#like... the other ones are so SWEARY

[sonjalikestodraw]

Heehee sweary gamer rage boy funny, lemme just *trips over the Thorn chapter and falls in love with Cheated* Updated for Pristine cut! :D

Design notes:

Based on a street pigeon; pigeons were once domesticated and "cheated" by humanity.

As a part of Slayer's psyche, represents Anger Born of Worry + Sense of Justice/Fairness

Razor shredded his outfit and destroyed clipped his wings :(

Let's do some fashion crimes! He's in White Tie casino attire. Gambling theming fits his risktaker mindset, while the formal wear is symbol for how he's a stickler for the rules and hates random bullshit.

BUT he wears a (gasp) Black Tie-style blood-red cummerbund. Because I like cummerbunds. It represents getting stabbed in the gut in chapter 1.

Wherever Slayer gets chopped or pierced, Cheated gets scarred. Notably in-game our throat gets slit, so that one scar is always there, along with our knife hand getting lopped off. (He'll take it for Slayer's sake, but he's gonna complain about it the whole time)

If he hasn't met Razor or Nightmare, like in Thorn, the cummerbund is white and his outfit and wings are intact. "Fuck off Opportunist, I'm getting Thorn outta here!" He's her friendly angel, in black and white for alliance with both Slayer and the Princess.

In Wild, as per her route's aesthetics, his clothes are intact and recolored dark (black for LQ and the dark, green for the absolute reality), and Wild gave him poppy decor for sweetness and connection with the Princess.

In Cage, he's pissed off with the other Voices and Slayer, thus wearing red, while the white suit is for alliance with the Princess, almost like a wedding suit.

Fun fact: he's a trans dude ~

Like Oppy, he's in modern clothing instead of vaguely medieval/ren faire like the rest, because of how he talks like a gamer trying to exploit mechanics.

Barefoot to match Razor.

Has Hot-blooded Sideburns.

The dyed sidecut is a reference to various let's players, and also just looks nice. I think it suits him to have a punk hairstyle that he can meticulously maintain, yet claw at and mess with when he's frustrated (which is... all the time).

You'd best believe that when he gives Razor The Look, he pushes back his hair :P

[fuzzybirdie]

Hero of Changing Faces

Warning, 'tis a bit sweary. Enjoy!

Ch.2 The MOTHERFUCKER Of All Time

The GODDAMN Joker was attacking the GODDAMN ammusement park in the middle of the GODDAMN school holidays! So Duke was a teensy bit pissed.

Today was supposed to be fun! Everyone, including Tim and Alfred, had made sure to clean up their scheduals enough for a family outing, and they managed to pull steph along as well!

Everything was going well so far too! Sure, Damian couldn't stop scoffing at this couple yelling 'Ghost!' All the time, and Tim and Jason were trying to one-up eachother at all the carnival games, (before being absoloutley demolished by cass), but it was fun! They Were having fun.

And then the motherfucker of all time hijacked the roller coaster.

Alfred had managed to sneak everyone's costumes into their day packs, probably foreseeing something going wrong. Either way, this meant that everyone could sneak away and change to fight the Joker.

After getting changed, Signal charged towards the announcer's booth, running into Nightwing on the way. Nightwing who looked pale and terrified. "B went ahead to the roller coaster!" Nightwing called. Ah, Signal's question must've been obvious.

"Isn't that a good thing?" Signal called back,

"Not as a civillian! He went in before it got hijacked!"

"Fuck!"

"Red, Orphan, and I are en route to the rollercoaster" Red Hood interupted "Robin's on his way to the announcer booth, and Spoiler is on evac duty,"

"Roger," Nightwing grappeled past a group escaping one of the rides, "Signal and I will randevous with robin. B is among the civillians on the roller coaster."

"Understood. We'll be in touch once the civvies are safe. Over and Out."

The announcer booth was surrounded by goons, who were taken care of easily enough. (Thank you, pepper spray bottles of sleeping gas!) Leaving the door wide open. Nightwing and Signal crept in, the only hint of their (re: Signal's) presence was the lights dimming and the shadows growing.

The Joker had set himself in the middle of the moniter room. He'd somehow found the time to inflate an air matress and was now lying down, eating popcorn, and kicking his legs like a schoolchild.

"Oh boo!" The Joker cried as the rollercoaster judded to a stop "they didn't even get halfway up! This show sucks!"

Robin took this moment to reveal himself both to his brothers and the Joker by attempting to skewer the latter through the arm. "Oh hi, little Robin!" Joker cackled as Robin missed "Come to watch the show? Though," he looked at where Robin's sword had punctured his matress "That was really rude. Guess I can kill you now!"

As Joker pulled out a gun to shoot at Robin, Signal manipulated the light of the moniters to blind him. Nightwing's escrima crackled into his exposed back, and he was down.

Something clattered out of the Joker's hands along with the gun. Signal had a closer look at it while Nightwing cuffed Joker and Robin shut down all the rides.

"Joker had a deadman trigger!" He practically shrieked into the comms "Get everyone out of there now!" Looking closer at the moniters, it was easy to see the bombs at the bottom of every other support. Thankfully, with Robin having turned off the rides, the safety bar had let go, and the other bats had gotten all the civillians off the ride. Unfortunately, they were still in the blast zone.

Red Robin turned to say something to the civillians. Then this white haired kid practically threw Red Hood into Orphan, who was checking someone for injuries. With everyone behind him, the kid threw out his hands, as a sheet of ice grew from them. The ice seemed to thin to stop anything, but it covered everyone quickly. Once a dome had formed the ice began to thicken.

