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People underestimate how much it fucks you up to be subtly excluded as a kid. I would try to talk to my classmates and be met with disinterest or annoyance. The one friend I had, who I clung to and nodded along to his every word, had other friends he liked just as much or more. And his other friends didn’t care for me at all.
I look back at pictures from the time and see how separated I was from them. I remember knowing I was different. I remember posing questions about the world to the girls playing next to me and realizing that they had never asked the same ones to themselves. That the ways we thought couldn’t be more different.
I kept myself amused with my own fanatical stories and musings in my head. I would wander the playground on a circular path, imagining a friend and being sorely disappointed when it didn’t feel as real as I’d hoped.
There was a bubble separating me from everyone else, thin, and nearly invisible, but with a pearly sheen you could catch under the right conditions. I knew it was there, they knew it was there, and it changed me
Dick: Today I realized I am old.
Tim: What do you mean?
Dick: I fell over while training with Damian, and instead of laughing, he ran over to see if I was okay.
Tim:
Dick, tearing up: I saw genuine fear in his eyes.
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#i appreciate how genuine and non-judgemental this comic feels
#like left one is not upset at right one for caring while being powerless
#and right one seems genuinely distraught and not performative
I'm glad the facial expressions are coming across accurately!
It can feel so absurd to say gosh I hope the torment maze removes some fire and rusty nails soon, but alas, sometimes that's all one can do.
Bruce Wayne wakes to a pair of blue eyes inches from his own. It takes him completely by surprise, especially when the eyes slowly bleed in green, and he's just about to give in to the reflex of punting whatever it is away when, at the last possible second, the eyes speak.
"Did you sleep with my parents?"
Bruce opens and closes his mouth, stunned by the accusation. A few seconds go by, during which his foggy mind attempts to fight off lack of sleep long enough to make sense of the growled question.
It obviously took too much time for whoever this is for they sigh impatiently.
The eyes move back, and now when they are no longer taking up his entire view, Bruce can see its a creature of some sort. It's humanoid enough that Bruce would even suspect it of being a teenage boy. It's also oddly familiar, as if he resembled someone Bruce knew a long time ago.
"Did you?" The boy repeats, his articulation sharp as steel.
The double raised eyebrows, the slight head tilt, and even the click of a tongue are all habits that scratch a part of Bruce's brain, and like a dam bursting apart, memories flood his head.
"Oh," he breathes, eyes roaming the creature's face, identifying each feature that he stole from his parents. "You're Jack and Maddie Fenton's. You have your mother's glare and your father's face shape."
The creature, for it can no longer be entirely human with that glow, neon eyes, and the fact that it is levitating as if gravity were an unsolicited opinion, narrowed its eyes. "That's right I am. My name is Danny Fenton"
"Danny," Bruce repeats, tasting the sound on his tongue. He can help, but soften his expression at the confirmation that his old lovers kept the name they used to casually talk about. "Its lovely. Where you named after-"
"The street dog that Dad chased until he crashed into window around the back patio of som rich guy. The same rich guy my Mom was trying to seduce by pretending she needed chemistry tutoring, in the very same patio" Danny huffs, repeating the story he likely heard a thousand times in his life.
Bruce chuckles "Jack always had grand entrances. What are you doing here, Danny?"
Danny frown, bitting his lip before pointing to his hair. Bruce watches it switch between dark black and pure snow white, as well as his flickering eyes that can't seem to decide if they should be blue or green "I need a transplant"
"Are you sick?" Bruce frets twisting the blanket in one hand. If this child was here, based on his age, then he likely came to ask Bruce for a kidney or liver. This is likely his son.
Wow
"Somewhat?" Danny runs a frustrated hand through his hair. Bruce admires how the action causes some strands to stay white. It winds up giving his son salt-and-pepper hair. "A couple of days ago I had an accident during a fight. My core took a nasty hit, and now both sides of being are mixing. I can't control my appearance anymore. My Yeti said I need a soul piece transplant, but it has to be someone comparable. Neither my mom, dad, nor sister is a match, so my mom suggested you might be. Since you are likely my biological father. I know its a lot to ask-"
"Should we go see your Yeti today and prep for the surgery? It is a surgery, isnt it?" Bruce sits up, discarding the fact he undstoood only a third of what the boy said, to focus on the important part. His son needed him. "How do we test to see if we're a match?"
Danny squints at him, before folding his arms over his chest "This doesn't mean I'll become your heir or break up my parents for you"
Bruce blinks "Of course. Why would it?"
"My parents are happily married!"
The man nods, reaching for the robe by his bed. He always slept shirtless, but depending on the season he wore pajamas pants or a pair of briefs. Thankfully, he choose the pants last night. "I am aware. They had fun with me, but they didn't love me. Not the way they loved eachother. Jack and Maddie are soulmates."
