#i posted something like this before but it was ugly SO

[sgiandubh]

Security or minder?

Of course, the Disgruntled Tumblrettes across the street had to pitch in and croak. Extensive report of my post - oh, dear, must I hit a nerve.

For the idiot who accused me of not posting a reel I have abundantly linked to, here it is. Still not very bright, ever since I called her out for having no knowledge of business world and no street smarts:

Taken from Shelby Thimons' TikTok account. I never hid anything and marathon pics, whatever that was, well.. it was waaay before I stepped in here.

I am also told Meokeob, the woman who singlehandedly fabricated an entire Wikipedia evidence history about S allegedly being gay, thinks my 'prose is reminiscent of Puffy'. This is just about the credibility that person should have in the real world and life, I think. Zero. For the record, here is my debunk - we now know it was her, all along, she should stop the ugly inanity right now: https://www.tumblr.com/sgiandubh/729380092203122688/autopsy-of-a-gay-lie-the-wikipedia-trail

Back to the minder/security situation. Look, in all honesty, I can't be sure. But I took some intriguing screencaps:

He does have an earpiece he is not wearing and something that looks like a badge attached lower than the usual attire.

For comparison purposes, this is how a security team member looked like, last year, in Minneapolis. Not the same country and not the same continent, but the guy made world headlines for being fired: he sang along with the crowd and asked a fan to take a pic of him in attendance, neglecting his job:

[Source: https://en.as.com/videos/security-guard-at-taylor-swift-concert-fired-for-asking-fan-to-take-photos-v/, August 24th 2023]

Many posted about Steve the minder from the Australian OL tour, this spring. This is Steve, back in March, on stage with S in Sydney, courtesy of SHW (https://www.tumblr.com/samheughanswife/744265708912951296/the-question-is-missed-but-its-about-claire-and):

Same attire. Same person? I think so, but I stand corrected, as always. After all, the participation of the cast was orchestrated by *** all along, no doubt about it.

Anyhow, pursed lips are also an old reflex:

[EIFF Festival, Edinburgh 2015, first public appearance of You Know Who]

Oh and uhm, I have got more. But right now, exit polls in ten minutes in my country, excuse me for hyperventilating and being an involved citizen, right?

[Later edit]: Here is a close-up (thank you, you know who you are 😘. You be the judge, but the resemblance is eerie. Nose, cheeks, moustache, forehead. Very strange:]

[ninyard]

I would love to just sit on a roof top and talk to you about anything and everything. Hear all of your opinions on everything.

Wait what the hell that’s so sweet I’m the mayor of yapsville when you get me started on something I have An Opinion on, so I promise you’d probably quickly regret it.

But picture us. Me and you on a roof. And I tell you the following, as the wind blows our hair and the sun starts to set:

- Andrew helps Renee dye her hair

- When they move in together, Andrew always finds his t-shirts or random belongings shoved under Neil’s pillow. Harmless stuff, but usually stuff that belongs to Andrew. Kept safe, untouchable below his pillow like the few belongings he had in the beginning.

- Dyslexic Kevin Day

- Allison helps Neil get his hair back into a good condition when he starts to grow it out post-TKM. She helps him do treatments and recommends the best products. She braids it when it gets long enough. She shows him how to properly tie it back, she teaches him how to properly look after the texture in his hair.

- Andrew has a folder in his camera roll for nobody else but himself of things that make him smile on the inside. Most of the time it’s stupid things, like a terrible advertisement stuck to a lamp post, or an ugly dog, or an awfully parked car. Silly things that make him laugh that he screenshots or snaps a picture of. There’s eventually hundreds of pictures in there. There’s photos of Neil, when he falls asleep on Andrew’s shoulder and Andrew’s too proud to tell him how cute he looked. Photos of Neil in his suit before a banquet, photos of him doing dishes or handing him dinner. There’s photos of Andrew and Renee after they’ve been sparring. There’s photos of things he’s seen in stores that remind him of Kevin, or Neil, or Renee. Sometimes Aaron. There’s even a few photos of Kevin in there, too. Nobody know this folder exists. Not even Neil, who doesn’t even know half of the photos of himself in there even exist. Because it’s just for Andrew. It’s just for him to collect the little joys in his life now that he can somewhat actually feel it.

- Kevin has to wear a brace on his hand/wrist every now and again, and he still sees a physiotherapist once every few months to check up on his hand.

- Matt goes to Andrew the first time he thinks about relapsing. He doesn’t even think about it. Neil is very confused when he comes back to the dorm to find Matt and Andrew playing video games together, but doesn’t question it.

- Dan tags along to night practice every now and again. Nobody acknowledges that she isn’t usually there, they just let her join them on the court and practice as usual. It makes Kevin really happy, actually, to see her trying to better her skills with them. Usually she just joins them when she can’t sleep and needs to get out of her head.

- On the OG foxes last night together before the first of them graduate, they all find themselves around a fire pit in one of their parents houses, or on property Allison rented out, and they tell each other stories and share some confessions in a mostly-funny, kind of emotional way. They cry and laugh and hug and shock each other with some of the things they say but it’s a really beautiful moment before they’re finally split up for the first time

- Dyslexic Kevin Day (again)

[opencommunion]

"The suit describes how incarcerated Alabamians are forced to work for free in prison and paid extremely low wages to work for hundreds of private employers — including meatpacking plants and fast-food franchises like McDonald’s — as well as more than 100 city, county and state agencies. And it alleges that the state keeps the scheme going by systematically denying parole to those eligible to work outside jobs. ... In the case of the government officials, they’re also accused of conspiring to increase the size of the Alabama prison population — which is predominantly Black — through the discriminatory denial of parole so the state can continue profiting from forced labor. '[Prisoners] have been entrapped in a system of ​‘convict leasing’ in which incarcerated people are forced to work, often for little or no money, for the benefit of the numerous government entities and private businesses that ​‘employ’ them,' the suit charges. In Alabama, that charge comes with ugly historical baggage. Convict leasing — a practice of forced penal labor prevalent in the post-Emancipation South (in which incarcerated men were ​'leased' to private employers) — was a massive state revenue driver. Thanks to the Black Codes, a racist program to criminalize petty offenses both real and imagined, Black people were locked up at a massively disproportionate rate to their white neighbors. Many were then sent to work on plantations to fill the labor gap left by Emancipation. ... Convict leasing was formally abolished in Alabama in 1928, but prison labor has remained a significant source of income for the state. ... According to the lawsuit, Alabama reaped a $450 million benefit from forced prison labor in 2023 alone. ... Lakiera Walker worked for Jefferson County doing roadwork for approximately two years and was paid a $2 daily wage to handle large trash removal (including a Jacuzzi). She found out that the non-incarcerated workers on her team were making $10 per hour for the same job. One day, the lawsuit alleges, Walker’s boss attempted to coerce her into unwanted sexual activity; when she refused, he wrote her up on a disciplinary offense for ​'refusing to work.' She was then sent to work unpaid in the prison’s kitchen, and when her family called the commissioner and the warden to demand something be done, no action was taken. ... During Walker’s 15-year incarceration, she held a litany of unpaid jobs throughout the prison itself, too, including in the kitchen, housekeeping and healthcare. She even provided hospice care to dying patients. ​'The nurses really weren’t interested in taking care of sickly or terminally ill people, so they would get the inmates to do it,' Walker says. She says she was regularly required to work seven days a week, and she often had to work two shifts a day. None of these prison jobs were paid, and quitting or refusing work was not a viable option. ​'You can’t say, ​‘Hey, I can’t go to work today,’' Walker explains. ​'You would go to segregation, which was solitary confinement. … People were so tired and just hopeless at that point, they would kind of welcome solitary confinement, just to have a break.'

