Re: Marvel: Starbucks; Damian & Donna
[Damian wasn't pretty. He did not ascribe to the utterly prevailing expectations of Eurocentric beauty standards (nor the definition of masculinity therein) to take issue with the word itself, to feel he must instead be something rougher; however, he was not pretty. It was simple fact. It implied something to him he could not swallow, though he could neither say what it was precisely nor understand why he felt the way he did. His blood was that violet, violent mixture of Wayne and al Ghul, and it left him spanning.—Of course, he was not ugly either, no matter the standards brooked, and he knew that, as every boy raised to believe the world was made for his palm, its tributaries for his lifelines, seas opponens pollicis in swell, did. It was arrogant to think such, likely, but, as Damian had written over the journals to person named Trystan, arrogance implied a detachment from reality that led to inflation of sense of self, and this was simply true. Fact. Reality.
Not that he was thinking on that, currently. He was instead faced with Donna, in the flesh, her eyes dark and her shoulders squeezing together as if she could disappear if only she willed hard enough. He would not have called her average-looking, but then again, he wasn't going to say anything either way. She reacted to his cold smirk with a rash of red across her cheeks and the cruel crescent waxed wider in white.] It's fine. [Too nice. He frowned, but he turned his attention away from the woman immediately, so maybe she wouldn't notice.—Or he intended to, but then her eyes snagged his and her pupils flooded wide, perceptibly, and Damian was forced to pause, lips parted, before he did make himself facethe menu. He didn't read anything on it, his gaze unfocused as he shifted away from a woman standing too close behind them and toward Donna.
He didn't look at her again. He stared at the barista, but it was clear it wasn't her he was speaking to.] You order.