A loaded silence goes by before Danny's glow spikes up. Bruce fights the urge to look away, wondering if his son somehow got his DNA spliced with a star or even if his ex-lovers weren't as human as he had thought. Danny now looks like a human outline made of light as the boy looks down at his hand, and shakes it around.
He is obviously trying to shake off the brightness, but it doesn't seem to work, for the boy throws his arms into the air and folds his legs under him. Bruce's eyes start to water from the strain of keeping eye contact- or what he assumes is eye contact. He can't make out the boy's face.
"Gah! I hate this!" Danny whines, "I just want this to be over!"
"We'll get the test done as quickly as possible," Bruce promises, moving over to his closet. "Do I need to pack ann overnight bag for the hospital?"
Danny doesn't have a chance to answer because Alfred chooses to speak out. His butler stands in the doorway, holding a tray of Bruce's morning coffee and pastry.
"Master Bruce? Who are you talking to?" The aged man asks glancing around the room
"My possible son with the Fentons," Bruce replies, waving a hand at Danny, who is still just light. He gets the feeling his boy is studying Alfred closely.
"The Fentons?" Pity and worry clouds Alfred's voice as he slowly creeps closer. Carefully he lowers the tray on the coffee table on the right side of the room. Just as delicately, Alfred replies "Master Bruce. The Fentons broke up with you"
A laugh, half hysterical- half devastated, leaves Bruce throat before he can stop it. "Yeah they broke my heart! Taught me that I was unlovable no matter how hard I tried. HA HA HA HA!"
"Oh" Danny winces. "This is worst then the fruitloop."
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Okay, American immigrant to the UK here to explain all the mistakes from Paul Hollywood happening here: there is one fundamentally American ingredient required to make a s'more correctly but which is basically not available anywhere at all in the UK, and that is graham crackers. A plain digestive biscuit close-ish, but still a very different beast.
From Wikipedia: A graham cracker is a sweet flavored cracker made with graham flour.
The next ingredient (which is also extremely traditionally American but slightly more variable) is typically Hershey's chocolate, but you could probably swap this out in the UK with any plain chocolate bar.
Last ingredient is big marshmallows, the kind you do the chubby bunny challenge with, like the size of your thumb and twice as thick.
A proper s'more, the most traditional possible variety, involves to graham cracker squares, two slab segments of Hershey's chocolate, and one to two marshmallows depending on your preference for filling and gooeyness. You put a slab of chocolate on one of the graham cracker squares. Your marshmallows should be toasted, usually over a campfire but if you're doing them at home over a gas stove burner is fine, but the fire part is critical. You can toast them to whatever degree you like, some people like them nice and golden brown but still kind of firm in the middle, me personally? I want that bitch to CATCH ON FIRE, I want it gooey and sticky as hell in the middle, crispy and burnt on the outside. Slap that motherfucker on your graham cracker and chocolate square, top with the other one so your marshmallow and chocolate are sandwiched together by graham cracker on the outside. You do this with your freshly toasted marshmallow because ideally it will be hot enough to start to melt the chocolate so it sticks to the marshmallow and the graham cracker and, combined with the gooey marshmallow, it keeps the whole thing together, and for that reason some people will let them sit for a hot second to let the melting process happen (especially if like me you have chocolate on BOTH graham cracker squares, not just one, because you're a sugar fiend), but if you are a young child you do not have that degree of patience and you eat that shit immediately, unmelted chocolate and all. Consume your summer camp delight like a tiny club sandwich, get gooey sticky marshmallow and chocolate all over your hands, and enjoy.
Important note: this is a kids treat. It is a traditional summer camping trip dessert. It should be something any ten year old with adult supervision and access to the ingredients can make (and make a mess of). They're called s'mores because kids always "want s'more". If you are using a blowtorch, chocolate biscuits, and merengue, you are so far beyond the bounds of s'more-hood that you have thoroughly lost the plot. If you offered Paul Hollywood's concoction to an American child and called it a s'more, they'd tell you flat out that not only is it not a s'more, it looks dumb and you didn't do it right because it's not gooey.
the point is the mess. the point is getting to make a food, at age seven, whose two basic food groups are 'sugar' and 'fire'. the other point is that this food item is so crumbly, chaotic, sticky, on fire, and prone to being dropped (outside, in the dark, while you are surrounded by other children who are also sticky and on fire) that your supervisors cannot accurately monitor how many smores you personally have consumed. the point is also that you may get away with a smore that is five blocks of chocolate and two marshmallows if you move fast and let nothing stop you.
if you haven't accidentally yet unrepentantly eaten a chunk of twigs or dirt or a bug that got enmeshed in the creative process around smore number 3st, you are too old to have any legitimate input into what makes a smore.