... Walker did finally make it home after all those years of forced labor, but many others are still trapped in the system. ... By 2022, the parole rate was 11% overall and only 7% for Black prisoners — meaning that 93% of parole-requesting Black prisoners were denied. That’s what happened to Alimireo English, a charismatic 48-year-old Black man who, according to a judge, should not be in prison right now. ... But instead of being back home with his family, at church with his faith community, or visiting his eldest son in New York, English is at the Ventress Correctional Facility in Clayton, Ala. His case did not come before the parole board until November 28, 2023, more than two years after he’d already been acquitted, but he was denied anyway. His next parole date is November 2024. 'They gotta keep me for another year until they can find somebody else on the street that they can pull back in and take my place,' English tells me. ​'If they can’t replace you, they don’t let you go.'

... English works as a dorm representative for the facility’s Faith Dorm, where he is on call 24 hours a day, seven days per week. He is responsible for the safety and well-being of 190 incarcerated men, many of them elderly or medically vulnerable. He handles custodial duties and maintenance, screens dorm visitors and is also the first responder for drug and health emergencies. In his scant free time, he runs a therapy and counseling group for his fellow prisoners. He consistently works 12 to 15 hour days and, for most of the week, he is the sole individual in charge of the dorm; a retired prison chaplain comes in to assist him a few times weekly, but otherwise English is not supervised by any corrections personnel. As the lawsuit highlights, ​'Since Mr. English has been in this position, the Faith Dorm has had no fights, deaths, or overdoses.' The plaintiffs’ legal team estimates that ADOC saves roughly $200,000 a year by not having a corrections officer in that one dorm. Meanwhile, English is paid nothing. ​'The inmates basically run the prison, but the officers are getting compensated for it,' English says. ​'The wages the inmates are paid for their work hasn’t changed since 1927.'

Several of the plaintiffs I spoke to also mentioned ​'institutional need,' a specific designation that plaintiffs have reported is added to certain prisoners’ files to signify their utility to their current facility. According to Walker and her lawyer, institutional need is yet another trick used by the ADOC to keep especially useful incarcerated workers from leaving, so the state can continue benefiting from that person’s skills. ... 'Most people, it stops them from going home or making parole because it says that we need you more in prison than the world needs you in society,' Walker explains. ​'This lady, her name is Lisa Smith, she’s been in prison about 30 years, and every time she comes up for parole, regardless of her crime, she’s an institutional need. She can fix anything in the prison — she can probably build a prison — but she’s not getting paid. Sometimes they won’t even call in a free world contractor because she knows what to do. It’s looking bleak that she will ever make it out of prison, because they need her there.'

... Because of a 1977 Supreme Court decision, incarcerated workers in the United States — including those in ADOC’s work release program — are legally prohibited from unionizing. The Supreme Court decision barring incarcerated workers from unionizing has not stopped organizations like the Industrial Workers of the World’s Incarcerated Workers Organizing Committee, Jailhouse Lawyers Speak and the Free Alabama Movement (FAM) from organizing labor actions, strikes and protests against prison slavery, or individual prisoners from finding their own ways to dissent. ... One of the founders of FAM, Kinetik Justice, is a plaintiff in the Alabama lawsuit. He has helped organize and lead several high-profile nationwide prison strikes since 2016. He’s been in ADOC custody for the past 29 years, and he has been repeatedly punished, harassed and tortured for his work organizing against forced labor. According to The Appeal, he spent 54 months in solitary confinement between 2014 and 2018 and has been repeatedly sent back into the hole. As he told Democracy Now! in 2016, ​'We understood our incarceration was pretty much about our labor and the money that was being generated from the prison system, therefore we began organizing around our labor and used it as a means and a method to bring about reform in the Alabama prison system.' He is no stranger to filing lawsuits on his own and his fellow prisoners’ behalf against ADOC, so it is fitting that this landmark class action suit bears his name."

[cyren-myadd]

I wonder if the treatment of Sully's kids and Spider will be different during captivity. I can just see Quaritch trying to make Spider as comfortable as possible, trying to feed him the "homemade" food from the previous post while Lo'ak and Kiri are in the most uncomfortable position on the ground and getting some leftovers or nothing at all 💀

Spider squirmed uncomfortably against the thick rope binding his wrists together— and then immediately felt guilty for it. Across from him, Kiri and Lo'ak were bound with their wrists and ankles twisted awkwardly behind their backs, sharp rocks digging into their knees. Tight gags bound their mouths shut, so their communication was limited to terrified looks whenever they made eye contact. Half-dried blood oozed from cuts they’d gotten during their capture. Spider didn't have a right to complain about his wrists, not when his friends were hogtied like yerik carcasses ready for the cookfire. He wasn't even sitting on the rocky ground; a soft, woven mat beneath his knees protected him from the cold floor of the cave they were kept in. A part of Spider wondered why their captors would treat a full-blooded demon more gently than two half-breeds, but that question was ignored in favor of trying to figure out what the hell was happening.

Around them, strange Na'vi with pale blue skin and black war paint moved around the cave, preparing weapons and other supplies. If Spider had to guess, he'd say this was a war party from an unknown tribe, but unfortunately, he didn't have enough information to guess what they were doing so close to home, and more importantly, why. Normally, the sight of a Na'vi war party, even an unknown one, would've been good news, but the fact that these people had kidnapped him and his friends gave him the sneaking suspicion that these warriors weren't here to help Jake fight the RDA. Even more worryingly, Spider spotted human-made guns and grenades amongst the supplies the warriors were moving around, meaning someone had taught these people how to use Sky People weapons.

