a sonnet, I wouldn't have a problem with it. I'd read it, think, "Yep, that's a sonnet!", nod my head in sage understanding, and then jerk off to the titties. But this is not a sonnet so it is not allowed to be obtuse simply for obtuseness' sake. So this fucking speech. First off, who is speaking? The serpent trying to fuck the naked lady? Is this the speech the serpent used on Eve to get her to eat the fruit from the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil? Although if that's the case, how would talking about Buddha convince Eve of anything? I'll assume the serpent is omniscient (because he may or may not be Satan, depending on what holy men or con artists you believe but certainly isn't Satan if you're simply going by the Book of Genesis. I bet the serpent was God doing one of those Zeus things minus the rape. Zeus loved to trick people so he could get laid; Yahweh tricks people to test their faith). I guess since she had yet to eat from the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil (come on, God! That name is terrible), she wouldn't know what she doesn't know and can't defend against any nonsense the serpent spews at her. Let's assume the art goes with the speech and it's the serpent speaking. So why is "God in repair" and what the fuck does that mean? And why is it followed by the statement, "Why not call the wisest man a freak?" Does the snake only speak in non sequiturs? Was that a stupid question since I already know the snake's dialogue is being written by Ann Nocenti? It is kind of refreshing to see that her dialogue style never changed in thirty years. The shit the serpent says on this page could be nonsense spewed by Coil from Nocenti's New 52 Katana. You know what? I don't have to continue this because, in the end, it's just a carnival barker's pitch to get people to believe in the freaks in his freak show. He's all, "What's the difference between freaks and religion?!" That's not a riddle I have an answer for. The only religious joke I know is "What do Noah's Ark and The Bible have in common?" That might be a joke that was extant before I came up with it but I did come up with it on my own. And I think the answer is so obvious I would be insulting the intelligence of all four people reading this. Oh, and the snake trying to fuck the lady? It's a tattoo on the Tattooed Lady. The reason the comic begins in a circus freak show? Because Kid Eternity is the newest freak on display! The opening sideshow scene is just one of Kid Eternity's dreams. The demon angel babies get into Kid Eternity's dream and when he wakes up, they've tied his hair to the floor which totally has him trapped for like three panels. That was a close one! Kid Eternity decides he can't truly know what he's doing unless he utterly knows himself. So it's time to get his brain probed.

Let me guess: Carl will blather on about synchronicity and dreams while Freud tries to figure out how big Kid Eternity's penis is.

Carl doesn't initially discuss anything. He's just the straight man for Freud saying all the typical things you'd expect Freud to say: penis this, envy that, fuck your mom, kill your dad, more penises, many more penises, everything is penises. But then he comes on fast and furious with his archetypes and collective unconscious and human mythology stuff, all the biggest Carl Jung hits (aside from synchronicity but I'm sure he'll get around to that later. Ann Nocenti isn't going to miss showing the readers all the knowledge nuggets she mined to make her brain big). If only Nocenti would spend as much time writing the story as she spends making sure the readers know she knows a lot of shit then maybe I would have kept reading this comic book. Meanwhile, Zeus wanders around looking for somebody to trick fuck, Madame Blavatsky hunts down the next best burger before she slips back to the past, Beelzebub and Judas wander through Limbo, Jesus gets drunk and falls off a bar stool, and a phone yells at a woman. That all happens on one page to make sure the reader remembers other things are happening. But why does Ann Nocenti spend two panels of that dense page on Madame Blavatsky when she could have updated the reader on the non-X-File FBI agents who will probably hate fuck each other before the story ends? I also wanted an update on the Buddha Christ Trash Child. But no! Instead Nocenti just moves on to more of her proof that she's read all about Freud and Jung and totally understands the shallow top layer of their theories and philosophies. I don't mean to say I know any more than Ann Nocenti! But I understand how little I know of Freud and everything she's had him say are things everybody knows about Freud from all the dirty jokes about him: ids, supermen, parental relations, and phalli!

Oh, that's why we didn't get an update on the dense update page; Nocenti needed a full page to document the hate/fuck.

My new Ann Nocenti writing theory: Ann Nocenti has never had an original thought. She simply reads things, takes copious notes of bits and quotes she likes, and then shoves them sideways into whatever script she's currently writing. No wait. She does have original thoughts but they're almost not worth having. Like "everything in life is a prison" and then proving it by stating a few things about life that can be cell-like. It's profound in that way that things are profound when you're on acid. If you don't think about it, you can find yourself nodding along going, "Yeah! Yeah! Everything is a prison! Life is a fucking prison!" But if you do stop to think about it, it's like coming down off acid. You start to see how that thought you had about how the number three ties everything else in the universe together because of the way the corners meet didn't wasn't as mind blowing as it was six hours ago. Although the rant you went on about how pressing play on the VCR remote play the show and pressing pause pauses it but then to unpause it you have to hit pause again when you should really hit play was pretty fucking good. Speaking of acid, I'm two-thirds of the way through the acid documentary on Netflix and it's fucking fantastic. I wasn't really thinking a lot about it but I was nodding along going, "Yeah! Yeah! Everything they're saying about acid is absolutely spot on!" throughout. I actually had to take a break because it was making me too happy listening to all Sting and Carrie Fisher tell their acid stories. I don't know why I didn't just spend five paragraphs discussing why the FBI agents were playing Scrabble while they fucked. It's probably just one of Sean Phillips' kinks. Oh, maybe they were just playing Scrabble and not hate-fucking. It's hard to tell because on the next page, Jerry asks Val if they can finally fuck and Val is all, "You're a nerd!" Then she slits his throat. But then in the next panel, his throat isn't slit and he's all, "You feeling better?" And she's all, "Yeah!" So I don't know what the fuck is going on and I don't really care. I've still got like eight pages of this mess to get through and I'd rather just nod along than try to understand it. And then just like last issue, Ann Nocenti sputters out a bit of writing that I totally agree with because I've said basically the same thing before. About how every day, I fall in love with some person I see on the street because of the smallest of things. And then I love them forever.

My story isn't as good but I once fell in love walking through the airport in Minneapolis. I was passing by an attractive woman and she was gazing off somewhere as I looked at her face. She was coming up on my right and then I glanced down at her breasts and back up at her face. And that was the moment she noticed me, as I glanced from her breasts to her face. And, catching me, she smiled and laughed and kept on walking. And I still love her to this day.

And for this page alone, I forgive all of Ann Nocenti's past (future?) transgressions and find myself eager to read Kid Eternity #3. Oh wait. I still have a few pages left in this piece of crap. I read a lot of books in college that I sometimes still say are my favorite books but I should probably just say they stuck with me because I know which books are almost always in my top five and a lot of the ones in college aren't those. But Edith Wharton's Age of Innocence always stuck with me. It's possible that I completely missed the message of the novel but to me, the book was about how true love only exists when it's unrequited. Archer Day-Lewis doesn't love Ellen Pfeifer more than May Ryder for any other reason than that she was the one he didn't marry. It seemed to me that Wharton was trying to portray how hard love is and true, phenomenal love only exists in the imagination. Only a love we can imagine can remain magical. Only when we love an object, or the imaginary person we've placed on a pedestal, can we evade disappointment in the reality and flaws of another actual human being. Being in love with Ellen Pfeifer was easy because she wasn't there for all those years. There were no fights or disappointments or multiple times accidentally walking in on her taking a huge shit. She was pure and beautiful and imaginary. But then again, maybe that wasn't the point of the book at all. I was young and romantic at the time and I still absolutely loved the women I'd had unrequited crushes on in junior high and high school while my college relationship was slowly circling the drain due to personality conflicts. But not due to sex. The sex was fucking great! Anyway, Freud and Jung decide Kid Eternity is in denial and they leave. Hemlock and Dog spread some new reality across the world via a computer virus. Madame Blavatsky starts making time go backwards, probably so she can vomit up all the Twinkies she ate and eat them again with their delicious creamy filling. And the devil and Judas wind up in a bar in Limbo with Jesus to make plans for Kid Eternity. There's probably a lot more going on but there'd be too much for me to process even if it wasn't confused by Nocenti's writing style. No wonder I gave up on this book after three issues. There's no way by the third issue I could remember anything that was going on, if I even understood it the month prior. Kid Eternity #2 Rating: C-. A confusing mess that's about 90% Ann Nocenti just vomiting out things she's read. Even the things that, with the benefit of the doubt, I want to believe sprang from her own philosophical musings, I can't bring myself to absolutely believe it. I feel like every thought and piece of dialogue she's placed in this story just came from piles of notebooks filled with notes she's made while reading other people's works. It's practically a collage of philosophical ideas and moral musings pulled from myriad sources and shoved into a Kid Eternity framework "written" by Ann Nocenti. Which could explain Nocenti's penchant for stilted dialogue. If she were making up all the character's thoughts, the dialogue would flow from one character to the next. But when each character can only respond with some profound thought Nocenti read elsewhere, it comes across like a ransom note, each word cut from the mind of somebody else and pasted as a reply to another bit cut from some other thinker, no relation existing between the two thoughts except the proximity relationship Nocenti has given them.

