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waynedunlaptheorgandonor · 3 years

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watched s11ep1

i will provide you with a quick review before i disappear back into the ether of twd avoidance

lots of spoilers under the cut. also i wrote way too much and i worked all night and haven’t slept so i didn’t bother to reread literally any of it, so it might be completely nonsensical, tho if you don’t expect that from me by this point idk whose blog you’ve been reading

enjoy:

hokay, first off, i’ll start by saying that i enjoyed it more than i expected to. i’ve been avoiding any sort of discussion about stuff, but my google algorithm is so fucked at this point that i still get recommended articles and stuff every now and then, so i was already pretty aware of what i was walking into, and was expecting it to be eh, but actually i prob enjoyed it more than i enjoyed the finale

(don’t get too excited tho, the finale was rly boring lmfao)

anyway

episode starts off with a tense scouting mission

it takes .005 seconds into the episode for caryl to exchange a look of longing, establishing that they are still having weird conflict and are both too fucking stubborn to do anything about it even tho they hate it desperately

i imagine that will continue for a while

rosita, kelly, carol, maggie, what’s her face with the bad hair, and lydia (i think that’s everyone?) lower down to some army bunker or something, where a bunch of walkers are taking a snooze, and the girls are very respectful of walker naptime, and do their best not to wake them up

obviously they eventually wake up, but i’ll get to that in a sec

as they’re tiptoeing through the walker tulips, there’s this split second where carol spots a machine gun, and looks at maggie with a face like, “can i plzzzz, i am mad horny for that machine gun,” but maggie tells her no. (i 110% expected her to defy orders and accidentally wake up all the walkers, but she actually behaved herself for once. well. mostly)

never fear, tho, after the girl gang collects a bunch of MREs they go back to wait for the dudes waiting up top to pull them up, and bc men ruin everything, one of the ropes break, and daryl catches it before it falls, but then a slow motion drop of blood falls on a walker’s face, and just like that, walker naptime is over, and carol uses her bow and arrow for two seconds before she is like “fuck this” and whips out the machine gun

yes, she is super hot using it

yes, daryl watches her do it

anyway, all the other girls get rescued, and carol is about to be pulled up, but bc she is a #girlboss, she first makes a beeline for one more crate full of MREs. daryl covers her while she gets the loot, and when she gets back up top they have another charged moment as carol hands him back his knife

just fuck already, jfc

titles!

cut to alexandria where everything is still not smilestimes

BUT, we do get to see uncle daryl run and hug rj and judith (and dog), and FUCKING HERSHEL JR, LIGHT OF MY LIFE is also there

istg, they could not have casted a better child, i a d o r e him

oh, and some friends of maggie’s show up too, idk

cut to a staff meeting where everyone is like, whomp whomp, we’re all gonna starve to death unless we figure out something quick

cue maggie going, “oh, i know where food is, but it requires me to tell you my tragic backstory, in case anyone didn’t watch my bottle episode”

she tells her dramatic backstory about all her friends getting slaughtered by the reapers for no apparent reason, and then she’s like “anyway, let’s go back there!”

no one thinks it’s a great idea, but a group of people decide to go anyway, including daryl and gabriel. rosita is super pissed that gabriel is going, and carol doesn’t go, probably partly bc it’s a shitty fucking idea, and also bc they have to keep caryl apart bc otherwise they’ll fix their problems ahead of schedule and they won’t be able to drag out the needless angst

daryl looks kind of annoyed that carol doesn’t volunteer to go

bitch, i thought you wanted her to stop putting herself in the line of fire! make up your damn mind!

moving on

cut to a thunderstorm, where, if you look closely, you’ll notice daryl is wearing the STUPIDEST hat i’ve ever seen. just get an umbrella, jfc

for some reason negan is with them, bc ig he knows his way around washington dc, and no one in six years has bothered to figure out how to get around the city and/or get a map, and he is like “hey guys, maybe we shouldn’t try to walk in this fucking hurricane,” and everyone is like “FUCK YOU NEGAN, YOU’RE NOT THE BOSS OF US!!!”

this will be a common occurrence

but eventually daryl is even like “actually, it’s rly unpleasant out here, and my hat is mad stupid, can we go inside plz?”

so they go inside an old metro station, which is actually a rly cool cinematic choice. i rly like the idea, and they executed it rly well

speaking of executions

there are some fucking RULL CREEPY walkers. idk why they bothered me so badly, but they were what they at first assumed were corpses wrapped up in tarps, but turns out none of them had been properly put down, so they go through killing these rotted bodies that had supposedly been there since The Fall, and it’s very gross and cool

this entire time, btw, negan is like “hey, i know i’m a shitty person, but i have some rational arguments about why we shouldn’t be doing this right now,” and everyone is like, “FUCK YOU NEGAN, YOU’RE NOT THE BOSS OF US!!!” and he’s just like “god fucking damnit”

(i forgot to mention that at one point, when they’re headed into the metro station, negan is trying to warn ppl of the potential danger, and everyone is ignoring him, and he tries to talk to daryl, and daryl is like “fuck you, you think we’re BUDDIES?” and negan is like “oh, ok, so you’re gonna be like that too? fanfreakingtastic” and it’s very funny)

anyway. a fat monster zombie escapes its tarp at one point, and tries to eat some npc, and negan saves him, again is like “hey, anyone else realize that this is a FUCKING BAD PLAN?”, and everyone is like “we don’t care, you’re still shitty and we’re not listening to you, and you don’t actually care about random npc i would literally not be able to pick out in a lineup bc his face is so generic, you’re not the boss of us!!!”

it’s at this point that negan finally is like, “why am i even here? bc i know how to get around washington dc? do none of you have a map?” and i was like, “right?! that’s what i said!”

it’s then revealed that maggie only brought negan along to murder him under the guise of “oops, he got hurt in the line of duty, it wasn’t my fault,” and daryl has this look on his face that says, “i seriously need to stop hanging out with lethal women bent on revenge bc it’s gonna give me high blood pressure,” and maggie has a badass moment where she points a gun she has for some reason at negan and is like “i have like, one shred of human compassion left inside of me, and if you keep pushing me i will fucking kill you without a second thought, so shut the hell up”

(in her defense, negan had just dropped glenn’s name to purposely antagonize her, which was rude as hell)

(for the record, i’m completely on maggie’s side here, but negan still is right that trapping themselves in a metro station is a bad call)

anyway, moving away from that briefly

i think this jump cut happens sooner, i don’t actually remember, but whatever who cares, point is, we get to the part of the show that actually matters, and that’s anything involving my love, juanita “princess” sanchez

and also eugene, yumiko, and ezekiel

they are being asked increasingly invasive questions by commonwealth ppl, some of which i wish they actually would of answered (what do they use to wipe their asses with?? surely toilet paper has long since become extinct)

zeke, who is so much more tolerable as a character now that he’s not larping as a king, has this incredibly weird and sort of sexually charged moment with a dude in an orange stormtrooper costume, where he’s like, “i bet you were an asshole cop back before The Fall, you stupid fascist, #fuckthepolice, mb literally? idk, this moment has a lot of pent up aggression that could easily translate to hate sex, it might just be the intense eye contact, but w/e, let’s just move along,” and then he has a coughing fit to remind the audience that he’s currently dying of cancer, and orange stormtrooper is like “lolz, loser, drink some water you dumb piece of shit”

cut to the wholesome foursome sitting at a picnic table in a guarded courtyard eating gruel, and yumkio, who finally has a personality, and princess are like “hey, this place fucking sucks, can we leave?” and zeke is like, “yeah, i met this orange stormtrooper who i think might be dtf and/or murder, so we should probably bounce”

but eugene is like, “but i want some hot stephanie ass, and also some bullshit excuse about how mb commonewealth will save alexandria” which, they left before things went super downhill, right? idr. it was after hilltop fell, but they don’t know alexandria got fucked either, if i recall? w/e, not important

two seconds after he says this, they talk to some people who are like “we’ve been here for four months, or maybe it’s been nine, i don’t actually remember, i’ve stopped processing the passage of time,” and the wholesome foursome takes this as a bad sign, tho that’s just the life i’ve lived as a night worker during a pandemic, so i was like #mood

but then they watch some guy get dragged away screaming to get “reprocessed” and eugene is like “ok, nvm, let’s bounce”

(my theory on what “reprocessing” is, is that they’re stuck in a room and have to watch hours and hours of customer service training videos on vhs from the 90s)

i definitely got my jump cut scenes mixed up bc i think the negan accusing maggie of a murder plot thing happened in between this scene and then the next commonwealth scene, but w/e, i’ll just finish what happens in the commonwealth arch

the wholesome foursome are trying to hatch a plan to escape, except princess, my love, is distracted watching some stormtroopers flirt, and the other three are like “wtf, dude, how can you even tell any of them apart?” and princess then tells them every stormtroopers backstory bc she is brilliant and pays rly close attention to shit, and the other three are like, “this is useful information, thank you for being an insane person”

their plan involves yumiko and eugene dressing up as stormtroopers and leading princess and zeke out of the place, which works fine actually, except on their way out they come across the Depressing Wall of Probably Mostly Dead Missing Loved Ones

they’re about to leave, when princess is like, “wait, yumiko, you’re on here, that’s weird huh?”

sure enough, yumiko is on the wall, with a note from ig her sister

the scene ends with yumiko going, “guys...i can’t leave...i have tragic backstory to unveil”

tragic backstory to be continued ig

back in murder metro town, npc and some other npc have stolen all the supplies, there’s a train blocking the track, and a horde of walkers are coming towards them, so things are not going fantastic

they horde is too big to take down, so they start to climb on top of the train car to get away

but dog runs away!

and daryl, being every pet owner ever, is like “gotta go get my dog, guys, try not to get killed while i’m gone, c u soon!” and he ducks under the train and disappears

#priorities

the episode ends with maggie climbing up the train car but getting grabbed by a walker and dangling off the edge, and negan is there and they have a lion king moment where maggie is like, “scar! help me!” and negan is like “long live the king, bitch” and walks away into the shadows, leaving maggie to a potential death

which, while i know isn’t actually going to happen, would be a really fucking funny move on the writers’ part

like, “look, lauren’s back! and now she’s dead, bet you didn’t expect that!”

anyway

my assumption is negan will actually end up helping her up or something, continuing his ambiguous morality bullshit that actually isn’t ambiguous bc he BEAT GLENN TO DEATH WITH A FUCKING BAT WRAPPED IN BARBED WIRE IN FRONT OF HIS PREGNANT WIFE

the maggie/negan arch is kind of dumb, but whatevs, i’ll tolerate it, as long as my boy glenn gets justice in the end

anyway, cue credits!

final assessment: good episode. i’m much more interested in commonwealth than the reapers, tho i am hoping that daryl’s personality-less ex turns out to be a monster killing machine with no conscience, that’ll be fun. princess is a gift from god. hershel jr needs his own tv show. needs more carol (and caryl)

the end! going back into my walking dead free chamber! see you next episode!

-diz

#i didn't mean to recap the entire fucking episode lol #sorry #it's to make up for my lack of content lately #or something #anyway #caryl #twd s11ep1 #twd s11 spoilers #dunlap tp

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aonogifreactions · 4 years

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Minecraft headcanons no one asked for

a/n: olcvfgmlkfm this hit me so randomly i dont even know. enjoy!! under the cut due to length!

★ Characters: Rin, Yukio, Mephisto, Amaimon.

★ Words: 1,6k.

Rin:

this sweetheart loves playing with you whenever you ask him to! it relaxes him a lot, plus just having fun with you is making him really happy.

he stays somewhere near you, ALWAYS. he’s way too embarrassed to admit he’s scared (same Rin, same), so whenever he yelps or jumps on his bed because he heard a zombie growl, you can laugh as much as you want, but don’t be surprised if he shoots a glare at you and pouts.

he’ll bring you whatever you want. wood? fine. iron? no problem, he’s already on his way to find a cave (even if he’s afraid of caves.. he’ll do it for you).

he’s not very good at building, so usually he leaves it to you, and it doesn’t really matter whether you live in a “house” made out of dirt or a full ass mansion; no matter what your building skills are, he’s gonna praise you anyway.

sucks at parkour. DON’T ask him to play a parkour map, he’s gonna whine and barely make one jump.

speaking about bad jumping, he’s really clumsy and somehow always ends up with the highest death streak. for example, he’s sprinting to kill a pig, but somehow doesn’t notice a fucking lava pool below him and jumps right into it. accidentally hits a zombie piglin (or pigman, depends on what version you play on) and he’s dead.

HOWEVER, he’s the guy who gets really lucky. do you remember/have a person/friend that always manages to get diamonds first? yep, it’s him. gets the best enchants. both on books and tools or armor. he also gets the ender dragon kill first too.

he won’t play without optifine and texture pack other than the default one. he hates it. his fave is faithful and if it doesn’t work, he’s constantly commenting on how the default one is hurting his eyes.

he will NOT survive listening to both disc “11″ and “13″ he hates it. don’t play it unless you want him to cry.

hasn’t played alpha nor beta versions, but he likes watching vids of it! he gets very nostalgic, which honestly bewilders him because he started playing way after beta. sometimes you can catch him listening to the old soundtrack all teared up, or falling asleep to it.

LOVES GREEN PARROTS. one of them is named after you.

MAY I INFORM YOU, HE DOES PLACE HIS BED TOGETHER WITH YOURS.

Yukio:

unlike rin, he’s always complaining about you asking him to play, but he’s obviously gonna do it (because he loves u,, even if he says he doesn’t). it also relaxes him, but mostly, he likes it because he’s able to get his mind off of “adult things” and finally get some rest.

wooo, he’s the brave one. he isn’t afraid of zombie gurgles or anything like that, so he’s always going to caves first (and gets lost because he’s literally going deeper and deeper FDMKFMV). however, there’s one thing that always startles him... cave sounds. he doesn’t scream, but if you’re near him, you can sometimes witness his character spinning or jerking his head in another direction because of it vcxkvnjhbv

don’t, i repeat, dON’T make fun of him afterward. he’s gonna go all the way back to you and kill you (and then go back mining.. like nothing happened).

the perfectionist. always mines all the resources he sees; during building something he also always makes sure everything’s proportional. gladly counts blocks for you, if your brain can’t work anymore.

now, building! not very skilled with building houses, but he likes building simple decorations, like fountains, gardens or farms. despite him always claiming it’s bad, his work always looks very detailed. not very good with ideas of those things at first, so mainly at the beginning he always finds some inspirations on the internet, but later gets the hang of it and builds his own ideas!

his favorite place to have a house in is somewhere near the ocean.

likes default textures. too used to have anything else.

doesn’t like listening to in-game music, unless it’s something from beta or alpha versions (like “Haggstorm” or “Wet Hands”). Usually listening to his own favorite songs on Spotify.

His favorite disc is “Far”. It used to be “Cat”, but due to him obtaining it like 3000 times he stopped liking it. nor hearing it anywhere near.

when he goes out to get resources and/or food, he comes back with full inventory and shulkers, just like a father that’s about to feed his kids. minimum 10 stacks of iron, coal blocks and food. the nearest 10k chunks of caves is already explored, so you better be ready for a long, lONG WALK to get something new.

he’s also fond of beta versions, but rarely plays them without you.

Mephisto:

this motherfucker wants to literally speedrun every fucking game. meanwhile you’re busy making a wooden pick, he’s out there typing “can’t wait to beat the dragon and get elytras~! ★”

remembers literally every recipe for all items and alchemy. personal minecraft wikipedia right there.

he MUST have a fucking mansion, otherwise, he isn’t playing. fortunately, he’s tried building before, so he’s perfectly capable of building one himself. it’s all made out of pink wool and concrete, along with white concrete accents here and there.

adding to the previous one, he also has a great decorating sense. the rooms look very good, space is filled nicely and is both pretty and practical. the mansion itself looks very good on outside and inside.

of course, the main bedroom that’s designed especially for you two looks WAY TOO GOOD. I'm not even gonna start on him messing with plugins and making it even prettier.

his skin is a random, pink anime girl.

master with redstone. everything’s automated, there also might be hidden rooms with surprises. there’s a hidden shrine dedicated for you. he hasn’t told you about that though... >_>

even though he gets many useful things from the swamp biome, like lily pads or that cyan flowers, he hates this biome with a burning passion. if he sees it anywhere near his render distance he’s spasming and immediately voicing his annoyance. hates that specific, “dirty and unsightly” green water and grass color.

he doesn’t do much mining, but happily goes with you if you ask him to. even if he has no armor on, he never dies. NEVER. there might be 6 creepers but he somehow survives their explosion.

not scared at all. he knows this game like the back of his hand. he might, however, attempt to scare YOU instead. on purpose. or accidentally hit you so you fall from a large height and die. if you get upset at him afterward, he’s gonna give you even better stuff you’ve had before.

HE LOVES PLAYING ALPHA AND BETA. he started to play probably around very early alpha, so coming back to such simpler times is making him somewhat nostalgic (even if he denies it). on those versions, he builds things that used to be popular back in the day, like simple towers of cobblestone or houses inside mountains. it hits him hard when old soundtrack plays.

Amaimon:

he’s very, very confused. first off, he’s not used to the game at all, but then, he googles almost any recipe or asks you thousands of questions about how to make things. after some time, he finally figures out that there’s a book with recipes in game.

he might steal your items, but usually, he gives you back better items. for example, you notice your iron pickaxe is missing, but suddenly he sprints into the house and throws at you diamonds.

oh, he’s aware of the existence of chests, but for some reason, he likes throwing various items at you. he runs off afterward, leaving you with everything on the ground.

don’t introduce him to bedrock edition, he hates playing minecraft with a gamepad, and will smash it immediately. java edition is the only help for this man.

he’s also clumsy, like Rin. he manages to do that less than him somehow, but he tends to die pretty often anyway. his deaths are the stupidest, sometimes he doesn’t even bother explaining it. he literally can die with gravel suffocating him.

once he goes to the nether, he doesn’t wanna go back to the overworld. he says something along the lines of it being similar to gehenna or whatever, but. no matter what version it is - pre- or post- update 1.16, he likes it and that’s it.

his favorite biome in the overworld is jungle - mostly because of the lively color of grass, but also tall trees. he likes having there treehouses and always asks if you can build one (because he sucks at building. even worse than Rin >_>). his fave in the nether is blue forest or basalt biome - however, he becomes mad quickly on the second one due to frequent gaps filled with lava and magma cubes.

he likes normal slimes though. he even has a pet slime!! QwQ

he named his pet slime after Behemoth. keeps it safe in a glass cube and checks on it regularly. Behemoth doesn’t know about it doe.

he bullies every single villager that’s within his sight. burns their homes. the only thing that survives is the iron golem because he thinks it’s cool.

plays with the basic Steve skin. partially because he doesn’t know how to change it and that he isn’t determined enough to look for any.

forgets that crouching exist and falls off almost every cliff or anything that’s considered high.

#Ao no Exorcist #blue exorcist #rin okumura #Rin Okumura x reader #Yukio Okumura #yukio okumura x reader #mephisto pheles #amaimon #Headcanon #Pure

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suntrastar · 4 years

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abstract: chapter 2

chapter 1!! chapter 3!! you can also find this fic on ao3 :)

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Artist!Reader

Summary: Wait- Bucky Barnes attends your art class? And you didn’t even recognize him?

Word Count: 7500 exactly. i am so lame.

Author’s note: hello!! when i was uploading ch 1 on here it never once crossed my mind that i should probably add ch 2 as well ... but oh well! it’s here now. hope u all like it. reblogs and likes and whatever else are very much appreciated. also i forgot to say last time- i paint a little but i am NOT a professional artist! i’m making all of this up as i go! if i’m wrong with something do NOT tell me. shh. but ok now enjoy!!

A blank canvas stands before you, as big as your torso and propped up on an easel. White, unmarked, clean- pristine and teeming with potential.

You hate it.

In your lap sits your sketchbook. Pages upon pages of rough, half-baked ideas, each more mediocre than the last. You thought that maybe you could churn something decent out if you came to your studio, soaked in enough of the atmosphere to coax out some sort of productivity.

Well, you were wrong. It’s the opposite- the empty canvas is slowing your thoughts down, muddling them together, disorienting you.

You stare at it for the better part of an hour, white searing into your vision, shoulders sagging with each passing minute.

There’s something there. You have something, a rough chunk of an idea in the back of your mind that could be great, but you can’t figure out what it is. And it’s not something you can just google- you can’t search up how to think a thought you haven’t had yet- so you sit on your own, unproductivity festering, oozing out like the orange from the skylights.

You’re not doing too well. The sun sets before it’s five, it’s Monday, you have a fifth adult class to teach, yesterday you only got to a third of your chores. It sucks- you should be better than this! Put-together, neat, confident, creative, actually able to do something.

You wallow freely, feeling no satisfaction when you reach forward and push the side of the canvas with one finger, tipping it off the easel and sending it clattering to the floor.

The warmth of the sun burns into your back. You don’t like wasting time like this, never have. Maybe you needed to, though, to help get you back on track.

You heave out a sigh and crack too many joints as you stand up, folding up your easel, picking up the dreaded canvas, shoving your sketchbook into your purse. The drawing pencils you set out on the table are neatly lined back up into their metal tin, the kneadable eraser kneaded for a few frustrating seconds before it’s put back as well.

You zip your coat all the way up to your chin. It’s still freezing outside, and the walk from your studio to the subway, from the subway to the other studio, is always a cold one.

***

At least you can move on from the watercolors.

Oil pastels! Still not a very desirable medium, but for today, you’ll take it. At least it’s saturated, at least you don’t have to worry about the whole thing coming apart with a spare drop of water. The way it stains your fingers and blends unpredictably is kind of charming, too.

You run through your demonstrations. You gesture to where the paper is located. You make a few suggestions for what people could draw: trees, landscapes, birds. Then you remember a box of handheld mirrors the studio owner keeps in one of the storage closets, and run over to get it.

“You can use them for self portraits,” you say, and then a particular man in the back scowls, and then you add that it’s optional.

But Steve takes two mirrors.

You don’t have time to analyze all of that. You walk around, offer a few words of advice. Shonna lays the preliminary sketch for a heron, and you’ve never seen grey and yellow look so nice together. Your favorite couple, Marcie and Ahmed, draw each other, but neither of them can draw. They laugh at themselves as they misshape each other’s noses, miscalculate the distance between each other’s eyes.

It’s cute. You stop at them and laugh a little, before continuing your round to the back of the room, to Steve and Bucky.

“Everything working out okay?” You say, while Steve frowns into a mirror.

“I feel kind of stuck-up doing this,” Steve says, and brings the mirror even closer to his face, right up to his eyes.

You laugh a little. “Don’t worry,” you say, and peer down at his sketch, which is already looking uncannily like him. “It looks just like you! You even got the nose right.”

Steve nods, still bothered by the apparent narcissism of this activity. He pulls a peach pastel from the set. “I guess,” he says, unconvinced, and streaks the pastel over the side of his drawn face, and you quietly marvel over how well he understands shadow. “Are you okay?”

The question catches you off guard.

“What?”

Steve sets his mirror down.

Next to him, Bucky glowers at you, like he wasn’t smiling at your bad jokes in the cafe, like, two days ago. He’s so vehement- you’re starting to think that you dreamt up the entire encounter.

“You look kind of stressed,” Steve says, and then winces. “Sorry. I didn't mean it like that.”

“It’s okay,” you say quickly, and hesitate for a second, before thinking what the hell, and deciding to just let it out. “I am stressed. I’m so stressed- Steve, I’m, like, this close to losing it.”

Steve’s eyebrows knit together. “What’s wrong?”

He’s so sincere. Always so nice, and you don't even care that Bucky’s glare deepens when you pull out the seat and sit down in it, because you are dying to tell someone.

“I have this show in the summer,” you say, and clench your hands, because just the thought of the show makes you want to wring your own neck, “but I still have no idea what to do. I mean, I do, but it’s like, I have point A and point B, but I don’t have the line connecting it. Does that make sense?”

“What are the points?” Steve asks, and takes up the mirror again, to analyze the lower portion of his face.

“Okay,” you say, and lean back in your seat, and maybe it’s a little unprofessional, but you’re cool enough that it really isn’t, “Point A is that I want everything to be busy. Lots of patterns and fabric and plants. Like, I don’t want there to be any resting space for your eyes, because that’s boring. And point B is that I want to use people- and this is where the problem comes in, because I don’t know what people to use.”

You’re talking kind of fast, but Steve seems to still be understanding what you’re saying. “Why not?”

“Because I want it to be personal. For my previous stuff, I would just post ads on Instagram whenever I needed models, and take pictures of random people and paint them. But I don’t want to do that again, but I don’t know what I want to do. I want people to look at the people and say ‘wow, that’s personal,’ but I don't want them to be able to tell how personal it is. Like, personal at an arm’s length.

Steve stares at you like you have definitely lost it.

You pointedly don’t look at Bucky.

Then he reconsiders, and gives you a supportive little smile, and you can feel your stomach sinking further and further down.

“I don’t fully understand that,” he says, and reaches not for the orange or red pastel, but the pale blue one. “But I’m sure you’ll get it. Just give it some time.”

You watch him outline his chin, the left side of his nose, little strokes of his eyebrows. Blue and leaving little smears and flakes of color, and creating this swirling pattern with one of the streaks of peach, like ocean and sand upon each other, so pretty and bold.

“Thanks, Steve,” you say, and he grins into his mirror, still adding blue. It looks amazing. “Also, would you ever consider switching careers? The art world is missing out on you.”

He blushes.

“Use people you know.”

You and Steve turn fast to look at Bucky, still glaring. His red oil pastel, held tight in his gloved hand, looks ready to snap.