The sound of voices made the three of them look up. On the opposite side of the cave, two new Na'vi entered the war camp, and the way the other warriors gathered around to greet them respectfully told Spider they must be important. One was a female Na'vi with the same pale blue skin as the others. Even from across the cave, Spider could make out the ornate red headdress and intricate paint patterns she wore, marking her as high status; a tsahik or olo'eykte. Her companion was dressed in much plainer clothing by comparison; the same loincloth and simple paint design all the others wore. However, no amount of unfamiliar paint and regalia could hide the familiar blue stripes of a forest Na'vi. Spider exchanged a confused look with Kiri and Lo'ak. What was a forest Na'vi doing with these strange warriors?

The female leader addressed her warriors calmly while the forest Na'vi stood rigidly at her side, his tail lashing in clear agitation. Then, one of the warriors pointed towards the spot where Spider and his friends were tied up. Before the warrior even finished raising his hand, the forest Na'vi made a beeline right towards them.

Spider hissed through his teeth. There was something eerily familiar about the way the Na'vi stormed in a straight line towards his destination without caring if he got in the way of others. Slowly, Spider shook his head. The human weapons, taking Kiri and Lo'ak hostage while treating Spider with kid gloves... In his gut, he already knew who it was, but his mind wasn't ready to accept the ugly truth yet.

"Spider!" It wasn't until the Na'vi— no, the recom, yelled his name that he was forced to face the truth. There was no mistaking that low drawl.

"Quaritch," he didn't whisper it so much as soundlessly mouth it when the man skidded to a stop in front of them. The confrontation he'd been dreading for months was finally here, and he had no one to blame but himself. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see matching expressions of horror on Kiri and Lo’ak’s faces. The monster from their nightmares was standing right in front of them, and they had no idea it was Spider’s fault. Lo’ak tried to say something, but it was muffled through his gag. He strained against his bonds, tail lashing furiously, and Kiri pressed her shoulder against him in a weak attempt to soothe him. Thankfully, Quaritch ignored them, and instead knelt before Spider.

Spider tried to shrink away from him, but there was nowhere to go. Quaritch took him by the shoulders and gently turned him this way and that, eyes and fingers roving over his body and his exopack for any sign of damage.

"You good, kid?" He asked, lightly tugging Spider's arm so he could get a better look at a nasty scratch he'd acquired when the strange warriors had abducted them. Once Quaritch determined the scratch wasn't life threatening, his ears sagged in relief and he clapped Spider on the shoulders.

"Yeah, you're good, you're good," he answered his own question in a low mutter, more to himself than to Spider. A low, relieved chuckle escaped his lips, and then he smiled. Spider could count on one hand how many times he'd seen Quaritch smile, and most of the time it was more of a cruel grimace than a smile. This look was different— it was genuine. He smiled down at Spider like this was the best day of his life. No one other than Kiri had ever looked at him like that, and it made him want to burst into tears and attack him and bury his head in his chest all at once. Instead, Spider did nothing but return his look with a baleful stare.

Quaritch tentatively reached out like he was going to cup Spider's face in his hand, but Spider bared his teeth and jerked his head away. To his relief, Quaritch let him go. His smile turned slightly sad, but also unsurprised at the aggressive reaction.

"Ma Kwarit." Spider looked up as the leader of the warriors approached them. It took him a moment to realize "Kwarit" was her attempt at pronouncing Quaritch's alien name. The woman stared down at him with an unreadable look on her face. Her eyes were somehow both hot and cold; bright orange-gold like a fire, but there was no warmth behind them. Spider glared back at her with the fiercest look he could muster, and clenched his hands to stop them from shaking.

"Varang, I apology for running." Quaritch greeted her in broken Na'vi.

The woman, Varang, waved away his apology dismissively. "These children, they are the ones you sent my warriors to look for?"

"Yes. My son," Quaritch patted Spider on the shoulder with one hand before gesturing at Lo'ak and Kiri with the other, "and children Toruk Makto. Your warriors is good."

"They are the best," Varang agreed. She didn't sound boastful when she said it, as if she were simply stating an immutable fact. Her fiery cold eyes roamed over Lo'ak and Kiri, taking in their half-breed features, before coming to a stop on Spider. It was a challenge to hold her gaze without flinching, but he did his best to meet her eyes with a steady glare.

After a long moment of analyzing Spider's face, she said, "I do not see you in the face of your son, but I see your fire in his eyes."

To Spider’s mortification, Quaritch chuckled at that and ruffled his hair. “Yes, he gets from me.”

Spider hissed at him and jerked away as hard as he could. He ended up accidentally scraping his injured arm against the rock wall and his angry hiss turned into a grunt of pain.

“And when he becomes angry, he is so determined to get his way that he will hurt himself in doing so. That is something else he has in common with you,” Varang observed, the barest hint of a smile twitching at the corner of her mouth.

This time, when Quaritch laughed it was slightly more forced. “He need medicine. Call healer. And food.”

“My healers have never helped a Sky Person before. They could harm him as easily as heal him. The same can be said of our food.”

“Son is smart. He know what help and what hurt Sky People. He know what to eat.”

“Wait—” Spider interrupted, and he found himself pinned under Varang’s intense hot-cold gaze once more and it almost made him lose his nerve. “I see you, Varang.” He greeted her as best he could with his hands tied. “My friends also need food and medicine. Please.”

Varang’s hairless brow raised a fraction of a centimeter. “He speaks better than you do, ma Kwarit.”

“That’s because I taught him to speak. And I can tell he hasn’t been practicing.” Spider added.

Varang exhaled heavily through her nose, which was probably the closest thing to a laugh he’d get from her. That was a good sign. Something Spider had learned during his captivity was that it was always better to get on the good side of those who had power over you. It had worked with Quaritch— maybe a little bit too well considering how things turned out.

“Please?” Spider asked Varang again hopefully.

Varang turned to Quaritch, and to his dismay, he realized she was leaving the decision up to him. 

Quaritch eyed Lo’ak and Kiri’s many scratches and bruises apathetically before he shrugged. “They look fine to me.”

Varang nodded to one of her warriors. “Bring a bowl of food and a healer for the Sky Child. Leave the other two alone.”

“No!” Spider protested, but Varang was already walking away, taking her entourage of warriors with her. Lo’ak caught his eye and shrugged weakly as if to say, well, at least you tried.

“Dammit,” Spider curled in on himself and kept his eyes trained on his bound hands. He couldn’t bring himself to look at Kiri and Lo’ak. Silently, he prayed Quaritch would leave with the others, but unfortunately, his prayers went unanswered. Quaritch stayed right where he was. Mercifully, he didn’t try to touch him again, but he kept taking deep breaths like he was about to start speaking but always stopped himself.

“What?” Spider snapped after what felt like the hundredth aborted attempt at speaking.

Quaritch’s ears flicked back in surprise at the sudden word. “I was just— Spider, listen— I want to— we need to have—“ he interrupted his own stammering with a frustrated hiss and ran his hands through his hair. “Jesus, I sound like an idiot.”

