I got my hair cut the other day and of course I had to draw the dca boys running a hair salon:
Sun would be so effortlessly charming. Always chatting away with customers, explaining each product he uses and how to best maintain and style their hair.
Moon I can see being popular with the less chattier customers (like me) but over time they begin to open up. I imagine he hums while working. Otherwise, he's all ears for the newest gossip.
(The clipped up hat idea came from @bamsara's solar lunacy doodles!)
Also I love the popular headcanon that the dca can speak other languages, so I can imagine them being a hit with the aunties.
The full sketch page under cut! And some of my other thoughts
Other thoughts about this... AU? Can I call it an AU? Feels kinda small for an AU, but whatever:
Eclipse works there too! Haven't decided if it would be canon or fanon Eclipse, though I really like the image of 4-armed Eclipse working on 2 clients at once (plus, the nickname Clip is perfect for this scenario)
of course they're great with kids! They'd be able to console kids that get scared of getting their hair cut. Sun would do a little trick and tell them how good and brave they are all the way through. Moon would console them and hum a soothing song (or hey maybe they notice the kid's wearing a disney shirt and starts humming some showtunes). Every kid gets a candydrop and a balloon on their way out.
y/n works at the hair salon as a part-timer and does tasks around the salon like sweeping, arranging bookings, washing hair, etc. They don't really care too much about their own hair, but the boys are always offering to style it, dye it, braid it. With y/n's permission, the boys always toy with their hair—patting it, combing their hands through it, brushing it over y/n's ear, ruffling it.
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Thinking a little bit about that one "I'm an English major and a professional as opposed to you amateurs" anon. Gonna roast 'em a little bit, but with the intention of addressing a thing we've had in mind for a while.
Real talk, coming from someone who WAS an English major; majoring in English is not necessarily a guarantee that someone is a good writer. For one, you can be bad at your major, full stop. For another, it's not even a guarantee that someone identifies as a writer to begin with. English as a major is pretty broad, and it covers reading too, among other things. There's library science, analytical academia, historical preservation & interpretation (MEDIEVAL MANUSCRIPTS HELL YES), editing, nonfiction trades (often crosses over with STEM majors), marketing (crosses over with business majors), and also book design and typography (<3 <3 <3 our favorite, crosses over with art majors).
Someone can major in English and take a specific minor with the goal of falling into a trade that is not writing literary fiction. In fact, we would argue that most people who get something useful out of their major are the ones that do that.
It's also worth noting that it's possible to be an English major focused on "lowbrow" fiction. There are people who major in English and use the experience towards the end of writing erotica. There are people who major in English with the intent to write genre fiction. There are people who major in English to study the history and social context of fanfiction.
These things are, in fact, worthy fields of study! The realm of the "amateur" is the realm where a lot of cultural conversations and innovations happen!
Expecting English as a major to be a tract specifically for producing acclaimed literary fictionists is not realistic, not how the discipline typically works, and it's certainly not a thing you can use to hold over other writers' heads. It is perfectly possible for people to write good things (professional-grade things even) without ever touching a college course.
I sat through so much bad writing in college. Technically bad, thematically bad, gramatically bad. And I routinely bump into non-graduate authors who write texts, formal and informal alike, that blow my own writing clean out of the water with their quality.
In short, dismissing other people in your general field as "amateurs" who are beneath you is an incredibly unprofessional thing to do.
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The Number You Have Called Cannot Be Reached 4
Part 1|Part 2|Part 3
Ship: Dead on Main (Danny/Jason)
Warnings: angst/depression and canon typical violence
A sunbeam from the crack in the curtains hit his eyes and he turned over burying his face in his pillow. Belatedly Jason registered that it was at least afternoon because the windows faced west, but it didn’t really matter. He was much too warm, and comfortable to get up. He drifted - things were good. He dreamt of a low rumble in the distance, barely on the edge of his hearing, easing the tightness, turning him liquid.
It was another half hour before he awoke properly, registering his bedroom around him dimly lit by the single sunbeam. He yawned and stretched before getting up. He felt loose and relaxed and as he opened the dark curtains he was greeted by one of Gotham’s rare days of sunshine. A smile tugged on his lips and for a moment he stood there in the sun, letting the warmth soak into his skin. He wasn’t in any hurry.
Down in the street someone held the door open for another whose arms were full of groceries, smiles were exchanged and the person moved on. The sounds of kids playing on the nearby playground reached his ears when he opened the window to air out the room. Somewhere someone practiced the trombone and they weren’t half bad.
Peace settled in his bones, these were his people. Even Crime Alley shone from its good side.
Stretching again, he walked into the kitchen and started rooting around his fridge in search of ingredients for breakfast.