Then the bombs detonated.

~~~~~~

first / prev / next

It was under the word limit!

So, how many of you got the cameo last chapter? :)

As always, this was inspired by @freedomanddisorder's art and the following prompt chain. Please check out both, they are So cool,

[lulublack90]

Prompt 12 - Jealous

@jegulus-microfic November 12, Word count 746

Previous part First part

James jumped out of his car before any of the others could even unbuckle their seatbelts and opened Regulus’s door for him. Regulus looked up at him a bit bewildered, but took his hand anyway and let James guide him out of the car. 

“How come you never do that for me?” Remus pouted as he walked around the car to where Sirius stood waiting.

“Because of what I let you do to me this morning,” Sirius quipped, raising his brow, daring Remus to keep going as he would definitely describe every moment in minute detail. He’d done it before and would feel no shame in recounting their exploits in front of his brother. Remus smartly kept his mouth shut, and they headed into the gallery silently. 

James was surprised how many people were milling around the exhibits and just how large the art show actually was. There were so many artists showcasing their work. 

“Where’s yours?” He asked Regulus as they followed the crowd to the first display. 

“Back right,” Regulus told him, pointing in the right direction. James started to walk that way, but Regulus tugged his hand to stop him. “No, we have to look at everybody’s. We can’t just go straight to mine,” Regulus muttered quickly. 

“Why not?” James questioned. “I want to see yours,” Regulus’s cheeks turned pink as he ducked his head. 

“I need a few minutes to prepare myself for going over there,” Regulus admitted, clearly nervous about how James would react.

“Let’s go look at some art then,” James said, kissing the back of Regulus’s hand and following after Sirius and Remus. “Thank you for telling me what you needed, love. You can always do that, and I’ll respect it every time,” He didn’t need to look down to know how deep the red was that coloured Regulus’s cheeks now, he could quite happily picture it in his head.

They caught up with Sirius and Remus, the former having a heated discussion with Remus in front of the artist about his piece. 

“I just don’t get it,” Sirius was saying. “I mean, it’s just a tennis ball,” Remus sighed. 

“It’s modern art; the tennis ball represents the way that commercialism has changed the way sports are viewed,”

“It represents a game of fetch,” Sirius retorted, much to the artist's ire. Remus hurriedly moved Sirius along to a painting of a park. “See, Remus, there’s a dog playing fetch with a tennis ball,” He said loudly as they took in the work. 

“I changed my mind,” Regulus said quietly into James’s ear. “I can not follow him around here, let's just go see my stuff,” James beamed down at him. 

“Lead the way, love,” 

Regulus led them all the way to the back of the hall and stopped in front of ‘Burk with a Nana’. “Wait!” James exclaimed. “They let you display it with that name?!” Regulus shrugged. 

“Art,” He said simply, as a means of explanation. “As long as it isn’t too sweary, they don’t mind.” 

James moved with Regulus, looking at each piece. Regulus seemed to lean towards painting, but there were charcoal sketches, clay sculptures and a cat made from intricately twisted gold-coloured wire. James was in awe of Regulus and was about to say so when he spotted him chatting with a tall, dirty-blonde-haired man. He felt suddenly quite jealous, an emotion he wasn’t used to feeling at the easy way they were conversing and the smile on Regulus’s face. He strode over there, putting a possessive arm around Regulus and waited to be introduced. 

“James, this is Evan. Our parents know each other. Evan, this is James, my, er, my…”

“Boyfriend,” James provided helpfully. To be fair to Regulus, they hadn’t discussed labels, but, by the pleased look on Regulus’s face, he quite liked this one. Evan’s eyebrows shot up his face in surprise. 

“Oh, wow,” He said. “Erm, wow, Regulus, that’s so good,” His face softened. “I’m so happy for you. I’m here with my boyfriend, actually. I think you know him. Oh, look, here he is now. Darling, look who it is,” A slim-built man in an expensive-looking suit strode over to their little group, his dark brown hair slicked back expertly, showing off the sparking diamond earring, glinting off the light as he neared them. James felt Regulus still at his side. 

“Barty,” Regulus breathed out when the man stopped before them, looking shocked at who Evan was talking to. 

“Reggie?” 

Next part

[calaisreno]

Sixth Sense

885 Words / Prompt: Intuition

Molly notices. 

She’s not really a friend of John’s. They're friendly, but she never has much to say to him. He’s kind to her, and probably aware of how she felt about Sherlock. 

As one of the few who knows Sherlock is alive, she has a terrible advantage over John Watson. Not the one she used to wish for. 

They met in her lab, when Mike Stamford came looking for Sherlock, to introduce him to John. Well, nobody introduced her. Sherlock was fixated on her lipstick for some reason. She remembers John’s eyes on her, then turning to focus on Sherlock. That was the day she finally figured out that Sherlock wasn’t interested in her. In time, her crushing disappointment was lessened by the realisation that he was gay. It wouldn’t have mattered what shade of lipstick she wore or however many coffees she brought him; he would never look at her the way he looked at John.

At first she thought John was straight. After her blunder with Jim from IT (who turned out to be not only gay, but also a criminal) she consulted her friend Jasper, another gay man. “How can you tell?”

Asking this, she wasn’t thinking about Sherlock, or even Jim. What she was wondering about was John, who sometimes looked at Sherlock as if he’d hung the moon, but still dated ridiculous women. 

Of course men have different taste in women, just as women prefer certain types of men. She was attracted to men like Sherlock— tall, pale, Byronic hair, blindingly intelligent. Men who entered rooms with a swirl, who spoke with voices that made her shiver. They were hard to find, and to expect such a man also to be kind, romantic, and not gay was apparently too much. 

John dated women who were a bit out of reach. Taller women, confident women, the kind who didn’t need the right lipstick to be noticed. The kind who didn’t own three cats and spend the holidays with their ageing mother. These unobtainable women never lasted more than two dates. And he never seemed to mind.

John is not Molly’s type. She appreciates his abilities as a doctor. He has the right manner with Sherlock, a bit snarky, but not mean. He’s not tall, not gracefully slender. He has a temper. He’s blond and a bit sweary, good-looking in an average way, an ordinary bloke who goes out for pints with people like Greg Lestrade and Mike Stamford. 

She’d barely noticed him that day in the lab. He’s a man who doesn’t stand out, who completely disappears in the shadow of a man like Sherlock.

John and she are that awkward thing: friends of friends. He would never introduce her as, my friend, Molly. It would be Sherlock’s friend, Molly. If he asked a favour of her, she would do it because Sherlock would appreciate it, not because she feels any obligation to John.

She doesn’t hate him, or wish anything bad on him. She might have felt jealous for a few days, simply because Sherlock never forgets John the way he forgets about her the minute she’s out of his sight. 

She noticed him watching John, usually when he wasn’t looking. He looked sad. And she thought, I know what that feels like.

The memory of that look weighs on her, weeks after Sherlock’s funeral. A hard day, that was, sitting in a pew trying to fake sadness as she watched others grieve.

As she watched John grieve. 

What does it mean that John Watson looks like he’s lost everything? She sees him at the hospital sometimes, his hooded gaze avoiding the eyes of others, his psychosomatic limp making him wince with pain. 

She can’t say what it is that tells her. Maybe she’s just practiced for so long on other men that she’s developed a sixth sense about it. 

John loved Sherlock— not just as a friend. And he’s probably just now realising that. She supposes that quite a few men dismiss those feelings of attraction. Jasper says, all men are gay, potentially. It’s just easier to stay in the closet.