Spider exchanged a bewildered glance with Kiri and Lo’ak. None of them, not even Spider, had ever seen Quaritch look nervous before. It wasn’t an emotion they thought he was capable of. Spider looked up at Quaritch warily, wondering what the hell he was trying to say. If he didn’t know better, he’d say Quaritch was trying to apologize to him.

After an unbearably awkward silence, Quaritch reached into a small pouch attached to his belt and pulled out a spartan fruit. He passed it to Spider while avoiding eye contact, almost shyly. “Here.”

Spider stared down at the fruit in his lap, confused. Spartan fruit didn’t grow in this part of the forest, and judging by the fruit’s slightly battered appearance, Quaritch must’ve been carrying it around with him for a while. Slowly, Spider raised his gaze from the spartan fruit to squint up at Quaritch.

“It’s a spartan fruit.” Quaritch told him, as if Spider wasn’t the one who had taught him that. “You told me it was your favorite.”

Spider said nothing.

The longer he remained silent, the more fidgety Quaritch got. His tail swished behind him and he struggled to meet Spider’s eyes for more than a few seconds at a time.

“I just— I just thought you might want it.” Quaritch scratched at the back of neck while avoiding eye contact again.

They lapsed into another silence that was so awkward it was almost painful. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Lo’ak scrunch up his face at him as if to say, what the hell is happening? All Spider could do was shrug.

Finally, Spider cleared his throat, moreso to interrupt the horrible silence than because he wanted to say anything. “Um… thank you.”

Reluctantly, he took the fruit, telegraphing his movements so Quaritch could see what he was doing. When he saw Spider had accepted his gift, he smiled another genuine, not-evil smile.

With his fruit in hand, Spider slowly got to a crouch and started shuffling away from him. Quaritch frowned. He let Spider move away without a fight, but kept a narrowed eye on him, ready to grab him if he looked like he was going to bolt— not that there was anywhere to bolt to in this cavern full of enemies.

Spider made a big show of moving slowly so Quaritch wouldn’t get any bad ideas about his intentions, and came to a stop next to Lo’ak. Then, before Quaritch could realize what he was doing, he pulled down Lo’ak’s gag and raised the fruit to his lips. Lo’ak started scarfing it down like it was his last meal.

“Dammit, Spider, that was supposed to be for you!” Quaritch seized the strap of Spider’s exopack and hauled him back before Lo’ak could take another bite.

“I don’t want your damn fruit, I want to make sure my friends are okay!” Spider snapped.

Quaritch yanked the half-eaten fruit out of his hands. “Your little friends will be just fine without food for a day or two. As long as their daddy cooperates, they’ll be back home before they know it.”

“My dad’s gonna kill your ass again!” Lo’ak yelled now that his gag was off. He strained against his bonds like he wanted to throw himself at Quaritch.

“Shut up.” Quaritch said irritably.

“Fuck you!”

Quaritch brandished his knife threateningly at Lo’ak. “You keep your mouth shut or I’ll make that hand look like a real Na’vi, boy!”

Despite the threat, Lo’ak looked like he wanted to snap back at Quaritch anyway. Kiri tried to say something through her gag and pressed herself against Lo’ak’s side. Behind Quaritch’s arm, Spider desperately shook his head, praying Lo’ak would listen to reason. Thankfully, he did, though he let out one last angry hiss before settling back next to Kiri in defeat.

His surrender sent an ugly smirk shooting over Quaritch’s face. “Well, would you look at that. A Sully can learn to follow orders. Ha!”

Quaritch’s mean-spirited laugh was interrupted by the arrival of a young woman carrying a medicine bag in one hand and a bowl filled with different kinds of food in the other. Clearly, whoever made the bowl had no idea what was safe for humans, so they’d compensated by putting in a little bit of everything.

“Here we are! You, girl, heal up now please my son.” Quaritch ordered in Na’vi so bad that even Spider had trouble deciphering it.

The poor healer stared at Quaritch in confusion. “I do not understand your speaking.”

“He told you to treat their wounds first, then me.” Spider “translated,” nodding urgently at Kiri and Lo’ak.

The healer turned towards Kiri with her bag at the ready only for Quaritch to grab her by the hand and pull her back.

“No, no, no. Not them. Him. Him only. Do not listen what he say. He lie.” Quaritch said very slowly.

The healer still looked confused, but she opened her bag and knelt next to Spider. She hissed softly through her teeth as she examined the nasty cut on his arm. “I do not know what to do. His flesh is not of Eywa. I am afraid I may hurt him.”

“Listen him. He will say you what safe use.”

“You want me to listen to him?” The woman’s brow furrowed in confusion. “But you just told me not to. You said he lies.”

“Listen to him!” Quaritch repeated. He banged his hand against the floor in frustration, making the poor healer squeak in surprise. “Go on, Spider, tell her what to use.”

“Hmm…” Spider made a big show of peering into her bag. His sharp eyes instantly identified which plants were safe and unsafe for him to use, but he feigned confusion with a shrug. “Huh, that’s funny. I can’t seem to remember what’s safe for me. Oh well…”

“Spider…” Quaritch bared his teeth in a wolfish smile— now this was the smile Spider was used to seeing from Quaritch, the same one he had whenever he got a lead on Jake or threatened an RDA grunt into submission. “Tell the nice lady what to use on you. Now.”

The borderline demonic smile sent a chill through Spider, but he held his ground. Remembering how pathetic Quaritch sounded when he asked Neytiri to let him go gave him strength. As much as Quaritch liked to threaten him with “old school ass whippings” Spider was confident Quaritch wouldn’t actually hurt him— at least, not physically.

Spider bared his teeth in a smaller, less-pointy version of Quaritch’s evil smile. “Maybe if she helps my friends first, it’ll jog my memory.”

An ugly, forced chuckle escaped Quaritch’s teeth. “Oh, so that’s how you want to play it, huh? Fine! Nobody gets medical attention now.”

Spider forced his expression to stay calm. He folded his arms behind his head and laid back against the damp stone. “That’s fine with me. I guess I’ll just lay here in this cold, dark cave with my open cuts. Sure would be a shame if I got an infection. Did I ever tell you that humans are way more likely to die from infections than Na’vi? Our bodies just don’t fight off bacteria the same way.”

Quaritch stared him down, teeth bared and tail swishing. For a moment, Spider thought he was really going to risk it just to spite Jake’s children, but then the moment passed and Quaritch snarled in frustration. “When did you get so manipulative? Has Sully been teaching you this shit? Fine. You, girl, heal children Toruk Makto first. Then my son.”

Spider smirked as he watched the exasperated healer finally get to work on Kiri and Lo’ak’s injuries. It was a small victory, but a victory nonetheless.