At least you’re sitting diagonally from him, instead of directly across. At least you don’t back down from looking him in the eye.

“For what?” you say, like you aren’t following, even though you are- you just have a feeling that he won’t tell you what he’s thinking unless you ask for it.

“For your painting thing,” he says. “Because it’s personal. To you.”

You stare at him like he’s crazy for a second or two, and he looks into his own mirror, set flat on the tabletop, without peering at his face. You glance over at his paper, at half a page full of perfectly identical red boxes, and realize that he’s drawing the ceiling panels.

Okay- lame.

But also, like, funny.

Then it starts to click.

“Wait,” you say, and you feel bashful, because he’s been listening to you this whole time, and in his silence he must have been thinking of you, and the thought of that is just too satisfying for you to let go of. He’s been thinking of you.

Or maybe he just wants you to leave.

“That works,” you say, and then you suddenly have the connecting line. “That works perfectly. It’s, like, not personal, but…”

“Familiar,” Bucky says, and you are half a red box away from leaning over the table and throwing yourself into his arms.

That’s exactly it.

“Thank you,” you say, and your brain is running a mile a minute, and he’s just staring at you. “Thank you so much. That’s exactly it, oh my god.”

You don’t even realize how far you’ve leaned over, hands balanced on the table, craning your head towards him. And you don’t even care- pieces are shifting and everything makes sense, and the weather outside isn’t cold, it’s beautiful! And this class is wonderful. Bucky himself is wonderful.

You float through the rest of the class. The clarity of your thoughts is jarring, the way you understand what you’re trying to do now. Flowers, fabric, and then you have an idea with a pair of earrings. You ache for a pen and sheet of paper to write it all down, but if you started doing it now, you don’t think you would be able to get up once the class ends.

Once, you smile at Bucky. He doesn’t return it- and you’re too in over your head to care.

***

He’s not genuinely interested.

This is a precaution. Bucky takes lots of precautions- he sleeps with weapons at his bedside, goes out with knives strapped to his body, always sweeps unfamiliar rooms before sitting, doesn’t tell anyone anything. This is just another thing thrown on top of his already exhausted routine, necessary to his safety and sanity and-

To his basic peace of mind.

He’s not a very good typer, so he asks JARVIS to look it all up instead, and transfer it to his overpriced, Stark-issued laptop.

There’s relief in that action itself- he tells JARVIS the wrong name twice, because that’s how personally disinterested he is. So disinterested that even something as simple as a name eludes him.

He doesn’t care.

The information gets transferred to his laptop. Bucky takes his time, carefully scanning the screen, preparing to tuck away anything concerning, for future reference.

There is a lot of information.

Articles- too many articles. Editorials, interviews, reviews. And pictures, and even videos, and he wonders if Steve ever brought this up to him, this level of renown that apparently you possess, and Bucky just wasn’t paying attention. But no, that couldn’t have been true- he’s been genetically enhanced to always be paying attention.

He’s a slow reader, and whenever the fonts are too small it gives him a headache, so rather than reading an article, he goes to the pictures tab.

Your art shows up first. He clicks on the picture to enlarge it, and it takes a long while for him to fully comprehend what he’s seeing.

A woman dancing with a cow in the background, a woman with butterflies on her eyelashes. Two men wearing crowns of pearls, but when he zooms in closer, they’re birds. A figure in a dress, wearing sleeves that resemble fish, with a halo of koi fish circling her head. Everything has to do with animals, and there’s so much movement, and he doesn’t like art, but he does have to admit that it’s all so pretty.

And there’s lots of yellow.

And as he scrolls further down, there’s pictures of you. In some, you stand with people who look ridiculously pretentious, with weird hair and odd clothes and thick-framed glasses. Other artists, he guesses, who have to let everyone know that they’re artists before they even open their mouths.

Then there’s pictures of just yourself. You, unsmiling next to a half-finished canvas, in the middle of twirling a paintbrush between your fingers. You, unsmiling in a white-walled photography studio. You, smiling while wearing a ridiculous sequined dress, which confuses him until he reads the description, and learns that the dress itself is an art installation.

It makes his head hurt.

He looks some more, even though he’s not really learning anything. Or maybe he is learning, just nothing concerning like he was hoping for. Something that would justify this search in the first place, but all he’s found is that you have pretentious colleagues and wear ridiculous dresses and deserve Steve’s admiration the way you’ve been receiving it.

Eventually, he coaxes himself into clicking a link. An article with a big publication, too big for just an art instructor- but you’re not just an art instructor. you’re, like, good. The article is an interview, which could have just been recorded and uploaded, but for some reason, it was transcribed and written in article format anyway.

The twenty-first century is stupid like that.

When it was written, you had just had your first solo exhibition, and it was more successful than anybody ever anticipated. The interview is meant to be a little off-the-wall, charmingly eccentric, asking about favorite foods and then your future aspirations in the same sequence, and then debating different colors and some political situation within the same question.

Bucky stumbles through a paragraph or two, not really comprehending anything but getting the gist, and his head hurts more, but he’s blissfully relieved of it all when Steve barges into his room without knocking.

He shuts his laptop screen so hard that the screen nearly cracks.

“Woah,” Steve says, and puts a hand up, but doesn’t take any steps back. “What was that?”

“Nothing,” Bucky says, and stares at the laptop with fury, as if he’ll be able to close the tab that was still open through telekinesis alone.

“O-kay,” Steve says, totally unconvinced. He hoists the bag on his shoulder- his gear bag, with his supplies. He’s headed out for an indefinite period of time, anywhere between three days and two weeks. In the bag is his suit, in its patriotic spandex glory, his other supplies, bandages and a gun and a sketchbook.

To pass the time, if he gets bored on the flight.

“Are you leaving now?” Bucky asks.

Steve nods his head. “Yeah. Just came to say bye.”

“You mean see you later,” Bucky corrects, because those two things mean different things, and the difference is enough to matter to him.

“See you later,” Steve says, and he shifts, one massive wall of muscle leaning from one foot to the other. He’s uncertain of something- like Bucky can’t handle himself on his own.

He can handle himself.

Bucky lifts one silver hand and waves.

***

He doesn’t need to go.

Steve hasn’t returned, still somewhere in South America, away on a mission. It’s not like anyone is going to check, either, if he attends or not. It’s not like this is required, like he has some sort of moral or contractual obligation to show up.

Still, it’s become part of his routine, and deviating from routine makes his skin itch. As Monday strikes again, he slides into his seat in the art studio. At least he’s not too early; he doesn't know how he would be able to handle any pre-class conversation without Steve being there to do the actual conversating.

You start right on time. Always so prompt.

“We’re going to be working with oil pastels again,” you say, and make a big gesture with your hands. You wear chunky gold earrings that wink under the lights. “But I’m going to let you do whatever you want. Draw whatever. I’ve got out a few different types of paper, and some different tools for creating textures- I’ll show you all how to use them really quick.”

You scrape a sheet of paper hastily colored purple with something that looks like a plastic knife. Then you use something that looks like a plastic-toothed comb, and then some other pointy plastic objects to make lines and whirls on the paper. Texture. He watches the paper, some, but mostly you.

You look over at him two times. No more than you do at anyone else, but he still notices- as a precaution.

“Okay, I'm done. You all can get to work,” you say, and set the purple sheet down on your own table, at the front. “Have fun. Get crazy with it.”

Bucky looks down at the paper he’s set on the table, yellow-white and slightly textured. He looks at the oil pastels, sitting so dejectedly in their little cardboard dish, a product of low budget and disuse.

He takes the yellow one.

You come over to his table some time later, after getting to everyone else. He’s always last, he’s noticed- because he sits at the back, and because you like to take your time talking with Steve. But Steve isn’t here today, which means you won’t linger, which means he can continue on sitting in peace.

“How’s it going?” You ask. One of your hands comes to rest on top of the chair across from him.

“Your shoe is untied.”

Your smile falters as you look down, at your red sneaker- you wear hot red sneakers- but reaffirms itself a second later as you slide the chair out, and prop your foot up on it.

Bucky suddenly feels off. Your knee rests slightly above his head, and your head is tucked down but still looming high over him, cast in shadow. He’s beneath- under. And you’re double-knotting the laces of your shoe.

“Thanks,” you say, and it’s awkward to thank someone for something so little, but you don’t say it like it’s awkward. “I probably would’ve tripped on the laces. Anyways, again, how’s it going?”

He considers the question. “Fine.”

“Fine,” you repeat. You take your foot off the chair and tuck it back in, and then lean- loom even more- over him, looking over at his piece of paper.

He glares at you, even though you’re not looking at him.

“Wow,” you say, and your eyebrows are creasing, and he thinks that you’re struggling to come up with something to say, and after seeing those paintings online, he can’t even take offense at it. “Those lines are so… straight. How are they so straight?”

Because his metal hand has an internal stabilizer.

“They just are,” he says.

You look at him. Everything suddenly feels stuttered and slow, drenched in honey. He’s expecting some type of joke, and praying for the ground to open and swallow him up, bury him under six feet of tile. Has silence always been this unbearable?

“Awesome,” you say.

Then you look away and he’s able to breathe again, and you’re turning away, ready to flounce back over to someone else. He looks back down at his paper and picks up the pastel again, fingers pressing over the paper wrapper, so that he doesn’t get anything on his glove. He draws another straight line.

“Wait, one more thing.”

You turn around and his head snaps up, fully alarmed.

You take in his expression and look like you’re about to laugh. But you stifle it back, bite on your lip as you pull the chair back out again and sit down, across from him. Steve isn’t even here- Steve isn’t even your motivation for being here, today, and all he’s thinking about is you in that ridiculous art installation of a dress.

Floor-length. V-neck.

“So,” you say, and Bucky can’t look at you. In his peripheral vision he sees you curl your hands together, resting on top of the table. The glass on the watch flashes. “So, you know the idea that you gave me last week? With painting people I know? I started this painting of my mom- and all of these ideas in my head make sense to me now- wait. Let me show you, first.”

He keeps his eyes dutifully trained on his paper. Still, he can hear the smile in your voice as you pull your phone out of your back pocket, tapping away at something before turning the screen around for him to see.

Your arm is stretched all the way across the table. Bucky leans in a little bit, to see the picture you’ve pulled up.

A partially painted image of a woman that looks like you but not you, with almost the same face as you, but with hands mottled with age and a mouth starting to droop at the corners. Your mom, apparently, sitting with her hands clasped the way you’re clasping yours. She wears earrings that look like huge flowers, lilies, or something, and in a white dress that looks halfway like a swirled illusion.

“Nice,” he says, grudgingly, and you keep your hand outstretched. He wonders if you want him to take the phone from you, if you’re waiting for him to say more. “I like the dress.”

You beam at him. He’s been looking at you without realizing. “Thank you. I actually got the idea or the pattern from Steve- I’m just stealing ideas, aren’t I- but did you see the thing he did with his self-portrait last week? The swirls? It was so pretty- I couldn’t help myself. Anyways, where is he today?”

“Out of town.”

Dread curls at the pit of his stomach.

Bucky doesn’t know why, but he has the heavy, stone-cold realization that he does not want to be talking about Steve right now.

It must show, because you’re in the middle of opening your mouth to say something, and then abruptly close it.

“Oh,” you say, and you shift. He realizes that he doesn’t want you to leave yet, either. “Nice.”

You’re getting out of your seat. You must be feeling it too, the heaviness, the atmosphere so overwrought with polite dislike, because he still doesn’t like you, even though he knows your name now, but-

“What’s your next painting going to be?” he asks, so quickly that it comes off as a little frantic.

Your eyes widen and you’re carried back down, drifting back into your seat.

“I’m so glad you asked that,” you say, as you settle in. For a second, you’re frighteningly put together, shoulders straight, hands neatly folded, earrings glinting. “I’ve been wanting to tell someone about it so bad.”

You want your next painting to be of your dad. A portrait of just his face, close enough to add little, inconsequential details. You have this idea where you create patterns that look like flowers out of his wrinkles. He has teeth that are always yellow, because he drinks so much coffee, you say, a habit you’ve picked up, but you want to paint them almost neon, bring as much attention to it as you can. His hair is thinning and you want to make it all blue, like a receding tide.

It devolves, and his grip on the pastel loosens as you fall into something more and more jumbled, divulging other ideas you have, about things that aren’t directly related. You want to go big- much larger than life. A canvas as big as your body, just to paint a head. You make your own canvases, too, and you show him your palms, skin beneath your fingers raised and bumpy, with a ropy pink scar on your right hand. It’s from an incident with a saw, you say, even though you know your way around a saw. He almost wants to touch it.

Bucky thinks of his own right hand, with as many scars as it has lines. What does that mean, in terms of fate? He knows his way around a saw, too, and many other bigger, dangerous things, but you don’t know or don’t care about it. It devolves further, you sink lower in your seat, shoulders curving forward, and you’re telling him something else about nothing, and you aren’t minding that he’s mostly focused on just listening.

You’re laughing when someone behind you clears their throat.

You turn back, to see Shonna, looking uncomfortable as she fiddles with the strap of her purse.

“I’ve got to go,” she says, and, for whatever reason, gives you a look. “I finished my drawing, so I’m taking it with me. See you next week.”

“Have a good night!” You say, and cast a spare glance at your watch, to see how early she’s leaving.

She’s not leaving early.

You’re running nearly twelve minutes over.

“Oh my god,” you say, quietly, and pull away from Bucky. You have to pull this back together, quickly, you stand up and clear your throat.

“Hey, everybody,” you say, and so many people older than you turn to look at you, but the situation you’ve put yourself in doesn’t let you appreciate the thrill of it. “I wasn’t paying attention- we’re running past time. You all can go ahead and head out. I’ll clean up today. I’m sorry.”

Bucky is ignored, and it’s funny how quickly you’re able to slip away from him, him and unrelenting blue eyes and a stoic silence to bounce all of your thoughts off of. You keep your back to him and head back to the front of the room, standing and exchanging pleasantries as everyone heads out, apologizing with smiles and chastising yourself for being so careless.

Nobody berates you, though. You keep on expecting them to. There’s a sudden, sharp pain in the back of your neck. They all leave, and then it’s just you, standing by the entrance and staring at all the tables you have to clean, all the unfinished art projects you have to slide on the art racks, alongside the sticky poster-painted houses and clouds and corner-suns drawn by the kids in your Wednesday and Thursday classes.

All by yourself.

Or not.

Bucky lingers, putting his pastels back in the tray. He’s so silent that you missed him the first time, even though he was standing right there. Isn’t he some type of spy?

“Bucky, I got it,” you call. Without anyone in the room, it's like everything you just said to him didn’t happen. There’s no buffer and it’s just you and just him, and it's so empty. “You don’t have to clean up.”

Something in his gorgeous face shifts. You wish he was a little more expressive. His eyes hang dark underneath the brim of his dorky hat.

“I can help you,” he says, and adds, after an impossibly long second of hesitation, “I’ll make sure you don’t break any jars.”

You laugh out loud, but you’re confused. First listening to you talk on and on, now offering to help you and trying to make a joke- he doesn’t like you enough to be doing any of it.

You know you like him, or at least find him intriguing enough to disregard his douchiness, but, like, still. Something’s off.

But then again, how do you deny him after that joke?

“Thank you,” you say, so formally, and you want to grimace. “That’s really nice of you.”

He blinks slowly, and you think that he’s going to smile, catch a ghost of it in his eyes.

It vanishes too fast, as he slides the cover back on the tray of sad oil pastels. You’re about to make some cynical comment about the lack of funding for the arts, just so there’s something to occupy all this new space between you and him, so you don’t accidentally lessen the space by doing something dumb, like moving closer to him.

“Where do I put these?” He asks, holding the sad tray up.

***

Steve returns for the seventh Monday class! You’re so happy when he walks in through the doors, abandoning your stacks of paper and speed-walking toward with a smile and a bouquet of paintbrushes.

“Hey, Steve!” you say, and he spooks, a little, but relaxes when he sees it’s you. No Rina today- she’s been leaving early lately. Maybe there’s some residual fear in her, just from that stare she was subjected to, all those weeks ago. “It’s good to see you.”

You get those stares every week, multiple times an hour, are getting one right this second- she needs to get over it.

He smiles and comes further into the classroom, meeting you over one of the tables. “It’s good to see you, too. Sorry I missed class last week.”

You wave him off. “Don’t worry about it. Here, take these for a second.”

In his massive hands, the paintbrushes look silly. Like dandelion stems, but it’s Steve, so he holds them gingerly, at a distance, like the wood might snap if he applies even the tiniest bit of pressure.

It’s not a good thought that you have next- it’s a deplorable thought- but you wonder if all super-soldiers have hands like that.

Behind Steve, there’s Bucky, standing in his usual black ensemble and glower. You know, now, that if you asked him to help, he would, but your mouth suddenly goes gummy and you trail off to the shelves instead, talking yourself up as you try to find a container for the brushes.

There, on the top shelf. How did it get all the way up there? You swipe it off and turn around, cheery and hopefully composed enough to not let any of your deplorable thoughts slip, and-

He’s there.

Not there, not all up in your face the way you would not want him to be, but closer, next to Steve instead of behind. His cheeks are rosy. You look out the window, to see if it looks cold. His face is pink, but he looks cold. Winter Soldier. You’re running hot, hot, hot.

“Hey,” You say, and politely smile, like while cleaning up last week, you didn’t spend an extra twenty minutes just talking to him.

“Hey,” he says, and does nothing, like the impassive brick he always is.

God.

You can’t be like this. This isn’t… it’s not cute. It’s embarrassing.

“Help me find the palettes,” you tell him, and place the container on the table for Steve. “I’ve been looking for them, for, like, ten minutes, and I can’t find them. And we’re painting today, so we need palettes.”

Steve dumps the brushes into the container. Bucky nods. He understands the importance of the palettes.

“Okay,” he says, and in the time it takes you to turn back to the shelves, he’s already standing behind you, surveying the shelves with you. Steve is probably giving you a look- he and Bucky seem like the kind of friends that tell each other all of their feelings, paint each other’s nails and read each other's diaries- he probably knows what’s going on.

If he does, you would like for him to tell you. All you know is that you’re really liking this.

Bucky finds the box of palettes wedged in the back of one of the shelves, in between thick pads of watercolor paper and glass cases of craft knives.

“Thank you,” you say, as he hands the box to you, as his fingertips just barely brush against yours. “Thank you so much.”

You catch another ghost-smile. “You’re so welcome,” he says.

Behind Bucky’s back, Steve gawks at you in disbelief.

Acrylic paint- the love of your life.

“It’s best for me to just let you guys loose,” you say, in your spot at the front of the room. Even now, your hands are itching, humming with energy, humming for a paintbrush. “If you need help, ask me, of course, but it’s more fun to just try and see what you can do.”

That’s part of why you love it- for its ease. Quick-drying, not water-soluble once dried, saturated. What is there even to explain? That you apply it with a brush? That you can blend with it? All of that is, like, obvious. All of it can be learned from trial, and any error can just be painted over.

Expression is so simple, with acrylic paint.

It’s messier, too, but nobody’s perfect.

You walk around. Shonna sketches out more birds- finches, yellow and mid-flight. Marcie and Ahmed start by painting without sketching first- one going for a sunset, the other palm trees. Classic. You catch a few others, silhouettes, some flowers, some abstract paint splatters.

Then, of course, you head to the back.

Steve is something out. You can’t tell what it is, yet, but you know that it's going to be beautiful. It’s already beautiful. He looks up and gives you a wordless smile, then gets right back to work. One of his hands is splayed over the sheet of chipboard, the other drawing quick, light lines with his pencil.

You wish that you could give them canvas. But canvas is expensive, and again- funding is bad, and you want to save the few you’ve scrounged up for one of the later classes, when everyone is more confident in their abilities.

Bucky mixes paint on his palette. Red and… black.

“That’s a pretty color,” you say, nodding down at the sad maroon. He looks up at you and you ball your hands into fists, placing them on your hips, not because you put your hands on your hips, but because you feel like you should be doing that right now, with how he’s looking at you. Gutting you.

He acknowledges you with a nod, and goes back to mixing the colors.

Good grief, how much more is he going to mix?

You’re suddenly searching your mind for something interesting to say.

It’s awkward, and you’re even more mad at yourself- how can you be awkward in your own class? You’re so off today. Even Steve is solely focused on his canvas, and you’re happy for it- he’s drawing and really getting into it, but now you have no reason to linger!

You stay, for another awkward, insufferable second, before moving on to somewhere else.

It’s whatever. You want to think about it, but you push it out because there’s so many more important things to consider- like the painting of your mom nearly finished in your studio, the sketched-out canvas of your father, the dozens of other little ideas pushing up through the cracks in your thoughts, like delightful weeds.

You want to paint Rina. If her hair is still red when you see her, you’ll draw her upside down with poppies, wearing whatever crazy outfit she wants. You want to paint another friend, who’s constantly travelling but might be in New York next month, draped in gold jewelry and marigolds. You might even- you might even draw a few people you don’t talk to anymore, or people you don’t talk to enough, draw them with pansies and chrysanthemums.

Flowers. First, you were fixated on animals, but now it’s flowers- but it’s wholly unsymbolic, because symbolism gets trite, and you just want to make something that looks pretty.

Nobody asks you for help. Acrylic is fun like that- it’s a medium where you can help yourself. The class gets loud- lively, even, and you just sit in your chair at your table and take it all in.

Bucky, in the far back, works on his painting with concentration that rivals Steve’s. You look for too long.

He can probably feel your eyes on him. You wonder if you should look him up, but that’s weird. Really weird, and what would you even search for? A Wikipedia article? Pictures? An interview?

Maybe you should, but you like the hot-and-cold mystery just how it is.

The class ends on time. You’re extra vigilant today, showing people how to lay their paintings on the drying racks, showing them where to dump their paint water.

You say that you’ll wash the brushes. Bucky can tell that you don’t trust anyone else to do it properly. You say that you’ll wipe down the tables, too, and you’ll move all the supplies back to the shelves. All you want is for everyone to put their paintings away and wash their palettes.

The work is done, and everyone files out, spurred by you wishing them all a good week. Steve lingers, as usual, and Bucky follows behind him.

You didn’t talk to him that much, today.

“Did you figure out your painting yet?” Steve asks.

“I did,” you say, and tell him exactly what you told Bucky, but more clearly, more well-articulated.

And less… elaborate. No talking about the idea for the second painting, no mentions of the canvases you make yourself. You don’t show him your palm.

Steve chats with you for a few minutes, until the conversation fizzles out. He shifts his shoulders and tells you he’s going to go.

“Have a good week,” you say, smiling, looking back at Bucky.

Steve gets to the doorway, and Bucky stays right where he is, and his stomach does a flip, because he can’t believe that he’s really going to be doing this.

“You coming, Buck?” Steve says.

“I’m going to stay back for a minute,” Bucky says, while looking at you.

He’s not a confident person, but he’s also not not confident. He just does what he has to do, without thinking, without sitting on it long enough for it to morph into anxiety, because when you've been impassive for seventy years, it’s hard to turn the faucet back on.

Right now, though, he might be getting what they call butterflies.

“Why, is there something you-”

Steve cuts himself off. He understands.

“Nevermind,” he says, backtracking. “Okay. See you later.”

He leaves.

“What’s up?” You ask, as you head over to the sink. You’re so nonchalant, and he doesn’t know if he’s resenting it or grateful for it, so he just watches you pull cleaning supplies from the cabinet underneath. “Are you here to help me clean up?”

No, but he’ll do it, if...

“Yeah.”

You reach out and rip a wad of paper towels from the dispenser.

“Great,” you say, and he’s just thinking, No, this is not great. You hand him a spray bottle and the paper towels. “Wipe down the tables, please. I’m going to get started with these brushes.”

He starts to wipe down the tables.

You get the sink running.

The streaks of paint on the tables haven't dried yet, so it all comes off with no effort. He gets through it all pretty quickly, one table after another.

Then he’s at your shoulder, tossing the wad of paper towels in the trash, setting the spray bottle precariously on the sink’s edge, since your legs are in front of the cabinet.

What else could he do? Sweep? Turn off the lights? He doesn’t know if you would trust him to do either of those things. He could close the blinds, but the sky is in transition, from grey to blue to ink, and he likes the way the dark seeps into the room.

It sets up the atmosphere.

You give him a quick smile, rub your thumb over the bristles of another brush. “That was fast.”

He shrugs.

It’s a dead conversation- he’s not used to this. Maybe he should be chatting you up, but he doesn’t chat people up, ever. You’re supposed to be the one that talks first, says something for him to go off of. He’s not good at this, but he suddenly wishes that he was.

“Cleaning brushes is such a painful process,” you say eventually, trying to sound exasperated, even though you’re clearly not. “Takes forever- oh, wait. Not painful, paint-ful. Get it? ”

He gets it.

“You’re funny,” he says, and it’s not much, but it’s something. He wants to laugh but doesn't.

You add another brush to the growing pile of clean ones, laying on a bed of paper towels. The sink water drains slowly, dirty grey-brown.

“I know,” you say. “But anyways, I have a question.”

“What is it?”

“Is Bucky your real name?”

The fuck?

You’re genuinely asking, brows drawn close together. He wants to reach out and smoothen it. And also tug the strings of your apron loose, and hook a finger inside the hoop of your earring. He’s wanting to do lots of things- all crazy, irrational things.

“No,” he says, and he sounds weird saying it, when all that’s weird is you having asked in the first place. Your frame of reference for him is so poor- which is better for him, better for everything. It’s almost flattering. “It’s a nickname.”

You open your mouth for the next question, but he beats you to it.

“My real name is James.”

You abruptly look over at him in disbelief. “No way. Really?”