There are various reasons for that, and she doesn’t want to speculate what John’s are, but she observes his grief, and knows regret is a large part of that. 

Sherlock will be back, someday. He wasn’t very clear about when. Six months, maybe a year. But she thinks he’s being optimistic; he wants to come home to John, not leave him to grieve for years. 

And by the time he does make it back, John will have found another woman. Blonde and pretty. Nothing like the dark beauties he used to date. But still, clever like Sherlock, a bit imperious and demanding. He will look at her the way Sherlock always looked at him, when he didn’t notice. 

She could tell him. There’s only her promise to stop her from doing that. Could John keep the secret? Sherlock told her not knowing will keep him alive, that knowing would put him in danger.

She’s not in danger. Nobody thinks she mattered that much to Sherlock. Her feigned grief is taken as real, but everybody knows she’ll get over it. Just a crush.

As for John Watson, this might just kill him. 

That’s a problem she could solve. 

[c-u-c-koo-4-40k]

Future Inlaws?

Next in the Severe Miscalculation storyline!

Previous Chapter Here:

Next Chapter Here: coming hopefully soon.

Edit! This Here!

For the madness that started it all click here!

Summary: We see some more of Khopesh's...family for lack of a better term. Another short interlude.

Warning: Swears! Other than that not many Karlsor makes a groaning statement about shoving an icepick in his brain. I guess that counts.

Tags: @kit-williams (Who let me use Anrir so Thank You!) @gallifreyianrosearkytiorsusan (Who let me use their sweary lad Karlsor, Thank you!)

@bleedingichorhearts @bispecsual @egrets-not-regrets @passionofthesith @sleepyfan-blog @barn-anon

Scrtch scrtch scrtch scratch. The gentle sounds of a stylis on paper filled the dimly lit chamber with one sole inhabitant.

An ancient a terrifying being, with both wit and knowledge that spanned centuries, millenia even.

The Terran born Nightlord known as Anrir reviewed and continued to bonder over his notations. Some where simple paperwork relating to his position as Apothercary, others were more...personal pursuits.

The Nature of Warp Bonds and Their Affects

The top of the page read. Sprawling throughout the documents were testimonies, graphs, data and hypothesese about the strange phenomenon known as bonding.

Even before Anrir had achieved his own bond he'd been endlessly Fascinated with the concept. In a manner he saw it as the main driving force between All interactions that occurred in this bizarre version of Terra's timeline they'd been sent to.

Without bonds, the more...vicious of their brother cousins would have likely converted at least half the native population into bloody pulp for the Skull Throne.

With them, as well as the lack of resources making sustained conflict untenable, the foundation for the greater alliance was made.

And their Appearance. Anrir could not see it himself, but the Librarians and Psychers he had collaborated with told him they often took the appearance of plants and flora. The exact type varied heavily depending on the relationship in question.

Anrir hypothesized the continuity might be due to their minds visualizing the unseeable. A bizarre form of paradolia that gave form to the formless. He continued to review his latest additions to his notes-

CrrrAsh! "Mother fucker I Swea..."

Thud! "...have to Run faster than tha..."

Until a pair of Very Recognizable voices faded in and out of the background as they ran, interrupted his writing.

Anrir sighed, placing his stylus down....next to a cracked picture frame from the Last Time this happened.

The stomping footsteps became louder again. He turned, briefly calculating the distance in his mind.

Thump thump thump thump Thump!

Anrir casually flexed the unmarred digits of his right hand before-

"If I didn't know any better I'd day you're gettin slower Karlsi-EeK!"

Snatch! One Charmingly Taxing Nightlord scout scruffed in his hold. While more frantic (or perhaps furious) footsteps approached.

Thump,thump,thump,thump,thump,thump,thump!

"Mother fucker I'm gonna kill you! I'm gonna fucking kill- Fuck..."

Anrir turned his eyes to his Claw's librarian, Karlsor, who'd stopped a few paces away.

"N-now Anrir, we didn't fuckin break anyth-Hurk!"

Two, two little Charmingly-Taxing-Nightlords scruffed.

"What...have I told you two?" Anrir asked, his voice firm yet controlled. "About Running near my Research?"

"Dont fuckin do it?" "Don't?" They said in unison.

"And...What, were you just doing?" He posed further.

"That," "Yeah, but he fuckin Started it!"

"You left the glasses unattended! You're lucky Ghosk didn't decide to snatch em!"

"They're My Sun goggles and How Fuckin Dare You!"

As the two younger Nightlords started bickering back and forth Anrir took a deep steadying breath and gently, but firmly... Knocked their skulls together.

Clack!

"Owwww!" "Fuckin hell that stings!"

"Now..." Anrir began. "Are we ready to discuss things properly?"

"Yes..." "Fine! fuck..."

"Khopesh...return Karlsor's glasses." Anrir commanded.

"Fine." Khopesh grumbled, more at his fun ending than Actually having to give the shades back.

"Hrmph!" Karlsor snatched them back with a growl, before placing them back on his face.

"And What do we say, when we have done something Wrong?"

"...I am sorry for taking your sun glasses." Khopesh aquiesed reluctantly.

"Hmph! Damn right you're sorry!"

"Karlsor..."

"And I accept your apology." Karlsor added quickly.

"Good." Anrir released the youngsters from their scruffing.

Khopesh rubbed the back of his neck. "You gotta Know you don't even Need them in this part of the base, riiiiight Karlsy?" Khopesh teased, gesturing to the Very dim surroundings which were custom suited to the Nightlords dark adapted eyes.

"Don't fuckin call me that ya whelp! And so fuckin what! They're My Shades and I'll wear them where I damn well please!" Karlsor snarled, before turning to stomp away.

"You're going to run into things again if you do that." Khopesh pointed out.

"The fuck I-WoAhAAH!" CRASH! The impact of the armored Nightlord hitting the wall rattled the room. On the worktable the picture frame once again fell over.

Unluckily as Khopesh predicted, Karlsor indeed did run into something. Or rather tripped. Whether that was do to wearing shades in a dark room or him being too mad to notice his surroundings was up for debate.

The grouchy librarian righted himself, before turning back to Khopesh with a seething look. "Not - one - word."

Khopesh smiled. "Okay. I'll just laugh then! BWAHAHAAHAHAHAHAA!"

"You're a FUCKIN DEAD FUCK I SWEAR!"

"ENOUGH!"

Oh shit. Both the younger Nightlords flinched as they remembered exactly Who they were squabbling near.

"Sorry Anrir." "Sorry." They replied hurriedly quieting their tones. The older Nightlord had his back turned, simply righting the framed photo from where it had fallen.

Thankfully, not Off the desk this time. Anrir took a moment to examine it, as he often did throughout the day.

No New cracks, thankfully. But the large one down the middle...no that truly wouldn't do. He did not Enjoy how it stretched between him and his Kitty.

He'd find a new sheet of plastic or glass. He'd prefer to keep the frame. Cutesy and childish as a lesser man would have considered it with its numeral stickers and pom poms and finger paint, courtesy of his darling participating in one of her daycare charges' crafting activities.

Anrir placed the frame back down with careful reverence, before turning back to his Sons.

"Let us but the matter Behind us, shall we?" He questioned. Though there was no room for debate in his tone. "Onto more Important things. Khopesh, you mentioned an announcement over your vox?"

The mood shifted with the change of subject almost immediately. The long haired Nightlord began bouncing in place, practically vibrating.

"Yes yes yes! I have someone Very special to introduce to all of you And! A new Hunt for us to plan!"

Well now That did intrigue Anrir. Khopesh could be very eager to go on Hunts (some would even say too eager). But far be it from Anrir to stifle something that made his son truly happy And generally made the world a safer place.

"You mention these two things at once...are they related?" Anrir questioned.