With an irritated grumble, Quaritch got to his feet and fidgeted with his loincloth. Clearly, he wasn’t used to wearing it yet. “Alright, I gotta leave you alone now, but don’t go getting any big ideas, ‘cause I’ll be back soon. If your ass has moved an inch from this spot when I get back, you won’t need that paint to look blue anymore, you read me?”

“Lima charlie, sir.” Spider replied with as much sarcasm as he dared.

Quaritch narrowed his eyes at the disrespectful tone, but must’ve decided it wasn’t worth it to say anything. He turned to leave, but hesitated, his back to Spider.

“Spider… son… when I get back, we’re gonna have a talk, alright? We just— we need to talk.” He said without looking at Spider.

“Okay,” Spider said, more to get rid of Quaritch than anything.

Quaritch hesitated a moment longer like he wanted to say something, but instead he left without saying another word. As soon as he was out of sight, Spider scooped up the bowl of food and scrambled over to his friends. He yanked off Kiri’s gag and started feeding her and Lo’ak while the healer patched them up.

“Are you guys okay?” Spider asked.

“We’re fucking fantastic, bro.” Lo’ak answered, and Spider instantly felt stupid for asking such a question.

“We’ll live,” Kiri replied before turning to the healer and switching to Na’vi. “You should mix yalna bark with the fireflower root— it will stop the bleeding faster and clean the wound better.”

The healer’s eyes widened as she realized the wisdom to Kiri’s words and did as she instructed.

“I can’t believe Quaritch is going after Dad again. That asshole just doesn’t quit!” Lo’ak said frustratedly.

“I know.” Kiri agreed. “And he was acting so strange… Spider, what do you think he wants to talk to you about?”

Spider shifted uncomfortably as Lo’ak and Kiri watched him. “I don’t know. But it doesn’t matter, cause we’re not sticking around to find out. C’mon, this lady doesn’t understand English. Let’s come up with a plan to get out of here.”

💙I hope you enjoyed! Please comment or reblog to let me know what you think, or send me a writing prompt if you want to see more💙

[hometoursandotherstuff]

Fans Confused After Alison Victoria Lists ‘Dream Home’ For Sale. Wait. Her GA loft didn't sell, and she was supposed to be selling that to finance a new place in the Cabbagetown section of Chicago. Now, I'm confused, too. Anyway, this is an ugly ass building. The 4bd, 3.5ba, property is listed for $3.5M. Let's have a look (if you recall, Alison is the designer who did the "Ugliest House" I posted yesterday.)

Victoria worked to transform her office space into a residential home, which she envisioned as “the biggest, the baddest, the sexiest live-work dream home I could ever imagine.”

Although she’s called it her “Dream Home” home for several months now, fans online noticed that Victoria is quietly planning to part ways with her live-work space. What is going on?

She has posted photos from her dream home as recently as April 9, just before the building hit the real estate market. Well, I like the muted green chairs and planters. The floor is reminiscent of Alice in Wonderland.

One fan brought the home’s listing to an HGTV fan community on Reddit, where other users chimed in with their thoughts about the sale. (I'm an avid Redditor.)

“I thought she was building this to be her dream home/workspace? Or was this always to sell right away?” one fan wondered, with another guessing in response, “In reality it was always just content for her show.”

So, that's just a mantel with candles, then.

“I don’t think many people would be interested in buying this but it might work for someone who has a business and can live on the premises like what she claimed it was intended for," said another fan.

"I think more than likely it would be an event space esp for a wedding w/the option to stay overnight," said a 3rd fan.

Interesting wall with the big niche for decor, oven and 2 wine fridges.

One user pointed out in the comments, “There are no windows! I’d go crazy ! No, the sky lights not enough." Yeah, it's like an underground house.

Shoot, no matter how nice it is, I like the lighted shelving, no windows is a deal breaker. I'd feel imprisoned.

Interesting en-suite.

“The closets are full of clothes and shoes. Not staged stuff, real stuff," said a fan.

Nice little home theater lobby with a snack counter.

This is it? I was expecting a home theater, not a TV room.

Interesting light strand in the powder room.

Long hall to the wide industrial stairs.

One of the other bedrooms. I can't deal with just skylights, I gotta see what the weather's like and all.

One of the other baths. My love of floating sinks is kind of leery of something this big. I feel like it would break loose eventually.

"The mudroom looks like it has a little kid's jackets or maybe they’re just tiny women’s jackets. regardless, it looks like Alison or a family is living there. Interesting,” another fan pointed out.

Exercise depresses me enough, let alone doing it in this room.

I'm gonna say that this is the work area, where the team gathers to discuss design. Interesting that this is the area that has the windows.

The garages in the back of the building.

I'm no designer, but this building wouldn't have appealed to me as a home/work space. I would look for an end unit with more windows.

https://heavy.com/entertainment/hgtv/alison-victoria-lists-dream-home-sale/

https://www.coldwellbankerhomes.com/il/chicago/2733-n-pulaski-rd/pid_58881660/

[ange1sang]

a little to the left

2.6k words, gallavich + brief appearance from liam

; canon compliant/post season 11, domestic gallavich, hurt/comfort, trauma, dissociation, vomiting, gentle mickey milkovich

Most days Ian doesn't notice them. The blanks, the disconnect in his mind, the gaps in his memory like potholes in a road filled with oil slick and rainwater. They've been there since his late adolescence, weaving their way into his consciousness and embedding themselves into the membranes that separate his brain from his skull, so that he's used to them. He doesn't have to notice them, not when he can get by just fine without acknowledging them. But that's only on most days. 

Some days the blanks are deep and pitch black, tripping him up or even swallowing him whole. His mind becomes a black hole, everything in disarray and stretched, twisted, deformed until it's all unrecognisable. His childhood is a jumble of scenes from a movie watched on a drunken night, parts of it covered with lumpy, expired Wite-Out and others blotted with blood, smeared and dirty. The confusion makes his head pound and bile rise in his throat. For the longest time he didn't connect the two things. He's been having depressive episodes since he was seventeen, always accompanied by aches and nausea, and it was easy to lump the blanks and gaps in with everything else the depression brought on.

But he's older now, taking medication and watching his routine so that the depression rarely rears its ugly head anymore, yet the days of darkness, confusion and agony persist. They come when he least expects them, when he has a day full of errands to run with his brother or a day he's promised to spend babysitting his niece or nephew. He goes through the motions the way he's taught himself to do on even the hardest days, but it feels like wading through raw sewage in nothing but his boxers, grime and filth splattered against his thighs and clinging to the inside of his nose. He barely survives it, throwing up everything he eats, sometimes before he can reach a toilet bowl, and crawling into his bed deaf to the worried murmurs of his husband. 

It takes him years of survival, white-knuckled and tense-jawed, before it begins to make even a little sense to him. 

"Hey, Ian."