“Really.”

You’re on the last brush. You run it under the tap and the bristles send streams of purplish paint water over your fingers, and turn your head, looking over at him. He meets you back, glare icy, even though inside, he’s burning up.

“You don’t look like a James,” you say, and grin at him, and keep yourself looking at him as you finally shut off the sink.

He knows he doesn’t- that’s why he doesn’t go by it. But he’s going to indulge you, because he wants to.

“Don’t look much like a Bucky, either.”

“It’s a cute nickname, though,” you say suddenly.

His heart leaps to his throat.

“You think it’s cute,” he says, and he shifts over and leans, against the wall, crossing his arms. He’s been standing too close, feels so unnaturally light. He can’t even pretend to dislike you anymore, not when you use the word cute to describe him, not when he likes it. Not when your name is rattling through his head over and over, a mile a minute.

“It’s so cute” you start, nodding along to yourself, “It’s like… nevermind. I don’t even remember what I was about to tell you. Can I get your number?”

That was not smooth.

At all.

But it still works, doesn’t it? You’re not trying too hard, so he doesn’t have to try too hard, either.

“Yeah,” he says, and smiles at you- and takes extra satisfaction in the way you light up. Yellow and radiant.

“Okay.” You wipe your hands down on your apron before pulling out your phone. Its case is glittery pink. The tips of your fingers have pruned.

Before, this would have all been so easy. Bucky could have you beside him the day he met you, turned you over in a whirlwind, in a flurry of milkshakes and dancing to music nobody listens to anymore. He wonders if he should miss you- and then tries to imagine you in a red lip, peroxided curls and a modest day dress, and gets the answer for himself.

He doesn’t miss it.

“Here,” you say, and hand him your phone, and he takes it immediately, he’s so over in his head.

He types his number in with his right hand. When he hands the phone back, the question is already burning in his mind.

“When will I hear from you?”

He shouldn't ask. But he needs to know, always needs to know things. Things can only be so irrational, it has to start making sense sometime- and anyways, it doesn’t seem to bother you. You stare at his number, type something in and put your phone away, and the whole time you’re grinning, and he realizes.

You’re pretty.

“Sometime.” you say, and you reach behind your back to untie the strings of your apron. As you bring the neck of it over your head, you wink.

Sometimes, parts of him still feel frozen, trapped in ice, like he wants to smile but can’t remember how, like he’s forever moving too slow, falling too far behind and below.

Right now, he’s all thawed out.

“You’re gonna keep me waiting like that?” He says, and he takes a daunting step forward, cocks his head to the side. He’s on autopilot, reacting on muscle memory alone- this is flirting, this is charming like it’s ‘38.

You nod, adopt a mock seriousness. “I am,” you say. “I like to keep a little bit of mystery.”

“Mystery girl.”

“You know it.”

His heartstrings loop over themselves, tying into in a double-knotted bow.

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momentsbeforemass · 4 years

Text

Setting yourself up

(by request, my homily from Sunday)

What do you think is going to happen next? How do you expect things to go this week?

If I had asked you those questions back in February, how would you have answered?

I can tell you this. Whatever your answers would have been back then? They’re nothing like your answers to those questions today.

Because you and I weren’t expecting any of this back then.

But even though you and I weren’t expecting any of this, there is something that we’re doing now that we were doing back then.

Back then, you and me and just about everybody had fallen into a habit.

Without really thinking about it, most of us were going through our days with our own ideas about what should happen. About how things should work. Assuming that it would meet our expectations. And getting all kinds of bent out of shape when things didn’t work out that way.

If someone did something, or if something happened, that wasn’t part of our plan. It really upset us.

Because, without really thinking about it, most of us had decided that we weren’t going to be happy. Unless things went the way we thought they should. Unless our plans worked out.

Think about that for a second. If you’re coming into each day from a place of “I’m only going to be happy if things work out my way,” you are setting yourself up to be miserable.

And you’re thinking, “I’ve never said anything like that.”

Of course you haven’t. No one over the age of 5 ever says things like that.

But for some reason, we all seem to drift into that same place. Without really thinking about it. Without ever really meaning to.

It starts when we have an idea about how things should go. And then get upset when it doesn’t. But instead of dealing with it and moving on, we hold on to it. We hold onto that moment when things didn’t go how we thought they should. We hold onto it, so we can argue with it. And we end up taking it with us.

The next time things don’t go like we planned? We hold onto that moment as well. And argue with it.

Again and again. Each time things don’t go like we want them to, we hold onto those moments. Until (without really meaning to) we’ve got a huge pile of them. Holding us back. Dragging us down.

Why? Why do we do that? It comes down to one simple problem.

The same one that the two disciples fell victim to in today’s Gospel. Nothing had gone the way that they had expected. In the worst possible way. Their response?

Their response shows that they were dealing with the same problem that we are. And just as badly.

The problem is that we’re trusting us. Just like the two disciples, we’ve got this all figured out. We know how this is going to go. You and I don’t need anyone else’s help. We can handle this. We’ve got this.

Only, we really don’t.

And every time things don’t go the way we planned? It’s yet another reminder that we’re trusting the wrong person. That we really can’t handle it on our own.

We don’t like to think about that.

It makes us angry. Because it’s a threat. A threat to our fake image of control, our fake image of self-reliance.

It takes a lot of work to protect that fake image from the impact of reality. It’s exhausting. The work that it takes keeps us from ever having any peace. And all we’re really doing is setting ourselves up.

Because at some point, the fake image of control, the fake image of self-reliance will be broken.

That’s where you and I were in February. Desperately protecting that fake image. It wasn’t working then. And that was before the pandemic turned everything up to eleven.

And now? We’re working even harder to protect that fake image of control, of self-reliance.

In the face of things that are more out of control, more uncertain than we could ever imagine. It’s putting even more stress on us. Desperately trying to protect that fake image. Angry that we have to protect it. Afraid that we won’t be able to.

Afraid to admit – even to ourselves – that even now we’re still trusting the wrong person.

When I was in high school, I had a job delivering pizzas.

This was back when dinosaurs roamed the earth. Before Google maps. Or even cellphones.

The pizza place had a 30-minute guarantee. With two dollars off if it was late. Two dollars that came out of my check.

I’d had my driver’s license for a year. I was still learning my way around town.

So I’d always ask the manager how to get to wherever I was supposed to take the pizza. And he would give me what would always turn out to be amazingly good directions.

Sometimes he would have me driving on side streets to avoid the stoplights. Other times he would change up my usual route to avoid construction I didn’t even know about. But he always got me there in less than 30 minutes.

I remember one time, I was going on a delivery to a place that had been to many times before.

Instead of the usual directions, he gave me this odd, round about way of getting there. Seemed like a lot more bother to do the same thing. But he’d never steered me wrong. So I went with it.

When I got there, I found out why. From their front porch I could see that the other end of the block – the route I always took – was a construction zone.

I remember thinking that if I had gone my usual route – if I hadn’t done it his way – I wouldn’t have made it in 30 minutes.

I set myself up to succeed by getting my directions from someone who knew the way better than I did. Who was steering me around problems. Problems I didn’t even know about.

Why am I telling you about delivering pizzas? Because, in a way, it looks a lot like the alternative to that fake image of control, the antidote to that fake image of self-reliance.

Instead of letting ourselves thoughtlessly drift into each day, mindlessly sliding into a place of “I’m only going to be happy if things work out my way.” Instead of unintentionally setting ourselves up to be miserable.

Start the day intentionally. Start the day with God.

Follow the wisdom of today’s Psalm. Psalm 16. Take refuge in God. From the beginning.

Don’t wait until something goes wrong to run to God. Be wise. Intentionally set yourself up for God’s best. Start the day taking refuge in God. Then follow God’s plan.

Go back and pray Psalm 16 after Mass today. And pray it again, tomorrow morning. First thing.

When you pray Psalm 16, agree with God.

Agree with God that He is your allotted portion and your cup.

Agree with God that He has already provided everything you need.

Agree with God that you will wait on Him, knowing that He will hold fast your lot.

When you pray Psalm 16, set God before you.

Set God’s counsel before you, and follow His lead.

Set God’s heart before you, and know His love.

Set God before you, and know His peace.

When you pray Psalm 16, decide it’s going to be a good day.

Don’t decide it’s going to be a good day, but only if it meets your expectations.

Don’t decide it’s going to be a good day, but only if it checks all of your boxes.

Decide it’s going to be a good day, because it’s God’s day.

Sunday’s Readings

#Trust God #Plans #Covid-19 #Coronavirus #Fake Image #Control #Self-Reliance #God #God's Love #Jesus #Catholic #Christian #Church #Psalm 16 #Psalms #Emmaus #Inspiration #Decide

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a-vamp-and-a-half · 4 years

Note

Weeks pass, One of the Googles sent to watch over the HQ reports back of several vans and trucks showing up to the HQ, with more watching it sees recruits being taken away from the HQ. Dark realizes it must be an evacuation due to the loss of many hunters, deciding the moment to strike is now while they have already lost some of the recruits. The orders are simple, kill everyone who isn't The DA or Mark. Dark smiling to himself, believing today is the day he gets his family together (1)

At the HQ, Kay is in the loading dock with Kyle, Mark and DA, making sure recruits get to the vans to get transported out when suddenly they here a loud noise then the alarms go off, Kay looks around then looks at them "Mark, DA, take the left side, find out the problem and get recruits who are lagging behind to get their butts in here now! Kyle, keep in the right side and guard the hallway leading here, I really hope this is just the Leaders right now being a pain" (2)

The groups split up, when Mark and The DA make it to the left side, they see many recruits dead along with a Google and Bing along side it though he doesn't look too happy to be there. The right side, Kyle encounters another Google killing a recruit as the others attempt to flee. Kyle remembering his training he got from Mark and the DA, works on keeping the Googles attention but getting injured slightly by it till he gets it with holy water, once it falls he notices two figures (3)

It's Doc and Yancy, Kyle remembering Doc, he decides to fight Yancy while avoiding Doc, however Yancy does seem to be able to hold his own against Kyle. Back with Mark and The DA, they manage to take the Google there down and flee with some recruits, getting them to go down another path to the loading area. Afterwards they duck into a room where The DA tends to Mark's wounds he got from the Google, this attack is pretty bad and many recruits have died already (Final)

��——————————————————————————————————–

Mark hisses in pain as The DA uses their tiny makeshift medkit to treat him.

Bing hadn’t done much, really, besides try to grab the both of them. But The Google...

“Why is he even bothering with this?” Mark says through gritted teeth. “He’s taken out all the senior Hunters. You, Kyle, Kay, and I are the last real threats.”

“They don’t stand a chance,” Mark continues, knowing The DA’s hands are too busy for them to respond. “They’re barely trained. He knows that. He did that on purpose. Why is killing them?”

“... For power, probably. That’s gotta be it. A power play.”

“That’s all he fucking thinks about. He thinks it’s a game. And he keeps winning at it.”

“Even when we save these recruits he’ll still be playing the game. He’ll always be playing it. Even if we haul ass to a new HQ, he’ll be playing his fucking game with us. With everyone.”

The DA pauses for a moment.

... He won’t ever stop, will he?

... Not unless...

...

But it’s impossible. He’s never distracted for long enough.

...

Oh.

...

Oh.

There is a way to distract him.

...

They need to find a way to send Mark away.

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inkribbon796 · 4 years

Text

The Bookworm

Summary: Dark’s network is a den of people who range from wanton murder (Google and Wil) to people who are willing to make a buck off someone less fortunate than them.e than them. However there’s a new addition to that network: a cold eye that never seems to get involved but seems like he could at a moment’s notice. He is, however, not what he seems.

A/N: If Logan seems out of character in the first part of this story he’s undercover. It was fun to write this.

If there was ever a picture of stoicism and professionalism it was Dark’s newest “accountant”. Dark hadn’t had an official personal assistant for sometime. His last had disappeared and much like other disappearances in the network, no one question what had gotten the kid the boot.

There were whispers about the kid, but no one dared to talk about him in public, especially when Dark’s new assistant could hear.

Logan Sanders was sure they were more afraid of him than anything else, his lack of an emotional response to the things around him probably helped with that.

To date Logan had seen two men be shot in front of him, and three just disappear, and each time it was like a part of his brain had compartmentalized it somewhere else. But he’d never killed anyone himself.

However word spread about Dark’s new “Bookworm” as he was called. Everyone knew who Logan was even if they didn’t know his name. Some whispers were made in awe, others in disgust and fear.

Since Logan worked so closely with Dark he’d had to be up close and personal with death. As such, Logan always had his hands encased in black gloves, and rags he could bag and then burn as he needed to. Along with a second pair of glasses he kept on his person at all times in case he had to suddenly change.

Today was another fully scheduled day for Dark, and one of those was a death that had gotten a little bit messy.

Logan stepped out of the room he and Dark had been in, heading towards his own office, wiping the blood off his glasses, staring down at it with a mix of boredom and contempt. He was going to need to deep clean it when he got back to his office.

“Damn Bookworm, where’d Dark dig you up from?” One of the enforcers whispered.

“I was not dug up,” Logan answered. “I would have suffocated underground.”

“It’s just a phrase,” the enforcer mumbled. “Are you even human?”

“My lack of empathy for individuals who have signed up to work with Dark has no bearing on my humanity, or perception thereof.”

“Hell, man, even the cowboy’s not that callous,” he reminded. “Did your parents not love you enough?”

“You will refrain from making tactless comments aimed to harm and insult my person,” Logan reminded, not putting the glasses back on his face since he could feel it wasn’t clean yet. “You have made your choices in life as have I. Once you decide to work for Dark, you cease to be a normal person. Violence and bloodshed become the new standard of reality.”

The enforcer chuckled to himself, “Psychopath, well have fun, if you’re even capable of that.”

Smiling, the enforcer just shook his head, “Nevermind, I don’t wanna to know what you do for fun.”

Then he walked away, making sure not to brush against or even run the risk of touching Logan. It was an action that Logan appreciated. There was a benefit to the type of respect he’d earned from the rest of Dark’s network.

Logan only raised an eyebrow, and then continued to his office. It wasn’t as big as Dark’s office, but was more than enough for Logan to have a couch to rest or kick up his feet. There was even a footstool that doubled as a mini bookcase. It had been empty when Logan had first been given the office.

The only other feature of the room was the door on one side that was connected to Dark’s office, so that Dark could walk in at a moment’s notice and check up on him or ask for information he needed. But apparently Dark had been out all day checking his various assets all over the city, Logan had been told not to expect him and to keep an eye on people.

All day Logan’s brain fixated on the fact that Dark wasn’t at his office, that he was gone for probably the rest of the day, that it meant something. Which frustrated Logan to no end. Dark was his own person, and if anything it ensured Logan would get more work done because Wilford had no reason to show up today and no one got anything done when Wilford was present.

But . . . he was meant to do something in Dark’s absence.

Trying to get back to work, Logan was able to work through a couple more. Files before it happened, the faint whisper of someone over his shoulder, as if his brain was being snapped awake from a hazy dream.

Taking a sharp breath Logan looked around in an unfamiliar daze, confused and realizing he had on a pair of glasses he tended to wear as a backup. He had no idea where he was, until he saw a note in front of him. The tidy cursive calligraphy in the Host’s fancy scrawl:

Tick Tock, little worm, before the cat comes back to play.

Tick Tock, little mole, before you sleep again.

Logic has one hour to obtain his stolen goods before Logan returns.

Hide them from your future self, and destroy this note beyond comprehension.

Alarmed and confused, Logan read through it a second time before he decided time was of the essence and stood up. Then, in desperation Logan literally ate the note, not trusting himself to hide it without notice.

Looking around Logan tried to take notes, normally he had very little memory of what he did whenever he was undercover in Dark’s network. It made it so he didn’t act out of character with how an enforcer was supposed to act, or recognize them and blow his cover onto early when he was doing his actual superhero work.

But he stood up, Logan was looking for specific files to bring back to the rest of the heroes. Memories of his time as Dark’s “Bookworm” seemed like a hazy dream, like he’d been having a horrible nightmare that was already clearing itself from Logan’s system. He had to get to the record’s room, and do it without looking like a mole or a shapeshifter.

Straightening up his desk, Logan picked up one of the legal pads with a string of numbers on it, all of them written in the logical Side’s handwriting. They made some sense to Logan. It seemed. To be a number of tax accounts with serial numbers on them.

He had to pretend to look for errant tax documents, which should be an easy enough lie. Unlike Patton, Logan could lie about a number of things without being too obvious. Deceit was the only Side with a healthy understanding of falsehoods and half-truths.

The only issue was that Logan wasn’t sure when his hour had officially begun, was it when he’s “woken” up or was it when he had left his office?

Not wanting to waste more time, Logan left the office, stepping into the hallway and trying to have an air of confidence.

There were two enforcers in the hallway, giving him uneasy looks. Judging by the blood Logan had found on his glasses, the looks had a probability of being justified. He ignored them, and a side-glance told him they had relaxed a little.

“Hey Worm Boy!” A rather inebriated shout echoed down through the hallway. The two other enforcers in the hallway fell into a hushed silence. Logan made sure to glare down the hallway at the perpetrator, trying to see like an enforcer and desperately hoping he was accurate in his impersonation.

“Interesting, I didn’t know that Dark permissively allowed his employees to intoxicate themselves.” Logan slowly turned,trying to figure out how to get himself out of this without a fight.

“You and yer fuckin’ million dollar words,” the drunk enforcer cursed. “Bet if I had a six-figure salary I could talk as high and might as you too.”

The accusation made Logan wonder if there was any validity to the statement. If there was, Logan’s next question was where all that money was going, especially if Dark didn’t suspect him yet.

One of the enforcers in the hall immediately stood in-between Logan and the drunkard. “Come on man, back off before you get us all shot.”

“Bet he can’t even shoot a gun,” the enforcer accused. “He’s a paper pusher.”

“I am responsible for keeping all the books and tax information and have power over your paycheck,” Logan announced. It was probably a stretch, Logan didn’t think he was the main accountant, but all the tax information on his desk pointed to his involvement in the process.

By the faces of the more sober enforcers showed that they believed him.

“I’ll get him out of here,” the enforcer trying to hold his drunk co-worker back promised Logan. “He won’t bother you again.”

“Unlikely,” Logan warned before he could stop himself, he could feel himself wasting time with them. “See to it that he is removed for the premises, if I see him again he might not fare so well.”

“Big talker aren’t you?” The drunk spat.

“No, fortunately for you I am too busy to care about you or your inane drunken ramblings,” Logan dismissed and already began to turn, trying to act calm and dismissive.

“Where do you think you’re going?” The enforcer growled.

Logan ignored him, only turning to check and had to instantly duck his head to avoid being punched in the face. He used his opponent’s sluggish response time to flip him onto his back and pin him down by the neck.

“You are continuing to make rather unfortunate choices,” Logan warned. “I am busy, I cannot afford to waste my precious time on your childish antics.”

“Holy shit,” one of the enforcers cursed.

“Get him out of here!” Logan ordered them, glaring at them. Momentarily Logan worried that he might not have the status in Dark’s network, nor the authority, to make such demands. That he was overstepping himself just a little.

Whether or not he did have that kind of power, the enforcers moved as if he’d threatened to shoot them both on the spot.

“Yes, Sir,” they agreed almost in unison, the disharmony of it a bit grating on his job. Then raced over and wrestled the drunk enforcers away who was a bit more sluggish. Logan suspected he was getting tired.

“Now unless your current task is to wait fifteen feet from my office and guard me, highly suspect since you have both succeeded in neither, you will remove his person from me and keep him away. Then you will both return to work.”

“Right away, Sir,” they dragged him away and Logan walked down the hallway to find the records room, trying to look like he was frustrated and not panicked.

Logan was able to calm himself down as he used his hazy memories to reach a door in the warehouse. Testing it, Logan opened it, finding that the wooden door had a rather horrendous creak to it. But he was in a room that was larger than it had any physical right to be. The room was lined with bookshelves and had a small, simple desk for writing quick notes on.

Immediately Logan began to scan the shelves, his hazy memories of very little help to him. He was looking for very specific files, but that didn’t mean he knew how to find them. Or what he was supposed to even be looking for, the spines of the journals and binders were all strings of numbers and codes.

After a couple minutes of scanning what he thought was everything twice he paused. There had to be some rhyme or reason to it. Dark was a creature of habit, a being of reason in the League. Surely his files and papers had to contain some of that reason as well.

So Logan began scanning through the books themselves, trying to find anything that told him the dates they were compiled or written. In doing that, towards the back of the room he found something. On one shelf all the folders, binders and journals had a black triangle on them. They were all old, stretching at the most five years back.

Logan froze as he looked at them, a non-so-significant portion of them were written in King’s hand writing. It was eerie. The oldest journal containing his handwriting would have made him sixteen at best. The logical side thought of King, the hero was normally so full of life, smiled every chance he could when he was outside and breathing in fresh air. To think of King trapped in an office similar to Logan’s, windowless and sterile air . . . it twisted something ugly in Logan’s stomach. The thought boiled in Logan’s mind that King had deserved better. He had deserved better than Dark’s network.

It took another couple minutes before he found something, two journals that looked hand-bound. Clearly these two journals were made with higher quality than the rest. Quickly grabbing one of the books out, he looked at the inside cover of one to see: KSK0825.

A quick skim of the journal told Logan that most of the contents were encoded and that it wasn’t type of code that Logan was familiar with. It was clearly an encoded cipher but Logan was at loss for how to read it. The journal next to it had almost the same serial: KSK0718.

Pausing for a second, Logan took the time to make the shelf look more uniform and untouched. Logan needed to leave. He was running low on time and the longer he was out of his office, the higher the likelihood of him getting caught by Dark.

While inspecting the shelf, Logan’s worries were realized when he heard the atrocious creaking of the door and Edgar’s southern drawl growled into the room.

“Don’t care,” Ed scoffed as the door opened and Logan hid behind a shelf, cursing to himself. Hoping that he was normally in here, or supposed to be seen in Dark’s records room. “If I have ta do this shit then guess what, yer fuckin’ promotion means yah do too.”

“Great,” a voice that Logan wasn’t sure if he was familiar with or not droned on.

“Yeah?” Ed closed the door with another loud creek. “Well blame my old assistant for this.”

Logan moved around the shelves, trying to keep both Ed and the enforcer with him out of sight.

“Should I start tearing down books?” The enforcer asked.

“No, they’re in the back, we’re taking the whole shelf,” Ed ordered.

“Great,” Logan tried to keep himself out of sight, eavesdropping on the conversation to have as much information as possible.

“We’re not getting one of those fancy portals to help are we?” The enforcer huffed.

At that Edgar’s laughed, “Who do yeh think we are? One ‘a the kids, or Bookworm? Fat chance.”

“Great,” the enforcer huffed.

“Dark could’a at least paid extra for this,” Ed cursed and began to head over to the spots Logan had been looking at. Logan kept around a bookshelf, trying to stay unnoticed. “This is Bookworm’s job, not mine.”

During the rather heated conversation, Logan looked at the door. The way it creaked let Logan know someone was coming in, but it would warn Edgar that someone was leaving. In the back of his mind, Logan wondered if the creaking was intentional, a warning system of some kind. But either way, Edgar would spot him and Logan needed to weigh the option of waiting until Edgar was leaving, and hoping that he wouldn’t search the entire registry, or announce his presence.

It took a good half minute before Logan made his decision.

“Hello,” Logan announced his presence, freeing one of the other books on another shelf, not caring what it was for the moment.

Edgar jumped, pulling his gun out of its holster and pointing it at Logan’s head. The whole gesture seemed too practiced and Logan just froze on the spot, trying to keep the trepidation off his face.

“Fookin’ hell, man,” Edgar cursed, holstering his pistol again. “Almost shot yah. Dark needs ta put a bell on yah.”

“I must thank you for refraining, I have a job to do,” Logan said, trying to keep his expression neutral.

“Yeah, yeah,” Ed frowned, turning back to the shelf. “Whatcha doing here anyways? Was looking for yah earlier.”

“There were some minor inconsistencies in the expense report I was running, and I was certain that Dark would not appreciate having the IRS knocking on his door.”

Edgar actually chuckled at that, “Shit, yeah, good luck with that.”

“I have more than enough ability to not need such a thing,” Logan told him.

“Speaking of ability, I heard from a little bird that you Judo flipped Caswall,” Ed looked at him. “Didn’t know you could even do that.”

“I’d be foolish not to be able to defend myself,” Logan told him. “This is a line of work that is demanding as it is perilous. Where one miscalculation may result in my death.”

“Yeah,” Ed shrugged. “Nice to know you’re not all talk, always thought you were.”

“Very unfortunate that I gave you such an impression of myself,” Logan told him.

“Dark’ll probably take care of Caswall,” Ed assured him. “Can’t have everyone thinking they can attack his secretary an’ get away with it.”

Logan wondered if being his “normal self” in this base would have prevented the death, but he doubted there was little he could do. The logical Side had caught rumor of himself in the shadows, they’d been equally unnerving then. “Regardless, I must be off.”

He turned away from Edgar’s, trying to get back to his office.

“Slow down a bit,” Edgar called out and Logan stopped in his tracks, looking over. “Since yer in here, figured I’d pass somethan’ along ta yeh.”

“Yes?” Logan turned around.

“What’da yah know ‘bout the kid who was workin’ in yer office b’fore yah?” Ed asked.

Logan tried to desperately remember if he’d been told anything but he wasn’t coming up with anything. “I was not informed of anything substantial.”

If that was suspicious, Ed didn’t hint that anything was wrong. He nodded. “Was a sweet kid, bit too sweet if yah ask me. We’re tryin’ ta see if he left any journals that we haven’t burned yet. Not the usual tax stuff, but they were Dark’s personal log journals.”