"If they are it's not much of a hunt if you Bring the fucker to us, dumbass." Karlsor snubbed a bit. Still a bit grouchy about the glasses...and grouchy in general.

"NO!" Khopesh snarled, barring his full teeth to his battle brother.

Karlsor's frustration was replaced with shock. This display wasn't the most frightening he'd seen, but he was stunned to see it come out of Khopesh, at Him.

Given the stunned silence Khopesh seemed to realize he over reacted. "I mean, No no no no No...well Yes technically." Khopesh corrected quickly. "They are not the one to be hunted! They are the one who was Harmed by the one we are going to be hunting. And they'll be here soon! I Just Know you'll Love Them!" Khopesh went from frantic correction to...cooing like a lovesick Lamenter??

"I see..." Anrir paused. "And...may I assume that this person is...Special to you?"

"Very much so! They are my sweet Lullaby! And we'll be sharing our first meal together tonight!" Khopesh said excitedly, quickly pulling up his vox messages and other saved photos. "I want them to meet all of you and your bonded's eventually! I think they'd fit in very well here. See?"

Khopesh showed off a few picts. One was of his Lullaby riding in horse competition. Another was them helping a young child learn to ride a horse. The picts and videos were a selection Khopesh had found from their mother's business' noosphere media.

Originally he'd obtained them as part of his investigation into Lullaby as a person, when he'd first met them. Now he simply kept his favorites, and to have something to show his Claw for reference.

"Rabbit and them both compete in sports, And they have experience in childcare and teaching from their family business like Kitty!" Khopesh explained. "And they're so sweet I'm sure Claude will find them very calming, once he gets past his usual shyness and then-"

Anrir's focus trailed off, but not for lack of interest! One of his sons had found a partner, And yes he Knew it was a partner; the smell he'd walked on base with, the 'glowing' and 'bouncing' energy he seemed filled with, and the presence of the bruising marks known as 'hickies' were enough to tell him that much.

He apparently Really liked and was looking forward to spending time with them. And Anrir would support Khopesh in this endeavor whole heartedly, bond involved or not. Anrir was many things but he was Not an Absent Parent.

No...it was because something about those photos-

Shwoop!

Khopesh's vox pings and a notification pops up covering the screen.

Lullaby: Hey I've arrived...I think? But I'm not sure where to go. Also I'm not sure they'll just let me in?

"Oh whoops! One moment." Khopesh shoots a vox message back.

Khopesh Thing That goes Prank in the Night: You should be able to enter the main lobby as it is open to the public. Wait for me there please! I want to introduce you to my brothers! I'm so excited for you to meet them.

Lullaby: Oh okay...how many am I meeting?

Khopesh: Just the ones in my claw that are here now. Don't worry they're gonna Love You! ;3

Lullaby: Including the one you made angry enough to chase you?? You suuuuure he'll like me? 🤔🤭

Khopesh smiled as he typed his next reply.

Khopesh: I'm Certain of it. He'll probably like how mouthy and sassy you are!

He stopped but then added...

But he can't have you of course! You're mine.

Lullaby: pfft! You've pissed him off that much huh? Well either way I'm making my way into the main lobby. The building is so Biiiiiig. I'm not used to this kinda space.

A photo came in. Showing Lullaby standing next to one of the Astarte sized chairs near the main entrance. It did indeed dwarf them as an average sized human.

"And saved!" Khopesh trilled, doing exactly that with the new photo.

Khopesh: Excellent! I will see you soon!

Anrir and Karlsor watched on with fascination. Well Karlsor was more still stunned to see this range of behavior from his brother.

Anrir, having his own special someone, was more understanding. But Still something itched at his brain.

"I must go greet them now. I will be back soon!" Khopesh stated, turning quickly to leave.

To his credit he did start by walking normally...until his speed picked up and he Launched himself into scrambling running climb throughout the unique architecture of the Nightlord base area.

Again, specially designed for suit their preference for skulking and climbing.

Karlsor stood their bewildered for a moment, before turning to Anrir. "What the Fuck was that about?"

Anrir simply chuckled. "Ah...young love..." He shook his head fondly before returning to his notes. Best sort and put them away for now, after all he'd be greeting a new face soon, best to look Presentable and make a good first impression.

He said much the same to Karlsor. "I'm assuming he'll be bringing his 'Sweet Lullaby' to meet us soon. Best get ready for that."

Karlsor groaned. Baselines were...well they were Frustrating or deal with! They either Weren't scared or were too scared. Sometimes they'd scream way too loud! And worse sometimes they'd giggle and call him...Bleh. Cute.

And Khopesh had apparently found 'someone special'. "If it turns out he's fuckin found someone Just Like Him I'm gonna stab myself with an Ice Pick!"

"I doubt Khopesh could find someone Exactly like himself dear Karlsor." Anrir assured, his desk now clean. He turned back to the Librarian.

"Though...I Must admit I am curious about his... Lullaby." Anrir muttered to himself.

Why couldn't he shake the feeling he was missing something?

"What got you Fuckin stewing suddenly?" Karlsor asked, noting Anrir's change in demeanor.

...

"...Those photos...did you recognize the Baseline in them?"

"...no?? Did you?"

Anrir turned back to Karlsor, his expression was serious. "I'm Certain beyond a shadow of a doubt that I've Never," he emphasized. "Met them before in my Life."

"So why Do I recognize them?"

Next chapter will be Here: (hopefully soon pray for my sanity)

[swearyshera]

Thank you!

This may end up being a long, rambly post because I'm a little emotional. But bear with me.

I am so incredibly thankful for all the love you've sent this week, and it humbles me to realise how much this silly little parody blog meant to people. Thank you for reading, liking, reblogging, commenting, asking, going absolutely unhinged in the tags... I read them all, and they've spurred me to keep going through 32 months, over 5000 posts, 40GB of screenshots and the wildest, most brilliant time of my life.

I'd love to thank people individually, but there's so many of you that I would inevitably miss someone out and that seems unfair! But I will say a special thank you to the She-Ra Uncut team, who I'm proud to consider some of the greatest friends I've made through this fandom, and whether we make many wonderful things, or never make anything again, I hope we can consider each other friends for life.

(Sob story time, feel free to skip!) In 2015, I had a huge breakdown. I was off work for 8 months, in hospital for a week, had therapy twice a week for a year... It was fucking awful. And though I got better, I never really felt like I had a reason to, and that I was just treading water until the darkness came back with vengeance. Then, as She-Ra ended, I made some silly posts that ended up as Etheria Nine-Nine, which led me onto what would become Sweary She-Ra. I had no idea how much this would change my life.

The response to this blog led me to write a script for a She-Ra Uncut trailer, and I loved it. I wrote more and developed a love for the craft, that I wanted to continue. It became a joy, and gave me a dream for the first time I could remember. So I kept writing, I kept learning and improving. In September 2022, I was sat in the Lowry theatre in Salford surrounded by the laughter of an audience watching a play that I wrote. That was the most incredible feeling of my life.

And I wouldn't have had that without thinking "Catra should be allowed to say fuck".

So while, it may be over (and it was pointed out to me that Sweary She-Ra ran for longer than the actual show did!), it's hopefully not the end. I'm very keen to make an audio sequel if I can, maybe several, and I'm not going to disappear into the ether. And hey, I don't know what the future will bring.

But there is a future.

From the bottom of my heart, thank you, everyone.

Alice.