Liam's voice pulls Ian's attention from the comedy rerun he and a sleepy Mickey are watching on the TV. He looks to where his youngest brother is sitting at their kitchen table, school laptop illuminating his face and an old, chewed-up pen in his hand. 

"What's up?" Ian asks, lifting a hand to run his fingers through Mickey's hair. His husband grunts softly, pressing his face down against Ian's shoulder. Liam takes a breath, hesitating before he speaks again.

"You know the club you worked at?" he asks. Ian feels Mickey tense against him, and has to stroke his thumb against his forehead to keep him from cussing at the kid.

"Yeah, what about it?" Ian asks, trying to keep his voice lighthearted. "You aren't thinking of getting a job there, are you?"

"No," Liam says quickly, grimacing at the suggestion. Ian feels something in his chest relax. "I'm writing a paper on CSA for my psych class - you think it'd be okay if I interview you? Interviews get us extra points."

"CSA?" Ian asks, raising an eyebrow. Liam hesitates again, looking sheepish and guilty all of a sudden. 

"Childhood sexual assault," he clarifies after mulling it over for a long minute. The second the words leave his mouth Mickey lifts his head from Ian's shoulder and glares at the teen.

"Write a paper on those fuckin' drooling dogs or something, man," he says, which would be funny if it weren't for how his jaw clenches once the words have left his mouth. "Leave your family outta that shit, we got enough people lookin' at us like social experiments already."

"Right," Liam mumbles, but his eyes don't move from Ian, who feels his face stiffening like concrete. "Okay, sorry."

"Nah, it's fine," Ian whispers, his voice barely audible even though he tried to speak normally. He turns his head away from his brother, back to the TV. The blue light of the screen suddenly takes on a purple tinge, spotlights moving against the inside of Ian's eyelids and illuminating dark, dirty floors soiled with bodily fluids and pills that had been crushed beneath someone's shoe. His veins throb in his arms, skin suddenly too tight for his flesh, like he's waking up with a bad hangover, dry-mouthed and disoriented.

"Ian."

He feels his lips forming a frown on his face but they don't belong to him, invisible fingers pulling down the corners of his lips to turn him into a sad mime. Mickey's hand, warm and rough cups his cheek. He blinks and the dirty floor disappears, replaced with worried blue eyes and dark, furrowed brows.

"Hey. Baby."

"I'm fine," his reply comes, automatic and without thought, before he even thinks the words. Clearly, this does nothing to soothe Mickey, eyes darting around Ian's face. His thumb rubs Ian's temple, stroking the vein that feels like it's about to burst. "I'm... I'm fine."

Mickey draws in a sharp breath, looking like he's ready to scold him, but he doesn't say anything. He shoots Liam a brief but withering look, before leaning in to kiss Ian's forehead. 

"Okay," he mumbles, and slumps back against the sofa, but not without guiding Ian's head to rest against his shoulder. 

Ian's chest is tight and aching, but he's fine. He's totally fine.

When he wakes up the next morning it's to Mickey yelling from the kitchen.

"Ian! You want coffee?"

He stiffens in their bed, his husband's voice sounding foreign. 

"Ian?"

No, it isn't his husband's voice. It's the name. Ian. He squeezes his eyes shut and tries to recall the last time he heard that name, but all his mind can offer are broken, fragmented memories of strangers whispering Curtis or Clayton or Benjamin in his ear, their breath hot against his skin. The familiarity of the names is soothing and torturous all at once, and before he knows what's happening his stomach is squeezing, pushing. He sits up but barely manages to lift his head from his pillow before a stream of weak, beige-green liquid pours from his mouth, puddling on the sheets and dripping down his chin. He stares at the pool of vomit, gears moving in his head like he's looking at an old friend. 

"Hey, man, you want coffee or-"

Mickey's voice stops just as abruptly as his movements, the man standing in the bedroom doorway like a statue. Ian turns his head to look at him, the small movement dizzying, and feels that same squeeze in his stomach. This time he has the foresight to move his hands, catching the little mouthful of hot, caustic stomach acid in his palms. 

"Ian, c'mon, don't do that," Mickey whispers, approaching slowly and taking hold of Ian's wrists. He allows himself to be manoeuvred, watching as the vomit sloshes from his palms and lands on the bed sheets. The name on Mickey's lips makes Ian's skin prickle, and he curls into himself. He's too big for it to really work, but he must have been small enough once. Must have been small enough to fold into himself like an ashen baby bird, all skin and bone and ruffled feathers. He tries to curl into himself further, trying to remember where the instinct comes from, but all he sees is a bottomless pit. Panic curls around his throat like barbed wire. "Come on, you gotta wash your hands. I can help you."

"No, I..." Ian mumbles, his own voice startling him. He stares down at his palms, feeling fabric against his skin. Expensive fabric, yarn woven into fine cotton with 2% spandex, fabric he's never been able to afford, not even on his wedding day, but that he must have touched at some point. Blearily, he looks at Mickey, meets his worried gaze through thick tears that refuse to pour down his cheeks even as he blinks over and over. His breath catches in his throat. "I don't feel right."

"That's okay. I got you," Mickey reassures him. Lips press against his forehead in a sweet kiss. "Come on, babe. It's okay."

Mickey takes his hands, not recoiling or frowning when the still-warm vomit touches his skin. He smiles, soft, small, scared, and helps the redhead stand up. 

"You're fine. I got you," he repeats, and kisses the dense patch of freckles on Ian's shoulder. The touch is familiar, and this time the familiarity is comforting without also being nauseating. He holds on tight to Mickey until their hands are under the running water of their bathroom tap, and as soon as their palms are separated he finds himself leaning into the other man, curling up again, trying to make himself smaller. He can feel Mickey watching him, gauging his condition, taking in his expressions and reaction to every little touch. "You're okay, Ia- baby."

Ian looks up, looks at Mickey's wet lashes when he bites back the name on the tip of his tongue. He doesn't understand why or how, but Mickey always knows what to say and, more importantly, he always knows what not to say. He drags in a deep breath that doesn't really reach his lungs and drops his head so he can hide his face against Mickey's shoulder. Hiding. Even if he can't seem to think of much right now, he knows he's good at hiding.

"Sorry I threw up," he mumbles into Mickey's shoulder, which makes his husband chuckle.

"I've seen you puke before, man," Mickey says. "That fuckin' sushi Debbie made us all eat last year? Playing drinking games with Sandy?"

Ian recognises the memories like the face of a quiet classmate in a yearbook - he can place them in the right environment, but can't picture them doing anything, not even opening their mouth to say 'present' for attendance. He winces, the effort of  trying to pull forth images he knows are there making him dizzy.

"C'mon," Mickey whispers, turning off the tap. "Let's get some breakfast in you. Pepto Bismol with your meds maybe."