Logan looked through his journals, “Were they kept in a specific place?”

“Yeah but if yah see any in yer office, just drop ‘em off onta Dark’s desk,” Edgar dismissed, waving him off. “I’ll send you their numbers, Curls was really good at categorizing so I’ll ask Dark how he organized them back then.”

“Send me a memo, I could aid in looking for them as well,” Logan offered, eager to be gone.

“Yeah, thanks, sooner we get ‘em burned the better,” Ed agreed.

“Indeed, faster the better,” Logan agreed. “However, I must get back to work. I have spent enough time looking for these records.”

“Right, right,” Ed allowed, “sorry ta keep yah.”

Not answering, Logan left through the creaky door and closed it behind him. He made sure to keep an even but deliberate pace, fortunately he wasn’t held up again and reached his office without incident.

The room was exactly as he had left it, not a pencil displaced. So Logan quickly closed the door and grabbed the dark blue satchel bag at the side of the desk and began looking in the bag. It was highly likely that wherever Logan went after work he would take this with him and he could get this back to the Host. It took him some time to hide the journals in what seemed like a hidden flap of the satchel. It took some careful placement to make it seem like nothing had been placed there.

Only then could Logan take a breath of relief, trying to calm his racing heart. By his accounts, he seemed to be currently getting away with his theft hand over fist. Ed Edgar and every other enforcer had failed to call out his shoddy, duplicitous act. But as far as Logan knew he had unfortunately one more enforcer to fool: himself. Logan had to be smarter than the Bookworm, and honestly he wasn’t that confident in his odds.

The adrenaline crash was slowly starting and Logan found he had to do something with his hands and body. However, he had to stay in the spot he’d come back to himself in, so he had to do something. He put the journal, binder, and files he’d taken from the record’s room, made a quick effort to make it look like he’d already flipped through them. Then he turned to his desk, straightening anything that looked or seemed out of place.

In the process his eyes landed on a pair of glasses, they were speckled with blood. A spike of alarm and concern sparked across his mind. Desperately he hoped that he hadn’t killed anybody. By the surprise the enforcers had shown of Logan’s ability to even defend himself, Logan didn’t think so. But that didn’t mean his hands were metaphorically clean.

Immediately Logan grabbed the glasses, desperate to get any hint that violence and bloodshed had been perpetrated near them. That Logan had been complacent in someone’s death. There was some cleaner in a bottom drawer of his desk, so Logan spent the next couple of minutes being as meticulous as possible to get as much blood off them as possible.

Sure enough, the Bookworm came back to himself just as he was finishing, taking stock of his desk and noticing the ledgers in the revision basket.

Thinking on it, Logan could vaguely remember getting into a fight in the hallway, and going into the records room to cross reference some information. It was how hazy his memory suddenly was that alarmed him.

Quickly Logan made a call directly to Dark, reporting the issue. His only conclusion was that Wilford had been playing with his mind. It wasn’t the first time it had happened, but this time the symptoms had been more alarming.

After the call Logan worked for a couple more hours, talking periodic breaks to rest his eyes. Dark. Stepped into his office to talk about the intrusion and to say that he’d taken care of Caswall for attacking him. Logan courteously thanked him but assured Dark that he needed to get back to work. Then it was time to go home, which Dark ripped a Void portal into the air to let Logan take himself and his briefcase home.

Once in his apartment, Logan sat down to relax.

His relaxation didn’t last as another portal opened up and he was unceremoniously thrown back into the Host’s library, his briefcase landing next to him.

Fully awake again, the logical Side let out a drained groan as he came into the Host’s library.

“Did Logic enjoy his day at work?” The Host smiled at him, a full toothy grin. He was sitting at his desk like a king on his throne.

“It was a precarious situation,” Logan admitted, staring up at the ceiling. “I was almost caught in the act of theft.”

Logan wound up needing a small respite, which the Host let him take, then Logan went to the meeting room with the two journals and began transcribing the code. It was a string of code names and numbers. But the code names seemed to be stand-ins for people. He found: Junior, Philly, Author, Little Red, Curly, and Songbird. The only name he was sure was a name was Warfstache’s but the numbers around his name were equally indecipherable.

The logical Side counted his good luck. These seemed to be the ledgers that both he and Edgar were looking for, but he could ask King. If anyone could read this it would be the Coalition’s resident polyglot and former League member.

“Hey, Logan,” King walked in. He had a salad which for the logical Side, another half-eaten one in his hands. “Host said you had something to talk to me about.”

“Yes,” Logan answered. “I was merely trying to make some headway with this cipher before contacting you directly.”

King smiled and looked over Logan’s shoulder before letting out a shocked gasp. “Where’d you get those?”

“Thank you for the sandwich,” Logan told him, taking it from King’s hands. “These were procured from Dark’s personal records room.”

“Yeah, obviously,” King bit back at him. “I meant how did you get them? There’s no way you just walked in there without getting shot like a piñata.”

“Don’t you normally use a bat to break open a piñata?” Logan asked.

King stalled on that, “Not when I was growing up, my dad would shoot them before one of my brothers could even get close to it with a bat. Called it target practice.”

“That certainly is an interesting home environment,” Logan thought on that. “He is the same person who worked for Dark’s network, I’ve heard you speak about him from time to time.”

Looking uneasy, King looked down at the journals, “No, that was my Old Man, my dad . . . He doesn’t really work for anyone. It’s complicated and messy. But how’d you get these anyways.”

“An equally complicated story,” Logan baited. “How about we start with an easier story, you wrote these?”

King glared at him, then he looked away, taking a bite of his sandwich. “Yeah, I did. I was a tax assistant.”

“You were more than that,” Logan reminded. “You were Dark’s personal secretary. But this code isn’t of Dark’s making, it’s yours. Which is why Dark’s current secretary has no knowledge of it.”

The other hero was suddenly intensely interested in his sandwich, looking at it and purposefully taking smaller bites than he usually did.

“King,” Logan reproved. “You are willfully abetting Dark. We could let it slide before, but you were part of Dark’s inner circle when you only hinted you worked for your father. You are protecting him.”

That got a chuckle out of King, finally finished with his sandwich-turned-distraction, he dusted bread crumbs off his hands. “I’m not protecting Dark. I’m protecting my brothers and sister.”

“We can extend that protection over to them, but Dark’s network needs to be taken care of,” Logan reminded.

“Oh my,” King groaned, head in his hands. “I have to spell it out for your all don’t I? I thought you all knew and were playing dumb to make me feel better.”

Logan began to study King, looking for anything that would hint he should have some prior knowledge of the other hero’s home life before joining the heroes. While he was thinking, the door opened.

“Hey, yah two okay?” Chase asked as he walked in. “Heard some shoutin’ and— why is it so dark in here?”

The hero flipped on all the lights and King looked away from Logan, now staring at the journals.

“What’s wrong?” Chase asked, clearly trying to be gentle towards King. The younger hero tended to get favored by Chase and Patton, and Logan could see it was starting to happen again.

“King is in possession of information that should be on police record,” Logan warned.

Chase frowned, clearly worried.

“Oh yeah, tell the police,” King scoffed. “Most of them are still in Dark’s pocket.”

“Hey, hey,” Chase tried to soothe. “Let’s take a deep breath here. Do either of yeh need a drink?”

“I’m fine,” King spat.

“I’m more than sufficient,” Logan refused.

Chase looked at the journals, “This what the arguin’ is fer?”

“In part,” Logan admitted.

“It’s cause I wrote them,” King admitted.

“Yah did all this?” Chase started flipping through the journal.

“Yeah,” King said. “I like codes, and the— and Dark liked that I wrote them in code too.”

“None of the other journals or accounts you worked on had this cipher,” Logan reminded. “Why not write them for all of them.”

“Cause no one other than Dark or I was supposed to read them,” King reported. “Sides, they were a fun way to keep the job from making me want to tear my eyes out.”

“Doesn’t seem yah liked doin’ Dark’s paperwork,” Chase commented.

“You kidding,” King sat down. “I hated it. But everyone else was doing something and I was getting bigger. Either it was that or helping to babysit Artie, and no one liked doing that job. Not even Illy, and he was the only one good at the job.”

A thought seized Logan, almost as if a metaphorical light bulb was going off. “Illy?”

“Yeah, he was one of my brothers,” King sighed.

Logan was already grabbing his list of code names, including Warfstache’s name there were seven. “Would his code name happen to be Philly? Is the full code name Philadelphia or just Philly?”

That got a slight smile out of King, “Philly. Illy Philly, Dad came up with that, he liked it cause it rhymed.”

“Is there any pattern to them?” Logan wondered out loud. “There must be, all network code names are descriptors for the individual they represent.”

“So what’s yours then?” King asked, a tense undercurrent to his voice. “No way you walked in without being shot, with or without your mask and visor. So you had to sneak in undercover. Ethan’s been on Damien’s trail for a while now, no way he helped you sneak in.”

Logan thought on that dangerous prospect, then he looked at the younger hero, “I’ll tell you mine if you tell me yours.”

King frowned, “Deal. Mine was Curly.”

Logan frowned, as he’d suspected that name was on the list. “Mine is Bookworm, apparently.”

Chase and King both stared at him.

“No way,” King smiled. “How? How’d you get that close to him?”

“The Host,” Logan admitted.

That got a laugh out of King, and Chase just stared at him, “Makes sense, what’s he asking in return for it.”

“He’s not,” Logan responded.

“Yeah right, Host’s different I’ll give him that, but he still is a stubborn bastard,” King warned. “He’s gotta be getting something out of it. Or is he just getting his rocks off.”

“The Host is doing what should have been done years ago,” the Host announced himself. Logan and Chase jumped, but King just rolled his eyes.

“So noble,” King retorted. “You enjoy risking your own neck?”

“Don’t sneak up on a guy like that!” Chase shouted.

The Host walked over. “Did something happen?”

“The Host figured since the Heroes were talking about him, he should defend himself in person,” the Host admitted, then turned to King. “And save the King of the Squirrels from hanging them all in the process.”

“I was doing fine,” King huffed.

Logan fought the urge to roll his eyes, only adjusting his glasses. “If we can get back to the matter at hand, King you and your siblings are all in this book, correct? It would certainly explain your reluctance to talk about them.”

“Yeah,” King admitted, glancing at the Host, who was silently watching the conversation.

Logan looked at two of the code strings:

8285 Author, 14:26, 774.28.

8285 Philly, 14:26, 774.28.

The logical Side hummed to himself in thought, “You also stated that one of your brothers required a “babysitter” is that correct?”

“Yeah, someone always had to be with him or he’d make a huge mess anywhere he went,” King answered.

“It follows then,” Logan thought out loud, “that someone would always be with him. Making Author that brother.”

“Oh yeah, that’s him, he was a sadist,” King said. “Creeped everyone out. He never gave us a reason to fear him, but Dark’s network still did.”

“Yet you’ve never reported him,” Logan criticized.

“The King of the Squirrel never had a need,” the Host cut in. “The Author is dead.”

“That’s one way of putting it,” King sighed. “I was his babysitter that day, and he didn’t want to listen to me, so he tried to take on a bigger fish.”

“A bigger fish than Dark?” Chase asked, clearly nervous.

“The Entity and the Actor have been enemies since their beginning,” the Host announced. “The heroes and the police might as well be pawns on the board compared to them.”

“The Actor?” Logan repeated. “If he’s such a big threat, why has he failed to appear in the city in the decades since Dark appeared?”

“The Actor is like a snake that moves through the shadows of Egoton,” the Host explained. “His only concern is the Entity and the Madman, and the Author in his pride and ability, thought himself more powerful than he was, and tried to attack one of the Entity’s rivals in a bid to prove himself to the mob boss. He paid for his miscalculation with his sanity, and eventually his life.”

“That is,” Logan was searching for the correct word, figuring that the Actor couldn’t have been much older than King, “unfortunate. You must have been heartbroken, he was your brother.”

King wasn’t looking at Logan, staring at something in the journal, “Yeah he was an asshole, but I miss him sometimes.”

“How old was he?” Chase asked.

“Twenty-one,” the Host answered. “The Author had lived almost his whole life in Dark’s network, and he would have continued if he wasn’t killed.”

Chase looked angry, “What was Dark doing letting someone who was barely an adult into his network?”

“The Host does not want to defend the Entity by answering that question directly,” the Host evaded. “Choices were made, many of those choices were made in haste and desperation. King of the Squirrels should aid the heroes with their work.”

“You just—” King threw his hands up in the air. “Fine. You know what, fine?”

“Hey, Logan,” Kin turned to the Logical side. “Wanna learn a ten-year-old’s cipher? It’s not nearly as clever as you think it is.”

“Try me,” Logan said, clearly excited.

“Those number combinations are streets,” King admitted. “Street 0 is Hill Road because I was on it at the time I made the cipher.”

“Isn’t that where Dark lives,” Chase asked.

“A cipher based on a city grid is quite interesting,” Logan told him. “I certain hadn’t guessed it.”

“I was so anal retentive at the time that building that no longer exist might as well still be there on the grid,” King correct. “Also the grid extends into sections of the parks instead of counting the park as one area, throwing off the count when you look at the new city grid.”

“Ahh,” Logan commented. “That will certainly make the deciding process harder. Do you have a city map that was active during the time you made the cipher.”

“Nope,” King popped the “p” on the word.

“No matter,” Logan dismisses. “Bing could get us that map.”

While Logan and King were talking, the younger hero slowly getting more enthusiastic as the process continued, the Host began to walk off. Chase followed him.

“If Average has something to say, he should say it,” the Host informed, walking towards Iplier’s office.

“I know King regrets everythin’ he did while he was with Dark and the others, but do yeh?” Chase asked.

The Host stopped, “Is Chase asking the Host?”

Chase’s arms crossed in front of him, “I’m askin’ you.” Chase overemphasized the last word.

There was mostly silence, only the Host’s narrations interrupted the silence. Then, “The Host regrets not being better while he was the Author. He regrets not being a good person. For the lives stolen in greed and sadism. If the Host could have control over fate, he would have erased the Author from existence, even if it meant removing the Host himself.”

Chase went quiet again, sad and contemplative, “Well I’m glad yer here, even if yeh were a massive douchebag a’fore, yer not now. We need yah here, an’ someone needs ta keep Ip from drinkin’ himself to death with coffee.”

The Host was silent, his narrations a bit more subdued. Then he smiled. “The Host is a selfish person, a major part of the reason he joined up with the heroes was to make King and Dr. Iplier happy.”

“What about now?” Chase smiled expectantly. “Yah have ta admit, yeh like us.”

That got another smile out of the Host, “It is true, the Host has gotten rather attached to the heroes.”

Smiling even wider, Chase walked with the Host to the office, knocking for him, “See? Not so bad are yah?”

Dr. Iplier opened the door and immediately both his face and the Host’s face lit up. Iplier thanked Chase and the other hero hurried back to the meeting room. He wasn’t any good with codes, but he wanted to be there with Logan, the double life the Side was leading didn’t sit well with him. He doubted it ever would.

#Superhero AU #Masks and Maladies #Thomas Sanders #Markiplier #Jacksepticeye #Logan Sanders #Ed Edgar #the Host #Chase Brody #King of the Squirrels #espionage #double agent #I just like the idea of a Mob AU Logan #so I wrote it #sort-of hypnotism

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new53 · 5 years

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password?

When he woke up, Dick immediately knew something was wrong. He was laying on his stomach, his head turned to the side and so he had a great view of the grey pillow next to his face, except his own bedsheets weren’t grey. He twisted and sat up.

The comforter bunched together near his knees was silver-and-blue striped and the walls were an eggshell white. The curtains were pulled aside and letting some light seep into the otherwise dark room, so he knew it was morning. The room was mostly neat, with a pair of pants thrown on the ground near the laundry basket and a towel on the floor near the bed.

There was a picture on the bedside table, and Dick grabbed one, bringing it close to his face so he could see through the dim light.

The picture was of a man with a little girl on his shoulder The man had Dick’s own face, but his hair was long, pulled back in a loose bun, and Dick’s own hair hadn’t been that long for years. The little girl had dark skin and darker hair, and the photo had caught her mid-laugh.

Dick had never seen her before in his life.

He put the picture down and picked up the phone laying next to it. The background picture on the phone was the same girl, and the phone unlocked with Dick’s fingerprint.

He frowned.

He scrolled through the recent calls, glad to see names he recognized--Babs, Wally, Gordon. No Bruce, though, or any of his siblings.

The most recent text was from Kori. Dick opened the message thread and read it.

ok have fun--see u at thanksgiving

He scrolled up a little and found the beginning of the conversation.

Kori: i have service for a little while!

Dick (?): okay great!

Dick (?): hows everything?

Kori: the negotiations are going pretty well...there’s always more to do but everything’s winding down

Dick (?): when will you be able to come home? Mar’i misses you!

Dick (?): okay, i miss you too

Dick (?): also Simon keeps knocking down our door….bring Jess back!!!

Kori: lol

Kori: i miss you too

Kori: have you been giving mar’i a kiss from me every day?

Dick (?): ofc!!! I’m a GOOD father

Kori: i know you are.

Kori: jess says if we leave in the next few weeks, we’ll be back on earth in november

Dick (?): omg they’ll all flip out if you make it back for thanksgiving

Kori: don’t tell them!! I want it to be a surprise

Dick (?): i promise i won’t!

Dick (?): i might have to tell simon though

Dick (?): for my own peace of mind

Kori: don’t unless you absolutely have to

Dick (?): I won’t. Hey, i gtg--babs is calling & it’s mar’i’s bedtime. Ttyl

Kori: ok, have fun--see u at thanksgiving

Dick closed out of the thread. The next text was from Wally, and below that was Babs and then Gordon, and then Simon. Dick clicked on Simon’s contact.

Why would he be texting Simon Baz?

Dick was fairly sure it wasn’t amnesia, especially because the date lined up with what he remembered it being. He got up from the bed and pulled on jeans and a black t-shirt, both of which fit him perfectly.

He inspected his closet, and found a fake wall inside. It only took a moment to figure out how to open the wall, and inside he found a sleek grey suit with bright green detailing. It was similar to his Nightwing outfit and yet clearly wasn’t a version of Nightwing. Dick touched the mask mounted on the wall behind it and spotted his escrima sticks on the floor next to the boots.

He withdrew from the closet and left the bedroom.

He was in an apartment with two other rooms, with the doors closed. The bathroom door was open, and the living room was simply furnished and the kitchen yielded nothing. Dick retreated back to the rooms and opened the room that must be the master bedroom, as quiet as he could.

There was a double bed and a compter set, in this room. The computer set was large and familiar, in an Oracle-y way, and there was a wheelchair parked next to the bed, and someone sleeping, the covers drawn over them. Dick took a few steps forward, just to double check, and he saw red hair poking out of the top of the covers, glasses on the bedside table.

Babs, then, he assumed, seeing girl clothes in the open closet. He left the room--closing the door behind him--and crossed the hall, pushing open the last door.

The room was darker than the others, since the curtains were thicker. Dick lifted the phone still in his hand and shined the light into the room.

There was a dresser, and a toybox on the side of the room, with toys scattered on the floor, and a bed along the side of the wall. The light from the phone revealed a tiny shape on the bed, the blankets near the ankles.

Dick crept closer, careful not to step on the toys. It was the little girl from the pictures, the little girl who, when he squinted, looked a little like him and a little like Kori.

I’m a good father, the other him had said, in reference to her.

In this universe--for it must be an alternate universe--he was a father, and this little girl was his daughter.

Dick swallowed and left her room, guilt for stealing that little girl’s father away swirling in his chest.

He went to the window in the living room and peered outside; he was definitely in Gotham and Dick remembered apartment shopping in this building in the past. He was glad to know where he was, and he glanced at the time.

Finding his way back to his own universe seemed prudent, and since it was a Sunday and Dick was sure he didn’t have work, he left, taking the keys next to the door with him.

When he was outside, he texted Babs, in case she woke up.

Went on a little walk...didn’t wanna bother you. Be back later.

He hoped this universe’s Babs was like his own and liked to sleep as late as she could so that he’d have more time to figure out a solution, or at least find out how he got into this universe in the first place.

He knew where to look for answers, too, which was convenient.

He drove there, bracing himself for any possibility. Anything in this universe could be different. Already, this universe’s Dick was a father and a different superhero than Nightwing. Who knew what else would be off?

Dick parked on the road beside the long gate up to Wayne Manor. He was glad to see it was intact and not burned down or anything.

He pulled out his phone as he walked and googled Martha Wayne. She was still dead and had been dead for a while, and then Dick did a quick google of Batman to make sure he was around.

He was, though Dick couldn’t find any pictures. He repocketed the phone and walked along the outside perimeter of the gate. In his universe, there was a cave-entrance in an old well behind the gardens. Dick scaled the fence when he neared the spot, and easily found the old well. In his universe, it was hidden by a low hedge, but in this universe, it was behind a dog-shaped topiary. Dick grinned at the sight and swung his legs over the side of the well, lowering the rope all the way down. He could see the bottom from where he was, so he felt confident in sliding down the rope. He landed on the boards that were holding up the bottom. In his universe, the bottom would be kicked out and then you free-fell until you either grappled away or caught the rope hanging on the ceiling. In this universe, there was a discoloration on the rounded wall and Dick kicked at that instead. It was a small door, about half Dick’s height but wide enough that Clark could get through and it opened inward. He sat down, putting his feet through the door and shuffling forward using his hands to walk. He closed the little door behind him and the tunnel fell into darkness. Dick reached for his phone and shined the flashlight ahead. The path seemed to slope downward, stretching farther than he could see.

There wasn’t anything to do but go forward, so he did, tucking his chin under his phone. He got a few feet ahead and then his phone buzzed wildly, and Dick startled, falling on his butt and dropping the phone into the ground beside him. Dick scooped up the phone and grabbed it, turning the screen to face him.

Wally was calling him. Dick debated not answering, but he figured if he knew Wally it must’ve been through heroing, and maybe Wally could help him out, if the Batman thing fell through. Dick answered, deciding to play it neutral until he figured out what Wally knew.

“Hey,” Dick said.

“Hey!” Wally said, chirping cheerfully. “Whatcha doin?”

“Just taking a walk,” Dick said, looking around the damp cave.

“Sounds nice,” Wally said. “Hey, listen, I’m really sorry but I’m gonna have to cancel dinner tonight. Apparently it’s an important anniversary for Iris and we’re having a family thing or whatever. I can’t get out of it and I suggested that you come along since you’re basically family at this point but for whatever reason Barry thought you’d bring the whole of the GL Corps with you and you know how he gets.”

“Yeah,” Dick said. “Sounds fun, man. Don’t worry about dinner. You can make it up to me some other time.”

“Thanks, babe,” Wally said, sounding relieved. Babe? “Have fun on your walk, I gotta go. Love you!”

“Love you too,” Dick said automatically and Wally hung up. Dick looked at the lockscreen. Hm.

Dick put the phone back under his chin and got back on his hands, inching forward. The ground was curved into a steep decline and after about ten minutes, the path ended and Dick tried to put his foot down and it fell into the air, the ground gone. Dick caught himself and the phone, scooting back. He sat down, shining the light at the hole in front of him. There was nowhere to go but down, and there was nothing he could find to see how deep the drop was nor was there anything to slow down his fall.

Well. Dick always thought it was better to just jump right into things.

He pocketed the phone and dropped from the side, free-falling and calculating. The above-cave entrance was lower than the one in his universe, and assuming the ground was around the same distance--Dick tucked into a flip, rolling onto the floor and bracing his back against the landing.

He sat up and heard running water. He stood, rubbing his back. He got back out the phone and shined it all around, the light cutting through the darkness. He was in a pit about ten feet deeper than the regular cave floor, with sand on the floor and an underground river thirty feet to his right. Dick went to the pit walls and scaled one easily. The cave’s lights were motion-detected, and once he was on the main floor they turned on, and he turned off the phone’s light and pocketed it.

This Batcave looked mostly the same as his own, although as Dick walked to the computer he noted a few changes. The chair behind the computer, for one, was different, and the training mats on the side were much bigger than the ones at home. Dick spotted the tell-tale signs of heat-vision damage along the walls and there were colored towels stacked in a cabinet next to the training mats. The dinosaur was painted all over in purple graffiti, and the giant playing card had a hole burned through the face of the Joker. Jason’s display case looked different. Dick went over to it, curious about this change above the others. The costume inside looked like a mini version of the Batman suit, although it was sleek and mostly black, with white highlights. There was a domino mask instead of a cowl, and the plaque at the bottom read: BELOVED SON AND BROTHER.

Dick thought that that seemed much better than “a good soldier”. He touched the case and wondered what happened to this universe’s Jason, assuming that even was Jason.

The smattering of vehicles near the cave’s entrance were obviously different but Dick didn’t go inspect them, choosing instead to go to the display cases along the wall by the changing area. The first one was obviously Batman, even though all the yellow was replaced by dark grey. Made for a darker Batman, Dick thought. The second costume was nearly identical to Clark’s, except it was slimmer and fitted for a woman. He wondered what Kryptonian woman would have her super suit in the Batcave. Kara, maybe?

The next costume was a deep purple and black one that Dick recognized. Sure, Spoiler looked a little different, but Dick knew her when he saw her. He was glad to see her. The next display case was empty. The one next to that one was a sleek black costume with a hooded jacket overtop, and a red mask that pulled over the face and had stitching like Cass’s Batgirl mask across it. The main costume had a deep red outline of a bat, and it was fit for a slimmer person, probably a girl. Dick squinted at it. It looked like Red Hood, to be honest, but it also looked like Cass. It made him vaguely uncomfortable so he moved on to the next one. It was a Supergirl outfit. Dick raised his eyebrow and looked back at the other Kryptonian suit. Both had the crest of the House of El on the front, but the second one had a skirt and was very clearly Supergirl. Dick was sure he’d seen his own Kara wear a suit just like that one before.