There's 2 other points that I think are important.
The first is that you don't pull the marshmallow off the roasting stick and somehow put it on the chocolate. Your staging area will look something like this, with the graham crackers and chocolate already set out (though not usually on the fire like this, for us it was always someone's lap or a picnic table or something)
And when your marshmallow has reached appropriate roasting perfection, you use the graham crackers to slide it off the stick.
and ideally, as a CHILD you are using a literal stick. Like you walked around and spent time looking for The Perfect Stick off the ground while the adults set up the fire. It has to be thin enough the marshmallow will fit, sturdy enough that it won't bow, long enough that you won't burn yourself roasting your marshmallow. And preferably doesn't have a lot of bark that's sloughing off, OR so much bar sloughing off you can peel it all back and get to the clean stick under it. If you're smart, you might stick the tip into the fire first to "wash" it/burn off anything that was still lingering, but. well, most kids don't.
When you bite in, the marshmallow and chocolate SHOULD ooze out all over you. If you don't kinda look like this eating it, you've probably done it wrong:
The description of the marshmallows as being either brown on the outside but still firm on the inside or fully melted but burned on the outside is missing the true art: fully molten in the middle, without the black burns. Not to say OP is wrong for preferring the burn! But there is a technique for perfection and it goes like this:
You find a spot, not above all the logs where everyone sticks their marshmallows by default, but at the heart of the fire. Ideally between a couple logs already glowing gold. Something like here:
Below the leaping flame. Near the logs. There's probably only one or two spots good enough for this on any given fire, but that's okay because everyone else is up above. They will get their marshmallows faster. They will be either firm or burned or both. That's not your goal.
Rotate the marshmallow slowly. Ideally come in at an angle so the part closest to the flame is the side, not the tip. The spot closest to the fire is the spot that turns a crispy golden brown, and you want that everywhere, on the tip and around the circle.
You keep going, slowly turning, for several minutes. Several people will rotate in and out of the higher sections, getting their fast delight. Eventually, your marshmallow will start sagging badly, risking falling. Maybe it does fall and got start over. But eventually it will be golden brown all over, and so liquid it no longer clings to the stick. It is ready, finally.
You say "who hasn't gotten one yet?" And deposit it onto their waiting graham crackers and chocolate. You've made an excellent marshmallow. It isn't for you. Get another while you're over by the bags and go back to the heart of the fire.
That's your evening. One, slow, perfect marshmallow at a time, given to whomever still wants s'more. You're making art for children to stuff into their mouths cheerfully. You're watching the movement of the fire and the heat of the logs, like you would if you were maintaining it — maybe you would be, maybe you were the one who built it — but right now that's not the goal. Let someone else put more logs on, while you take only the one stick and find the best spot for it to live.
You will, eventually, finish a marshmallow and find that nobody moves to accept it. Maybe they're all eating right now, or maybe they've gone through so many they're hesitating. Eat your masterpiece then. Enjoy it, the hardest and most perfect result from a fun and beautiful moment. Go back in for another, until you've run out of marshmallows and the fire is too low or until even you are done with s'mores, until you have made enough.
"We don't want a gooey mess" pfft even the artistry studied at the feet of my father is inherently a gooey mess. That's the whole point!
when i was getting trained as a welder the guys started playing sneaky grabass with each other and with me. i almost hit a few people while holding dangerous tools in my hand because they wouldn’t stop grabbing me from behind, then laughing that i ‘almost’ hit them, so i finally had to go to the instructor and say, look, i’ve had years and years of self defense training due the fact i’m a very small weirdo who is in legitimate danger of getting hatecrimed and at some point one of these guys is going to goose me again and im going to bury a wrench in his eye. get them to stop grabbing me, because i don’t want to get kicked out for hitting people.
the next day i ended up punching someone in the face with a doughnut in my fist because she thought i was being a big fucking buzzkill who tattled to teacher about a harmless game, and, guess what, grabbed my butt. i got icing all over her hair. she complained to teacher...who let everyone know that this was why they weren’t supposed to be playing grabass in the fucking shop.
anyway don’t fucking sneak up on twitchy little queers with hypervigilance, it fucking sucks and you’re lucky if you get a doughnut to a face instead of a hammer.
Feel free to reblog for other people to vote. DO NOT SEND HATE TO ANYONE FOR WHAT THEY VOTED. This is merely for fun and to see what people genuinely think.
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i feel like the youth should be reminded that the point of shipping is not for a ship to become canon. the point of shipping is to collect all the canon crumbs like starved mice, run away cackling and make some fun little scenarios with them just for the hell of it.
stormborns
s-u-f-j-a-n-s-t-e-v-e-n-s
andulkaphoto
yousharknotpass
prguitarman
gracieabrams
discoholicmusic