"Wait," Ian pleads, not ready to open his eyes and face the world yet. Not when he can't remember his place in it. Again, Mickey takes it in his stride. He pulls Ian into a hug that's firm enough to ground him and gentle enough to remind him that Mickey loves him. The reminder is enough to ease the jelly feeling in his joints just a little, Mickey's thumb moving back and forth against his shoulder blade like it's all he's ever wanted to do, and Ian takes a deep breath. The just-woke-up smell on Mickey, a smell that he knows he's always loved, even if he's never been sure why.

"I love you, man," Mickey murmurs sincerely. Ian relaxes just a little more.

"I love you too."

The day goes by slowly, every bit of it like pulling teeth. He downs his medication and food Mickey gives him even though his stomach twists nervously with each swallow. They watch cartoons on the sofa and Mickey smokes through a pack of cigarettes before dinner, his eyes flicking back and forth between Ian and the TV so often that he must not be getting any of what's on the screen. The vigilance is comforting, a reminder that he really is sitting on their sofa and not just dreaming up the four walls around him, so he doesn't mention it to Mickey. 

By the late afternoon he's falling asleep, tired just from keeping his eyes open and his food down. He lays his head on Mickey's lap, nose pressed into his husband's thigh and shuts his eyes when fingers immediately find their way to his hair, running through his curls and brushing stray hairs from his forehead. 

"You wanna head to the clinic tomorrow, check your meds?" he asks.

"Maybe," is all Ian can muster the energy to say. Mickey hums, thumb rubbing his brow bone.

There's a long pause, long enough that Ian almost falls asleep, before Mickey speaks up again.

"You did good, Ian."

Ian. The name finally sounds familiar again. No bile rises at the sound of it and there's no ache in his chest as he tries to place it. Relief washes over him, icy and overwhelming, and pulls him under. 

The next day he wakes feeling disoriented but not nauseous. His head is on Mickey's chest, his heartbeat steady and reliable where it thumps against his cheek. He takes a deep breath in and lifts a hand to trace a fingertip along the tattoo of his name on his husband's skin, his heart fluttering the same way it used to when they were kids and Mickey would show up at the corner store looking for him. His body feels like his own again, every organ, capillary and freckle back in its rightful place. 

He makes coffee while Mickey sleeps in. He knows after a day like yesterday that Mickey must've been up half the night, watching him sleep as though his next breath might not come, and feels a little guilty at the thought. When he carries two mugs of coffee back to the bedroom and a pack of Oreos pinched between his teeth, Mickey is waiting for him, a smile on his lips.

"Morning, mister," he grumbles, voice sleep-rough in a way that makes Ian giddy. Ian drops the Oreos on the bed and leans in for a kiss, hungry for Mickey's touch more than anything else.

"Good morning," he replies, handing Mickey his mug and settling in next to him.

"You feelin' okay? Wanna hit the clinic after breakfast?" Mickey asks cautiously, watching Ian's expression for any telltale signs that he's hiding something.

"Nah, I'm... I'm okay," Ian mumbles, shrugging. "I don't know what was up yesterday, it was like everything was a few inches to the left or something. I couldn't remember shit."

He looks at Mickey and smiles at the crease between his worried brows. 

"I'm okay now, Mick. Seriously."

Mickey grunts, frowning in a way that lets Ian know he's sorting his thoughts into words that make sense. They're halfway through their coffee before he's ready to speak, but Ian doesn't mind the waiting. He doesn't mind much when it comes to Mickey these days, at least not as much as he claims to.

"Y'know, Svetlana had days like that," he says, slow and unsure. "She'd get pukey and shit, couldn't hold a conversation... It was weird, 'cause she was always so fuckin' headstrong y'know? Seein' you like that..."– Mickey pauses, reaches out to cup Ian's cheek for a moment and rubs his thumb over the freckles on his temple. –"Maybe you should see a shrink, talk about the stuff that happened at the club."

Something clicks in Ian's head at the mention of Svetlana, all of the blanks, disconnects and gaps in his mind making a little more sense now.

"Yeah. Maybe," he sighs, and turns his head to press a kiss to Mickey's palm. "Thanks for not freaking out."

"Anytime," Mickey says with a small, worried smile. Just a couple of years ago Ian would've felt guilty for being the cause of his worry, but he understands it now. They're husbands. They're always going to worry about each other. 

"I love you," he tells Mickey, which earns him one of those shiny-eyed smiles he adores with all his heart. 

"Love you too, Red."

Maybe tomorrow he'll book himself an appointment at the clinic. Today though, all he wants to do is make up for the time he lost yesterday.

[toytulini]

thinking about my oc Bytte. and. her gender is Aro. her Aromanticism is inextricable from her gender experience.

[apollo-zero-one]

Man I can't believe I had the chance to go to a performing arts school up through middle school and I fuckin quit after 6 months just because I got bullied. BRO YOUR HOMEWORK WAS POETRY!! YOU HAD TO PRACTICE DANCING TO COTTON EYE JOE AS YOUR BIG UNIT TEST. GYM CLASS HAD A CIRCUS UNIT!! YOU HAD A WHOLE DAILY CLASS ON IMPROV!!! YOU FOOL!! YOU ABSOLUTE IMBICILE!! YOU COULD HAVE BEEN A YOUTUBER!!! YOU COULD HAVE BEEN ONE OF THOSE TWEENAGERS GETTING LOADED BY MAKING SHITTY YOUTUBE SHORTS IN 2008-14!! But noooOoooOOOoo little miss Noellie (who WANTED TO GO!! who worked SO HARD and sent in an application essay and did an INTERVIEW to get in!!) couldn't handle disruptive classmates or little scuffles and petty grudges and general Attitude of the other students and cried to mommy to put her back in public school. I am EATING MY HAIR over what Could Have Been. I COULD BE SOMEONE'S ANNOYING YOUTUBER!! I could be a DISGRACED DISNEY CHANNEL STAR!! I could be an America's Got Talent winner! A mild to moderately successful comedian! I could be making short films!! But no no no precious thin skinned baby me heard a few new cus words and watched a teacher get heckled and begged to give up The Dream in favor of?? Quiet math tests?? I am such a fucking quitter I quit everything the second it gets too hard I always take the out as soon as it's offered what's my fucking damage.....

[sheliesshattered]

The overdress is all in one piece! And we have sleeves! With bonus screen accurate Rhaenyra ring!

Work has been extra weird this week, but weird in a way that's given me more time to iron and pin and sew than I usually have. So I was able to get through that long list of pressing tasks from my last post, and then pin the two front panels to the side panels (which are already sewn to the back panels), pin the back seams of the sleeves, and sew those four seams earlier today.

With those seams done, the sleeves are sleeve-shaped and the dress is basically dress-shaped. All of those new seams need pressed, and the sleeve seams will need to be hand-finished since the black silk organza is a bit itchy on its cut edges. There's just one more body seam left to sew for the dress, the center front seam, and then the little shoulder seams.