The next one down was again Kryptonian. The body of it was like Clark’s, except there was no cape, just a leather jacket. Instead of red boots, there were combat boots that matched the jacket. Dick smiled. It reminded him of Kon’s old suit, and he wondered again why there were Kryptonian suits in the cave. He moved on to the next suit, which was like the one he’d seen in Jason’s display case, although it had a cowl that covered up the entire face--like Cass’s Batgirl suit. There were only two costumes left, and Dick nearly felt tears well up when he saw them.

They were, very clearly, Nightwing and Flamebird, and they were both very clearly around Damian-sized. Dick was sad to think that none of these suits matched the one in the other him’s closet--clearly Dick didn’t belong here. But Nightwing still did, and somehow that made Dick feel a lot better. He reached out for Nightwing’s suit. It had a cape and full face mask, which was a little ridiculous, but it was still clearly Nightwing. Dick smiled at it.

He found a pair of latex gloves with the medical stuff and went to the computer, powering it up. It asked for a password and Dick paused. He know his own Bruce’s password, of course, which was PENNYWORTH, with each letter changed to whichever one reverse alphabetized it--KVMMBDLIFS--then each letter changed to the corresponding number--11-22-13-13-2-4-12-9-6-19, and then seven added to each number. 18-29-20-20-9-11-19-16-13-26. The number added to make the final password changed every time Bruce adopted another kid, and over the holidays it was the same thing but MARTHA instead, and sometimes to jazz things up it was MARY or CATHERINE or JANET or CRYSTAL or SHIVA or TALIA or ELAINE instead of that. Dick had all of those memorized and could run a new one in a matter of minutes, but he didn’t know what this Bruce’s password would be. He tried the MARTHA and the PENNYWORTH variation, then the TALIA one. None worked and Dick knew that he wouldn’t be able to get into the computer until he either figured out more about this Bruce or asked someone. He tried WAYNE and THOMAS, which also didn’t work. Dick huffed and considered fingerprinting, then dismissed it because this was Bruce he was working with.

He leaned back in the chair, crossing his arms. He remembered the Kryptonian suits and leaned forward, trying KRYPTON, KAL-El, JOR-EL, KARA, ZOR-EL, KRYPTO, and everything else he could think of. He tried CRYSTAL because he remembered seeing Spoiler, then he tried JASON because that had been the password while Jason had died. Nothing worked and Dick had overrode the lock-out system but he thought an alarm would sound if he did it wrong anymore. Stupid paranoid Bruce.

Somewhere above him, Dick heard the telltale sign of the clock opening. He jumped to his feet and grabbed a grapple from where it was laying next to the keyboard, grappling up to a ledge near the top of the wall. He laid on his stomach and hoped the area would be shadowy enough that nobody would see.

Two people slid down the clock pole, one after the other. Dick recognized them with a jolt.

“He’s not even down here,” Damian complained, jumping off the pole and crossing his arms.

“He’s probably at work even though it’s Sunday, the asshole,” Duke said.

“He’s the worst,” Damian said, and Duke nodded.

“We’ll have to surprise him at work,” Duke said. “Call up Lois.”

“You call up Lois!” Damian returned. “She probably already knows where he is, anyway.”

“Yeah,” Duke said. “He’s probably moping somewhere.”

“He’s always moping somewhere when Lois is gone,” Damian scoffed. “They make me sick.”

“They’re married, weirdo,” Duke said. “Jeez. Come on, let’s go back up.”

Duke turned and Damian leapt onto his back, hanging on like a monkey. Duke screeched and tried to hold him up, but Damian climbed up higher and swung his legs around his shoulders, holding on to Duke’s head. Damian was laughing like a maniac and Duke spinned around, Damian’s laughter turning to joyful shrieks and Dick heard Duke’s own laughter underneath.

He smiled at the pair of them, wished he could leap down and swing Damian over his shoulder or give Duke a noogie or something.

Instead, three people came pattering down the stairs. Dick recognized Steph and Kara immediately, but the third person...he seemed familiar but a little off, somehow.

Damian brought the spinning to a stop and pointed at the trio.

“Duke! Invaders!”

“What kind of invaders?” Duke asked.

“Sisters!” Damian cried, and Duke charged at them. All three sidestepped.

“I take offense at the ‘sisters’ comment,” the other guy said.

“Sorry,” Damian said, and he sounded genuine. “Sisters and Kon.”

Kon? That person didn’t look like Kon, but Dick supposed that if the cloning process had been different, somehow….

“Thank you,” Kon said.

“Sure,” Damian said, and he made to climb down Duke’s back. Kara was there in an instant, basically picking him up and setting him down. She pat his head and he hissed at her, then he pointed at Steph.

“How dare you come down here without the love of my life?” Damian said accusingly. “Where is she?”

“Olive got to her first,” Steph said, her voice sing-songy, and Damian cried out in outrage and charged up the stairs. Kara high-fived Steph.

“Anyone get in contact with Cass?” Duke asked.

“Last I heard, she was in Korea,” Steph said. “Something about Slade or Shiva or someone.”

“Awesome,” Duke said, his tone saying the opposite.

“Don’t worry,” Kara said. “Today will still be special.”

“I know,” Duke said. “But it’d be cool if she could be there.”

“Yeah, well,” Kon said. “You know.” They all nodded and Dick was reminded of how his family talked about Jason in his universe. Was Cass their Jason? Was Cass Red Hood? It would explain the costume Dick’d seen, and actually--if Steph was Spoiler, Kara was Supergirl, Kon was Superboy, Duke was that other one, Damian was Nightwing or Flamebird, and the other person--Olive?--was the other one, that fit. And the last one--Lois and Bruce were married. If Lois was Kryptonian--Dick squinted back down at Kon, and yes, he looked like Lois’s twin brother but fifteen years younger. Explained why he looked different than Dick’s universe’s Kon. Dick wondered where Tim was, wondered if the display case he’d assumed to be Jason’s was actually Cass’s. No, no, it had said “son”, hadn’t it?

Regardless, the idea of Cass as Red Hood twisted inside Dick. His Cass would rather die than kill, and barely even got along with his Jason. What could’ve happened to her that would make her into Red Hood?

From upstairs, Dick heard Damian yell, “Baba’s anniversary surprise isn’t going to surprise itself!” and the older siblings looked at each other and went up above, ribbing each other and laughing, the tone shifting considerably.

Dick wondered if there was something he could do to get Cass to show up to this thing, because he knew how much Bruce appreciated it when Jason went to family functions, but it wasn’t Dick’s place to interfere and moreover, Cass was in Asia.

When he was sure he was alone, Dick flipped back down from his ledge and went back to the computer. Knowing what he knew now, he tried ELAINE, LARA, ELIZA, ALLURA, and ELLA. Then he typed in SIBYL, remembering that they’d mentioned an Olive and the only Olive in Dick’s universe that was around Damian-sized was the daughter of Calamity. None of the passwords worked. Dick contemplated going upstairs and trying to look around a little, but they were all up there and who knew how different the manor was in this universe. He tried SHIVA idly, not really thinking it would work, then he tried the names of all the dads he could think of. Dick was forced to conclude that he’d have to go upstairs to get anywhere. He crept to the stairs and started up, but then the door from above opened.

Dick froze.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m doing it,” the guy in the doorway said. His voice was vaguely familiar but Dick couldn’t see his face, until the guy took a few steps down and saw Dick, who was just standing there, useless.

The guy--Klarion the witch boy (what)--reacted before Dick could, in that he pointed his hands at him and then everything went black.

----

Dick woke up.

The first thing he noted was that Klarion, Steph, Kara, and Kon were gathered around him, arms crossed. The second thing he noted was that everyone was in costume. The third thing he noticed was that he was tied up.

He groaned.

“I hope I didn’t ruin your surprise for your dad,” he said, and everyone exchanged a look.

“What are you talking about?” Spoiler asked.

“I thought about asking you guys for help to get into the computer but I didn’t wanna take away from your dad’s anniversary present,” Dick said, aware that he wasn’t really explaining anything.

“Shut up, Gordon,” Superboy said.

“How long have you known our secret identities?” Spoiler demanded.

“Dick Gordon doesn’t know your identities,” Dick said. He felt like the last little question about this universe’s Dick was answered, the why wasn’t he a Wayne? Well, he still didn’t know why he wasn’t a Wayne, but at least he knew this Dick had grown up with a good father. “I mean, he might, I certainly don’t know, but that’s not the point. The point is that I’m from an alternate universe, and in my universe I’m Nightwing, and the first Robin, and Bruce Wayne’s oldest son.”

“Who the hell is Robin?” Superboy asked.

“It came from me!” Dick said. “My mom used to call me that.”

“Okay, well, why should we believe you?” Supergirl asked.

“Could Klarion, like, magic test me, or something?”

“I could try,” Klarion sniffed, and he sent a little stream of black sparkles at Dick, who ignored them.

“Please, I’m just trying to get back to my own universe, and I really don’t wanna disturb your anniversary thing.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Spoiler said. “None of your concern.”

Dick frowned--in his universe that would absolutely be his concern--but he didn’t say anything.

“Yeah, his energy signature’s way off,” Klarion said. “I’m pretty sure Z could do something about it, but I don’t know how to do that.”

“It’s fine,” Spoiler said. “We can call up the JLD and see if they can help.”

“Sure,” Dick said. “Anything.”

Superboy frowned at him and Supergirl and Spoiler started up a silent conversation. Klarion crossed his arms. Teekl meowed. A swirly light appeared behind them and Dick started.

“What?” Superboy asked.

“Turn around,” Dick said, and Superboy glared but Spoiler and Supergirl turned, just as voices started coming from the swirl.

“Are you sure this is the right one?”

“Absolutely. I matched your energy signatures. This should do it.”

The first voice was one Dick recognized--his own. The second voice Dick also recognized--Zatanna, maybe.

“Untie me,” Dick hissed, and Supergirl slashed the ropes with her heat vision. Dick stood and went to the swirl. He could vaguely see shapes on the other side, as if looking through tinted glass.

“Zatanna?” he called.

“Dick?” she responded. “Dick Grayson?”

“How do we know it’s the right alternate universe?” Spoiler asked, standing behind Dick. “I mean, what if it’s a third universe, and it’s all screwy?”

“I’m pretty sure it was an even exchange,” Zatanna said. “Go on, Gordon, step through.”

The other Dick came through the portal, and Dick sized him up. His hair was long, like Dick’d seen in the pictures. It was pulled back in a man bun. He was wearing a Metropolis Knights shirt that Dick recognized because there was a spot of discoloration along the bottom of the shirt from when Dick’d stained it.

The two Dicks looked at each other.

Dick Grayson took the phone out of his pocket and handed it over.

“This is yours,” he said.

Dick Gordon looked at it and smiled, handing Dick Grayson his own phone back. He recognized the lockscreen, and the little crack in the corner of the phone.

“Time to go back to reality,” Grayson said. “Did you have fun in my universe?”

“Not really,” Gordon said. “I don’t love how your dad operates.”

Grayson laughed, and Zatanna said, “Dick! I can only hold it open for a little longer.”

“I’m coming,” Grayson said. “Say hi to your kid for me, yeah? I didn’t talk to her, but….”

“I will,” Gordon said, smiling. Grayson moved closer to the swirl, then turned back to the three superheroes and Klarion, still standing there awkwardly.

“Hey,” Grayson said. “What was your password, underneath the code? I couldn’t figure it out.”

Spoiler looked at her siblings, then she said, “It changes, obviously, but, today it’s Pancake. The name of my dog.”

Grayson nodded and grinned, waving one more time and stepping through the swirl, and into his own Batcave.

#dick grayson #dick grayson-gordon #wally west #dickwally #new53 #stephanie wayne #duke thomas #damian wayne #kara lane #conner lane #writing #this is. possibly bad. but . wahtever.

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hua-lian · 5 years

Note

Hello , so um I want to request something I hope its not too much , can you maybe translate some interesting parts of that chapter where MQ ,FX XL gets to HC cave and find the statues and HC gives(?)XL a red string on his finger , and can you tell me what chapter that is ? , thanks , anx sorry if its a bother

MASSIVE SPOILERS

first of all, you have low standard if you’re asking me for translations HAHAHAHAHA

okay so the chapter that HC gives XL the red string is chapter 158, and only from chapter 173 onwards did XL, HC, MQ and FX get to HC’s cave, and I would argue the interesting parts is the whole thing but I can’t translate that without taking a year so I compromised and put summaries in between translations in [brackets]

warning, this is one hell of a long post because I don’t know how to use google docs

Red string part (Chapter 158)

Xie Lian was contemplating whether he should smash the stone wall to see what was behind, when he heard Hua Cheng: “Gege, give me your hand.”

Xie Lian: “???”

Even though he was confused, he still relented and gave his hand to Hua Cheng. Hua Cheng gently held his hand, putting his hand in his palm, his other hand covering, as if he was putting something on him. Xie Lian’s heart jumped faster, and he held his breath for a moment, at once, he raised his hand, and questioned: “This is?”

On his right hand’s third finger was a fine red string, which was what Hua Cheng put on him. Additionally, this red string continuously extended, connected to Hua Cheng’s own finger’s red string.

Hua Cheng raised his hand, showing the two’s identical butterfly knot, smiling as he said: “Tied together.”

Hearing this, Xie Lian’s face heated up, quickly he rubbed his face twice, afraid Hua Cheng could detect his unusually quick heartbeat, laughing as he said: “San Lang this is a form of magic?”

“En.” Hua Cheng slightly straightened his expression, putting down his hand, he said, “Even though we won’t leave each other on our own, we can’t guarantee there will be no outside forces. This string won’t snap, and won’t be short. Unless the other was gone, otherwise, we can definitely follow the string to find the other person.”

Xie Lian said: “Gone, meaning?”

Hua Cheng said: “Dying, or vanishing into thin air. If the string is unbroken, it means the other person is fine.”

Chapter 173

[HC and XL fall into HC’s Ten-Thousand Gods Cave, and as they continue walking XL sees a lot of different types of statues, all with their faces covered.]

Some was fully covered, extremely unusual. Xie Lian found it weird, wanting to pull down one statue’s gauze and see its face, but behind him Hua Cheng said: “Gege, I suggest you don’t.”

Xie Lian turned his head back, questioningly asked: “Why? I feel that these god statues are a little weird.”

Hua Cheng walked forward, and said: “Because it’s weird, it’s best if you don’t. Since these faces are covered, there must be a reason why. The head is where the spiritual energy assembles, if the cover is removed, allowing these weird god statues to assemble the spiritual energy, who knows what might happen. Gege, didn’t you want to find your two footmen? Since we haven’t found them, it’s best not to touch them (god statues) so as to avoid side issues.”

His words were mysterious and confusing, but it was not without reason, in the case of removing the face gauze, awakening whatever these god statues had, that would not be any fun at all. Xie Lian thought for a bit, deciding to put down his hand, and said: “I’m just a little curious as to who the god is.”

Hua Cheng, playing it down, said: “This place is Wu Yong’s national border, perhaps it’s Wu Yong’s crown prince’s god statue, not strange at all.”

Xie Lian: “I’m afraid it’s not.”

Hua Cheng said: “Eh? How can one be sure?”

Xie Lian faced him, and said: “From the murals we saw on the way here, Wu Yong’s crown prince and Wu Yong Nation’s people’s clothes, compared to these god statue’s dress style, it’s not the same. Therefore, I’m afraid that these god statues and Wu Yong’s crown prince are unrelated. Additionally, it’s possible they weren’t made by the hands of Wu Yong’s people.”

Hua Cheng laughed and said: “Really? Gege is really meticulous.”

Xie Lian also laughed, and said: “No, no. Only that the style of these god statues, whatever craft labor, clothes, or the streamline and details of the clothes, all seems to have a more modern style. For example……the style of Xian Le Nation.”

Hua Cheng raised a brow, and said: “It seems, gege has a rather deep knowledge of this aspect.”

Xie Lian said: “Where, where. It’s only that I’ve seen too many god statues, sooner or later I’ll be more perceptive.”

Even though he didn’t know why, but he kept feeling, from just now till now, Hua Cheng was a little off. After talking to this point, he seemed to be faintly nervous.

[XL decided to listen to HC, and not touch the statues, then they come across a path split into 2, and XL questions why HC immediately goes to the right if he claims he doesn’t know the place. HC makes up nonsense, saying he’s more lucky so he randomly picked the right side. XL then hears voices from the left path, and heads there despite HC calling him back. It’s MQ and FX, stuck in a hole. HC did not follow him.]

Chapter 174

[XL jumps into the hole, HC comes and brings him out, XL brings MQ and FX out of the hole. XL, MQ, and FX spend the whole chapter talking, generally about how XL knew MQ and FX were FY and NF all along.]

Chapter 175

[As they continue walking, MQ tries to touch one of the statues, and HC immediately holds a sword towards him, and reluctantly MQ relents after a standoff. Suddenly, MQ and FX grab XL and runs away from HC, and MQ mentions that the red bead XL had lost long ago was found again, and it’s the red bead in HC’s hair. XL is in disbelief, and MQ takes off a veil covering a statue’s face, and it’s XL’s face. All the statues are of him, made by HC. They then see some murals, and it’s all drawn by HC, one being Pleased God XL saving small HC, one being HC holding an umbrella over a white flower, and FX and MQ are horrified to realize that HC’s been watching XL all this time.]

Feng Xin was simply absolutely terrified, and said: “What kind of person is this? Staring at you from 800 years till now?! Still staying with you until today? Fuck me! This is too horrifying! Is he possessed?! What does he want? Ordinary believers completely would not do this kind of thing, what does he want?!”

Mu Qing said: “There’s a plot……There definitely must be a plot! Quickly continue looking, a clue can definitely be found here!”

Xie Lian was already shocked stupid, staring at the small red boy on the wall, he hadn’t reacted yet, he only felt that there was much he hadn’t forgotten, but he had not cared to remember all the messy and confusing things which were all fighting to appear first in Xie Lian’s head, when the two beside him starting making noise. He shivered once, and asked: “What happened now?”

Feng Xin and Mu Qing were standing in front of a stone wall, as if they had seen some kind of terrible thing. On seeing that he wanted to walk over, Feng Xin quickly turned and pushed him back, and said: “Don’t fucking look!”

Xie Lian: “? What is it? What thing? Why can’t I see it?”

Mu Qing’s face also darkened, and he said: “……Don’t see it. It’s nothing worth looking at, quickly run!”

The two of them grabbed an arm, once again rushing towards a path. Dragged by them, Xie Lian said: “What are you two doing? I still have not seen the entirety of the murals?!”

Feng Xin ran and angrily said: “No use looking! You can’t see that kind of thing! Fuck, honestly! I really have never seen this kind of fucking thing before! This kind of person!!!”

Xie Lian was confused: “You have never see what before? What’s did San Lang do?”

Mu Qing scolded: “Still calling him San Lang, stop calling him that! It’s too late to run! From now on don’t approach him! He’s not normal, he’s sick, he’s a lunatic!!!”

Xie Lian couldn’t listen to it anymore, and said: “Why are you two scolding like that? Didn’t I say, not everyone who’s not normal is bad?”

Feng Xin said: “Stop asking! I don’t know! He’s entirely different from us! He’s sick! Towards you, he……he……”

Xie Lian said: “Towards me what?”

One wants to return, the other two want to pull, the three of them were locked in a stalemate, suddenly a cold voice came from their front, and said: “Didn’t I say before, once at other’s domain, don’t touch their things randomly? Otherwise, whatever happens next, it’s hard to say.”

The three of them stiffened, turning their heads. They could only see a red figure in front of them. Hua Cheng was leaning against a stone wall, blocking their way.

Chapter 176

[They run again, and XL says he wants to ask HC about the statues and murals instead, and MQ and FX, obviously, refuses, and they both think XL is too trusting of HC. MQ puts a tally (talisman?) on him which makes him obey and prevents him from being able to speak. HC appears again.]

Feng Xin and Mu Qing instantly backed a distance. Hua Cheng did not look at them, his eye moving to one side, taking a step towards Xie Lian. Feng Xin and Mu Qing reacted when they saw who he was heading towards, quickly putting Xie Lian behind them, and said in unison: “Don’t come over!”

Hua Cheng’s expression darkened.

If this was a normal day, whoever dared to tell Seeking Flowers in Blood Rain not to come over, he would completely not care about these words, it would be weird if he didn’t laughed and purposefully headed over, but this time, he instead seemed as if he was a little afraid, not daring to act rashly, halting his footsteps.

A while later, he then slowly said: “What is the meaning of this?”

This tone seemed calm. Feng Xin instead said directly: “There’s no need to act anymore, this place has always been your nest. We have already seen these god statues, and those drawings of yours, we have seen it all!”

Hua Cheng was blocking them, hearing this, the hand behind his back trembled, two finger unconsciously curled up.

“……” He slowly drooped, and weakly said, “His Highness, has also seen?”

This tone was very low, even though this manner of speaking was nothing exciting, it was a little hoarse, clearly unusual. Xie Lian thought: “I have not!”

Actually, he didn’t see a lot, however, at this moment he couldn’t speak nor move, honestly only able lean against the stone wall in the corner, as if he was hiding behind the two, afraid to come out to face Hua Cheng, and unwilling to talk to him. Feng Xin drew his bow, and said: “Correct. Whatever…thoughts you have, we are clear. With respect to you as a Ghost King, if you still have some respect and dignity, please do not come close to His Highness the Crown Prince anymore.”

[HC, angered, fights them, and traps them in cocoon silk, then MQ says he was the one who drove HC out of the military, and then HC tells them to admit if the thing they were talking about before was true or not. MQ shouts for XL to run away, XL runs and falls down pretty much immediately.]

Xie Lian’s hands and feet were tightly bound by white thread, lying on the ground, his black hair and white sleeves scattered, his bamboo hat having fallen aside. Hua Cheng slowly turned towards him, pausing for a long time, he headed towards him. Having walked only a few steps, Feng Xin couldn’t control himself and said: “Hua Cheng!”

Hua Cheng paused in his steps, slowly inclining his head.

Feng Xin summoned up his courage to say: “You…You let go of His Highness! He’s already so miserable. Towards him, don’t……”

Hua Cheng didn’t say a thing, walking to Xie Lian’s side, bending his knees for a bit, he picked him up.

[HC carries him and leaves, and MQ bites the silk aggressively.]

Chapter 177 (Confession!!!)

[HC carries him away, his hands stiff, and HC then notices the tally MQ had put on XL, preventing him from speaking.]

Xie Lian’s organs were in disarray, the effect of the Obey Talisman on his back starting to fade away, he moved his leg with force, letting out a “Ah.” Even though it looked like a dying fish futilely fighting its last battle and letting out a protest without any deterrence, Hua Cheng still stiffened, instantly retracting his hand, and said: “I will not!”

Seeming as if he thought his voice was too loud, and was afraid to startle Xie Lian, Hua Cheng took a few steps back, lightening his tone, and said, lowly: “Your Highness, I will not do anything. You…don’t have to be afraid.”

[XL is injured, which he hadn’t realized until HC was taking off his clothes and helping him (?), MQ and FX come again, but it turns out they were fake, and Bai Wuxiang had been pretending to be them.]

here’s a link to a translation for the confession!!

#whew this took a while #tian guan ci fu #asks!#tgcf spoilers #my (bad) translations

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vcngttpt-a · 4 years

Note

ALL OF THEM. @mun meme ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)

@deceptivetreat || mun q&a

━━━━━━━━━▼━━━━━━━━━

||you are. the bane. of my existence.

☯ Is there a muse you’ve always wanted to play?

hmm ig i’ll go with canon for this one because i have many ocs, but uh i really wanna write for seto from fragile dreams. i used to have an ask blog for him back in the day but that died quickly seeing as how dead the fandom is so- but i do love him with all my heart and i would love to be able to someday write him or something

♣ Is there an author(s) that you look up to with your writing skills?

rick riordan, marissa meyer and michelle rowen. i’ve read their books throughout middle school and high school and i still find myself going back to reread their books because i just love how their words flow as well as how engaging their plots are. i honestly hope i can reach rick riordan levels of skill whenever i get around to finishing my own novel!

♧ Is there an RP partner(s) that you credit for becoming a better writer?

one would have to be an old rp friend that we sadly don’t talk to anymore since she was the first one i started writing with a lot more back in high school as well as the one who would give me advice on how to improve and just be patient with me when i go stuck with writing our threads and also mikey (@snw-cnvs) since he also supports me outside of rp’ing to get me to write actually fiction drabbles. i just wish i could finish them lmao

♥ What’s your favorite ship with your muse?

all of my ships with mikey no i’m joking lolol i really love my ship with haneul because i’ve had him for two years now and he’s grown a lot because of his ship. he’s someone whose never believed that love was real and sure their relationship is a little rocky, but they both don’t really have the proper understanding for love until waaaay later. i also really love how whenever he’s with obe, he’s able to pull out this different side of haneul, someone whose so overconfident and quick to words, becomes at a loss for words and questioning himself a lot. i just love them best otp

♡ Would you ever write a poly ship?

sure, i’d be down for it as long as our muses have the right chemistry as well as if i know both muns pretty well and if they’re also comfortable with it.

♦ What’s an AU that you’ve always wanted?

answered

♢ What’s an AU that you think just won’t work with your muse?

any au that causes too much of a shift in my muses’ personality. i’m usually willing to try any au but if it becomes too much that my muse basically becomes a different person i don’t like it.