[mrsrcbinscn]

Franny Sor Framagucci Robinson Character Sheet 

Dear Mom and Dad, I'll send money, I'm so rich that it ain't funny It oughtta be more than enough to get you through - (x)

Archetype — The Creator 

Birthday — January 17, 1980

Zodiac Sign — Capricorn

MBTI — ENFJ-A (The Protagonist — 93% Extroverted, 56% Intuitive, 60% Feeling, 60% Judging, 83% Assertive)

Enneagram — Type 3w2 — The Charmer

Temperament — Sanguine 

Hogwarts House — Slytherin Primary, Hufflepuff Primary model, Gryffindor Secondary

Moral Alignment —  Lawful Good

Primary Vice — Pride

Primary Virtue — Charity or Diligence 

Element — Air

Song —  A Better Son/Daughter by Rilo Kiley

Overview:

Government name  —  Darareaksmey Francine Sor Framagucci Robinson Name  —  Franny Robinson/Franny Sor Robinson Mother — Sophea “Sophie” Sor

Father — Adrien Framagucci (stepfather, legally adopted her), Peter Boyd (biological father)

Mother’s Occupation — Restaurant owner 

Father’s Occupation — Construction worker

Family Finances — grew up in poverty, insanely wealthy now

Birth Order — Youngest

Brothers — stepbrothers Gaston and Art Framagucci (mother legally adopted them, if you say ‘step’ Franny will kill you), claims no others but has biological half brothers from Peter Boyd; John-Curtis “JC”  Boyd, Timothy “Timmy” Boyd

Sisters — claims none, but has biological half sisters by Peter Boyd; Sarah Boyd, Stacy Boyd, Shyann Boyd 

Other Close Family — spreadsheet

Best Friend — Daniel Maitland, Molly Vaughn (deceased)

Other Friends — Lora Lopez, Serghei Anton, Delia Weiss, Vanessa Pham, others

Enemies — most men on principle 

Home Life During Childhood — It was a good childhood. Working the restaurant was normal to Franny so she didn’t realize it was abnormal at first. Her parents tried not to let the kids realize how poor they actually were. 

Town or City Name(s) — Payne Lake, Georgia

Any Sports or Clubs — In high school she was in drama, show choir, orchestra, National Honor Society, and on the quiz bowl team

Favorite Toy or Game — Franny honestly loved hide and seek well into her teenage years because she was small enough to fit it the weirdest places to hide, and in the 80s and 90s in a small town in Georgia there wasn’t much to do so her friend group played Extreme Hide and Seek. Everyone wears all black like some kind of cult. Turn off all the lights in the house. Go crazy. 

Schooling — K-12 in Payne Lake, Georgia ; B.A.s. in Musical Theatre Performance and Jazz Studies at NYU; M.A. in Jazz Studies at Pride U

Favorite Subject — Anything that wasn’t math or chemistry 

Popular or Loner — Popular, has always been magnetic 

Important Experiences or Events — Her first time on stage, getting enough scholarship money to justify going to NYU, quickly growing to love the nerd she hit up to buy her waffles and never letting him go, the accident that changed her life, marrying Cornelius Robinson, finding the magic singing frogs, adopting Wilbur, discovering the severity of her fertility issues in 2008, 

Nationality — American-Cambodian (born American, given Cambodian citizenship in 2019)

Culture — Franny identifies most strongly with Cambodian, followed by broadly Southeast Asian sometimes with Buddhist attached, and that’s tied with ‘Rural Southern (USA)’ sometimes with POC attached. Franny feels pretty detached from “American Culture” in general. She more closely would identify with Southern USA culture in general than with general American with no modifiers. She also feels a little detached from Asian American culture in general because even though she grew up right outside of Atlanta and is familiar with Atlanta, she didn’t grow up in one of the big hubs of Asian American culture like LA, San Francisco, or NYC. White American and Black American culture surrounded her, and the Asian cultures surrounding her were immigrant or first-gen cultures that hadn’t really developed an American flavor yet. Franny understood more about Vietnamese and Thai culture than she did about general Asian American culture for a long time, because immigrants straight from Southeast Asia were the only Asians she grew up around. And she grew up in the 80s and 90s where Asian representation was yellowface and Long Duk Dong. She didn’t meet any Asian Americans who didn’t speak or at least understand their heritage language until college. And the experience of POC as a whole in the South is very different to the experience of a white person, so sometimes Franny feel disconnected from her white southern neighbors and more closely relates to black or non-white Latinx southerners in ways she doesn’t relate to white southerners, or Asian Americans from LA or NYC. 

Religion and beliefs — Buddhist

Languages spoken— Khmer, English, Vietnamese, French, Italian, (less fluently) Portuguese, Spanish, (can understand some) Thai, Lao, (impressive tourist) German, Dutch

Physical Appearance

Face Claim —  Elodie Yung

Complexion — Tanned skin, pale brown 

Hair Colour — Black

Eye Colour — Brown

Height — 5’5

Tattoos — Yes, a few. Wilbur’s adoption date over her heart, most notably

Piercings — Lobe, upper lobe, tragus, helix, and cartilage on both ears, and an anti-tragus on her left ear. And a nose piercing she got in college

Common Hairstyle — typically keeps her hair long and done nicely but she cuts it and donates it from time to time so will also rock short hair

Clothing Style — vintage-inspired but not proper vintage

Mannerisms — Biting the pads of her thumbs, gesturing wildly, narrating her actions sometimes in song, if she’s looking for scissors she walks through the house making a scissors motion with her fingers

Usual Expression — she’s got resting bitch face 

Health

Overall (do they get sick easily)? — No, her immune system is the real MVP and when she does get sick she’s like ‘I’m dYING’

Physical Ailments —  Infertility 

Neurological Conditions — Depression, Cyclothymia (rapid cycles of depressive and hypomanic episodes)

Allergies —  none 

Grooming Habits — Typically rinses her body daily, uses soap on the armpits daily, but proper washes her body every other day. Washes her hair every two or three days as needed, but if she was extra sweaty that day it gets washed. Waxes leg hair and eyebrows. 

Sleeping Habits — she generally gets a decent amount of sleep but it isn’t usually all at once. She’s a champion power-napper, and if she has three days cleared she’ll often sleep mainly all at once except have like a 2-3 hour period of wakefulness and productivity and then go back to sleep for two more hours, then take an hour nap later in the day.  

Eating Habits —  She’s a grazer. She doesn’t usually sit down and eat three times a day she’ll sneak like five small meals a day

Exercise Habits —   works out at least three days a week somewhat because she’s really sensitive to when people comment on her body so she’s afraid to give people a reason to say a negative comment. Like. She’s body positive, big supporter of you don’t gotta be skinny to be beautiful or healthy. But when people say things like “oh Franny you got a little jiggle in those thighs” it’s never said like a good or neutral thing. She had a lot of body image issues throughout high school and college, and came dangerously close to developing an eating disorder freshman year at NYU but kind of logicked herself from the ledge  

Emotional Stability — generally emotionally stable, like for someone with her mental illnesses she does great 

Body Temperature — runs hot 

Sociability — A social butterfly

Addictions — None; did abuse adderall in college but when she quit cold turkey she didn’t like. Suffer cravings. She wasn’t addicted, but she did abuse it to the point she realized “oh I need to...stop”

Drug Use — occasional use of drugs to make her trip, like acid, shrooms, but this is very rare, she doesn’t do it at home, usually if she’s on the road with other musicians or has gone to LA or NYC or London for a few days to have a songwriting session, the group will sometimes partake. Even then not every time. Used to experiment with drugs more in college, but still it was never...a TON. 

Alcohol Use — More than occasional less than frequent

Your Character’s Character: 

Bad Habits — swearing, next to no filter, temper when it comes to perceived injustices, tends to overload herself 

Good Habits — Keeps a detailed planner, is a maniac about drinking lots of water, is vocal about her needs and boundaries 

Best Characteristic — her warmth! She really is friendly and easy to get along with and wants to be nice. But she will not be walked over and will not allow her kind, marshmallow husband to be walked over so she will flip a switch to protect herself or her boys. 

Worst Characteristic — unforgiving

Worst Memory — it’s a tie between her experience with sexual assault, and the time her biological father’s wife found out Franny was his biological child, and came into her mother’s restaurant when she was visiting with her pretty new HUSBAND, and Nancy Boyd proceeded to beat up Franny and her mother

Best Memory — Adopting Wilbur! It WAS marrying Cornelius but sorry Neil it’s her baby boy now

Proud of — Her husband, she is so proud to be Cornelius Robinson’s wife. She proud to be her mother’s daughter. And she’s proud of her accomplishments in music and philanthropy 

Embarrassed by — Nothing, she’s great

Driving Style — Oh, aggressive. She’s an offensive driver. Cusses. 

Strong Points —  she doesn’t quit, she’s the walk through hell and keep going type of person

Temperament — generally she’s pretty even-tempered. It’s easy to set her off in an instant though if you’re being racist, sexist - any type of shitty person tbh, or being shitty toward her husband or son, but for the most part she’s pretty chill. She deff has crazy bitch energy just under the surface though and you can tell

Attitude — Franny’s not particularly bitchy, but you know, she can be

Weakness — can’t do basic math, very overly self-critical, perfectionist

Fears — Something happening to Wilbur tbh. That’s her greatest fear, losing her son. 

Phobias — Franny does not throw up. She refuses. She will literally feel nauseous and horrible all day to avoid puking. It makes her so anxious, she will nOT. 

Secrets — None really? Like she doesn’t blab her life story to everyone but Cornelius knows everything about her. She has no secrets from her husband. 