There's quite a lot of finishing to be done, both on the dress and the sleeves. In the above pic, the sleeve is just clamped closed at the underside of the wrist, and once it has its hooks-and-eyes it'll fit a lot more smoothly. And then there's all the seam finishing for the dress, hemming the neck and armscyes and skirt edge, and handsewing on all the trim and beading. Lots to do!

I've been working little by little on the handsewing for the seams finishes for the underdress, and then it will need all its hemming too. But when possible I've been trying to focus on the overdress, because if it came down to it, I would rather have the overdress done and leave the underdress somewhat unfinished. But today is exactly 15 weeks until I have to pack for Dragon Con, so I've still got time, and I'm hoping I can get everything finished to my liking in the time remaining.

Besides the dress itself, I still have a few things to do on the wig, and I've been tracking down the jewelry pieces one by one, and I may actually end up making one piece that I've been unable to find. I also want to make a little handbag to carry all my stuff at con, but that's definitely on the nice-to-have list.

Some days I feel like I'll be able to get through this whole project with time to spare, and other days I feel like I'm going to be working on it up until the very last moment, and maybe have to cut corners to get it done. Getting through this last portion of machine sewing and into all the extensive handsewing will hopefully give me a better idea of how long the whole thing will take.

But, of course, I'm already having Ideas™ about what other cosplays I could make for Dragon Con this year, if I do end up having time at the end of the summer. One of them would be pretty straightforward, and I could use the same pattern as this project with just a few modifications, and I already have at least most of the materials I would need to complete it. The other one is completely ridiculous, with tedious machine sewing and handsewing, but damn it would be fun.

Welp. I guess if I want to have any hope of finishing this cosplay and maybe one or two more after that, I should probably get back to it. My iron awaits!

[mattodore]

hi! would it be ok to ask for a link to matthias' pinterest board? thank you

ackk..... my ocs board is private atm bc there are some ocs in there that are still wips... but i can give you a peak at matthias's board for sure. et voilà <3

[todayisafridaynight]

DID YOU MISS THE EXAM... Either way I can believe in that superstition for a sec I'm so sorry 😭😭😭

NONO I TOOK IT. BARELY. I BARELY TOOK IT. I JUST THOUGHT CLASS WAS GOING TO BE NORMAL BUT NOPE <3<3<3

[nyalectro]

Saw people on twitter saying they think electro’s ps4 design is ugly i got FURIOUS

[lem-argentum]

doug and meg would play terraria with meeee :) <3

[aw-bean-s]

.

[youremyonlyhope]

Me: *Feels slightly good about something in my life* Life: Hmm. Nope. *Reminds me of things I should have been a part of but aren't* Me: ...Thanks.

[arizcross]

Things Danyal has said to his new family and some other interactions:

1.

Danyal, as casual as if talking about the weather: I can make you a new spleen if you want.

Tim, flaggerblasted: Whah-?! How?!

Danyal, calmly saying what he needs as he writes it down on a post-it: I’ll need a microwave, a cellphone and a gallon of lazarus water, maybe two since I have to cleanse it, oh, and some of your blood.

Tim, so very done with everything as he takes the post-it: Sure, why not.

2.

Alfred is driving Bruce somewhere out of Gotham so the siblings are alone in the city. Dick is in charge for the day.

Dick, answering an incoming call as he merrily drives to Gotham from Blüdhaven: Hey Danish, what’s up?

Danyal, slightly worried: Uhm, a was told to call you if Tim said anything about cooking?

Dick, alarmed and worried: Don’t let him near the stove! I’ll be there soon!

Danyal: Yes, Damian is trying to stop him. It is quite impressive how Tim is fighting back.

Dick, now even more alarmed and worried: Don’t let them fight in the kitchen!

Danyal: Too late, they found the japanese knives.

3.

Danyal, slightly disgusted but worried about his new older brother: You stink.

Jason, offended: And you’re fucking ugly.

4.

Danyal, looking at Duke while he eats cereal straight from the box: You know you’re not fully human, right?

Duke, eating his cereal because it’s his midnight snack: Neither you are.

Danyal, rising his mug of warm milk: Touché.

5.

Alfred’s first meeting with Danyal.

Alfred, looking at Danyal with wide open eyes and dropping what he was holding. He looks at Bruce expecting an explanation.

Bruce, pointing at Damian: This one Damian can explain.

Alfred then looks at Damian, one perfect british eyebrow up.

Damian, tightening his hold on Danyal’s hand: This all will be one more fond memory for the future, Pennyworth.

Alfred’s other eyebrow also rises in incredulity, the older man looking menacingly at the teen.

Danyal, whispering to Damian: I do not think that’s what he wanted to hear.

6.

Stephanie at Sunday breakfast: Alright D; Kiss, marry, kill. Your options are toast, Crepes and bagel, go!

Danyal: Kiss bagel, marry crepes and kill toast.

Duke: You don’t like toast?

Danyal: I don’t like box bread in general.

Tim: Why?

Danyal: It’s the Karen of breads.

Jason: Wtf?

7.

Dick walks into the living room to watch some T.V. before patrol and finds Cass recording something on the couch with her cellphone, Cass signals him to stay quiet as he walks closer to her. When Dick sees what his sister is recording his heart almost melts due to pure cuteness overdose. There, curled up on the couch with a sleeping Alfred the cat is a sleeping Danyal, both content and both purring.

Dick, crying: Send it to the family chat.

Cass nods in agreement.

8.

Danyal accompanies Damian and John to patrol around Gotham.

Danyal: Thank you for been his brother while I was away.

John: Thank you for saving him and for coming back.

Damian: What are you two doing up there?! I can’t fly you jerks!

9.

Danyal while helping Barbara update her firewalls.

Barbara: Are you sure this is safe?

Danyal, while drawing Tecnus’ summoning circle with a white glass marker on Barbara’s computer: Do not worry, Barbara, Tecnus will make sure no one messes with your systems ever again.

Barbara: That’s not what I mean.

10.

Danyal enters the kitchen and hides behind Alfred: Please make Damian stop.

Damian entering the kitchen right that instant: It is only fair Danyal.

Alfred standing between the twins: What is this about boys?

Danyal: Damian wants me to attend the gala instead of him.

Damian: It is only fair, Pennyworth. I’ve attended these ridiculous pleasantries for far too long, it is only fair for Danyal to take my place in some.

Alfred: Oh, but young master Danyal is also attending this one.

Danyal: What?!

Damian: Justice!

Alfred: The launching of the new product it’s just an excuse, this party was actually planned by Master Bruce and master Timothy to make your official social debut, young master. Master Bruce has even called Mister Clark and misses Lois for the surprise press conference.

Danyal: Ugh!