(PS - Hi Crew-Ra, if you're reading this as I maybe suspect one or two of you may be. I am sorry but also not sorry, but also hire me when the strikes are over 😁. Thank you for making She-Ra, I love you!)

[jellybeanium124]

stede is silly so I think you can put flandersisms into his speech quite easily, the trick is he shouldn't be swearing less than ed. I've read fic before where ed and izzy are swearing such a ridiculous amount it's stupid and stede isn't swearing at all. nobody on this show is particularly sweary more or less than others. sure, izzy says "twat" more than everyone else, but like your fucks and shits are not concentrated to any one character. and like we all know there's underlying reasons to why this has happened.

[half-an-hour-hence]

Some random headcanons for the ghosts if they were alive today (part 2)

THOMAS

Is a self-published, fairly unsuccessful author, so he also works in a supermarket. Never ask him how he is when he’s on the checkout. He will go on for several minutes and will have a breakdown if you try to leave before he’s finished talking.

Thomas very proudly runs a Lord Byron hate account on Twitter, which has two followers (one is Pat because he felt sorry for him, and the other is his own personal account).

He is addicted to collecting vinyls. He spends the majority of the money he earns on records at both independent stores and HMV. It gets so bad sometimes that his younger sister has to lend him money to pay his bills.

Despite him having (almost) every dating app ever made on his phone, he’s remained painfully single for the vast majority of his life. However, he met a woman called Isabelle about a week ago and he’s convinced that she’s the one (they’ve spoken once)

JULIAN

He’s still an MP, and he DID have a heart attack, however the paramedics were able to resuscitate him. Now he’s slightly more bearable, and has been spending a lot more time with his wife and child. He still has the occasional fling and he isn’t exactly a saint in parliament, but Julian’ll tell you that improvement is a slow process.

He and Robin have a weekly chess competition on Sundays, during which they play as many games as possible before the football starts at 4:30pm (Julian loses every week).

He’s permanently banned from both Disneyland AND his local Waitrose (don’t ask)

Julian will prank anyone he associates with. He’ll turn up at the museum the Captain works at just to touch the things behind the ‘don’t touch’ signs. He changes the directions on Pat’s satnav when he’s taking the scouts out of town. He’ll write a sweary speech about the Opposition on Mary’s drawing (she’ll sell it anyway). He swears he’ll stop but he never will.

FANNY

Although she doesn’t need to work because she inherited a LOT of money from her parents, she works at the same university as Robin as a professor of mathematics. Her lectures are fairly boring and most students aren’t overly fond of her, however she’s very proud of herself for doing something she actually enjoys and proving her father wrong.

She likes to go on walks in the country with the Captain and her dog, Dante. James and Fanny are the most unlikely of friends, but they both find it easy to be their authentic selves around each other.

Fanny owns a kindle, on which she reads smutty novels without any sort of plot whatsoever. She enjoys reading them before bed, while snacking on a cheeky chocolate bar.

One of her hobbies is doing the family tree. After she discovered she had a distant relative called Alison, she hesitantly got in contact with her. Now she comes over frequently with her husband Mike. They have tea and make small talk. Although Fanny finds it hard to understand Alison’s generation, she is slowly warming up to her and is beginning to think of her as family.

[omgshiftercat]

BG3 Blogging: Karlach on the Beach

I had to replay a lot of this campaign twice: once after having realized I'd missed the tiefling party (and all the important character interaction therein), and later because of the huge Patch 7 update making old mods unusable.

But hey, more replay means more details to observe.

Stuff I noticed upon deciding not to skip the opening cinematic: the very first thing we see is an engraving of a huge brain, with an illithid standing in front of it in an authoritative pose, and a lot of humanoids bowing before it. I don't think this mural is actually on the nautiloid ship, though: you can find it in the illithid colony under Moonrise Towers.

One of the rune slates you can pick up on the nautiloid ship mentions an individual not connected to the overmind, and advises caution.

Also, one of the victims on board the ship is wearing what we later find out to be an amulet of the Absolute.

I'm not sure how randomized the book drops are, but while going through the "starter dungeon" near the beach this time I got, like, six copies each of The Curse of the Vampyr, The Unclaimed (about a Sharran who sacrificed her entire mind to her goddess and got nothing for it), and that one with short interviews about Bhaalspawn (a hint about the Dark Urge, and also telling a bit of the story of BG2).

I get it, Withers, you're dropping hints about some of the companions.

Even before I got the mod to show Origin-specific dialogue, you can often tell which options are Karlach's because of how sweary they are. Which... relatable.

As I mentioned, I did a lot of rambling on Discord about this game. I'll be indicating my friends' input with animal emoji.

Me: The Infernal script on Karlach's horn reads: "My champion, the Demonsbane. My blood is her strength."

🐇: The other horn says, "Property of Zariel. If found, please return to #3 Zariel Way, Avernus, Hell." Me: Thankfully, that's the horn that got broken off.

Apparently the default subclass for Karlach is Wildheart, but that doesn't make much sense to me. "your powers come from your strong bond with nature"? She's a city girl who became the Fury of Avernus. Where's the nature? Previously I went the Wild Magic route, but didn't find it all that useful. (Protective Lights? Great! Vines that entangle everyone but her? Less great.) This time I went with Berserker, so she can knock people down by hurling random items at them.

This means I'm mostly relying on Wyll to hear the animal dialogue, but 🤷‍♀️. Me: ...Ok, now I want someone to do a video of Karlach yelling "SPOOOOOOOOON!" like the Tick before she yeets a spoon at someone. 🐍: Which spoon? Is it the eyeball spoon? Me: BG3 does not have eyeball spoons! It has eyeball knitting needles!

[sir-libearian]

Ian Lefebvre and Izzy Hands parallels

Ian Lefebvre is a single Episode character played by Con O'neill in the show, "Pie in the Sky" 1995. Like ofmd, this show is theoretically a light-hearted comedy, but Con's character doesn't really experience it as such, and I'm forever losing my mind about it. But since Ian is a pretty much unknown character there’s no one to scream with.

In Brief, Ian is a British police officer who was shot, paralyzing both his legs. He was kept on the force mainly as a “diversity” hire/ for the look of the thing, while being unwanted and resented. He has a lot of anger about the situation and the ableism he faced, but is treated by the narrative as being in the “wrong” for that anger. 

So, Izzy & Ian parallels that make me emotional:

Internalized and externalized ableism

Fears (correctly, in Ian’s case) that their jobs just kept them on out of pity/guilt. “But I can hardly show him the door. He hangs around here like an uninvited guest at a wedding.” 

Alcoholism / bad coping / self medicating

Told by the narrative that they need to move on/ forgive what was done to them, that it’s their anger hurting them, etc.

Queer subtext. “Statistically speaking we should have at least one homosexual, though we don’t know who he is.” (meaningful look up and down) “Yet.” 

Angry sweary bastard (affectionate) 

Chronic pain

People trying to push his chair around, open doors for him, etc. Portrayed as wrong or irrational for declining and being angry when it keeps happening. 

brusk/ rude at first meeting. 

“I don’t think there’s any great mystery about Lefebvre seeming tense sir.” The man who shot him getting out of prison this week. 

Nightmares reliving being shot, trauma. 

Other characters treat being asked to work with him as an unpleasant inconvenience. 

Terrible failure at flirting

Suicidal Ideation. “If you keep on drinking and taking painkillers at the same time you will, eventually, kill yourself.” “Good.” 