Regrets — Not adopting more children when she and Cornelius got married knowing they both wanted a big family; ever meeting up with her biological father 

Feels Vulnerable When — She cries in front of people. Franny hates doing it. She’d rather die tbh

Pet Peeves — when people are rude to wait staff 

Conflicts — She sometimes feels a surge of resentment for her husband during her depressive episodes because she kind of feels like she’s pulled most of the weight in their marriage from Day 1 as far as running the home, and feels like although he purported to also want a big family he never even offered to take HIS turn pulling back from work so they could adopt a second child when it became clear it wasn’t gonna happen for them biologically, but then Franny hates herself for that because Cornelius is the kindest, most loving, most wonderful husband and father and she feels so privileged to call herself his wife and...yeah they just need to have a long talk about it tbh

Motivation — to be the best at everything she does; to force space for herself where she and people like her have previously been excluded, to be so great that you can’t ignore her

Short Term Goals and Hopes — have a baby, but she’s 40 now and knows its not gonna happen 

Long Term Goals and Hopes —she’s...kinda done everything she ever set out to do other than have lots of children

Sexuality — Bisexual, leans toward women, but had more experience with men because compulsory heterosexuality in the US in the 90s and early 2000s, and genuinely fell in love with a man are has been with just him for twenty years now

Exercise Routine  — Doesn’t spend much time on cardio because she gets enough cardio walking around town and Pride U. Mainly works on her core, legs, and strength training so if a man tries to grab her she can kick his ass

Day or Night Person — Would be nocturnal if she could be

Introvert or Extrovert — Extrovert

Optimist or Pessimist — She’s naturally pretty cynical but she’s worked for like twenty-five years to have a more optimistic outlook on things. It’s 50/50 now I’d say 

Likes and Styles:

Music — there isn’t really a genre she doesn’t like - like her initial fame was in jazz, but she has an equal affection for jazz and bluegrass/classic country/folk music. She also is in an indie band, Seoul Hanoi’d. And like rap music - usually old school Atlanta rap, but she likes Kendrick Lamar and some other current rappers.

Books — She likes to read or listen to audiobooks about pretty much any subject except music and musicians.

Foods — Cambodian food!!

Drinks — She likes sweet tea, aaaand her alcohol of choice is Anything

Animals — Possums :3 She wants a pet possum so bad, she follows pet possums on instagram and cries at their cute posts

Sports — She played tennis in high school, that’s the extent of her sports knowledge

Social Issues — all of them. Climate change, racial justice, intersectional feminism, VACCINATE ALL THE CHILDREN UNLESS THEY MEDICALLY CANNOT BE, de-mining, Green New Deal, punch Nazis, hey maybe don’t put children in cages, Myanmar can you please not do that genocide you’re doing that would be swell, poor people deserve access to healthcare and education, housing-first approach to homelessness, the good stuff 

Favorite Saying — “Hoes mad”, usually said dismissively when she receives a death threat after a political tweet, or after a racist one for just being an Asian woman in the public eye

Clothing — Franny prefers skirts, dresses, and jumpsuits/rompers to shirt + trousers

Jewelry — She never takes off her wedding ring. She’s married af

TV Shows — Schitt’s Creek, Kim’s Convenience, a lot of Canadian TV she really thinks is funny

Movies — She’s a big nerd that loves a good documentary or otherwise educational movie

Greatest Want — More children, including one biological child because her mother always talked about pregnancy and childbirth like it was the most humbling and empowering experience she’d ever had, and Franny wants that. But she’s 40 and knows she won’t have that. 

Greatest Need — a baby lmao

Where and How Does Your Character Live Now:

Home — In a big-ass house in the wealthiest part of town, maybe even the biggest house 

Household furnishings — Not overdecorated. A lot of people live there, but Franny’s very much the lady of the house, and even more so than her husband is the head of the household. She’s not a dictator, like her mother-in-law and other relatives have added their touches to the home decor, but it is very much Franny’s Home with notes of the others. She’s very particular about her kitchen, but is very flexible with the rest of the common spaces. 

Most Cherished Possession — Family photographs of her mother and her family before the Khmer Rouge. Franny bears a striking resemblance to her Aunt Kesor, who was the older sister her mother had idolized, but who died during the Khmer Rouge years. Franny only knows of the resemblance from photographs.

Neighborhood — The rich people part of town 

Town or City Name — Swynlake, England

Details of Town or City — lol

Married Before — Cornelius is her first and only husband and unless he cheats on her she’s never ever leaving that man

Significant Other Before — nobody important 

Children — Wilbur Robinson, wants/wanted more

Relationship with Family — Close! Both to her in-laws, biological maternal family, and stepfamily

Car — 2020 Nissan Qashqai

Career — Singer, song-writer, musician, composer, musical actress, actress, university music professor

Dream Career — Musical actress

Dream Life — Married to Cornelius, with lots of kids, living her best life

Love Life — Happily married to the love of her life, her sunshine, the jelly to her fish, Cornelius Robinson

Talents or Skills — music, cooking, acting

Intelligence Level — High? Like she can’t do basic math but everything else. She’s a musical genius, is good with languages, and is pretty perceptive

Finances — Loaded

Your Character’s Life Before Your Story:

Past Careers — restaurant worker, event staff

Past Lovers — nobody worth mentioning 

Biggest Mistakes — “I don’t make mistakes”

Biggest Achievements — Grammys, induction into the Songwriters Hall of Fame, being the first Cambodian person to win a Grammy, International Bluegrass Music Association awards, ASCAP awards, and being awarded the national medal of the arts by Barack Obama in 2015 

[theherblifeblog]

Let's Talk About Internalized Patriarchy

Leighana Martindale

Internalized sexism is when an individual enacts learned sexist behaviors and attitudes towards themselves and people of their own sex.

We all deal with this. I don’t care how much anyone may think they don’t or how big a feminist or matriarch one is, our societies have been patriarchal societies since before the Romans, so there’s no way we don’t experience this.

Internalized patriarchy can look like so many different things: being a people pleaser, being overly passive, trying to not be a ‘bitch’, jealousy of other women, fighting with other women over trivial matters, and so many other small things we may not recognize this as internalized patriarchy, but it is.

This phenomenon is not solely an issue in North America, but one seen around the globe. And honestly, leaving my happy little bubble of Portland, Oregon where the city thrives on girl power and support, I was suddenly aware of just how toxic and common internalized patriarchy truly is.

Too often women see other women as a threat and/or competition and I don’t understand why. Why do we feel the need to fight each other and demean the other’s existence? Why can’t we just understand that everyone’s life and experience on this planet is different and that we should be uplifting and supporting each other?

When I was in Milano, I wanted to go to a night club to see Jackmaster. I am a big deep house, acid house, techno, etc. fan and in Portland I don’t get much of that, let alone big name DJs ever coming through, so I was very excited! My maps however dropped me at the back of the building and the front was tucked away deep in a parking lot so I was having a hard time finding the entrance. Then I see two beautiful women who are dressed like they may be going to this show walking up, thinking they were going there I asked if they spoke English and could point me toward Amnesia [the club]. One did speak English and told me that she did not know and had never heard of Amnesia. They then continued to walk before turning around and deciding to go another way. After they left I was lucky enough that an employee came outside and pointed me to the right direction. After I walked around the corner and towards the parking lot finally headed in the right direction and close, I see those same two beautiful women walking toward the club too and get straight in line. They then shoot me glares and whisper amongst themselves.

I am not your competition

Unnecessary right? I honestly didn’t and still don’t understand why. I don’t understand why women have to be so cold to other women. I do understand that our society tells us that other women are competition, that we will ‘steal our partners’, ‘take our friends’, etc., etc., bullshit, bullshit. But instead of being cold back, I just continued to smile at the girls throughout the night when I would turn to see them glaring at me because I don’t have any reason to hate random women for no reason.

Part of me even wants to believe there was some misunderstanding and that they couldn’t have been that blatantly cold for no reason. Unfortunately, the reality is that we as women need to do better, we need to treat each other better, and we deserve to grow, collectively. Living in highly competitive environments and already having to bust our asses to even claim a seat at the table is hard enough. So why not stand together and help our sisters also get seats at the table, instead of fighting over the one seat let’s create more! Let’s demand more! Or fuck it, let’s even start our own table and invite all who believe in equality FOR ALL.

You Can Sit With Us

The best part of my experience though, is instead of being angry with those beautiful women, I am inspired to speak out on internalization and to look at myself and see how I also do these things. What types of behaviors do I have that fall under this category and more importantly, how do I create new habits of love and acceptance to stop this internalized sexism?

In today’s world we see so many women tearing each other apart over the tiniest miscommunications and disagreements and we need to stop. Instead of tearing each other apart and driving ourselves crazy, let’s take this anger with the system and use it to change the system! I challenge you this week to channel your frustration. Every time you are angry or disagree with a women and want to act on this anger, that you write your representatives or your senators, that you write a letter to a corrupt corporation. Anger can be used to fuel amazing changes, but only if we use it for good instead of against each other.

I will be accepting this challenge myself and would love to hear your experiences and what good you did by redirecting your anger and frustrations.

[comicgeekscomicgeek]

Their Hero Academia, Chapter 3

The first two (and zeroth) chapters can be found here.

This continues to be in an unfinished and unedited state for now.  Their Hero Academia – Chapter 3: Izumi Todoroki and the Perils of LunchIt had been a busy morning. Aizawa’s Quirk Apprehension Tests had taken a lot out of Izumi.  She had not done as well as she would have liked, coming in 19th, only ahead of Ojiro.  She could move quickly for very brief spurts by traveling along ice slides, but she had neither the strength of limb nor the stamina for overly long activities.   The unfortunate side effect of inheriting her grandmother’s somewhat frail constitution and a childhood illness that she had barely survived.   When well rested, she could do well enough.    And it was believed she would continue to get stronger.  In the meantime, she would just have to do her best.

Even beyond the Apprehension Tests, it had been busy.  English, Math, Literature, Science… not for nothing was U.A. one of the best high schools in the country.

Fortunately, it was lunch time and Class 1-A was heading to Lunch Rush’s Cafeteria.