There was a thought nagging at the back of his mind as he cracked three eggs in a bowl, added a small dollop of sour creme and some salt. He paused, musing, something he’d forgotten… He hummed thoughtfully, trying to grasp at the thought, but it just didn’t seem that important and with a shrug he took out a pan turning it on medium heat. On the way to the fridge, he popped two pieces of toast in the toaster. Unlike whatever was nagging he knew he had forgotten the butter - a small piece went into the pan and he left the rest out so he could butter the toast. He rinsed a handful of small tomatoes he set them aside on a plate.
Something happened yesterday, he finally decided, as he walked back over to the open window and cut off a few stalks from the chives plant by the window sill. He paused there for a moment listening; a saxophone had joined the trombone and they were now playing sweet jazz with each other from across the road through open windows. A small crowd had gathered below to listen. Amused, Jason wondered if more musicians would be lured out.
Sizzling from the pan, drew him back to the kitchen.
He set aside the chives, quickly whisked the egg mixture together and poured it in the pan. Grabbing a spatula from the drawer he absently flipped it in his hand as he watched the eggs. Judging the pan had adjusted to the cold eggs he turned the heat on low and scraped across the pan in long smooth moves, freeing the already cooked eggs and allowing the still liquid mixture to sink to the pan.
The toast popped up from the toaster, and it was a matter of moments before he had them buttered and were stirring the eggs again. They had solidified now but were still glistening slightly when he transferred them on top of the bread. He quickly chopped the chives and sprinkled them on top.
Looking at his handiwork he nodded in satisfaction. Time to eat.
A glass of orange juice in one hand and plate and utensils in another he moved to the table. He cut off the first bite of egg on toast and close his eyes in pleasure: Crunchy toast, smooth eggs wiith a hint of salt and just a bit of sharpness from the chives.
It felt like ages since he’d just allowed himself to enjoy the moment like this. It wasn’t like he didn’t cook normally it was one of the things, along with reading, he still enjoyed despite everything. He was always just so busy, always so angry.
Like a click in a lock he suddenly realized what he was forgetting. The pits, the Ghost, the cave and Bruce asking him to stay. The thought was an ache in his chest and he set the fork down rubbing his forehead. He wanted… he wasn’t sure what he wanted. For the longest time he’d convinced himself he was agreeing to working with the bats because it was easier, they’d get less in his way like that. He’d told himself he barely tolerated them. Now, with the pits calmed or whatever they were, he found himself inexplicably fond:
DIck’s persistence even when Jason pushed him away, he always had so much hope, despite Jason giving him absolutely no reason to. Tim who he’d had so much misplaced anger towards, who was so smart, and yet so stupid. Damian, the absolute brat, who behind the arrogant facade cared so much about his family and friends, but was so afraid of rejection.
Bruce was… Bruce was complicated. The pits hadn’t invented his resentment, he had been so hurt to find out the Joker had gone free, that he’d been replaced, that he’d meant so little to Bruce - to his Dad. But without the pits to stoke the resentment, he was just left with this tired old ache. Lashing out had never helped him and he was just exhausted by the constant fighting. He wanted his dad. Not Batman, Bruce, the Dad who would drink his tea in the library while he was reading just to be in the same room with him. The embarrassing proud Dad who would brag about Jason’s grades in the same breath he would brag about Jason nearly stealing the tires of his car the first time they met.
He still had the hurt and the anger, but the longing far outweighed that. He rubbed at his moist eyes. The realization hurt, because he really didn’t know how long this effect lasted or if this realization would stick once the Pits were back - it was just too much to hope this was permanent.
Jason never had that kind of luck.
He needed to talk to the Ghost, but he never appeared so soon again after a theft. For a moment his thoughts dwelled on the device they’d recovered yesterday, some kind of calibrator, if he took it, maybe he could lure him out… but the thought was dismissed almost immediately, even if he took it, he’d have no way of informing the guy he had it.
They really knew next to nothing about the guy.
Jason sighed, and looked down at his now cold breakfast. He started eating again, starvation was something he would never forget and he was not about to waste food. Dwelling on his family, the pits and the ghost, wasn’t getting him anywhere.
It was distressingly easy to push the thoughts aside instead of obsessing with no angry whisper in his ear. Was this how normal people dealt with emotions? Without everything having to be a fight? As easy as deciding he’d dwell on it later when he could actually do something about it?
Helpless laughter bubbled up in his chest. This was so dangerous; it was way too easy to get used to.
next
Masterpost for subscription
I feel I need to apologize for the lack of Danny again, but Jason kinda took over and had some more angst to deal with. I promise, next time we’ll get back to Danny’s misery!
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