♔ What’s your opinion on teacher/student verses? Do you have any of these as threads?

eeeeh i dont really care, but i work at a school so the thought makes me like uncomfy because i don’t wanna think about work lolol but its also like fiction and i’m able to tell the difference between fiction and reality so yea. also no i don’t have any threads like that

♕ Do you like magic!anons? Why or why not?

not really. it became too much of a thing to deal with back in the day. i just like the simple things

⚜ What is the best time to write for you? Why?

nighttime because i’m fuckin nocturnal even tho i have a day job rip my sleep schedule and ever growing eye bags

★ What type of historical AU would you like to do one day?

Victorian era, or the prohibition era don’t ask me why i like them i don’t even know myself i just know i wouldn’t mind

☆ What type of fantasy AU would you like to do one day?

all of them. i’m a huge slut for fantasy in general. its one of the best things i love the most.

☄ Do you think your muse would have liked going to high school sports games? Do you or did you go to high school sports games?

haneul: no, he’s not into those things, but also he was home schooled until he went to college

eiji: he used to play soccer in high school so yea

reese: do magic tournaments count? cause if so then yes

sage: no, i was the loser who hung out at the library with friends to sit around and read books and manga

☾ Do you like writing smut? Why or why not?

okay, if it wasn’t obvious i used to rp back in middle school through high school and on tumblr and i have done my fair share of the sin once i turned 18. nowadays i’m pretty much like eh, but ig i could try again if the need arises, but it also depends on my mood ig? i’d have to write it with someone i’m completely comfortable writing with but also even then it’s gotten to the point i’m more like ig we can just fade to black yea?

tbh i feel i got all the urges to write sin outta me when i was on my old en blog lmao i had so many smut threads on there i’m ashamed

☽ Do you like writing angst? Why or why not?

yes god i love being able to break my muses because it’s so fun. like yea it also hurts because that’s my kid i’m hurting but i’m okay with that. it’s just something that adds realness to them because the world sure as fuck ain’t rainbow and sunshine

☼ What’s an FC that you’re dying to use? Why?

i have these icons that i squirreled away for awhile now and i really wanna use them but my brain is too dead to figure out who he could work for. like he was my first thought for reese but he didn’t really give off the right reese vibes so maybe i’ll dig around my oc bin and see who looks the closest to him

or i cave and just make a brand new oc for him

☀ What’s an FC that you desperately want to play with? Why?

i’m not really picky about what fc write with tbh

☁ What’s an FC that you refuse to play with? Why?

not really refuse to play - more like i’m eh with. if only because en used to be my main chara for a long time like, i was so deep into the magical boy lore that a good chunk of my headcanons became canon. but also it just…leaves a bad taste in my mouth even more so since the drama that happened in that fandom left me filled with fear and hesitance to rp for a good chunk like before. it just brings back bad memories and i thought i was moving past it when i was thinking about using him for reese but alas. some memories don’t leave

maybe one day i’ll either get to write en again or i can use his face as fc but we’ll see

☂ How does your muse spend a rainy day? How do you spend a rainy day?

haneul: he loves the rain and he’ll spend it either under an umbrella or just sitting there in the rain just letting it wash away his thoughts and fears for a little bit

eiji: he’d spend it indoors playing a video game or playing with seto

reese: he’d prob be dumb and splash in the puddles because he likes to enjoy the little things. other times he’ll just ignore it and stay indoors either hanging with friends or studying and practicing his magic for his school’s next tournament

sage: i like to spend it just lookin out my window with my kitty on my chest. i love the sound of it against the sidewalk and streets.

☃ If your muse was cartoonized, what would their FC be? Why?

uh idk how to answer this tbh

☺ What’s a character that you desperately want your muse to play with? Why?

toshi @ haneul *stares at @snw-cnvs* and also reese @ momo *stares at @deceptivetreat* but also i just want everyone to bother my boys i love them so much.

☹ What’s a character that you refuse to play with? Why?

idk i’m pretty open for any character

☢ Are there any ships that you would like to write for one day? Any that you wouldn’t?

uh dunno. i’m open for any ships that have the right chemistry tbh just not haneul since he’s already taken

☣ What’s one thing that will make you drop a thread?

useless drama and or if i can’t seem to figure out where the thread is going for our muses. like if they don’t clash well i don’t wanna give tryin to grasp at straws. but i’m always down to try again unless it ends up the same than welp

♨ What’s a muse that you wished had lasted, but didn’t?

aaaah my supernatural brothers!!! i love them so much but they didn’t last and i’m not sure if i’m goin to add them on here or leave them in the void.

❀ Do you like reblog karma? Why or why not?

i’m gonna sound old but i don’t know what that is hold on. *googles* oh okay yea no. that seems like too much pressure to do and i have too much anxiety to do that i’m sorry.

✿ Do you have a mun FC? If so why did you choose that as your FC, and if not who would you choose?

yes. because i have so many icons it’s not even funny, but also before i got my hair cut she looked the most like me and also i thought it’d be fun to be able to tell the difference between me and my boys

see, back in the day i was the loser who would make ooc posts that included my muses and it was easy to have mun fc so you could do that and it was a lot fun, but it’s somethin i won’t so nowadays.

♪♩♫ Does music inspire your muse? What’s one song on your playlist that reminds you of your muse?

haneul: mirror part II

any of weiss’ songs work for him tbvh

eiji: rpg

reese: havent found one that works for him yet, so come back later

✂ Do you like to format your posts? Why or why not?

yes it’s all for the aesthetic

✆ Other than RPing, what’s a hobby of yours?

i love to write and draw. lmao sometimes i don’t write drafts so i can write more of my novel or little drabbles that’s for friends.

✉ Do you RP on any other platforms?

nope

❤ Have you or are you currently in love?

answered

❥ Has something ever happened for you to hate a ship? Why?

uh nope can’t say there has been.

ツ Who has been your favorite muse to play so far? Why?

haneul, eiji, lifty and shifty, and en

han and eiji because they’re both my ocs and it’s so much fun to see them develop and grow their characters more.

en because i was able to write a lot of different aus, headcanons, and just develop a canon character until he pretty much just became my own character

lifty and shifty were my roots. i started in the htf fandom and had so much fun writing those lil shits. it was just my go fuckin crazy shit. i still have their icons and their old blog is still up and i do kinda miss them some days.

回 Which muse was the worst to play? Why?

i used to have an oc named harley who was a living doll and i haha came to hate him because i made him around the same time i created haneul and i always loved haneul because i put a lot of effort into him and not much in harley and i got annoyed and jealous that back then everyone seemed to love harley more him. so i pretty much tossed him to the curve adfhsdkfjh

sorry harley but you were also hard to write because you were too sweet and cliche for me

✘ People come in a group. If I were to look on your blog, who would I see you interacting with the most?

@snw-cnvs and @deceptivetreat

ღ Do you have a personal blog? Do you share it with your followers or do you keep it private?

nah i haven’t used tumblr in years until now. i do have one but i don’t use it so idc it’s called @shouyoutheworld but again i don’t use it it’s…v old

▼ Do you keep your character in character even if they are one of the worst people in the world?

yes. what’s the point of writing and creating said character if you’re gonna sugar coat them?

▽ Why did you create this muse?

haneul: i wanted an oc who was really jaded and brat. i wanted to see him grow into something more even if its difficult

eiji: i pretty much wanted a muse that i could dump all my useless game infos on

reese: i wanted a witch oc who had a rival that they both hated their guts for and eventually fall in love I’M SO RR Y THAT’S REALLY WHY HE WAS MADE FORGIVE ME BUT NOW I DEVELOPED HIM A LOT MORE FOR RP’ING PURPOSES BUT Y’KN OW

#﹝저자 — ooc ﹞#﹝저자 — answered ﹞#aah #that took forever but there we go #i was gonna say fuck format but uh #i gotta fix the readmore line #so ig i'll do a quick formatting change #im just glad #i got no kids to deal with at work #otherwise id do this at hime

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paradisobound · 5 years

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I Want It, I Got It: Chapter 5

Summary: Phil Lester was a worker for the BBC in London. Working in the advertising department, he was content being alongside his friend and fellow coworker PJ during every shift. However, the BBC is temporarily being used as a film set for a new movie staring Hollywood ‘It’ star, Daniel Howell. Being stuck as an extra on the set, Phil finds it’s hard to ignore the famous star. And maybe, just maybe, Dan finds it hard to ignore Phil as well.

Word Count: 2k (this chapter)

Warnings: Occasional swearing

Rating: Mature (for right now)

Updates will be every Wednesday and every Sunday

**MASTERLIST | READ ON AO3**

“Aren’t you the least bit nervous?” PJ commented the next day as they walked with Spike in the local park near Phil’s flat.

Dinner the night before had mostly consisted of both Sophie and PJ telling Phil about where he should take Dan around London and so he came up with a comprehensive list saved on his phone. But he still had many worries fueling his brain.

Like what if this was all a mistake? Daniel was a famous celebrities and surely he really didn’t want some pleb like Phil taking him around London. But on top of that, won’t people see them? Won’t this cause some big news scene?

He didn’t really want to do that.

There was a lot of weight on this line and he had to admit that it made him slightly nervous.

“No,” Phil answers eventually, “I am. I’m incredibly nervous.”

“Have you two messaged since last night?”

Phil shook his head. He hadn’t even replied to Daniel last night after he had messaged him last night. He probably should have. He internally winced. Did he already fuck this all up because he didn’t reply to him? He hoped not.

“You’re over thinking already.” PJ commented just as Spike tugged at his leash and Phil looked to see what the pup was doing. He just saw a squirrel and was hoping to chase it but he held the little guy back.

“Well, I didn’t reply back to him. Do you think I could have messed his up already?”

Pj stopped on the path and turned to him, hands in his coat pocket. “You’re really asking me this, Phil? Less than a week ago, you were telling Gemma off about fantasizing about the hunky lad and now look at you. You’re head over heels for the bloke.”

“I’m not head over heels for him.”

Pj cocked his eyebrow. “Really? You’re really saying that right now?”

Phil blushed and continued moving in the direction Spike was pulling him. “Well, he’s seems not to be a bad guy.”

“So you take back what you said before about him being pretentious and rude?”

Phil scoffed. “Well no. I don’t even know him yet.”

“But you know he’s not, though? Or else he wouldn’t have already slid into your dm’s.”

“He didn’t slide into my dm’s.” Phil laughed. “He just messaged me asking for a favor.”

“Oh, and I’m sure that’s what Nick Jonas did with Priyanka Chopra as well.”

“Shut up.” Phil laughed, hitting PJ gently on the side. “This is all a bit ridiculous, isn’t it? Like this feels like we’ve entered an alternate timeline―a whole new dimension.”

“Maybe we did.” PJ commented with a shrug. “But Spike over there is doing his business and I’m sure that we can’t launch that into another dimension.”

Phil rolled his eyes and walked over to Spike, pulling the bags out of his pocket.

Maybe they did fall into a wormhole and enter a new timeline. It sure did feel like it.

He, PJ, and Spike all left the park a short time later. PJ said he was heading back to his flat for the afternoon to work on a BBC assignment he was behind on and Phil figured he might as well get a jumpstart on his next one as well. The BBC had made it clear in yet another email this morning that Phil was not off the hook despite having to reappear to the building.

When he got back to his flat, he let Spike off from his leash and allowed for him to run off to his bed to sleep. He then set down with his laptop on his couch and opened up Illustrator to begin his next assignment. He was to create a new promo poster for the BBC radio one show and since he particularly liked that show, he really wanted to put time into it.

He slowly began to piece together shapes and colors when his phone vibrated against his side and he picked it up out of instinct. On his screen, he had a new Instagram message again. Without even unlocking his phone, he knew already they were from Daniel.

danielhowell: hello its me again! My manager gave me the go ahead to go out in London next Tuesday so are you free then? My bodyguard Joshua will be with us but i promise he’s a soft teddy bear.

danielhowell: I know i said this already but i do appreciate it! I like being able to go out and do normal things but its hard, ya know?

amazingphil: It’s no problem! I don’t mind showing you around London. There is a lot we can do.

danielhowell: I hear! I hope you don’t mind that we’re probs going to be bombarded by people all day. I feel like I should apologize for that in advance...but it kind of comes with the package―me.

danielhowell; that last part wasn’t as funny as i was expecting it to be. I’m sorry lol

Phil had to admit that he snickered. But he still was in complete disbelief that he was messaging back and forth with Daniel Howell.

amazingphil: I kind of figured. I saw some of the speculation on Twitter already.

danielhowell: Ugh I’m sorry. My fans are always speculating about me. It sucks but there is not much i can really do. I’m glad for them and i appreciate them because i wouldn’t be here without them but they can be a pain.

danielhowell: that being said i can tell them to leave you be? I mean, they probably wont listen but it is worth a little bit of a shot?

Phil bit his lip. He couldn’t ask that of Daniel already when there is nothing between them. They’re just talking about London and about Phil showing him around London. That’s all.

amazingphil: I couldn’t ask that of you. They’re not bothering me directly.

danielhowell: well if they ever do, please let me know!

danielhowell: I really mean it. They can be...a lot.

amazingphil: I’m sure i can handle them if need be.

danielhowell: okay mate but don’t say i didn’t warn you

danielhowell: oh, by the way, can we meet somewhere discreet? I want to keep my day as low key as possible and i don’t want fans to follow me to meet you. Do you have any suggestions?

Here was the thing. Phil didn’t know of many locations where any meeting or any sort was going to be discreet. Everything was pretty much out in the open around London unless you were in one of the back alleys where you could be shanked.

amazingphil: sorry, not really. We could meet at the BBC early on? I have a pass to get in so we can meet in there first?

danielhowell: okay. Fingers crossed I don’t get plowed over by fans before then.

amazingphil: #prayfordaniel

#prayfordaniel?? Phil inwardly groaned and covered his face in shame. That was the dumbest thing he could have sent someone like Daniel and now he’d sent it and Dan’s already read it.

He covers his eyes when his phone vibrates again for another message.

danielhowell: not sure that’ll work but it might worry the shit out of my fans lol

Phil found himself smiling really wide. This was nice. In a way, it almost felt like he might have a budding friendship with Daniel. Of course that was probably super silly but there was some place deep inside of himself that gave him hope.

Dan’s next message widened that place.

danielhowell: can i just say another thank you for treating me like a human? I’ve tried talking to other people before and they all freak out or begin to obsessively fangirl and ngl, it gets tiring. really tiring. So i really appreciate this, Phil. it means a lot.

amazingphil: of course, Dan. Why would i treat you any differently?

danielhowell: :)

They stopped messaging not long after which made Phil feel a tad bit sad but he had a feeling this wasn’t going to be the last time he and Dan talk before Tuesday.

He worked on a big portion of the BBC radio one advertisement and then he put his laptop on the charger to take Spike out for the bathroom and then order dinner from the local Domino’s.

By that evening, Phil had settled into bed in a peaceful food coma and was scrolling through his social media feeds again. Dan had posted some tweets in replies to some fans and he wasn’t trending anymore despite trending the entire week for filming and being on set.

But as he went through all of Dan’s tweets, he realized that he actually didn’t know hardly anything about Dan and he should probably look up some information before he meets him and makes a complete fool of himself.

He googles Dan’s name and unsurprisingly, his name comes up automatically with a ton of tabloid reports.

Daniel Howell’s new beau??

Daniel Howell on set in London! Catch the behind the scenes.

Is Daniel Howell filming in London? We have the inside scoop.

Phil found them all laughable and all totally exactly what tabloid magazines do.

He clicked on Dan’s Wikipedia page and decided to skim through it.

“Daniel James Howell, formally known as just Daniel “Dan” Howell, is a Hollywood actor, two time Oscar winner, and four time Emmy Award winner. Howell is best known for his portrayal as Romeo in the 2014 remake of the classic Shakespearean play Romeo and Juliet alongside Jennifer Douglas which earned him his two Emmy’s. His career took off after his role was heavily accepted by critics across all boards, some even naming him the newest A-List star in Hollwood. Since 2014, Howell has worked starred in many new movies such as “One for the Road”, a coming of age story about a group of teenagers in America which earned his first Oscar, and “The Year of Us”, the star studded adaptation of the widely acclaimed novel by Stephanie Barry, which earned him his second Oscar.”

Phil finished that section and sat back. Wow. So Dan has been a popular celebrity for a while. He knew that. He remember how everyone hyped his role for Romeo and Juliet, calling him the next best Romeo after Leo DiCaprio.

But he honestly never paid any other attention to who Dan was or how he gained his stardom so fast.

“Personal Life: Daniel Howell was born on June 11th, 1991 in the small town of Wokingham in the United Kingdom to parents Karen and Joseph Howell. He has a younger brother named Adrian who is a popular YouTuber influencer. Howell began his acting career at just the age of five when he was casted in a production of Les Miserables in his community. After his success in acting, over the course of his youth, his family moved to Los Angeles, California, in hopes of him to gain stardom. Howell starred in his first Hollywood film at the age of 16 but would not become known for his roles until the age of 23.”

Phil thought back to what he was doing at twenty three. Definitely not gaining any stardom, that’s for sure. He was just sitting in Manchester, trying to make ends meet with a crappy job at Starbucks.

“In June of 2014, one year after gaining his fame, Howell announced his battles with anxiety and depression in hopes to become an ambassador for his younger fans. He is an advocate for mental health and the ability for everyone out there to have access to a health care system that will help anyone who is struggling like he was.

In September of 2017, Howell announced that he was bisexual and dating fellow costar Kellen Queen. After less than a year of dating, Howell and Queen announced on social media that they were no longer together. Howell has not been reported to have dated since but Queen is now dating his fellow “Timeless” co-star Helen O’Reilly.”

Phil sat back and processed the information. If he thought back to it, he could vaguely recall the entire break up happening. He remembers the tabloids and the social media frenzy but he never kept up with celebrity news enough to really know what was going on.

But to see where Daniel had come out as bisexual was a lot. Mostly because Phil himself was gay. He tended to keep his romantic life quiet but for some reason, he kind of hoped that Dan would ask him about his sexual orientation so they can have something to talk about.

There was one thing Phil didn’t mind and that was openly talking about his attraction to other men.

He closed out of Wikipedia, deciding he had read enough, and shut off his light. Spike has crawled in beside him sometime while he was reading on wikipedia and now he was curled in his side.

He fell asleep relatively fast, dreaming about Tuesday with Daniel.

#phan #phanfic #phanfiction #au #famous!dan #moviestar!dan #normal!phil #princesslexi763fics

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fyrapartnersearch · 5 years

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And your next line is...

Strike a pose!

Hello, the name is Aylo and I am a dedicated on and off role-player with a tendency of writing original stories in the hope that one day, my own vision gets pushed out into the world. But that dream is still a far away concept as most of my works are still in the making. Since I am still on summer break, I’ve got some time at my hands that I’m interested to fill it with some juicy writing.   Roleplaying is one of my greatest hobbies on the side! I enjoy it greatly as it gives you the opportunity to build a world and gripping plot with a partner. Also, a little about me before dive into it. You must be at least 18+ of age when you want to start original roleplay with me, just to be upfront and honest with you. I am in my twenties, thus I have no quarrel, or rather much prefer, mature adult themes. I accept anyone, but they have to be willing to fill some of these categories mentioned down below. What I expect is a decent (if not, very good) grasp on grammar, the ability and will to write creatively and shoulder half of the plotting and responsibility as well as the passion for roleplaying. Of course this should be seen as a fun way of passing the time and inspiring one’s muse, but I really like to invest… I wish for my partner to take equal initiative.  

 This request is a bit of an unusual one as I am targeting a fandom that you may have or have not heard about.  Currently I am on the hunt for someone who would like to start a JoJo’s Bizarre Adventure themed RP with me! Yes, as odd as it sounds, but the series had captured my heart in the most bizarre way (I couldn’t resist, apologies) and I simply fell in love with this odd, quirky world of JoJo. I started binging the series a year ago but now, I really became invested and grew to crave for an experience in writing it with a partner!

Regarding which era of the JoJo’s we could take this, I am fairly open, though I have yet to watch Part 5.   Since the world of JoJo is so vastly open and brimming with possibility, there’s no exact limit. Unless of course, the characters are overpowered, then we might have a problem. However I’ve rarely encountered cases, so I wouldn’t worry that much about it. I have a strong penchant for including original characters and ideas that can be added to the pre-existing plot. Also very happy to expand on the given worlds and open to AU’s. Okay so I am a really big nerd when it comes to the supernatural, mysterious, urban myth and fantasy. Love combining those given elements with organised crime, complex characters, cataclysmic events and dark schemes that all unravels as time goes on. JoJo is a perfect breeding ground for it all.

    Which JoJo is the best JoJo?

  In my opinion, I love all of them <3

Just to be frank here!  I am going to list all of the parts I am open and willing to do, down below:

JoJo: Phantom Blood (Part 1) 

JoJo: Battle Tendency (Part 2) 

JoJo: Stardust Crusaders (Part 3) 

JoJo: Diamond is Unbreakable (Part 4)

Now I know there are seasons of the series that I’ve yet to read and watch, but there is so much of the world already, I am perfectly content with focusing the story on those four!    Writing: 3rd person perspective. My writing is wide-ranging and flexible, which means that frequently, word count will go up 1000+ per reply - though it highly depends on the given situation and partner. Quality over quantity as they say - but why not both? I love detail in description, and I am actively seeking someone of the same infamy. My partner should have a basic grasp on grammar, punctuation and somewhat of an interest in knowledgeable writing. I also double! (preferably, but we can always discuss whether it makes sense for our roleplay our not.)

 What it entails: 

Alright, so you are writing with some of mature age. I have 11 years of writing experience when it comes to the game. This will be a fair warning that this request is not for the faint of heart. There will be violence, swearing, gore, intimate scenes, uncomfortable subjects, drama, conflict and other dark themes included within the story. I have few limits but I will respect the boundaries of my partner, so do not shy away from telling me. Just so you know, I won’t fade to black or skip out on the nitty gritty. Go big or go home. Interests: My line of interests are very dynamic when it comes to genres. I love conceiving my own lore inside a stories, be it an original or a pre-existing story. Gothic fantasy among others are one of my favourites. I am not opposed to tapping into some science fiction, action, romance, crime, action or thriller genres, in fact I encourage it. Inspirations for me are Lovecraft, Hellsing, Blade, Underworld, etc. As for the fandom inspired RPs, I am more than willing to bend some rules and be a little indulgent. World building and sharing the burden: You should be active and help me shape the world around our characters. Even if we discuss many things during and before the roleplay, how we wish for things to play out and take its course, I am always happy to be surprised with a secret of my partner’s character I didn’t know before. You don’t need to lay out all your cards on the table… keep it a little mysterious and suspenseful. Just enough so we can work with the ideas, but not completely kill off the suspense. Characters: I write canon as well as OC characters. Faceclaims, GIFs, drawings, mood boards or just a plain physical description is absolutely sufficient. Whatever floats your boat when it comes to visualising your character and their backstory, I’m on board. Characters should be written as opulent, flawed, unique, talented, heroic, villainous, spiteful, angry, and everything in-between figures. In other words, don’t be scared of making them ‘human’, even when they are non-human. Romance: Openly play and accept characters of both genders, preferable m x f pairings, but I am open to m x m and f x f relationships as well. I have more experience with m x f relationships, so I might be more adept with this one. If the chemistry of two characters compel me, I will ship them no matter what! When it comes to sexual scenarios and intimacy (intercourse, foreplay, all that jazz). I encourage erotism, but always in a tasteful, sensual manner (that goes for romance as well). The passion must be felt through the screen, even if it’s just a mere description of someone’s deep train of thought. Content: Drama, violence, implication of sexual content, metamorphosis, symbolism, action, romance, pretty much everything is a-okay. I am unbothered by certain subjects that may or may not be uncomfortable for the general public. Roleplays are fictional stories and we best keep viewing them as such. If there are things you are uncomfortable with, name them and I shall respect those boundaries. But don’t be surprised when suddenly one of our characters bites the dust, or gets tortured. It may be difficult to write and read, but it is all part of the story and furthering the plot. My roleplays imply and involve brutality, mayhem, psychological and physical torture among other things. But I also greatly endorse beauty, serenity and placid moments, scenes or characters. I love it when it comes full circle… everyone- and everything has a beautiful and hideous side. Both should be embraced like Yin and Yang. Communication and friendship: OOC-chat friendly! I love meeting new people and making friends and as we all know, communication is key. Plus it strengthens the compatibility between us. Communication is the alpha and the omega. If there is anything that bothers you, or if you think you are left out in some way (be it a mistake on my part or if we’re both at fault here), don’t be frightened to tell me. Really, it won’t be taken personally since I know that we all slip up every now and then. We’re only human after all. It is also completely sufficient if you only type out a few messages per week. I am super chill about it. It doesn’t bother me re-writing a scene to fit the narrative more. If there are mistakes, they can be corrected - just to get that out there. We can always exchange opinions and see what would benefit the story most. I will also voice my opinion should something arise that could be bothersome. Partnership: An active roleplayer is wanted without a doubt. Can’t do the thinking for two now. Let’s row this boat together Limits: Subject matters I avoid are pedophilia, bestiality, necrophilia, vore, scat, furries and various other bizarre fetishes. Also no one-liners or text-talk messages. The sentences have to be cohesive, coherent and decently structured.    I live in CET central Europe. My response rate varies throughout the weeks, depending on my schedule.  If I should hit a hiatus, I will let you know as soon as possible. I understand when you are busy as well and won’t be able to respond, though I highly appreciate if my partner does disappear without notification. At least give me a heads up on what’s going on so I can adjust and put the roleplay on hold if needed!  Mediums I roleplay on are email and google-docs. I also have Discord in case for OOC chat, but I rather much prefer email at first because Discord can be somewhat messy from time to time.  I prefer if my partner messages me first on email, giving me a brief description of themselves, their cravings as well as ideas. That way I can see if we’re compatible and if it bears any potential.   Message me here:

EMAIL: [email protected] Hope to hear from you soon! Lots of love!    