“I didn’t choose this fate, it chose me. Anyway it’s not so much the length of it, it’s the depth. It’s not so much how long I live, but what I feel when I’m alive. (the pain.) Maybe this is true of us all, but circumstances rather shoved it in my face.” 

“He’s got to let people in. If you do anything for him he immediately throws it right back in your face.” 

“If he’d just let it go.”

“Is that your devil?” “He took away my legs.” … “You’ve got to forget about him.” “Forget?” “In as much as you can, yes. Put him out of your mind.” 

[charliespringverse]

i've touched on this before but like . i really do think rowan's feelings get accidentally overlooked by readers that ,,, Aren't a bit obsessed and rereading for the nth time

and it's understandable because the version we primarily get of rowan is fereshteh's warped fanon & jimmy's longtime best friend mental illness riddled descriptions . and Because jimmy is unwell he almost idolises rowan in a way that holds him up as a pillar of stability and permanence — which is what jimmy needs and it's not a wholly negative thing, but he also inadvertently fails to accept any evidence to the contrary

whereas with lister we Learn a lot because jimmy is learning a lot — through deeper-than-usual conversations or blatant cries for help or very revealing behaviours — we don't get to discover anything new about rowan, and so when he's kinda mean or angry or distrusting it's easy to misinterpret that as him being deliberately and needlessly nasty

but if you stop looking at him through jimmy's lens, that boy has had an absolute bastard of a week . the jowan photo leak affects him as much as jimmy (arguably more so, because all the while he's dating bliss, jowan is an Active Lie rather than just an untruth), he's dealing with the same contract stress, his secret relationship has been exposed to the world, his girlfriend is ignoring him at a really difficult time, he's watching his two closest friends fall apart, he's learning that he really doesn't know one of them very well at all, his best friend is missing, the other is definitely an alcoholic making no moves to resolve that, his girlfriend has dumped him, he feels like they (and bliss) are being stalked by a member of a group he already feels like he isn't safe around, he feels like he's losing the two people closest to him

and all this time he's considering himself wholly and singlehandedly responsible for fixing all of this, feeling he has to hold himself and the world together . there's no real safe space for him to unload any of this because the three people he's closest to are either dumping him or going off the rails, and the only way he's ever known how to make himself comfortable is to have complete control over a situation, which just Is Not available to him here

it's not the fault of jimmy's narration that we never get to truly sit with the extent of what's going on with rowan, and in fact it really Really adds to the themes of being unable to truly know somebody and personal perception destroying objective truth

but GOD it breaks my heart to see people say they don't care for rowan, or don't like him, because he's snappy and sweary and short with people . because that's such a natural response to having that much shit piled on top of you in under a week AND losing your only coping mechanism (in this case, taking the weight of everything and moulding it into something tangible and possible to hold)

anyway. i am a rowan omondi stan first and a human being second and WOW rowan needs therapy and jimmy needs to stop idealising him

[sonjalikestodraw]

Heehee sweary gamer rage boy funny, lemme just *trips over the Thorn chapter and falls in love with Cheated*

Design notes:

Based on a street pigeon; pigeons were once domesticated and "cheated" by humanity.

As a part of Slayer's psyche, represents Anger Born of Worry + Sense of Justice/Fairness

Razor shredded his outfit :(

Let's do some fashion crimes! He's in White Tie casino attire. Gambling theming fits his risktaker mindset, while the formal wear is symbol for how he's a stickler for the rules and hates random bullshit.

BUT he wears a (gasp) Black Tie-style blood-red cummerbund. Because I like cummerbunds. It represents getting stabbed in the gut in chapter 1.

Wherever Slayer gets chopped, Cheated gets scarred. Notably in-game our knife hand gets lopped off so that one scar is always there, along with our throat getting slit. (He'll take it for Slayer's sake, but he's gonna complain about it the whole time)

If he hasn't met Razor or Nightmare, like in other Chapter 3 routes, the cummerbund is white and his outfit is intact. "Fuck off Opportunist, I'm getting Thorn outta here!"

Fun fact: he's a trans dude ~

Like Oppy, he's in modern clothing instead of vaguely medieval/ren faire like the rest, because of how he talks like a gamer trying to exploit mechanics.

Barefoot to match Razor.

Has Hot-blooded Sideburns.

The dyed sidecut is a reference to various let's players, and also just looks nice. I think it suits him to have a punk hairstyle that he can meticulously maintain, yet claw at and mess with when he's frustrated (which is... all the time).

You'd best believe that when he gives Razor The Look, he pushes back his hair :P

[kalcifers-blog]

Thinking about Generation Loss and thought about how cool it would have been if Jacksepticeye was in it? SO HERE HAVE GL!JSE

The idea is that while "Jack" is under Showfalls control- he's basically the version of himself that got his chanel extremely popular (think 2015-2018 era) with the green hair and "Loud Sweary Irishman" was his whole brand- how it looks like he has heterochromia until the mask is turned off and we actually see that his eye has been removed entirely to fit in a mind control esc device into his skull.

I also think that "Jack" has been at this for a very long time- and he's played many different roles (Similar to GL!Slime/Charlie) and those roles being each of The Egos- making him have so many different roles and names that he doesn't remember his actual name, he just knows that it isn't the one that he was given by Showfall.

I feel like he'd act mostly as an ally to Ranboo in a similar way to how Sneeg did- but was more interested into figuring out who they actually where before Showfall over actually escaping- probably being the first to ask everyone as to how much they actually remember outside of Showfall Media.

ANYWAY. Let me know if I should make more of other YouTubers in Generation Loss!!

[luciledrakkhen]

TCM talking... my theory

Everyone in the last few days since ep72 full dropped have been theorising that the astro arm made him talk cause he had no way of talking etc. Ive also seen other theories that the Techfolk can talk but in their own language etc..

My theory? Yeah the Techfolk do talk to each other but with something akin to a comms system so on the outside they're silent BUT the Titans (and Poly/TV units) can talk out loud to harass/insult the Skibidi like TTVM/Poly does. Before he got trashed, TCM had 2 small box like things, 1 on either side of his main lens, in e72 one is missing, to me they look like speakers.

And yes i know the speaker faction could theoretically talk in this scenario but in my head, like TSM when he flew past TTVM screaming at GMan in e72... the other speakers prefer screeching at their foes.

So, in short, Cams prefer silence when fighting, Speakers like screeching and TV's just love to throw out sweary insults.

*goes back to fic writing while looking at pics of Poly....*

[justforbooks]

All My Precious Madness by Mark Bowles

This keenly observed debut brilliantly captures the internal monologue of a misanthrope, in a portrait of intellectual melancholia

Henry, the middle-aged narrator of Mark Bowles’s debut novel, is ensconced in a Soho cafe, trying to write a memoir about his late father. To his considerable irritation, a digital entrepreneur at a nearby table is prattling loudly into his phone about his startup and his recent travels in the far east, while deploying inordinate amounts of business speak. (When he begins one sentence with “As per yourself,” we can place the type exactly.) Distracted from his task, Henry’s mind wanders, brooding on, among other things, mass tourism in the Instagram age (“The flattening of the world to wallpaper for the grinning head”), the marketisation of education and the perniciousness of corporate jargon. We remain inside his head for most of the next 200-odd pages, intermittently checking back in with the voluble tech bro, who embodies everything Henry hates about the 21st century; his animus builds to almost psychotic proportions as the novel progresses.