“I can’t believe we have homework on the first day,” Mineta complained.  “All that English work is going to kill me!”

That… did not make sense. Izumi tilted her head slightly.  “Isn’t your mother American, Mineta?”

“Just because I can speak it, doesn’t mean I want to do it for school, Todoroki.”

“I thought the only things you knew in English were pick-up lines?” Kaminari asked, her earlobes swinging freely.

“Yeah, well, that too.”

Izumi just shook her head. She was definitely never going to understand the horned girl.

“Oh, Brother?” Sora began. “Would you care to race me to the Cafeteria?”

Tensei stopped short. “Sora!  You know there is no running in the hallways!  What would our father say?”

“He’d probably remind us of the same thing.  But you know what Mom would say…”

Both spoke at the same time. “There’s no rules about flying!”

Both Iida twins activated their jet-packs, zooming through the hallway and narrowly avoiding clipping several students and Aizawa.

Their homeroom teacher slumped against the wall.  As they walked past, Izumi was certain she could hear him mutter something about retirement.   Excitable the Iida twins may have been, she envied their energy and speed.  

***

Izumi sat down next to Toshi, Shinso, and Asuka after she had gotten her lunch.  As always, she first opened her bottle of water and took her pills.  Four pills, three times a day, breakfast, lunch, and dinner.  It was so ingrained in her, she doubted she could forget if she tried.  Her friends were kind enough to wait for her to finish that before they began their lunches.

“You doing okay, Izzy?” Toshi asked.

“I’m fine,” she insisted. “This morning just took more out of me than I expected.”

“Don’t overdo it, *chirp*,” Asuka said.  

She meant well, Izumi knew, but it still stung a bit.  She was not a toddler who needed looking after.   She shoved rice into her mouth rather than argue.  She had enough people worrying about her with her parents; she didn’t need her friends doing it too.

Toshi suddenly stood up and waved.  “Haimawari! Come sit with us!”   He slid closer to Shinso to allow Haimawari to join them at their table.

“Uh, thanks, Midoriya,” Haimawari said as he said down.  “I really don’t know anybody here, so I was worried I wasn’t going to have anybody to eat lunch with.”

“Well you know us now,” Toshi told him.  “This is Tokoyami, Todoroki, and Shinso.  Everybody, this is Haimawari.”

“Your Quirk is so cool!”  Shinso bubbled.  It would have been easy to chalk his enthusiasm up to the fact that he was nearly a year younger than the rest of them, but Izumi knew that that was just the way he was.  She supposed he’d be that way at eight or eighty.

Shinso continued on.  “You were just like… zoom!  Whoosh!  Sliiiiide!”

Haimawari chuckled, flushing a little with embarrassment at the sudden attention.  “It’s really not.  It’s one of the most common Quirks in the Registry, after strength enhancers. You all have way better quirks. Especially you, Shinso!  The way you just made the ground melt by yelling at it…!”

“It’s not what Quirk you have,” Toshi said, “it’s what you do with the Quirk that matters.  That’s what my dad always says.”

Haimawari shook his head. “Not going to argue with the Number Two hero, I guess.”

“Number One!” Shinso said. “I checked the Rankings when we sat down.  Le Million and Deku traded spots again!”   He paused, then looked over at Izumi.  “Shoto’s still Number Three.”

Izumi waved it away.  “Dad doesn’t care about the Rankings.  He says they’re nothing but trouble.  He’d probably opt out of the whole thing, if he could.”

*BAM*BAM*BAM

The sound of someone slamming a spoon against a lunch tray caught their attention, and she looked to see Sero standing with one leg up on a table, doing the banging.  

“And now,” the pink-skinned boy said, “it’s time to play everyone’s favorite game…  “Can Sato Eat it?’”

Around him, Kaminari and Mineta burst into applause.  Sato posed theatrically.

“Now,” Sero went on, “many of you already know how this game is played.  Our boy Sato here has a Quirk that lets him eat anything!  And I do mean anything!  So name your item!  And we’ll find out…  Can Sato Eat it?!”

“This notebook!” Ojiro shouted, tossing it towards them.  

Sero caught it with a deft hand.  “You heard the lady, Big Guy!”

Sato took the notebook and bit into it, chewing and swallowing rapidly.   Paper, metal rings, cover, all of it was gone in moments.  “Needs salt!”

Asuka put her head in her hands.  “You’d think they’d have outgrown this game by now.”

Green light sparked from her mid-section as Frog Shadow appeared, grabbing a plate off of Toshi’s tray.   “This plate! This plate!  This plate!”   With a flick, it sent the plate flying, while Asuka tried to hide under the table.

Sero shot out a stand of tape, its acidity tapped way down, and reeled in the tape.  “A plate for the Green Lady!”

He handed it off to Sato, who set it spinning on his finger, leaning in to take a bite as it spun.  It too, was quickly gone.  “Crunchy!”

“These spoons!” Katsumi said, as she approached the show in progress.  She shoved a handful of spoons in Sato’s face and he took them somewhat reluctantly.   He should have been more reluctant, as they suddenly went off like firecrackers in his face.  Both he and Sero let out rather loud shrieks, but neither was harmed any.   Mineta and Kaminari shot under the table, huddling together.

“Dang it, what was that for?” Sero demanded.  “You ruined the show!”

“Good!” Katsuki shouted back.  “Maybe now I can eat my lunch in peace!  Woman up and stop acting like a bunch of kids!”  She gave Sero a shove, forcing him to back into his seat before stomping back to her own table.  A table, Izumi noticed, had a clear empty circle of other tables around it.

Haimawari looked pale. “Is she… is she always like that?”

Izumi understood his fear. Katsuki possessed a formidable Quirk and a short temper.  And she already seemed to have it in for now.  Now, he had seen small examples of what she was capable of.  But he also did not know her as they did.  He did not know how she had stuck up for Izumi against bullies when she was much sicklier than she was now.  He did not know the doubts and fears she revealed when no one else was around.

Toshi and Shinso looked awkwardly anywhere but at Haimawari.   Neither wanted to be the one to answer that question.

“She has her good days and her bad,” Izumi finally said.  “You will see.”

“YOUNG GRANDSON!   DID YOU EAT ALL YOUR VEGETABLES?”

Izumi winced as All Might appeared behind them, far more stealthily than she would have expected of so big a man.

“ALL MIGHT!” Shinso cheered.   “YEAH!”

Toshi just banged his head against the table.  “Grandpa Might…!”

[whatatime30]

Torture, or reflection, or the savoring of loneliness

This is the “sequel” to my fic Green Eyes (https://archiveofourown.org/works/15799641), though they are standalone, hence my publishing them independently. Thanks to @renecdote​ and @themerrywriter​ for helping me title it. I’d been stuck on the title for like the past week and a half now. 

AO3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17309219

Summary: A tortured artist this poor, green-eyed boy was.

WC: 6311

Info on it

Rating:

General Audiences

Archive Warning

Major Character Death

Category:

Gen

Fandoms:

Batman - All Media Types

Son of Batman (2014)

Robin: Son of Batman (Comics)

Batman (Comics)

Relationships:

Damian Wayne & Everyone

Damian Wayne & Bruce Wayne

Damian Wayne & Dick Grayson

Damian Wayne & Tim Drake

Damian Wayne & Jason Todd

Cassandra Cain & Damian Wayne

Alfred Pennyworth & Damian Wayne

Talia al Ghul & Damian Wayne

Ra's al Ghul & Damian Wayne

Characters:

Damian Wayne

Bruce Wayne

Dick Grayson

Tim Drake

Jason Todd

Alfred Pennyworth

Cassandra Cain

Alfred the Cat (DCU)

Ra's al Ghul

Additional Tags:

MCD is Talia

Mother-Son Relationship

Father-Son Relationship

Brotherly Angst

Damian Wayne Feels

Damian Wayne-centric

Damian Wayne is Robin

Damian Wayne Needs a Hug

Bat Family

Bat Brothers

Batfamily Feels

Insecurity

Angst

Hurt

Art

Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms

Damian Wayne is an Artist

He likes art a lot

Painting

Green Eyes

Blue Eyes

Eyes

Loneliness

Language: English

Blue.

Damian blinked at himself in the mirror. Everything looked the same.

Except that his eyes were now blue. The same shade of  blue his father and brother’s wore.

He smiled.

Damian knew he’d have to take them off before leaving his bathroom. They could never know (would never know). But he was so happy to look normal, feel normal, feel like he was a part of something.

He hated his acid green eyes. He only shared them with Ra’s. He wanted to share something with his paternal side. Now, he could (only when he was in the bathroom, of course, but anything was better than nothing).

He waited another minute before taking the contacts out. He blinked a few times, his face drooping slightly at the sight of his actual eye color. He sighed, leaving the bathroom.

[Keep reading under the cut, or go on AO3]

…

“Robin, focus,” Bruce whispered into the comm.

“I am focused,” Damian said back, equally quiet.

“No you’re not.”

“I don’t believe this is the setting. Do you?”

“On my count.”

Damian prepared himself.

Bruce counted down.

Then the fell to the floor.

Damian never did well thinking in action. He’d learned from his formative years that fighting was more brute force and instinct than planning and calculating. Sure, he could do it, but it never served him any better than just jumping in.

He suspected that this was the reason he and his father never worked well together. The family constantly said he was too rash, too fast to act, that he needed to wait. He wished they’d stop.

It was just rubbing in the fact that he was too different to belong.

He wished his mother were still alive. He used to belong at her side.

(“My Alexander.”)

…

Maya’s eyes were green. Damian’s kind of green too. He liked them.