Sincerely yours, Aylo

#independent roleplay #oc rp #multiple paragraph #para #long term #email #tumblr #aou rp #submission

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neisuinene · 6 years

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In Your Dreams Tonight - Chapter 10– Servant Life

Prologue 1 Prologue 2 Prologue 3

Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9

Neisui’s character Nene’s life at Li clan started. The story progressed with small and simple missions. Her first mission or lesson at the clan was to learn how to fight with sword, the style that is used by the head, Li Naotora herself. Of course, before she was given permission to even touch a sword, she was taught how to stand or how to move her body in a fight. How should she use her knees, her waist, her whole body for turning, imagining there’s an imaginary opponent. Once that is mastered, she is then given a wooden stick as supposed sword and was taught how to swing it, combining all the moves she learned. After a few days she was then given a real sword for her to use. The sword is plain and simple, but it’s good enough, for a ten-year-old.

Besides sword practicing, Nene also took on the chores of castle. She sometimes clean, she sometimes sews, she sometimes got the privileges of learning reading and writing, but most of her times, are spent with Toramatsu. She is like his servant, a babysitter, and his teacher. She was like his shadow, as her most important mission, is to serve Toramatsu. As the years progressed, Toramatsu is now ten-year-old and she fifteen. Though Toramatsu was still shorter than her, his strength can now match up to hers and the skills of fighting, is nothing like a child. Even his look…Nene thinks he is growing too fast. Something about his looks tell her that he is no longer a child. Ad he already has an air of maturity about him. Or should she say, intimidating

Through the years Nene had got used with the castle, with Toramatsu and other servants or generals. But there was always something that don’t feel right. Perhaps because she knows, somewhere in her heart, one day she would have to leave. Her staying here was because of Toramatsu let her so. He let her live. But there would be a day he would leave for that man, Tokugawa Ieyasu.

One day came when Toramatsu was sent out on a mission, alone. Nene does not know what was the mission about, but she found it weird. Usually she would accompany him on the missions, considering he is still a kid, and something just doesn’t feel right about this. Nene was just thinking about this while practicing her sword in the courtyard when she was summoned.

“Nene,” the maid Umeko came and called her, “Lady is asking for your presence, in the great hall.”

The Lady, Li Naotora has called for her? Nene stopped her sword movements and put it in its sheath. Without speaking a word, she followed Umeko to the great hall. Only a step by the entrance, she could see that not only Lady Naotora was there, but all her subjects were there as well, forming two lines, one by each of her side. Naotora was sitting in the middle. Their eyes met.

“Umeko,” Naotora spoke, “you may leave us now.” She did not bother to look at the person she was speaking to, her eyes were only on her, on Nene. Umeko nodded and left, leaving Nene still standing at the entrance. “Nene,” Naotora spoke again.

Nene walked inside and stopped at the edge of line, where the others stood at both sides. She bowed, “you called for me, milady?

Naotora nodded. “I believe you might have figured out why you were called.”

“I may have?” Nene replied. “I have some gut feelings there is something your lady would like to speak to me about, without Little Lord Toramatsu knowing, so you have sent him on a mission, away for a purpose. But I could not figure out anything more than that.

“You know one day Toramatsu will succeed my place and be the head of the clan. As his last family member,” she paused, “I need him to be ready. Right now he is not ready yet, he may be smart and good with his skills, but his current state does not fit as the next head of clan.”

“But milady, Little Lord is still a child!?”

“A child may be, but at the current state he needs to grow up more. He listens to you, as you were his nanny, his teacher. But he needs to learn to start making his own decisions and not rely on you, on a woman, on a stranger.”

A stranger? Is that what she thinks of her? Is that what they think of her? “But I’m not…” Nene opened her mouth to speak, only to be silenced.

Lady Naotora took the tea cup from her table and brought to her lips for a sip, then gently swirl it in circular motion. “I know what you want to say Nene, that you have served us and you are no stranger?” Nene nodded. “but you must know, your life was only spared and kept because of Toramatsu. We have let you stay not only because we trusted you, but because Toramatsu trusted you. However,” she paused, we do think you have way too much influence on Toramatsu, and that is not a good thing. And your past, the way you acted on the battlefield when we found you. You were too mature, too quiet, too calm. You did not look like you just experienced from a battle, or from losing your father. You were like you were there for a purpose, perhaps a spy. A child spy in wishing of gaining information, gaining trust.”

“Milady, I could swear that I…”

“Even if you were innocent, or unknown of the plan, or simply being used, we cannot keep you any longer. In fact, your so called “died father” is now here in the castle, looking for you, wanting to take you home.”

“My father?” isn’t her father already dead, at the beginning of the story mode?

“Your father brought with him a drawing of his late wife, she resembles you, or rather, you resemble her. It is without doubt she is your mother.” Li Naotora continued, “I can’t say what has brought you here on that day, in that kind of place, or what does your family or any force he was joined has anything to do with Li clan issues. But the fact that he is now here, you have to leave. Forget your life here Nene, for it may make your path easier. Even with all the doubts we have of you, you are easy to like. And I sincerely hope we do not cross roads one day.”

@akanojikan @dorianhellfire @rose-of-yonezawa @shirokazekikagami @thesassyscribbler @my-funandgames

#slbp #slbp toramatsu #slbp fanfic #li toramatsu

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chasholidays · 6 years

Note

Thanks for doing this again!! I'd love to read a Dancing with the Stars Bellarke AU if possible!!

The nice thing Clarke has found about Dancing with the Stars is that, as a general rule, the less she likes her celebrity partner, the sooner she’ll be eliminated.

It’s not a purposeful thing; she always does her best with every season, she’s way too competitive to not. But it tends to be hard, to work with people she dislikes, as the root cause of her dislike is generally that they won’t fucking listen to her. When she goes out early, it’s almost because her stupid celebrity refuses to listen to her or thinks she’s too harsh or the dance is too hard. It’s not like she usually gets to know them on any deep level; they spend a few weeks together in a surreal environment, and then she never sees them again.

Finn Collins, though. Finn Collins is new.

“You could just break one of his legs,” Bellamy suggests. They’re getting drinks and Bellamy is mocking her because while Ontari is something of a nightmare, she’s at least an expected kind of nightmare. She’s a controlling former actress who wants this to reboot her career and thinks Bellamy is there to serve her, not teach her. It sucks, but they’ve all dealt with that before. “Like, casually.”

Clarke snorts. “What’s the casual way to break someone’s legs? Ski mask and a tire iron?”

“I was thinking you just trip and fall and get him with your knee as you go down, but if you’ve got a ski mask and a tire iron–”

She elbows him. “Seriously, I’m worried that if he gets to the final he’s going to propose or something. Just to get audience votes.”

“That is how he got famous, right? Deciding he was going to marry a woman he barely knew?”

“If he tries to give me a rose I actually will break one of his legs,” she grumbles, and Bellamy laughs.

Finn’s not the first “star” to make it on the program because of his experience in reality TV, but Clarke will admit she finds him one of the least impressive. He went on The Bachelor despite, apparently, having a serious girlfriend, and he was somehow hoping that she wouldn’t find out because she hated reality TV, and that he’d be able to dump her cleanly if it went well.

Instead, it all blew up in his face, as he deserved, and by three months after his engagement at the end of the show, he was single and slightly infamous, which is, admittedly, the sweet spot for people who want to continue to appear on reality TV. He’s hosted some specials, been on some morning shows, and now seems to be known mostly as a pleasant, generic attractive white guy, like they didn’t have enough of those on TV already.

“If it makes you feel better, he’s not actually a good dancer, so he should get weeded out pretty soon,” Bellamy points out, practical as always. “He’s been scraping by on charm and luck. I’m just glad the charm stopped working on you.”

She makes a face. “It wasn’t working, I was being polite.”

“Because you didn’t know anything about him.”

“I’m still being polite.”

“I’m just saying, before I told you to google him, you actually kind of liked him.”

Clarke grins and nudges him. “So you were trying to save me?”

“Friends don’t let friends date former Bachelor contestants, Clarke.”

“Especially not ones who cheated on their real girlfriends. He would have lost me pretty soon anyway. He’s just so–”

“Finn?” Bellamy supplies.

“Pretty much. How’s Ontari doing? I feel like you aren’t complaining as much.”

“Well, I wouldn’t want to cut into your time,” he teases, and she elbows him again. He ducks his head, laughing, and Clarke finds herself smiling too. He’s in a good mood today, a rarity, and it’s nice to see him so relaxed. “Honestly, she’s fine. Don’t get me wrong, she hates me, thinks she knows better than I do, and if she could just be her own teacher and partner, she’d be fucking thrilled. But the judges keep praising all the stuff I say they will, so she’s coming around. And I’d take unnecessary asshole hostility over someone trying to hit on me every time.”

“So, my life is terribleand makes you feel better about yours?”

He raises his glass. “Appreciated.”

She shakes her head, smiling. “Happy to help.”

As with so many things, the Finn situation gets worse before it gets better. He’s one of those people who, as he gains experience and confidence, also gains opinions, and while that can be a good thing, his opinions are bad, and he should feel bad.

“He thinks we need to put more Bachelor stuff into the routine,” she tells Bellamy, a week later.

“I told you he wanted to give you a rose. I tried to warn you.”

“He used the word synergy.”

That makes him wince. “Jesus, really?”

“Synergy, I swear to god. He thinks the cross-promotional synergy will really help his brand.”

“If that’s an actual quote, I might break his leg.”

“It is.” She puts her head on his shoulder with a sigh. “I never thought basic competence would be this annoying.”

“Yeah, it’s a real burden.” He pauses, thinking something over. “Did he say what he thinks his brand is? Because asshole from The Bachelor is a pretty competitive field.”

“That’s why he wants to add dancing. None of the others are dancers.”

“I’ve seen him dance, he isn’t either.”

Clarke smiles. “Doesn’t that reflect on me? I’m the one who’s supposed to be teaching him.”

“You’re doing your best with what you have to work with.”

“Ontari is actually good.”

“She’s nominally a singer, so I guess she should be.”

“Nominally, you’re such a snob.”

“I just think when you autotune that much you should lose some of the credit for your musical skills,” he grumbles. Bellamy googles everyone who signs up for the show extensively, which is how he knows things like who Finn is and what Ontari’s music sounds like. Clarke’s experience tends to be more scattershot, with some people she recognizes and some she wouldn’t know were stars unless someone told her. Which doesn’t bother her, but she’s pretty sure Bellamy is still embarrassed about his first season, when they had Roan Churchill on the show and everyone else was star struck and Bellamy mistook him for a new PA.

So now he’s an expert.

“But she does actually have rhythm and some taste.”

“Let’s not get carried away. I’m still rooting for Monty.”

“Me too,” Clarke admits. Usually she roots for her own star, and then Bellamy’s, but since both of theirs suck, they had to find other people. Monty’s kind of quiet and dorky, famous as a cartoonist of all things, and everyone expected him to fail out basically immediately, but the guy can move. It’s kind of awesome.

“So, what does Finn do with the rose in this hypothetical dance?” he asks. “How bad is it?”

“It’s in his mouth.”

“For your disco week number?” Bellamy asks, sounding dubious.

“Don’t tell me you’re against disco roses.”

“At this point I think it’s safe to say I’m against Finn,” he grumbles. “I don’t really want you to get knocked out, but–yeah, if he could got horribly injured and you had to get a new partner, I could live with that.”

“Still working on how to break his legs and make it look like an accident. But if I figure out how, I’ll let you know.”

“If you need an alibi, just ask.”

She grins, kisses his cheek. “Yeah, I know.”

Clarke and Bellamy have been professionals on the show for six seasons together, but they’ve never actually danced together. It’s not something Clarke thinks about, not something she felt like she was missing in her life. She knows Bellamy is a great dancer, one of the best she’s ever seen, and she’s always thought it would be fun, but she hasn’t danced with plenty of people.

It comes up primarily because Bellamy and Ontari somehow get eliminated before she and Finn do, which is just absurd. It’s not like Clarke likesOntari–quite the opposite–but she was without a doubt a much better dancer than Finn is, and she definitely should have stayed longer.

On the bright side, Bellamy is no longer the competition, but he’s still her friend, so he’s just hanging around offering commentary on their moves. It’s kind of cheating, probably, but it’s not like he isn’t offering commentary on other people’s routines. She’s just his favorite, and he hates Finn, so he’s doing it extra for them.

“This is impossible!” Finn finally says, in exasperation. “No one could do this!”

“That’s just bullshit,” Bellamy says, mild. “Just because you can’t doesn’t mean it’s impossible.”

“Yeah? Then you do it.”

It’s an incredibly stupid thing to say, and Finn realizes it maybe a second after he says it, but it’s too late.

“Sure,” says Bellamy. He glances at his friend Miller, who’s behind the camera today. “Assuming that’s cool.”

“I don’t give a shit,” says Miller. “They might not use the footage but go for it.”

“Clarke?” he asks, and Clarke finds that she really, really wants to.

It’s a surprise, but it shouldn’t be.

“It would probably be good to get a demonstration in. You know it?”

“Yeah, I know it.” His eyes sweep over her, just once, like he’s checking in, and then he offers his hand.

She’ll be the first person to admit the whole thing works a lot better with Bellamy than it does with Finn. It’s less that sexual attraction is required for dance–it definitely isn’t–and more that comfort with the partner helps.

But it’s also a little bit that it’s a sexy song, and a sexy dance, and given her choice between dirty dancing with Finn and dirty dancing with Bellamy, Bellamy wins every time.

The speed was what was tripping Finn up, mostly, and some of the more complicated footwork, but of course Bellamy doesn’t struggle with that. He’s light on his feet, his movements sure, and his eyes never leave hers. It’s close and hot and intimate and like no other dancing has ever been, like no other partner has ever been. Her whole life, nothing has ever been like this.

By the time they’re done, everyone is staring at them, and Clarke’s wondering if she’s allowed to drag him off somewhere and fuck him now, or if she’s required to wait until later.

Judging from his expression, he’s wondering the same thing, but he makes up his mind first. “See?” he says, to no one in particular. “Anyone can do it.”

“Yeah, that’s the lesson we learned there,” says Miller, dry.

Finn, on the other hand, is just sort of gaping at them; Clarke offers him a sunny smile. “I don’t think it’s the choreography,” she says, and that makes him close his mouth.

“No,” he says, at last. “Probably not.”

Bellamy is waiting for her when she leaves the showers after, looking like an anxious kid after his first school dance, of all things.

“Hi,” she says.

“Hi. I thought I could, uh–I thought we should talk.”

“Talk?” she asks, amused. “You want to talk?”

“What’s wrong with talking?”

“Nothing. But it seems kind of unnecessary.”

“Unnecessary,” he repeats, but there’s a smile lurking around his mouth.

“Was some part of what happened there unclear?” she asks, trailing her fingers up his chest.

“I hope not,” he says, and leans down to kiss her.

So they’re definitely on the same page.

When she and Finn get eliminated that week, she assumes that it’s partly because they included some of the footage of her and Bellamy practicing together, and nothing she and Finn did came even close to being that good.

Bellamy assumes so too, because he greets her with a kiss and, “See? We got rid of him.”

“I don’t know if that counts.”

“He’s gone and we’re together,” he points out. “That sounds like winning to me.”

It’s hard to argue with that logic, and she cuddles into his arms, warm and perfectly content, despite the loss. “Yeah,” she says. “When you put it like that.”

#hart-and-friar

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winchesterprincessbride · 6 years

Text

Little Girl Lost

This was written for the BTZ Break the Zone Buddy Challenge by Ang (@Atc74) & Jen (@Winchesterprincessbride)

Characters: Claire Novak, Jody Mills, Donna Hanscum, Alex Jones, Patience Turner, Jimmy Novak, Amelia Novak, Henry, Sam and Dean Winchester (mentioned)

CLAIRE

“Dean, it’s Claire. I am tracking something, but I’m not sure what it is yet. I am in Bird Island, Minnesota, and so far, four bodies have turned up, completely drained of blood in the past two weeks. Can you call me back, please? I think I might need your help,” I hung up the phone and threw it on the bed in annoyance. This wasn’t the first message I had left, either.

I disconnected the call and dialed Sam. He didn’t answer either. I decided to skip his voicemail. It wasn’t like Dean not to call me back. No matter how pissed off he was at me, he always returned my calls.

I was sitting in my dingy motel room, cold takeout congealing on the table next to me. I had to figure out what I was dealing with here. People’s lives were at stake. The most likely explanation was a vamp, but since when does a vamp completely drain their victim dry?

There was probably a nest somewhere feeding on their victims before dumping their bodies or turning them. I pulled up another map of the town, looking for buildings that would be ideal for vamp-making factories. There were a couple of promising sites, so I marked the GPS coordinates on my phone. I had learned enough not to go in blind or at night, so I’ll just have to wait until morning. Might as well test out that fake ID and hit the local bar, see if I can get any dirt from the locals.

I hadn’t been able to make any headway with the Sheriff’s office anyway. It’s like no one gave a shit that four people were missing and two had already turned up dead. I get it, it’s not like many people noticed whenever I took off, but these were people with families and jobs. And Deputy Dawg just couldn’t be bothered. What else was new?

I grabbed my duffle, rifling through it for something suitable to wear to the bar. The black form-fitting tee, paired with the distressed jeans I was already wearing would be perfect. I touched up my hair, pulling one side back in a loose braid and added a little gloss to my lips. Shrugging on my leather jacket, I took one last look in the broken mirror. I looked damn good if I did say so myself. I locked the door behind me and made the short walk to the dive bar.

As soon as I walked in, I was assaulted by the stench of body odor, stale beer, and cigarettes. I did my best to disguise the overwhelming urge to puke. I strolled up to the bar, eyed the relatively attractive bartender and ordered a beer, sliding my fake I.D. over to him. He barely glanced at it. The bar was pretty dead, but it was still early, barely past eight.

The bartender returned with my beer. I passed him a twenty and when he handed me the change, his fingers brushed against mine and I jerked my hand away at the shock of it, like static electricity when you drag your feet across the carpet. He mumbled an apology and turned to wait for another patron. I moved to the corner of the bar where I could see the front door and the hall leading to the bathrooms. I pulled out my phone and tried Dean again.

“Dean, I don’t know what the hell is going on or what I did to piss you off, but…Listen, just-just call me back, okay? And if you’re mad at me, the least you could tell me what I did. I have left you three messages and you’re ignoring me. You always said you would be there for me and y-you’re not,” I shook off the uneasy feeling I had and ended the call. Well wasn’t that just great; Dean was one of the few people I knew I could count on for anything and he just turned his back on me.

I sighed heavily before dialing again. This was not the call I wanted to make, but with the Winchesters dodging me, I had no choice. I needed a hand in this case. She picked up on the third ring.

“Hey, Claire-Bear!” her voice was cheery, always so cheery, unless she was chewing my ass.

“Hey, Jody. I-I need another hunter’s take on this case. Remember the one with the missing people, bodies turning up drained that I told you about?” I kept my voice down, not wanting to draw the attention of the other customers or the bartender.

“Yeah, thought it was vamps, right?” she recalled.

“That is what I originally thought, but now, I-I don’t know. Things just don’t fit,” I admitted to her.

“Well, isn’t that just great? Big bad hunter Claire thought she knew what she was doing. Again. What am I going to do with you?” I heard the sarcasm, her voice dripping with it.

“Jody, I asked your opinion on this before I left the house and you agreed with me. How can you say that?” I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.

“Well, did you ever think I agreed with you just to get you out of the house? Patience, honey, I am so glad you are here. You can just take your things up to the first room on the left, okay? “Claire, when are you going to get your act together?”

“First room on the left? That is my room! Who is Patience? Are you letting a stranger sleep in my bed?” I was irate now.

“It’s not like you’re going to last long at the rate you’re going, and she needs my help. At least she wants to be here,” tears filled my eyes at the sting of Jody’s words.

“You’re always right, aren’t you? I guess I won’t be seeing you around,” I slammed my phone down, not even disconnecting the call, I was that angry. I don’t know why I’m surprised, everyone I care about gives up on me eventually. First Dad, then Mom, even Gran. Castiel tried to pretend he cared, but it was just an act. Hell, even Dean and Sam couldn’t wait to ditch me.

Clearly, there was nothing waiting at home for me anymore, so I finished my beer, left a generous tip for the hottie behind the bar and made for the restroom. I was feeling sick and wasn’t going to make it back to my room. I didn’t bother locking the door once I got in there.

My stomach spasmed and emptied itself as soon as I bent over the broken commode. Tears flooded my vision as I heaved until my stomach was empty. I quickly splashed some water on my face and rinsed my mouth. I took several deep breaths, trying to collect myself before I walked back out.

I pulled on the door handle, but it swung too easy. The force knocked the wind out of me as I stumbled back. My vision started to darken around the edges. I could make out the face of the bartender and I swore I heard Jody’s voice screaming my name as everything went black.

I woke with a start, in a bed covered with stuffed animals. I looked around at the mountain of pink surrounding me. This isn’t right, I thought to myself. I don’t remember falling asleep, especially not here. This room used to be my refuge, but now it was the stuff of my nightmares. I haven’t seen this much pink in at least five years. The last thing I remember is calling Jody from the bar. She was downright nasty and it reminded me that I was better off on my own. I am not sure how I got here, but I knew something was very wrong. Was I dead?

I slipped from the bed and stood in front of the mirror still hanging on the back of the door. I looked the same, mostly. My hair was the same, but the makeup I generally forgot to remove was gone from my eyes. Not a single remnant of the smoky black liner I preferred remained. I readied myself, not sure what lay beyond the door.

I reached for the knob and turned it slowly, easing the door open without making a sound. I slipped out into the hall and made my way down the stairs cautiously. I had no weapons and was practically defenseless against any monster I came across. I froze in surprise when a peal of laughter rang through the lower level. I knew that laugh; it was my mom.

I continued toward the sounds on shaky legs and froze at the sight in front of me. “Mom? Dad?”

“Good morning Claire-Bear! How did you sleep, honey?” my mother asked her face as fresh and beautiful as I remembered, not the shell of the woman she was the last time I saw her, right before she died in my arms.

“What is going on here?” I snapped.

‘We are just making some breakfast. Hurry up and eat so you can get dressed. It’s your first day of college; you don’t want to be late!” my dad chortled. Or was it Castiel? He looked and sounded just like Jimmy before Castiel took him as a vessel and destroyed my family.

“Um, yeah. Okay,” I sat down at the table, pouring a glass of juice. I looked around the room and took in my surroundings, making note of escape routes. If this is the house I grew up in, I knew where my mother kept the silver. Hopefully, I could find a knife to use; silver hurts most monsters. I ate a piece of toast covered in cinnamon and sugar, just like she used to make me when I was little. It tasted the same.

My bag, at least I think it was my bag, was sitting in the chair next to me. I opened it and glanced through the contents; a new calculator, pens, pencils, highlighters and composition notebooks. Economics and math textbooks rounded out the supplies. Okay, seriously. What the hell was going on?

I finished breakfast and ran back upstairs to my room. Was it really my room? I didn’t have time to worry about that. I quickly threw on whatever clothes I could find and brushed my hair. I rushed back downstairs and said goodbye to my parents.

“Have a good first day, Claire-Bear!” my mother called out.

“Knock ‘em dead, honey!” Dad added. “Don’t forget your keys!”

“Yep, thanks!” I respond, not able to get out of that house fast enough. If this was my hometown, I knew where everything was. I walked to the cute little car in the driveway, instinctively knowing it was mine. I drove down the street toward the college, enjoying the sun shining down on my face.

I entered the University campus and made my way straight to the library. I wasn’t sure how I knew where that was, but soon I was standing in the middle of it, books on every side. I spotted a row of computers and sat down. Apparently, Google didn’t exist here, so I searched for any lore books they might have. There was nothing, absolutely nothing, except fiction. It looked like wherever the hell I was, I was on my own.

I was trying to figure out my next move because I had no intention of sitting through any stupid classes. I was on my way back to the car when I spotted her walking down the hall in front of me. Alex! I took off running.

“Alex! What the hell is going on? How are you here? Where’s Jody?” I demanded, coming to a stop in front of her.

“Are you talking to me?” She asked. “Do I know you?”

“Knock it off, Alex! This isn’t funny!” I snapped.

“I think you have me mistaken for someone else. My name is Annie. I don’t know any Jody, and I’ve never seen you before in my life.” She rolled her eyes at her friend, giving me a tight smile.

“Annie, come on we’re going to be late,” her friend coaxed, tugging on her arm.

“Let’s go, Patience,” Not-Alex replied then turned and started to walk away.

“Wait….Patience? You’re Patience? You stole my room! You had no right!” I was screaming at the pair of girls now, drawing the attention of everyone that was in earshot.

“Whatever, Loser.” This Patience was everything I wasn’t. Pretty, put-together, confident. I see why Jody liked her. She looked like she was probably the class president AND a straight-A student AND volunteered with the homeless in her spare time. I hated her on sight.

The guy that was with them was handsome in a captain-of-the-football-team kind of way. Guys like him never gave me the time of day. I was too strange, too weird, too much of a loner. He looked me up and down, giving me an appraising smirk that creeped me out.

“Why don’t you go back to whatever rock you crawled out from under?” He put his arm around Annie/Alex, and both girls gave me those smug, superior smiles I had seen many times before and they all sauntered away.