The sociological ruminations soon give way to a personal narrative. We learn that Henry hails from Bradford, attended Oxford University and, after a decade in a soul-crushing telesales job, completed a philosophy doctorate to become an academic. A self-styled autodidact, he once resolved to learn about the great composers by listening to them in alphabetical order. (“I did not get very far … today I listen almost exclusively to Bach, Bartók and Beethoven”.) Because of his working-class background, he suffered from impostor syndrome; his assimilation into academia was “a trajectory of imitation and rebuff, of overzealous imitation compensating for prior exclusion”. There is indeed a hint of affectation in the narrator’s slightly mannered prose style: he is fond of “whilst” and “wherein”, and prone to the occasional throwback sentence structure (“I … opened ever so gently the window”). Fully conscious of this, he quips: “I wore my learning, such as it was, like a trench coat on a summer’s day.”

Henry’s humour, oscillating between candid self-deprecation and sardonic misanthropy, keeps the reader on side. At various points, his meandering consciousness revels in the nuances of language: he muses on posh people’s fondness for the word “copious”, the paradoxical ugliness of “pulchritude” and the inherently sad timbre of the Brummie accent, “wherein one hears only the murmur of diurnal disappointment, and which, defined by bathos and anticlimax, is quintessentially English”. We eventually circle back to Henry’s childhood, via a heart-rending anecdote about a school bully who once forced a fellow pupil to eat faeces. Henry’s father had been an aloof and domineering figure, but in his latter years, “pockets of eccentricity and kindness were opened”, and a tentative camaraderie developed between them: “the two of us, sat side by side, each opened the door of our solitude to the other”.

All My Precious Madness is an astutely observed portrait of intellectual melancholia. We tend to associate nostalgia with reactionary politics, but it can, of course, take other forms too: with his blend of sweary, disaffected rage and leftwing idealism, the narrator’s sensibility recalls the US comic Bill Hicks. Henry is down on England and Englishness, which he identifies with parochial conservatism, and romanticises Paris and Rome. For him, the humble espresso symbolises a world of possibility. “There is,” he declares, “every reason to live in Old Europe at the point of its demise and disappearance, rather than sniffing after the Zeitgeist, which is made of cables and clouds, brands and fragile exoskeletons amalgamated from images.”

It’s hard to disentangle these somewhat sweeping sentiments from the narrator’s class-based ennui. Henry’s fetishistic passion for “Old Europe” originates in his yearning to transcend the cultural horizons of his upbringing in the monochrome landscape of 1980s England. Seen in this light, his chuntering fixation on the tech bro – and the vulgar, Thatcherite aspiration he represents – feels like a projection. Perhaps the charmless bore who blathers on about his frolics in the global south isn’t really all that different from the intellectual bon vivant, who is no less of a tourist just because he knows his Sartre from his Lacan. They may inhabit very different moral and aesthetic realms, but they have in common a restless drive: to reinvent themselves, to evolve and escape – by whatever means necessary.

Daily inspiration. Discover more photos at Just for Books…?

[itssotragic]

Rhea/Dom/Damian/JD + “you don’t need to earn my affection, not now and not ever.”

pleassseeee 🥹

Rated: T Tags: Insecurity, love confession (sort of), slight allusion to OCD, polyamory, some sweary words.

Prompt List

JD sat alone in the locker room, his hoodie and sweatpants were thrown on over his gear to ward off the chill of the cavernous backstage halls, his fingers tracing carefully over a silver bracelet. It had become a habit over the past few days. Whenever he felt like he was spiraling into another pit of doubt and uncertainty, he'd fish it out of his bag and slip it on, the metal biting briefly into his skin before clipping into place. However small it was, it sat heavy with the weight of meaning—a reminder that, for the first time in a long time, he wasn't doing this alone. And maybe that was what made it feel so daunting.

He'd never been good at gestures. Words came easily enough, most of the time, but when it came to more tangible efforts, he felt like he was trying to decipher a riddle in a language that had been dead for a thousand years. But for something so big that meant so much to all of them, he couldn't help but feel like he needed to do something in return.

But nothing he could think of felt like enough.

Which was why he was hiding in a dimly lit side room while Rhea finished up with press. Usually, he'd be lurking a few feet away, next to Dom, but tonight he'd hung back under the guise of having a headache. It wasn't an outright lie, but he was fairly certain the pain at the back of his skull was less from his head bouncing off the mat earlier and more from the thin shard of stress that had buried itself there. Now, he could hear the rumble of equipment trolleys loading onto trucks and the faint buzz of conversation and laughter shifting through the halls, fading off into the distance, and whatever time he'd been afforded to settle his mind had already elapsed.

He hefted his bag off the bench beside him and yanked the tie out of his hair, stuffing it absent-mindedly into his pocket as he lurched into the hallway. His footsteps echoed faintly off the cement and cinder block, growing slightly more muffled as he rounded into the staging area and towards where the others had gathered, giving a brief nod of acknowledgment as Dom glanced over his shoulder.

There was something in the way Dom smiled at him—the effortless, bright, beaming smile—that made him forget a little bit of that stress. But Dom was easy; it was the other two that left him feeling apprehensive sometimes. Not that they had ever done anything to cause that worry, but he was hyper-aware of the fact that he was a brand new variable being introduced into a situation that had existed, so finely balanced, for over a year. It was going to take time to rid himself of the fear that one wrong move would send him plummeting off the metaphorical scaffolding onto the ground below. Most of the time, he was fine. It didn't sit with him constantly. But once in a while, that shard, that splinter of thought, dug right into the center of his brain and refused to budge, no matter how much logic and reason he tried to apply to force it out.

He slumped against Dom's side, catching the tail end of their conversation. Damian said something in Spanish he only caught half of, and Dom chuckled, wrapping an arm around his waist like it was the most natural thing in the world for him to do.

"We good?" Damian asked, turning his attention to JD. There was something in his expression that was a little softer than usual—a quiet sort of concern he knew not to question. He had an uncanny ability to read people, and it made him wonder if he hadn't already noticed that something was off, or if he might still be able to play it off with the same excuse he'd been using most of the night.

"More or less," he shrugged. "I'm not concussed if that's what you're worried about."

"You checked out?" Damian folded his arms across his chest, attention flitting away for half a second as Rhea grabbed her sweatshirt off the top of her bag and yanked it on over her head.

"Yeah, I stopped by medical after my match. They said I'm fine."

Damian nodded, satisfied enough for now, though it wasn't like they were going to have a conversation about anything more involved than that in the middle of everything. "Alright," he said, "let's roll, then. You guys want to grab something to eat on the way?"

"Always," Dom answered, giving JD one more squeeze before he pulled away, falling in line next to Rhea with a playful bump of his shoulder against hers and the same wide, adoring grin he always had for her.