He had more in common with Maya than his father’s family. Maya was most his family (she and Goliath).

“When you called…” Maya trailed off as she gave him a hug. “It’s been too long.”

Damian rolled his eyes (they didn’t talk enough).

“I missed you.”

“And I you.” His voice was half a grumble.

“How’s Mr. Batman?” The sarcasm was obvious. She was heavy handed in that manner, something he didn’t share but admired.

“They’re children.”

“The lot of them? Man, kids these days, am I right ?”

He felt the corners of his mouth curve upwards.

“Where’re we going?”

Damian hadn’t thought of a place. They could wander. “Out.”

“Look, I get you like this brooding thing and being all ‘Son of Batman-y,’ but tell me where you want to go, or we’re going to Bat Burgers.”

“Batburgers it is.”

Maya’s eyes were green.

…

“You got the eyes wrong.”

Damian turned to his father. He hadn’t even heard the man come in. He didn’t like to paint around anyone. It made his stomach do loops like those rollercoasters Dick took him to for his birthday last year.

“What do you mean?” Damian asked.

“Selina’s eyes are blue.”

“No, they’re not. They’re green.”

The man grunted. “You sure?”

Damian was mostly sure. He hadn’t thought of them any other way.

They fact that Selina’s eyes were green bothered him enough. It’d be a small mercy for God to make them blue. After all, his mother had brown ones. If he couldn’t share eyes with her, he’d rather not share them with his father’s lover either.

“They’re prettier blue.”

Damian couldn’t help but grimace.

After a shrug, his father left.

Damian smudged the eye, ruining the painting.

But what did it matter if it wasn’t pretty anymore?

…

Damian found photography was enjoyable.

He didn’t need as many materials.

He could do it anywhere.

It didn’t require as much time as painting, but the attention to detail was of the same caliber.

So, he took lots of pictures.

When he was in the mood, Damian would climb to the tops of Wayne Tower or some other desolate rooftop to capture pictures.

His current venture?

Eyes.

People had all different colors.

He found himself printing out pictures of them all, arranging them by levels of beauty and depth.

Ra’s always said a man’s eyes were his soul.

What did that mean of this woman? Her eyes were a placid blue like a duck pond in a children’s cartoon. Was she calm? At peace? Her dress didn’t suggest such. She’d worn a tight-fitting business suit and heels that clicked. If one had seen her eyebrows, they’d see the steeliness behind those calm blue ponds.

“What the…”

Damian sighed. Of course Jason would be the one to interrupt his studies. It seemed the man had been coming around the manner more as of late. He’d come to Damian and ask after his father.

“What’s this about, squirt?”

“Art project,” Damian answers curtly.

“For school?”

“No.”

“Then what for?”

“Recreational purposes.” If Jason was entitled to his Shakespeare, wasn’t Damian to his art?

“Why’re all the blue-eyed ones over there and the others in another pile. Something against blue-eyed people?”

“Something against aryans, Anti-Führer?”

“Father is in his study. Now leave me be, Todd.”

“No, I’m intrigued now.” Jason took a seat by Damian, brushing against the younger’s leg. “So, what’re we doing?”

Damian sighed. “Nothing.” He threw the placid blue pond to his right, starting a pile of its own.

“Are these randos from the street?”

“I suppose you could call them that.”

“Pretty good quality.”

“I-- thank you.”

Jason chuckled. “You’re welcome.”

Over the years, Damian had learned that Jason wasn’t as insufferable as he first thought the Red Hood to be. Depending on the activity, he was even the best possible company (if Dick wasn’t available, of course). They had similar histories, a common friend and foe. It made sense.

“Ever finish that portrait of Selina for her birthday?”

“I drew her cats instead.”

“Why? It was looking pretty nice.”

“I lost interest.”

“That sucks.” Jason flitted through a stack of photos he’d collected.

Damian shrugged.

“Dick been around lately?”

“Not since the Sunday before last.”

“Has he called?”

“Are you looking for him?” Damian asked.

“No… just wondering.’

“Why?”

“I dunno, kid. Can’t I wonder?” Jason made eye contact, a grin forming on his lips.

Damian couldn’t help but smile back (even if the sheer blueness of Jason’s eyes made his tongue dry up and shrivel like that of the silent soldiers of the pit).

…

He wore them again.

Damian found himself locking the bathroom door and putting the contacts in daily now.

He liked things better this way.

He wanted to gouge his slimy emeralds out. Glass water droplets would make for a better existence.

Blue was art, after all. The pretty kind.

…

Dick gazed sadly upon his youngest brother.

Damian was paler, duller (the rest of his health being intact was mercy enough).

Did no one notice? The His kid was spending a drizzling afternoon sketching ponds.

No less alert though. He saw Damian eyeing him from the garden, most likely waiting for Dick to leave the car before accepting their usual embrace. Dick sighed as he left the car.

Damian hurriedly left his spot on a jagged rock by the duck pond that’d been around since Bruce had been a boy.

“Hey, D,” he said easily, hugging the boy.

“Grayson.”

“What’re you up to?”

“Drawing.”

“Sounds fun.”

“I suppose.”

Dick punctuated the hug with a peck on Damian’s cheek.

The boy blushed. “How long will you be here?”

“All weekend. B needs me for something.”

Damian nodded.

“Is that paint or blood?”

“Hm?”

“Your hand.”

There was a red stream down Damian’s palm.

“Shouldn’t be touching sharp rocks, kiddo.”

“Better perspective.”

“Uh-huh.” Dick dragged Damian inside to clean the wound up.

(his kid)

…

Dick came back.

Damian liked Dick.

Dick was his first relationship in Gotham. The thing that tethered him here when his father died. Had Dick not kept him here, he would’ve went back to the League (which didn’t seem like a bad idea often), but now he was stuck here.

Stuck in Gotham with a family that was nothing like him and only half loved him (except for Dick, of course). He was Dick’s son in all but name.

Dick came back, helped Damian clean off his hand when he cut it on the rock. He hadn’t meant to cut it though. Firstly, because it hurt. Secondly, because red hadn’t been pretty in years.

…

“My eyes work fine,” Damian whispered.

Dick didn’t know what even brought on the statement. Maybe it was Bruce claiming Damian didn’t see the gunmen on patrol earlier, which in Bruce’s defense, had earned Damian a bullet wound in the left arm. “What’d you mean?”

Damian’s eyes were trained on the soft light that was the television screen, but the glass lid over them signed tears threatening to spill over. “I saw them, but the risk…if that boy’s idiot father hadn’t-- who brings children to drug deals anyway? No parent of any value. I saw them…” He trailed off, and a tear fell.

It was probably the meds. Alfred had given Damian pain meds and a sedative. The boy was merely tired. He was fine, nothing to worry about.

“S’okay, D.” Dick wrapped an arm around the boy, pulling him close. “He just gets scared. You know what happened to Jay…” And you.

Damian let out a small whine and pulled away.

Dick shushed him. “You did well, kiddo. I promise.”

Soft, emerald green’s glanced at Dick for a second before being obscured from view by the boy’s lids. Damian sniffled. “I see fine.” Hot tears wet Dick’s shirt.

“I know.” Dick rubbed circles into Damian’s back. “Bruce does too. He was just upset, okay?”

Damian sniffled again.

“Go to sleep. You’re tired.”

“M’not a baby, Richard.” Damian’s voice was muffled as he nuzzled Dick’s shoulder.

“I know.”

Damian’s breathing evened out a few minutes later, soft snores coming from the boy.

He was tired. That was all.

…

The prettiest thing he’d seen in his life.

Damian’d found an eye in his photography ventures. He just knew painting it would make it prettier (and it had).

Blueberry blue with azure hints. A beautiful, clean ocean of paint.

“The wall?” an incredulous voice asked from behind him.

Damian turned to see Tim. “Problem, Drake?”

“Why the wall?”

“It’s gorgeous, is it not?” Damian admired the picture.

“But… the wall? Alfred’s not--”

“It’s my room to do with what I wish. Father said so.”

“I think he meant you could get curtains, not deface a whole wall.”

Damian clenched his paintbrush. Hadn’t Dick said that if one had nothing kind to say, nothing should be said at all? Surely Tim Drake, a supposed cultured individual would know the rule. “That’s not kind, Drake.” He hadn’t meant to make his voice soft.

The expression in the teen’s face changed as fast as a bullet in a chamber, from eased indifference to a smirk. “I was joking.”

“It wasn’t funny.”

“Sorry.”

Damian nodded, sniffing as he looked back to continue detailing his art.

Those who find ugly meanings in beautiful things are corrupt without being charming. This is a fault.

…

Music was an art as well.

Damian’d explored it as much as any boy forced to learn the classics had. After all, there was nothing visual about music. He couldn’t see it. He couldn’t touch it, so why would it interest him?

There was one person, though, that liked music.

Cassandra Cain was a particular enthusiast.

Whenever she came over, she’d always drag Damian over to the music room. They’d duet on the ivory piano keys or speak in morse code on the drums. Music was a language for her the way drawing and painting was for him.

He wouldn’t dare take it away.

“What’s with the eye?” Cass asked, inspecting the back wall of Damian’s art room. “Is it wet?”

“No.”

She brought her thin fingertips across it, smile resting on her face. “Pretty.”

“Thank you.”

…

A rose by any other name supposedly smelled just as sweet.

Damian wasn’t sure that he believed that.

…

“Hafid.”

“Talia.” Damian ducked a slap from his mother. He smiled.

She did as well. “Your absence has been noted.” I missed you.

“As has yours.” I missed you too.

“I was on business,” she defended.

“Of course.”