As I stared at their retreating backs, my feet frozen to the spot, the wrongness of everything hit me like a splash of ice-cold water and I gasped. I stiffened as I saw several things in my head: the guy’s name was Henry, and I pictured him with razor-sharp fangs about to bite Alex while Jody and I were tied up. Then I saw myself slice his head off with a sword in one swipe while Sam and Dean stood watching.

@skybinx-blog @percywinchester27 @a-sea-of-fandoms @dorky-and-i-know-it@tokyoghoulyz @pinknerdpanda @atc74@jayankles @notnaturalanahi@midnightjazzmine @moonlitskinwalker @we-are-band-sexuals@winchestergirl-love @gecko9596 @ronnie248-blog@essie1876@bohowitch@just-another-busy-fangirl@jotink78 @captainradicalpassion@keelzy2 @disneymarina @kittenofdoomage @mrswhozeewhatsis@oriona75 @frankiea1998 @akshi8278@stylinson531@valynsia @dr-dean@theoutlinez @imweirdandobsessed @growningupgeek @luciisthebest @laurenisnot @maddieburcham1 @canadianjelly@muliermalefici @brewsthespirit-blog @ilsawasanacrobat @nanie5@weasleywinchester-blog @samisimportant @fatalcrossbow @violetsamalamb @letmusicguideu @grantsgorgeousgirl @faegal04 @feelmyroarrrr @kay18115@milkymilky-cocopuff @mikimausiii @the-greatest-temptation @superpanicromancesummer @wh1sp3r1ng-impala @emoryhemsworth @squirrel-moose-winchester@jennifromtheblock1013 @spnbaby-67 @mogaruke @sweetmisseddreams2002 @redheadbedhead2002 @negan–is–god @spnwoman

#btz challenge #btz buddy challenge #claire novak #wayward sisters #jody mills #castiel #alex jones #jimmy novak #amelia novak #supernatural #spn family #supernatural challenge

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juju-on-that-yeet · 7 years

Text

When Evil Rears its Head: Chapter 5: Massacre

In which the shit hits the fan. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.

Read below or on AO3!

While Peevils naps, Bim is thinking.

He’s now in his bedroom on the fourth floor, and he still isn’t sure what’s up with Wilford. The man is pretty much always in his studio; Bim knocks out of politeness more than anything. That, and so he doesn’t get a bullet or a knife to the chest. But Wilford must have been in there, the gunshot Bim had heard as he was leaving attested to that. Unless someone else was in Wilford’s studio firing a gun, but who? And why? And if it was Wilford, why hadn’t he answered Bim’s knock? Bim feels like he might be overthinking it, something he tends to do quite a bit. But then again, something might actually be happening this time. He spends what feels like an eternity trying to read a book (he borrowed it from the Host a few days ago and is already three-fourths of the way done with it), but he can’t concentrate. When he hears a knocking at his door, he decides that reading is not in the cards for him today and gets up to answer. Part of him hopes it’s Wilford, but the same part of him is unsurprised to find that it isn’t.

But he is surprised that it’s Yandere.

“Yandere?” Bim asks. “Um, hello. Did you need something?”

Bim and Yandere are not friends. Bim doesn’t dislike Yandere, and Yandere seems pretty indifferent to Bim, but Bim generally avoids the younger, more violent and volatile ego. If he’s being honest with himself, Yandere freaks him out. Even when he’s pleasant there’s the sense that something burns beneath the surface.

“Konnichiwa, Bim-san,” Yandere greets, “I just wanted to ask you about something.”

“Alright, what?” Bim asks.

“Earlier, there was, well…” Yandere scratches the back of his neck nervously, “…an incident with Yami-san. I was wondering if you knew anything about that.”

“Incident?” Bim furrows his brow. That doesn’t sound good. “What do you mean?”

“Someone did something to him,” Yandere explains, “It was like he’d been put under a spell. He couldn’t move until…” Yandere’s cheeks redden slightly, “…I snapped him out of it. But after I did, he said something bad was happening and that he had to stop it. He teleported somewhere, but he didn’t say where he was going.” Yandere’s face draws up with concern as he remembers. “He seemed…unnerved. Scared, even. What could possibly have made Yami-san afraid?”

Bim remembers the events from earlier again. He feels a spike of worry in his chest. Could this be connected?

“I have no idea,” Bim answers, mostly truthfully. He could be wrong; whatever’s going on with Wilford could be completely unrelated to Dark. He doesn’t want to send Yandere on a wild goose chase, especially when said chase would involve Yandere barging into Wilford’s studio uninvited. That would most likely only make things worse. Bim can get to the bottom of this without Yandere. He’s Bim Trimmer, after all! And he knows exactly who can help him out.

“Well, arigtou anyway, Bim-san,” Yandere sighs, “I already talked to Tayori-kun and Tenki-kun, but they didn’t know anything either.” Annoyance crosses his face. “They were so panicky and jittery it took me forever to even get a good answer from them. It was like they thought I was going to hurt them. Why would I ever do something like that?” Yandre tilts his head and smiles. Bim shivers.

“Yeah, the Jims are pretty nervous guys,” Bim says smoothly, trying not to let Yandere’s grin scare him. “Wish I could be more help.”

“Arigatou again, Bim-san,” Yandere says with a little wave, “Sayonara~!”

Bim manages a half-hearted wave of his own as Yandere leaves. He closes the door and spends a few minutes thinking over what Yandere told him.

Dark? Afraid? What on earth could possibly make Dark, of all people, afraid? Bim hates to think. And what could ever control him, make him unable to move? Bim wonders if Yandere might have mistaken the situation, but he knows that the younger ego knows Dark much better than Bim does.

Once he’s sure he won’t have to worry about running into Yandere in the hallway, he leaves his room and heads for the third floor. He takes the stairs, not wanting to bother with the elevator, which often takes longer to get down one floor than walking, anyhow. Once there, he heads not for Wilford’s studio, but for the control room.

That’s the general nickname for the room, anyway. It’s where the security of the entire building is managed, camera feeds and firewalls and the microphone for the building’s intercom. It was the Googles who built the room and continue to refine its gadgets by the day, and their shared bedroom is located behind a steel door on one side of the room. Bim generally likes going to the control room, if only because Oliver is usually there. He’s optimistic and kind and cute and Bim gets so wrapped up in thoughts of Oliver that he almost walks right past the control room. No one’s around to see it, but pink rises in cheeks anyway. He knocks on the door, and it clangs loudly. Bim grimaces. He always knocks louder than he means to on that door. It’s Oliver who opens it, grinning when he sees Bim.

“Hey, Bim!” he greets, “What’s up?”

“Hi, Ollie!” Bim replies, smiling big despite his worries about Dark and Wilford, “I actually wanted to know if you and the others could, uh, check on something for me?”

Oliver tilts his head slightly in confusion (it’s almost too cute for Bim to handle), and a voice speaks up from inside the control room:

“We’re not errand boys, and we’re not babysitters. Check on it yourself.”

Bim recognizes the voice and caustic sass as being Google’s. He’s in front of some small machine, poking at its wires, not even looking at Bim. Chrome and Plus are on the machine’s other sides, doing the same. Bim frowns.

“At least let me explain,” he mutters. Oliver looks like he’s trying not to grin, but he comes to Bim’s defense.

“Yeah, Google,” he says, turning to the other android, “Bim hardly ever asks you for anything, it’s probably important.” He turns back to Bim. “It is important, right? Google’ll be pretty peeved if it isn’t.”

“It is,” Bim insists, “Have a little faith in Bim Trimmer!”

“Of course, of course,” Oliver laughs. Bim loves Oliver’s laugh. Despite all technically having the same voice, each ego sounds a little different, and each ego has a different laugh. Oliver’s laugh is bright and giggly, sunflowers and strawberries, gentle and, wait, Bim came here for a reason.

“Can I come in, at least?” Bim asks past Oliver to Google.

“No.” Google tugs out two wires and plugs them into each other’s places. “Run the next trial,” he says to Chrome and Plus. Bim sighs.

“Alright, well,” he begins, “I went to Wilford’s studio to work on scripts with him, but he didn’t answer my knock. As I was leaving, I heard a gunshot go off.”

“I knew I heard something a while ago!” Chrome says suddenly, triumphant. He looks at Google. “And you thought I was just being dramatic.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” Google replies without missing a beat. Chrome mutters something under his breath that Bim can’t hear. “That’s not that weird, Bim,” Google continues.

“I know, that’s why I didn’t come to you guys right after it happened,” Bim explains, “But then a few minutes ago Yandere came to my room, saying that something happened to Dark and he was trying to figure out what was going on.”

Surprise colors the faces of all four androids, and Google finally lifts his head from the machine to look at Bim.

“What happened to Dark?” he asks.

“Yandere said someone had done something to him, made it so he couldn’t move,” Bim says, repeating Yandere’s words, “After he snapped out of it, he left, and he didn’t tell Yandere where he was going. He just said that something bad was happening, and that he had to stop it. Yandere said he looked scared.” Bim looks down. “I can’t help but feel like what happened to Dark and what happened in Wilford’s studio are connected. Can you guys maybe check the cameras, see if anything happened in the studio?” Oliver turns from Bim to look at Google, as do Chrome and Plus. Google considers for a moment.

“Fine,” he says, “But you still can’t come in.”

“I’ll let you know if we find anything,” Oliver tells Bim as he turns back to him, “You should probably go, Google can tell if someone’s standing outside the door.”

“Alright,” Bim replies, smiling a little at Oliver. “Thank you.” He looks at Google. “Thanks!”

“Yeah, you’re welcome,” Google says as he types something into the camera feed. Chrome and Plus look on, clearly curious.

“Talk to you later?” Bim says to Oliver, trying not to smile too hard.

“Yeah!” Oliver replies, giving his own sunny grin. “See ya!”

Bim decides to walk back up to his room and try again to finish his book. He wonders if he’ll be able to focus with all the butterflies floating in his chest. Being with Oliver always gives him a curious feeling afterwards, something warm and bright and uplifting. He wonders if Oliver is even half as happy to talk to him. He hopes so.

As he approaches the staircase, he’s surprised to run into Ed Edgar. The other ego has a gash in his arm, dripping blood. After all Bim has heard today, he’s immediately nervous.

“Ed, what happened?” Bim asks as he approaches the other ego.

“I had a run-in with a real nasty varmint,” Ed explains, “Was just headin’ to Doc to get patched up. Lemme tell ya what happened. I was just mindin’ my own business, doin’ some target practice, when all of a sudden…”

Well, at least it wasn’t Peevils. Bim realizes too late that he’s opened a can of worms, but it’s too late to back out of the conversation now. Once Ed starts telling one of his (long, usually not as interesting as he thinks they are) stories, no force on earth can stop him. Hopefully the Googles figure out what’s up with Wilford and Dark soon, if anything so he has an excuse to at least pause the story for a moment.

~~~

Google pulls up the information to connect to the studio cameras, putting in passcodes and getting each screen online. Instead of looking at the current screens, he brings up the file to access past recordings.

“Chrome, how long ago exactly did you hear the gunshot?” Google asks.

“Twenty-five minutes and forty-six seconds ago,” Chrome answers.

“You ought to go back twenty-seven,” Plus chimes in, “So we can see what led up to it.”

“I wasn’t made yesterday, Plus,” Google replies as he does what Plus suggested. Plus starts to protest, but Oliver claps a hand on his shoulder and shoots him a reassuring grin. With a few more clicks, Google gets the footage up from twenty-seven minutes ago exactly. He brings up the file to access past recordings. None of them are prepared for what they see.

Wilford, on the floor, clearly injured and unable to get up. Mark, too, looking just as beat up, walking across the room, looking for something. The feed is in black and white, and the audio is hard to distinguish.

“What is this?” Google mutters, eyes narrowing. “And why is the quality so terrible?”

“I attempted to tell you that the studio cameras need replacing the other day,” Plus tells him, “But you said it was no big deal.”

“Yeah.” Chrome smirks. “I think your exact words were, ‘Wilford always breaks them anyway, so why bother?’” The younger androids hardly ever get a chance to fire back at Google like this, so they can’t help but take the chance. Oliver stifles a giggle, but the strangeness presented on the feed means he isn’t laughing for long.

“Really though, what’s going on?” Oliver asks, “What’s Mark doing here? And what—”

He was about to ask what Mark was looking for, but the feed shows him picking something up. It’s a gun. All four Googles stare with rapt attention. Mark walks to Wilford, holds it up, is about to shoot when a sound comes through. Not a gunshot, but a knocking.

“Bim,” Oliver murmurs.

They can only barely hear Bim’s voice through the poor audio feed, but their finely-tuned systems recognize his voice clearly. Bim leaves before long, and Mark and Wilford start to talk. The words are hard to make out. Wilford is angry. Mark is pleased, gloating, almost. There’s something deeply wrong about the situation. The Googles are aware of that even before they finally find out the source of the gunshot: Mark lifting the gun again and shooting Wilford in the head. All four of them are stunned.

“Shit,” Google mutters, wracking his brain for answers.

“What the fuck!?” Chrome shouts, voice filled with anger. “How could Mark do this?”

“He couldn’t,” Oliver gasps, tears in his eyes, “There’s no way Mark would ever do something like this.”

“Oliver’s right,” Plus says, “Objectively speaking. It’s completely out of Mark’s character to ever cause such harm to another person, especially one he’s friends with.”

“Well, what the fuck do call that, then??” Chrome yells, pointing at the still-running feed. The camera that shows Wilford no longer has Mark in frame, but he can be clearly seen in Wilford’s room on a different screen, eyeing the ego’s guns without a hint of remorse in his posture.

“That’s not Mark,” Google interjects, “Look at the way he’s walking, his body language. It’s too different.”

“Dark, then?” asks Oliver.

“No…” Google peers at Mark again. “Too relaxed. Besides, Dark’s tried a hundred times to get Mark to let him in, why would he suddenly succeed now?”

“Also besides,” Plus adds, “Dark’s right there.”

Everyone turns to where Plus is pointing. The first camera, showing Wilford’s body, now shows Dark as well. He looks angrier than any of the Googles have seen him look in a long time. Even through a camera feed in the past, the Googles can feel his hatred.

“Alright, it’s not Dark,” Chrome mutters, “But who, then? No one else has that kind of ability.”

For several moments, everyone is silent.

“Well…” Oliver finally speaks up. The others look at him. “…Do…any of us really know what Peevils can do? Everyone else is pretty open with their abilities, or else they’re really obvious, but it hasn’t been like that with her. She’s pretty new, but it usually doesn’t take that long for our powers to show up…” His face screws up with anxious sadness. “Weren’t she and Wilford friends?”

“I…think Oliver is right,” Plus says quietly, as the camera shows Dark confronting Mark (Peevils?) in Wilford’s room. “The way he’s moving, and acting…it’s not exactly like Peevils, but it’s close.”

“She’s been playing us this whole fucking time,” Chrome growls, seething with rage as he and the others watch Peevils, in Mark’s body, shoot up at the ceiling as Dark reaches for her, radiating fury. There’s a boom, a burst of smoke and fire that conceals the camera’s view for a long moment. When the dust settles, there’s a burn mark on the ceiling and Dark is dead.

“Dark can come back from being killed by Mark, but Will…” Oliver holds back a sob.

“We have to find her.” Google’s voice is cold. “We have to find her and send out an alert over the intercom.” He turns to Plus. “Get the feed for the studio back to real time. We’ll all check different rooms.”

The four each take a keyboard, going through different cameras and feeds. Plus fast-forwards the studio feed until it’s live.

“Peevils isn’t in the studio anymore,” Plus says.

“Go back, figure out when she left, and which direction she went,” Google answers, checking second-floor hallways. Nothing. Plus rewinds, until he sees Peevils appear behind the stage. He stops, plays, and gasps.

“What?” Google asks.

“She went in the vents,” Plus breathes.

All four of them freeze. The room is deadly silent.

“How long ago?” Google asks, voice quiet.

“Three minutes and twen—”

A crack cuts through the air. Plus’s head jolts forward, as if he’s been pushed. The top of his head dampens. The heady scent of motor oil fills the space of the control room. Plus’s eyes roll back and he collapses into a heap. Oliver and Chrome both scream; Oliver in anguish, Chrome in anger.

“Plus, no, no,” Oliver cries, tangling his hands in his hair as tears roll down his cheeks.

“Peevils, you fucking coward, where are you??” Chrome yells, head whipping around the room, trying to locate her but too angry to think clearly.

Google, though, is still frozen in place. After a long moment (too long), he manages to collect his wits enough to think. There’s two vents in the room, he knows that much. One is small and near the floor. He peers at it, and even his enhanced vision sees nothing. He looks to the one on the ceiling, a few feet back from where he and the others are standing. He catches a glint of metal that he knows isn’t part of the vent just before another gunshot sounds. He whips his head around to catch Chrome, caught in the middle of an angry tirade, shudder and collapse. Oliver cries out again.

“Chrome, not you, too!” he wails, falling to his knees beside his brothers. Google tears his eyes away to look back at the vent.

He can see the gun, he sees a familiar broad chest, a familiar set of brown eyes. He wants to use his laser vision and destroy the gun, but if it explodes, it could kill Mark. Google instead follows the guns trajectory with his eyes, landing on Oliver’s forehead.

“Oliver!” He grabs him by the arm and pulls him up, but he isn’t fast enough to pull him away. The bullet hits his chest. Then another appears there. Another. All so fast, even Google can’t react right away (He should be faster than any human. Why isn’t he now??)

“Dammit,” Google mutters, before running out of the control room, yanking Oliver behind him. He practically knocks the door off its hinges in its haste. He has to get to the clinic. Oliver may be an android, but he’s still humanoid, and there’s no way Google can go back to the control room for supplies to repair Oliver himself. He doesn’t get far when he runs into Bim and Ed Edgar, who are running in their direction.

“We heard gunfire, what’s—” Ed’s words die in his throat when he sees Oliver. “What in tarnation happened here??”

“Ollie,” Bim chokes out, hardly able to form the word. He can feel his gut twisting up at the sight of Oliver sporting three holes in his chest, leaking motor oil onto the floor.

“Bim, you were right,” Google says somberly, “Something is wrong.”

“Lemme handle this,” says Ed, full of bravado, producing a lean rifle from somewhere unseen.

“Ed, no—” Oliver tries to stop him, but he starts to cough black oil, and wobbles on his feet as Ed dashes away. Google hisses with frustration but doesn’t stop him, instead putting Oliver’s arm around his shoulders to hold him up.

“Are you gonna make yourself useful or just stand there?” Google says to Bim. Bim, eyes still wide with shock, shakes himself off and takes Oliver’s other arm. He and Google speed off towards Dr. Iplier’s clinic with Oliver between them.

Dr. Iplier is still dealing with those strange pangs of pain, having felt two in quick succession moments ago, and now feeling a third seize his chest and squeeze at his heart. All the tests he’s done have revealed no abnormalities, and Dr. Iplier is at a loss. He’s shaken from his thoughts when the clinic door bursts open, and Google and Bim come in, toting a badly injured Oliver. He jumps up and runs to them, ushering them to lay Oliver on the nearest surface, which happens to be a stretcher.

“How did this happen??” Dr. Iplier asks as he yanks gauze out of a cabinet. There’s two egos he knows of who use guns, but he can’t see why either of them would want to hurt Oliver like this.

“It was Peevils,” Google answers. Bim and Dr. Iplier both turn to him, shocked. “She’s possessed Mark, we don’t know why but…” Google looks at Bim. “…We checked the cameras like you asked. She killed Wilford first and came through the vent to the control room.”

A strangled sob leaves Bim’s throat, and Dr. Iplier goes cold all over, even as he presses pads of gauze onto Oliver’s wounds. They know as well as Google does what it means for Wilford, and for Oliver, that Peevils has used Mark to shoot them. Dr. Iplier doesn’t want to, but he forces himself to look at Oliver, not his chest but just over his head. He’s learned not to look at times of death when talking to the egos; figments are such transient yet eternal creatures that their times of death fluctuate wildly from day to day, at times from minute to minute. But he has a bad feeling about Oliver’s time. Sure enough, he sees the numbers written in red, not the normal cool blue. He knows what this means. He moves his hands away from Oliver’s chest, taking the gauze with it.

“What are you doing?” asks Google, noticing Dr. Iplier’s behavior immediately. Dr. Iplier takes a deep breath.

“I’m sorry,” he begins, “He’s—”

In the next moment, Google is holding Dr. Iplier in the air by his shirt collar, eyes flashing angry blue.

“If you finish that sentence, I’m going to rip your heart out of your chest and shove it down your throat,” Google growls. Dr. Iplier only sighs.

“I’m really, truly sorry, Google,” he says, voice subdued, “But his time is set now, and it’s coming soon. There’s nothing I can do.” Google searches the doctor’s face, trying to catch him in a lie. But he sees the sadness and resignation in the doctor’s eyes, and knows he’s telling the awful truth.

Bim, having rushed to Oliver’s side after he was first laid down, is weeping now, body curling in on itself, like the grief is eating him whole. Google releases Dr. Iplier and moves to Oliver’s other side, finds himself gripping Oliver’s hand in his own. Oliver, while still awake and aware, is breathing weakly, sometimes coughing, with motor oil staining his shirt and dripping from his mouth.

“Oliver, listen to me,” Google says, voice hard yet a note too high, “You cannot die. You can’t. Not after Plus and Chrome…” He screws his eyes shut, sees them falling dead again, and opens his eyes back up. “…I cannot function without my upgrade. I need you.”

Oliver coughs, then looks up at Google, smiling sadly. He squeezes the older ego’s hand.

“Blue, are you scared?” he murmurs, affectionate and gentle (Google can’t recall the last time anyone called him by his color). “It’s okay, so am I. But if anyone can fix this, it’s you.” He seems to want to say more, but is seized by a coughing fit before he can.

Google is an android. Even with the ability to experience and understand emotion, he shouldn’t feel like this. His internal systems should have something in place, a failsafe, something that stops him from getting choked up or freezing in a crisis or feeling like the thing he threatened Dr. Iplier with is happening to him, feeling like his heart is being torn out through his ribs.

“Ollie,” Bim gasps, unable to say anything more. He grabs Oliver’s other hand, and squeezes it tight between his own.

Dr. Iplier stands apart from the others, hand on his mouth, brows furrowed, somber and sad but as cool under pressure as a doctor has to be. Still, there are tears in the back of his eyes that he has to force himself not to cry.

Oliver shudders, draws a last-ditch breath, and relaxes into the stretcher. Google and Bim each feel the hand in their grasp go limp.

Bim cries ever harder, practically suffocating from the sobs. He holds Oliver’s hand to his cheek like he can warm life back into it, not wanting to let go. Google, meanwhile, is frozen again, like he was when the first shot rang out into Plus. How long ago was that? Google can’t focus enough to come up with an exact time. He, too, keeps Oliver’s hand in his own. He feels something on his cheeks, something liquid and warm. Tears? What else could it be? But Google has never cried before, not once. He hadn’t thought he was capable of it. But he also hadn’t thought he was capable of feeling so distraught, of feeling like time has stopped and the world is breaking down around him.

But the most dramatic reaction comes from Dr. Iplier. As Oliver dies, the doctor’s eyes go wide. He covers his face with his hands, moans, and sinks into a chair. Bim notices first, and for all his anguish over Oliver, Dr. Iplier’s behavior alarms him.

“I felt it,” Dr. Iplier gasps.

“What do you mean?” Bim asks, voice shaky and wet. Google now notices the doctor as well, and looks at him, his expression echoing Bim’s question. Dr. Iplier, meanwhile, takes a hand away from his face to clutch at his chest, fingers curling into his shirt. With part of his face revealed, the other two egos can see how his features are drawn with pain and ruin, and how tears are snaking their way down his cheeks.

“All day, all fucking day I’ve been getting these…” The doctor breathes in, trying to steady himself. “…these pains, these aches in my chest. They always passed quickly but they kept happening and I couldn’t figure out what they were, but…” He looks up at Google and Bim, eyes clouded with grief. “…I felt it again just now, when Oliver died, and I know, I know what it is now.” He takes his other hand off his face, letting it join his other on his chest, over his heart. “I know what it means, and I’ve felt it five other times today.”

Google and Bim feel their hearts sink into their feet. But Google, upset though he is, tries to think clearly.

“Earlier,” he says, voice colder than he intends it to be, “Before I brought Oliver in, Peevils killed Plus and Chrome.” Dr. Iplier nods, tears still dripping down his cheeks.

“I did feel two pains not long before you came in, one after the other,” he says, “But there was a third one after, right as you came in.”

“Ed,” Bim gasps, face going white, “He was with me, we were talking, and we heard gunshots from the control room. When he saw what happened to Oliver he took out his rifle and said he’d take care of it…” Bim covers his face and moans. “We should’ve stopped him.”

“And about half an hour ago now,” Google adds, “Wilford.” Dr. Iplier nods again, but his face is screwed up in thought.

“That’s consistent with what I felt, but there’s one more,” he says, voice serious and low, “Before Wilford. Are you sure there’s no one else?”

“Not that I know of,” Google answers. Aside from Dark, but he was killed after Wilford, Google remembers. Not to mention that Dark’s died before, but it was never permanent, and it isn’t permanent now.

“You can’t tell who it is?” Bim asks.

“No,” Dr. Iplier sighs sadly, “The pain feels the same every time, and it’s all I get.”

The three are silent for several moments, processing what’s occurred.

Then they hear the intercom crackle to life.

#markiplier egos #bim trimmer #googleplier #dr. iplier #google oliver #when evil rears its head #my writing #kristin says stuff #sorry in advance

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