They made their way out through the arena towards the parking garage, with Damian leading the pack, Rhea and Dom next to each other, and JD trailing just behind. A few people were still milling around, but most had either left already or were on their way out. There were a few nods and waves exchanged on the way—brief passing conversations that faded into an echo and then into nothingness. Then the sharp, hollow beep from the rental van's key fob cut through the relative quiet, lights blinking, and the click of the doors unlocking carried across the nearly empty lot.

"Why don't you sit up front?" Damian said, thumping JD on the shoulder with one hand as he threw his duffel bag on top of everyone else's and slammed the hatch closed.

His eyebrows raised slightly, and he shrugged. "You sure?"

"Yeah. Make the kids sit in the back."

Normally he was one of the kids, but with Finn still on holiday, he assumed he was technically the next in line. No one seemed to mind, or at least not enough to argue about it, so JD slid into the passenger's seat and dragged the seatbelt over his shoulder, clicking it into place before Damian even got the door closed on the other side. He kept his hands pinned between his knees, palms together, watching Damian plug his phone into the aux cord and tick the volume down a few levels. The heat whirred on, and a few clicks later, the seats and steering wheel were warming up as well.

Damian tipped his head back against the headrest, glancing into the rearview mirror. "You want to find somewhere to eat, and I'll punch it into the GPS before we take off?"

Rhea murmured a quick "Yep" and slung herself across the back seat, draped over Dom's lap so he could look at her phone with her while she scrolled through all the restaurants and drive-thrus between here and their hotel. It was a process. Checking hours, checking menus, checking to see how far off their route it was going to take them to get there, and whether there were carry-out options or if they felt up to crowding into a booth. Then, inevitably, they repeated the cycle three or four more times until they found something that had everything they wanted.

But at least the van was warm.

JD settled back in his seat and stretched his legs out, shoving his toes to the end of his sneakers and hooking them under the dashboard to soak up heat from the base vents. Damian thrummed his fingers against the steering wheel, mostly in tempo with the song humming out of the speakers, but there was a stutter to it—something thoughtful, half a beat behind the rest. When, after a few long seconds, he finally dredged up the courage to look over, he found Damian staring straight through him. Disconcertingly precise and deliberate.

"What?" he frowned, holding Damian's gaze even as a flush crept into his cheeks.

Damian shifted, angled himself towards JD, and rested his elbow against the door, his hand still draped over the spoke of the steering wheel. "I'm still wondering what's up with you tonight."

He heaved a sigh and reached up to shove his hair out of his face. "Nothing, really—"

"Bullshit."

"—it's just…" Another sigh, this time more frustrated. He could feel the impulse to answer honestly, but he didn't know why he was fighting it as hard as he was, or why he kept looking for an excuse to cast the truth into the abyss again. He dragged his lower lip through his teeth and thumped his head back against the headrest, eyes closed, that shard shifting a little deeper.

"Look, I don't..." he started again. "I don't know how to do this shit, alright? I'm bad at it; I'm genuinely bad at it." He gestured vaguely with both hands, trying to summon something more than just panic and insecurity from thin air. "The only person I've ever felt right with was Finn, and he's always been here, so we just sort of figured it out together. But now there's you three, and I feel—I'm starting to feel—the same way, and I don't know how to... show that, how to break even. I don't know what I'm doing, and I don't want to be the piece that makes this all fall apart."

It was a hell of a lot more than he'd planned on saying, but once he started, he couldn't stop the words from pouring out of him. By the time he'd caught his breath and lowered his hand from where it was clutching the neckline of his hoodie, Rhea had leaned forward into the space between the seats, her hand resting on his upper arm. Damian reached out too, fingers encircling JD's wrist as his thumb brushed softly over the face of the bracelet—a gesture that carried more than enough intent for him to understand.

"Maybe part of your problem is feeling like you have to break even in the first place," Damian said, his voice softer and gentler now, though it still rang with a tone that suggested this should have been obvious. "It's not about keeping score; you don't have to do anything to earn our affection—not now, not ever. It's there; you've got it." He tapped the bracelet with his thumb, then slid his hand around to trace JD's wrist with his fingertips. "And we're all still figuring it out. Trust me, it was bumpy in a few places when this all started; it still is sometimes. But that's just how things are. If you want it badly enough, you work through it."

JD hesitated for a moment, then slowly turned his hand over, palm-up, watching with a spark of amazement as Damian laced their fingers together and squeezed. It was such a simple gesture—so small, so ordinary—but it carried a weight of its own. It was the first time they'd ever done that, and yet it felt familiar already—the weight of his palm, the calluses on his fingertips. He drew in a slow breath and nodded, then turned his gaze back up towards Damian's face.

He wasn't sure what it was that Damian saw there, but he almost immediately pulled back, flipped the center console up, and reached out to place his hand on the back of JD's neck, dragging him forward with a soft "Goddammit, c'mere, kid." It was awkward; the seatbelt bit into the side of his neck, but he didn't care. His arms slid around Damian's torso, hands clutched in the back of his jacket, and his face buried against his shoulder. His breath shuddered softly, muffled by leather and solid flesh.

"If you need a place to start," Damian said, almost in a whisper, though he was sure both Rhea and Dom could hear it from the back, "start by telling us what you need, when you need it. Don't let it get this bad. We've all got you, and we've all got each other. That's how it works."

"Okay," JD murmured.

Damian pulled back, his hand at JD's jaw, and his head tipped down just enough to look him in the eyes under the veil of errant curls. "Familia, yeah?"

"Yeah."

"And," Rhea added, thrumming her fingers softly against his shoulder, "if you ever feel like you're getting in your own way, come talk to one of us."

"Or all of us," Dom said.

"Or all of us," Rhea agreed.

He nodded and scrubbed hastily at his cheek with the cuff of his sleeve as he sank back in his seat. Anything he might have said was caught behind a lump in his throat, but that sharp prickle of anxiety had vanished from the back of his mind, leaving behind little more than a faint buzz of residual nerves and a warmth he was fairly certain had nothing to do with the heating vents. Damian twisted back into his seat, and Rhea gave his shoulder a quick squeeze before she fell back against Dom, who wrapped his arm around her waist and peered over her shoulder at her phone again.

There was a lull, a trickle of silence. JD sniffed. Damian cleared his throat.

"So are we getting food, or what?" Damian asked.

"If you two would shut the fuck up for ten seconds, I'd have told you that we found a place." Rhea rolled her eyes, overdramatic, but handed her phone over, so Damian could enter the address into the on-screen navigation.

He passed the phone back over his shoulder to her when he was done, shifted the van into gear, and started the winding journey out of the garage. The glitter of streetlamps was a lot more pleasant than the waxy yellow lights and dingy cement, and JD let himself relax a little against the window, keeping the three of them in his peripheral. It wasn't until they stopped at a red light that he felt Damian's hand slide over the armrest, fingers splayed and his palm resting upward. He looked up, meeting Damian's gaze with a smile as he tangled their fingers together again.