“Would you credit me… an embrace?” I love you.

“I suppose.” The feeling is mutual.

They hugged. It was a real one. The kind they only did every few years.

“You’re taller,” she noted.

“I am,” he agreed.

They parted.

Her hand tugged his chin (why was it still so smooth?), and their eyes met. Hers were like lukewarm cups of coffee. “Grayson emailed me your marks in school. Ra’s was pleased.”

Damian nodded.

She sighed, releasing him. “Where is your father? I must speak to him.” There she went, screaming ‘Habibi’ down the hall.

Then he woke, as he always did: Gasping for air, face wet with tears, shirt soaked in sweat, alone.

…

Damian gifted Jason a blue hoodie for his birthday. It suited the young man much better.

Though the family mostly made a joke of it, he stood by his decision, happy it brought a smile at least.

“Did you hear about the Blue Hood?” Dick asked, checking the grapples from his corner.

Tim grinned from behind his laptop, still typing away. “The Blue Hood?”

“Yeah.”

“What about him?”

“Dastardly, I hear. Right, D?” Dick glanced at Damian.

Damian rolled his eyes, not dignifying the answer with a response.

“Just dastardly. Saw him helping some lady across the street with her groceries.”

“That’s Damian.”

“What?”

“I have feed of him helping some old lady.”

“Show me.”

Damian looked up from his book now. “You’re stalking me now?”

“Yeah, I was scared you’d spray paint a wall blue.”

Dick chuckled while Tim came over to show Dick.

Damian rolled his eyes once again. Those who find ugly meanings in beautiful things are corrupt without being charming. This is a fault.

…

He wondered if he should save Tim.

Damian watched a bloodied and drugged Red Robin from the rafters of a warehouse.

The Joker hummed from the side.

Damian didn't like the Joker, but did he dislike Drake more?

With a swish, the Joker was on the floor, blood pooling around him.

Damian sighed as he helped up Tim. “Red, you with me?”

Tim didn’t answer.

He pressed his comm. “Batman, I have Red Robin. We’re in the Diamond District.”

“You didn’t think to call before leaving? We were looking for you.” There was a tinge of worry in his father’s tone.

“I apologize. Heading back now.”

“I’ll come pick you up.”

“I have the--”

“Is the Joker incapacitated?”

“Yes, but I--”

“Wait there.”

Damian humphed but sat down, pulling Tim to his side.

Tim giggled. “Gonna paint him blue?”

If fratricide were an option…

…

Damian didn’t like Tim.

He didn’t hate Tim, but Tim was his least favorite brother and sibling.

He seemed to only say things to upset Damian, and Daman never knew a response to upset Tim back.

“He paints everything blue, Bruce,” Tim said with a slur, leaning tiredly against their father as Alfred sewed up wounds.

“He can paint whatever color he wants,” his father said with a smirk.

“Blue’s boring.”

“Why?”

“It’s a sad color. Everything that is blue is sad. When someone’s sad, they’re blue. Tears are blue on TV. Water’s blue.”

“Mmhm.”

“My mom’s eyes were blue too.” Tim sniffled. “She had a blue clutch that matched ‘em-- were your mom’s eyes blue?”

“Yes.”

“Where’s Damian?”

“At the computer.”

“What’s he doing?”

“Probably listening to you talk.”

Tim hummed quietly.

“Damian,” his father called, amusement evident in his voice.

Damian slunk over to his (hypothetical) family. “Father,” he said with clear displeasure.

Tim yanked Damian closer, nearly knocking Alfred out in the process. “Sit down.”

Damian obeyed.

Tim delivered a wet kiss on Damian’s nose. “I love you.”

Damian scrunched his nose. Maybe he didn’t totally dislike Tim.

…

“Damian, I have to go out. Can Tim stay with you?” Bruce asked. Alfred had enough to worry about without putting  the teen into his schedule.

“I’ll be painting.” Damian was in the process of playing in his breakfast, which had become some sort of a pastime in the mornings.

“He won’t bother you.”

Dick had told Bruce that Damian’s art room was one no one should enter without permission. Even Alfred left the maintenance of the room to the boy. Most of the family, rather than purchasing entrance, hovered in the doorway whenever they wanted to speak to him or see the newest artwork.

Tim, Bruce knew, had never been inside the room. He wasn't’ sure if it was Tim’s choice or Damian’s though.

Damian pushed his plate forward. “I suppose.” His chair scraped the floor as he stood. Damian approached a resting Tim on the other side of the table. He tapped him once. “Come, Drake.”

Tim cracked an eye open. “Hm?”

“Come.” Damian took him by the hand and led him out of the room.

Bruce sighed. His kids.

…

It was hard to paint with a lump in one’s lap, so Damian took to drawing.

Why he had to spend his day off school with Tim Drake was beyond him, but he did his best to make the most of it, as Dick would’ve told him to do such.

“Why do you make everything blue?” Tim asked quietly, staring out the window.

“I don’t,” Damian answered.

“You do.”

“I’m drawing a flower right now. Is it’s stem not green?”

“It’s a cornflower.”

“I don’t make everything blue.”

“Are you blue?”

“No.” What kind of question was that? Damian’s skin was tan like his mother’s.

“I mean in the metaphorical sense.”

“Elaborate,” Damian demanded.

“Sad.”

“No, I’m not sad.”

…

Some nights, Damian had heard, were made for torture, or reflection, or the savoring of loneliness.

He spent many of his nights doing all three, though it was hard to do the latter when his father insisted upon reading in his art room. A tortured artist this poor, green-eyed boy was.

He knew this as he painted an eye-- his eye.

A family portrait was in order with Alfred’s birthday coming up. His father requested a small portrait, something he could frame and wrap for the butler from the whole family.

He liked most of the picture. Dick’s icy blues and Jason’s white streak. It all went together beautifully (ignoring one factor).

Damian payed attention to every detail, sans the blemishes. It was necessary. The picture had to be perfect.

He heard footsteps behind him. Then Duke was at his side. “Hey,” the teen said, his warm breath on Damian’s neck.

“Thomas, what do you require?”

“I just came to see it.”

“Did you?” Damian asked absentmindedly.

“Yeah, and I came to see if you want to join me and Tim for a Star Wars marathon. We ordered a pizza.”

“No.” Damian finished the red curtain behind the family with a blot. “Thank you for offering.” He struggled with common social phrasings still. He never learned them when he was younger. It was harder than people made it out to be. A second language he wasn’t quite used to.

“He’s coming,” his father said from his chair.

“I’m not hungry,” Damian argued.

“You haven’t eaten since lunch. Patrol’s soon.”

“Pennyworth's absence does not mean I’m not capable of finding my own nourishment.”

“Go.”

Damian humphed but set the painting down.

“It’s done?” his father asked.

“A few finishing details,” Damian said.

With a nod and a grunt, his father returned to his book,

Duke smiled. “Bye, B.”

“Duke.”

Then they were gone.

…

Tim wasn’t sure about Damian.

Well, he knew the kid was a certified sociopath, but he could tell Damian tried. Tried to fight his instincts, his raising. And the kid did a good job most of the time.

He did wonder about what Damian did with his free time.

Damian went to school. Then Damian disappeared until dinner. Then he disappeared until patrol. Then he was dead to the world until breakfast the next day.

He never saw Damian on weekends though. Alfred would note the absence to Bruce, but the man never did anything about it. Alfred would probably have to knock Bruce in the head to make him get it.

He supposedly ate, considering Damian retained his muscle and wasn’t getting skinnier. It didn’t seem like Damian slept. The bags under his eyes had bags. They were omnipresent, became accepted as Damian’s appearance a few months ago.

Of course, one could usually find him in the art room, except when the door was closed (Alfred would open it whenever he came by).

He didn’t want to say anything. Only God knew how Damian would take it.

Even now, Damian sat dejectedly in the corner of the sofa, staring at the curtained window with his head propped up on his arm. He looked half asleep.

“How’s school?” Tim asked, feeling more like parent than a brother (but someone had to be).

“Fine,” Damian answered.

“Do you like the movie?” Duke tried.

“No.”

Tim wrapped an arm around Damian. To his surprise, the boy didn’t pull away.

…

You are your mother's child, but you won’t learn. No one can protect you. Not your aunt. Not your mother. Not your father...Your world holds but one truth, boy...You continue to exist at my sufferance.

An echo.

Cold, tight chains released themselves from his side, clinking to the floor. His arms and legs could finally breathe. Pain radiated from everywhere. He kept his eyes closed. Damian took a breath from the floor before trying to stand. His legs were noodles. He swayed until a gloved hand steadied him.

“Damian.” His father’s gloved hand apparently.

“Batman,” he scratched.

“Don’t talk.” He lifted Damian into his arms.

Damian allowed his head to fall, chilled kevlar kissing his cheek. His nose became aware of the intermingling aromas of burnt flesh and blood confluenced with sweat.

The jostling was kept to a minimum in transporting him to the Batwing.

Damian heard shuffling as the plane took off.

He woke up to hushed voices, felt hands pulling at his blood-stained clothing and bandaging him before everything darkened to a haze once again.

…

“Touch me and die,” Damian said quietly, not in the mood for interruptions (he’d had enough in the past two days) and willing to stop them even if it meant paining his nose. He again on his way to perfecting a portrait, one of Alfred this time. His ribs pained him as he bent over the small canvas. The pain like a small searing, reaching throughout his middle. He couldn’t do detail without gazing closely though.

“How’d you know I was there?” Jason asked, coming from behind Damian with a tray.

“You’re an imbecile.”

“I brought you lunch.”

Damian rolled his eyes. “No, thank you. Leave me now.”

Jason’s silence filled the room for a solid minute. “Doing okay? Heard your Grandpappy knocked you around.”

Damian couldn’t help but smile. “Not before he coughed blood.”

A chuckle. “Good for you, kid,” Jason said. “Whatcha painting?”

“Nothing you need to pay any mind.”

“The cat, huh?” He took a seat on the floor beside Damian. “Should you be bent over like that? Has to hurt.”

“I am fine.”

“Wanna go to Batburgers?”

“No.”

“The library?”

“No.”

“Outside.”

“No.” He was fine where he was.

“Babybird told me--”

“Must you use asinine nicknames everytime you speak? It’s a childish endeavor you’re much too old and educated to pursue, don’t you think?”

“Ouch.”

It was quiet once again.

Damian leaned further forward, biting his lip as the pain increased. It felt good in it’s own way. He moved to dot a splotch of fur white when Jason punched him in the arm. A long line of white littered with gray marred the picture.

His jaw dropped as he turned to Jason.

The young man merely shrugged. “Sorry,” he said. “But hey… the eyes were all wrong anyway.”

Damian didn’t know why, but that hurt more than the searing pain in his chest and the tears pricking at his eyes. He jumped at Jason with a punch.

Jason grabbed his wrist.

Damian tried with his other one. This time nailing Jason in the cheek. He then kicked Jason in the back of the knee, causing the young man to topple over into a table.

The circus-themed vase Damian’d made in art class the previous week shattered.

“Get out.”

“Kid…”

“Get out! Get out! Get out!” Damian demanded, tears now cascading down his cheeks.

And for once, Jason did.

…

Bruce wondered what had caused his youngest to flee to the coat closet. He’d been about to go out to ‘enjoy nature.’ Alfred was cleaning the computer and he had nowhere to go. He hadn’t expected to find Damian curled up in the corner, face scrunched in what he read to be displeasure, possibly pain. Dried tear streaks were on the boy’s cheeks.

He lifted the boy up carefully. Damian, though technically a teenager, was still so small. Why was he so small? Would he grow up to be as big as Jason or Bruce? By Bruce’s estimations, Damian would inherit his mother’s slender figure as he had her soft skin and devious smirk.

Damian huffed at the jostling, his eyes forming slits to glance at Bruce as he sleepily rested his cheek on the man’s shoulder (beautiful basil eyes). “Todd broke my vase.”

“Did he apologize?” Bruce headed in the direction of the boy’s bedroom. He sat down on the bed, relishing any time he was able to hold his son, as the action was rarely permitted.

Damian humphed. “It was to be gifted to Grayson upon his return this weekend.”

“I’m sure we can find something else to give him.”

“Matched his parents’ costumes.”

“I’ll see what Alfred can do.”

Damian’s eyes closed again.

Bruce took the neon orange pill bottle from Damian’s nightstand and popped a pill out. “Here.”

Damian’s hand slowly found its way to Bruce’s, and the medication was consumed.

Bruce then laid his son on the bed, tucking him in as any good father would.

The boy didn’t protest the impromptu nap (most likely because he’d been napping already), taking another last look at Bruce.

Beautiful basil eyes.

…

“You’re sketching me?” Maya asked Damian, her emerald greens piercing him with amusement.

Damian snorted. “Of course, chica.”

“I’m prettier than over half the things you draw.”

He smiled. “Maybe.”

“Is it done yet?”

“Everything but the eyes.” The eyes were the only white thing left on the page. He sniffed the pleasant aroma of graphite and wax. The searing in his middle had regressed to a dull soreness.

“You always save the eyes for last,” she sighed, grinning. “Why is that?”

“They deserve the most care and attention.”

“Why?”

Damian sighed. “I don’t know.”

…

Tim was walking through the hallways of the manor towards his bedroom when he heard talking in the kitchen. He entered the room to see Damian and Bruce of all people not cooking, but gluing together what looked to be a vase.

Damian’s arms crossed themselves as the boy frowned. He was seated by the stove, wrapped in a blanket. It could be classified as cute, if not for the purple and blue bruise surrounding the boy’s broken nose and Damian’s split lip. “You’re not doing it right. Let me.”

“Alfred would never forgive me if you cut yourself,” Bruce said, hunched over the island with glue and tweezers.

Damian turned to Tim. “Can’t Tim do it then?”

Tim’s brows raised at the use of his actual name.

Damian seemed to catch it too.  “I’m sure no one will care if he is cut.”

Tim grinned. “Hey, B.”

“Tim,” Bruce returned.

“What’re you guys--”

“Jason knocked the table over and broke Damian’s vase for Dick.”

“And you’re fixing it?” Tim surmised.

“It’s all wrong,” Damian said before Bruce could respond. “Father, you’re--”

“Like a try, Tim,” Bruce interrupted, stepping back and holding out the materials to the teen, now revealing his own scowl and furrowed brows.

Tim chuckled. “Sure.” Those two were too alike.

…

“Todd broke it, but Drake fixed it,” Damian said quickly.

Dick examined the vase carefully. “It’s beautiful, Lil’ D. Thank you.”

Damian wasn’t sure what to say at that point, his face flushed. He slackened, releasing some tension on the pulling bandages under his shirt. He was proud to say the least. He’d known Dick would love it from the moment the idea sprouted. The moment now was mere proof.

Dick’s eyes glazed over with tears. He blinked them away. “Guess I’m gonna have to start keeping flowers now, huh?”

“I suppose you will.”

…

“I meant to visit you on your birthday but Ra’s…” Damian trailed off as he played with the dew-filled grass. It was early morning. No one was up but him, which made sense considering they’d just arrived back from patrol two hours ago. Damian hadn’t slept either. He couldn’t.

“I…” He sighed. “You are missed.” He missed her. Every single part of her he missed, from her whacks during sparring to her petty threats. “Why won’t he bring you back?” He used to always bring her back. “I wish he’d bring you back.”

Damian wiped warm tears from both his cheeks and sniffled.  You are-- and will always be-- an assassin at heart, my lovely boy. Your mother's child. “My mother’s child.” The boy’s voice was a rasp, filled with anguish.

A sad smile. “Even in death, you haunt me. A ghoul you truly are, Mother.”

There is no Hell. No Heaven. Only what we make for ourselves.

…

Blue came in seven distinct shades, each with its own name: azure, prussian, cobalt, cerulean, sapphire, indigo, and lapis. Damian loved them all.

Yet, none of them could be found in Ra’s’ compound. The buildings were tan. The shades were lined with mahogany. The uniforms were charcoal. The katanas were silver. Nothing was blue except the sky above him.

Damian liked it that way.

…

Gone. He was just gone. No notes no trace.

Damian disappeared like smoke in the air.

Where had he gone, Dick wondered.

…

“You came back?” Maya asked. “Then what was the point in leaving?”

“It’s better here,” Damian said, voice a trained low volume he’d learned when he was younger and never forgotten. He stretched his hand to test the pain, having cut it earlier when sparring with Ra’s earlier. It was worse if anything, and looked infected, but he was ignoring it for the time being.

“How?”

“My father… he-- It just is. The rules are clear. Easier to follow.”

“My father wasn’t the easiest guy either.” She took a seat on his rug and crossed her legs. “He made us ghosts.”

“And I’m not one?” He could tell she was searching him, sifting through what she knew, what she surmised, conjuring an answer that was appropriate, correct.

“You want to be?” she asked, her voice cracking.

Tears fighting their way out behind his eyes made them burn. It’s better than the torture being someone puts me through , he wanted to say, but he didn’t. He said, “Yes,” for that was all that mattered to the question.

A small wet stream ran down her right cheek. A glass film over emerald jewels. She leaned forward, wrapping her lean arms around him.

He knew the embrace was meant to be some form of solace, but it did nothing for him. He wanted to ask her to release him, to let him feel the pain, to let him fade into the black and through the wall like any good ghost could. Why wouldn’t she let him?

She stayed until he was nearly asleep.

He used her lap as a pillow, eyes having long given way to the heaviness.

She hugged him once more before laying him on the rug. It wasn’t rough, but it wasn’t a soft cotton either.

He let out a small whine of complaint, mumbled her name.

“Right here, but I have to go,” she whispered. Maya pressed a kiss to his forehead.

He allowed her last words to escape him as he drifted off.

…

“Where is he, Ra’s?” Bruce growled.

“I assume you’ve scoured my compound for him then?” Ra’s smiled. Damian swore that was the face of the Devil sans the cherry skin and raisin horns.

“He’s my son.”

“He is his mother’s as well, Detective.”

“She’s dead.”

“I’m well aware.”

Damian watched the scene from above in a blindspot even the Batman wasn’t aware of. He came back to Ra’s for two reasons. One, it was easier than living in Gotham. Two, Ra’s would burn Gotham if he didn’t.

And he knew Gotham was his father’s true love and mistress. The thing that let the broken boy with wet cheeks who became a man whose had dried out. The motivation to live, he even guessed. He’d rather be under Ra’s than take that away, than be the cause of the fall of the Bat and his cohorts. He’d rather die than do that.

So, he came back, enjoyed the blue-less world of the League of Assassins, visited his mother’s quarters occasionally. He minded it the first day, and he still missed a stray Gothamite or four, but other than that, he was fine.

He was trained to be fine, after all. How could he not be what he was created to be? It made no sense, so he didn’t let it happen.

The pain was duller here anyway,

And dulled pain was the best kind.

…

There was one part of being with his grandfather again that Damian didn’t like.

He hated having to slash throats and impale hearts.

It wasn’t that he now found murdering abhorrent either. It was the voice Dick Grayson implanted in him at the age of ten that told him it was wrong. Everytime he even came close to ending a life the voice rang in his head. It hurt.

This was why Ra’s sent Damian to kill a whole family. The psychology behind it was infallible. It would prove that he wasn’t soft, that he’d earned his place long ago and hadn’t given it up on his departure, which was why Ra’s called in the comm for him to stop before the action. The man wasn’t as cold as he advertised himself to be. He wanted loyalty more than blood any day.

So, having proven such and still possessing free hours, Damian slunk across the street of a nearby diner. He hadn’t come to eat but to watch. He loved to watch people still. That want had not waned. He’d even smuggled a camera on the off-chance he would see something truly photogenic.

Contrary to his intruder coming from behind, he did feel the footsteps. He hadn’t stopped feeling the things behind him since the day his uncle was shot in the head. A memory he held quite close to the day he first met his father.

“Red Robin,” Damian said.

“Dames. What’re you doing here?” Tim asked, crouching beside Damian.

“I’m sure you’re intelligent enough to figure it out. I don’t take you for as much as an imbecile as you advertise yourself to be.”

A snort. “B came for you.”

Damian made a noncommittal noise. It seemed Tim Drake would always interrupt his art.

“You could call.”

Damian plopped himself on the ledge and extricated a bagged sandwich from a pocket he should’ve been keeping a pistol in (still couldn’t break that habit).

“Ziplock?”

“The League isn’t that old.” Damian pulled his face mask down and set the camera beside himself.

Tim did the same. “Didn’t take you for one to eat on a profiling.”

“I’m not going to hurt them.” Damian sighed, watching his smoky breath dissipate. “Any of them,” he added. An assassin’s past times weren’t limited to killing, after all. Even Ra’s liked books and reading. He took another bite of his sandwich, sweet honey ham and American cheese.

“Okay.” Tim didn’t sound like he believed Damian, but he didn’t care about Tim’s thoughts of him anymore.

“What do you want?”

“Took me awhile to get a lead on you.”

“If you count Maya as a lead.”

“She told me ‘cause she cares.”

“I hold nothing against her.”

“Nightwing misses you,” Tim said.

Damian inserted himself into a scene before him. A young woman with blue eyes and blonde hair in a waitress uniform sat across from a young man and baby with the exact same features. A family, he figured. Both women were hunched over the table while the baby-- a girl-- babbled to herself and stuck a fist in her mouth. An interesting sight. He wondered if his parents could’ve ever created a seen like that had his father known of him when he was a baby. It was a pretty thought.

“--mian.” Tim laid a hand on Damian’s shoulder.

He turned to meet the gorgeous blue eyes that were Tim’s.

“You okay?”

“Fine.” Damian repacked his sandwich and stood. “I have to get back.”

“You’re not due ‘till four. It’s two thirty.”

“I have to go.”

Tim took his wrist. “One day he’s gonna actually make you do it, you know.”

Damian blinked. “What?”

“Kill somebody. Maybe a family. Maybe a couple. Maybe a person. But he will.”

“I live with myself just fine.”

The whites of Tim’s domino squinted before returning to their previous state. “Don’t die. Maybe send a text once a while, so we know you’re still succeeding in that venture. And call Dick ‘cause you know how he blames himself.” Even when it’s not his fault, Tim didn’t say. Because that would also imply it was Damian’s.

Damian nodded.

Tim released him.

The robin flew away, and the ghost became translucent once again.

[daedalcs]

A study in Headcannons: Jean Masters edition

This is a compendium of all the headcannons I could find that I’ve posted on my blog and a few that I hadn’t managed to write out yet. Gives some finer details on Jean and overall adds to her story.

 There is a small weathered brown leather sketchbook in the front left breast pocket of her work jacket that has a hand carved wooden pencil bound to the side. Inside the yellowing pages, you can find increasingly detailed sketches of the targets that she’s been given to kill. This book started when she had turned 18 and the first entry is of a stoic and serious looking man, this would be her father. It’s not particularly well drawn, though there’s one part of his face that she’s seemed to have spent the most time getting correct and it’s the piercing stare the man wears. A few of the drawings have color put in key places like lips, eyes, or facial tattoos though most are in regular pencil. Maxamillion’s sketch has a small note scratched onto the back that isn’t in Jean’s handwriting and it reads “Studying your target gets you one step closer to killing them.”

    Jean had quite a few tattoos and one iron brand that had gotten taken off when she lost her arm. There is a dragon winding up the side of her thigh and across her ribs, along with an all-seeing eye on her right shoulder that is the mark of her company Trinity. These tattoos are the major identifying features of her along with a nasty healed bullet wound scar just below her navel.

    Jean was actually entirely homeschooled by her father, and while she’s not a superstar at math she’s pretty intelligent in the street smarts sort of way. Max thought that practical skills were much more important than anything they were dishing out in school so he made a point to teach both his children the arts of protecting yourself, smooth talking, and hitting a target from a click away the basic stuff. So sure, she’s a smart gal but calculus is a mystery.

    While her occupation and previous trauma have steeled her emotionally Jean is actually a soft person underneath all the walls and locks. Some part of her aches for a person to just hold her and tell her things will be okay. She internalizes a lot of emotions and guilt from her past and when it’s dark and quiet those thoughts and monsters crawl up out of the woodwork.

    Night terrors and insomnia are common plagues of the woman keeping her from getting sleep a majority of the time. The few times that she’s had restful sleep is when she’s in the arms of someone else.  And I’m not talking like a one night stand or anything like that, I mean that she trusts this person enough to just melt into their arms and fall asleep. Her work takes a lot out of her and she’s just tired.

Jean has two boats. One is currently dry docked in Morrocco while the other is a 67-meter superyacht by the name of the Sea Widow which is the base for most of Trinity’s mobile operations.

Jean is technically a multi-millionaire. With about 250 million in offshore accounts and floating among various proxy accounts so dirty money can’t be traced. For the most part, she lives rather lavishly.

Jean has been married twice. First one lasting for a few years before the toll of her lifestyle took too much out of the man and he divorced her and left the country. Jean abides by his wishes and does not keep tabs on him.

Her second husband had been a double agent and had her kidnapped and tortured for two weeks which ultimately ended in her losing her arm and her killing him after she’d escaped.

Jean has spinal compression from various hard falls and the connective tissue in her knees is pretty beat up. There are occasional phantom pains from her missing arm and the tissue around where the metal connects to her body gets irritated when not taken care of properly. Partial hearing loss in her left ear from an explosion. There are patches on her body where she has little feeling due to previous injuries, this is most prevalent on her back and left side.

For a minute she had a dependency on painkillers, though after some tough self-discipline Jean got herself away from them and now prefers not to take them if at all possible. She’s tried to stop smoking on several occasions but found that it just made her temper terrible and her hands shake with the withdrawals so she’s gotten down to half a pack a day.

If you were to look around Jean’s home you would notice that there’s a lot of spackled over patches here and there. This is because she forgets the strength of her metal arm from time to time and has put holes in the walls. One of the largest holes that had happened was when she had been trying to hang a painting and she put the entire hammer through the wall.

Weapon of choice is a Remington CSR, collapsible and powerful it’s great for both long and medium range. While the short range stuff is kept to super 625 .45 revolver ( just in case her target decided to hide behind a tank ) or a trusty KBAR knife that’s been lovingly sharpened and oiled.

Multilingual Jean can speak four languages fluently and a handful of others to a conversational level. English, Spanish, Russian, and Arabic are her main languages simply for business sake with those being the biggest contenders.

In the Monster Hunter verse, Jean is unable to fully die. She will sustain harsh enough injuries and enter a state of in between. Due to a pact that she’d made with the grim reaper in her younger years, though when her time finally comes and she fulfills her mission Jean is given just enough time to spend a few moments with her family then simply fade from existence.

Jean can play two instruments, guitar, and piano. She was taught how to play the guitar by her brother Stephan when she was younger, it kept her mind from other things and gave Stephan and her something to do together to avoid their father. The piano she had taught herself after she’d lost her arm in an attempt to gain finer finger dexterity back after the accident. The piano helped her combat the phantom pains that she experienced frequently in the beginning and it also allowed her to become used to the new appendage.

Not a day goes by that Jean doesn’t think about her brother. Stephan had been her support and guardian from her father’s rage and beatings for most of her childhood after their mother died. When he ran away after he turned 18 leaving the then 14 year old Jean alone with the husk of a man that was their father Jean never quite forgave him. It’s this acidic hole in her chest that burns her up inside. There are so many questions that she wants to ask him most of them starting with why. Why did he leave her without saying anything? Why didn’t he take her with him? Where did he go? Where did you go? Jean runs this old film reel over and over in her head at night

Jean wanted kids. She really wanted to be a better person for them and grasped for that white picket fence life for so long that when she had gotten shot in the stomach and had her internals so badly damaged that it ripped that away from her, the woman didn’t really ever recover. There are times where the assassin absently traces that scar on her stomach thinking about everything that could have been.

Dreams are less of night terrors and more like glimpses into a different life. Sometimes it’s hazy memories of picknicks with the whole family when her mother was still alive. Sometimes its visions of taking her kids to go see uncle Stephan who lives somewhere in the mountains. Though waking up is always the same, leaving this harsh ache in her entire body when she realizes that all of those dreams are just dreams.

There had been moments when Jean wished she failed in killing her father. Knowing that the consequences would have been her own demise she silently wonders what would have happened. If there was such thing as an afterlife could she have watched the man that had once been a rock for their family fall apart under the knowledge that he’d killed his only daughter and drove his son out of the home? Jean has always wondered.