#its sure to leave you a little off-kilter for a moment. if not a little stunned

[pizzaloops]

Weird question, why are you’re eyes little clocks?

"What!? Clocks…? That's- They do?!"

"..."

{ he thought there was something off about his appearance when he looked in the mirror earlier, but… }

{ Clocks? }

{ Since when? }

"Well- er, thank you! Your eye is very pretty too, dear. All, of you, eyes... erm..."

{ At least it suits him! (Everything does.) }

[yeyinde]

This might sound so cringe and cliche, but I wanna be of help in some way-

how about price faking injuries to see a specific nurse he has a crush on but won’t admit.

Cringe and cliche are quite on brand for me, tbh.

It starts as a concussion, a stiffness in his neck. A pinch in his shoulder. 

Then it changes shape, shifting, evolving, into something more. A tenuous dance held together by silken threads. He tugs on the ends sometimes, just to watch little pieces of you begin to unravel. Raw skin, untouched and new bared to his curious eyes. 

You’ve thrown him off-kilter, left him feeling strange. All asunder. 

He shouldn’t be too surprised by the way you unmoor him so easily. Your eyes swallow the atmosphere around him, eating through gravity. Weightless, he’s left to drift in the aether until you snatch him from the air, leaving him wing-clipped, and kept cupped in the soft swells of your palm. 

It’s greed, he thinks. That awful little thing that makes him keep coming back for more.

The helicopter crash did a number of things on him—mild concussion, a fractured rib, sprained wrist; it seemed to have flipped his insides all askew for a moment when he plunged to the earth before somehow righting themselves when he'd landed—but in retrospect, hindsight, whatever, it could have been a lot worst. 

A fact Gaz seemed to have picked up on quicker than he had when they'd met in the medical bay together, holding their broken bodies with trembling hands. 

(Or maybe threaded together by a statuette of Nefertem laced in the fibres of their hearts.)

"What's this now," Gaz asked when he limped in, knee smarting without the surge of adrenaline keeping him upright. Mirth rolling through his teeth, ge offered Price a fractured grin that very likely might have been a grimace. "Two for two? Might be a sign, cap…"

"A sign for what?"

Gaz shrugged, pressing tender fingers against the gash on his forehead. "Stay the fuck out of helicopters. Take the bloody bus instead."

There's a retort in the back of his throat, but it's swallowed when you walk in, hands gripping a medical bag between blanching knuckles. He's closest to the door, and you turn to him with an air of pensive uncertainty that nudges the spot inside of him that preens under authority. That likes law, order, and the simplicity of life. A natural-born leader. He plays the part, of commander and captain, and dips his head toward Gaz, a silent motion meant to convey him first. 

The always in that is ironclad, he thinks. Brassbound. Even if he was bleeding out on the pavement. His men, his boys, first. 

Except, he catches Gaz doing the same thing toward him. A stalemate, then. 

You're new, he notes; ears still wet, face still green. He braces himself to step in, to lay down the authority you need before you flounder, unsure what to do, but instead of being met with uncertainty, he finds himself breathing in your ire. 

"Well, heroes," you snip, brow pinching together in displeasure. "One of you has to go first, don't you? So while I put my stuff on the table, I expect you to have figured it out amongst yourself, yeah?"

And it's—

It's something. 

A strand of static in the air. Direct current to his heart. It thuds in a strange murmuration, off rhythm, off balance. But it makes sense. You'd thrown him so wildly off kilter. 

He clears his throat of the soot that congeals the back, and nods once. Sharp and jerky. 

"Right, yeah…" 

Price turns to Gaz, brows pinched in the middle. A messy bow. 

It isn't like him to be so askew, but you turned everything upside down before he could familiarise himself with the world in its right state. He's adrift for a moment. Floundering, he notes, tasting something sweet behind his teeth. 

Gaz meets his eyes somewhere in the fog, the furrow in his brow asking the questions he won't voice aloud—you alright, cap?—but he isn't sure what he's meant to say. Everything feels like it was knocked loose inside of him, left to roll off shelves and clatter to the floor. Disorganised chaos. Awash. Lost in tangled webs. He isn't used to this. To feeling so useless, so askew. 

He later finds it just the concussion warping the edges of his mind, turning his thoughts into a slurry. That the mild part was an oversight, one that was immediately corrected by you—firm fingers holding his chin still, nails scratching against his beard as you peered into his eyes with a clinical air of detachment that shouldn't have made his heart beat as loud as it was. 

You smell of summer rain. The musk of water on a hot pavement. He breathes it in until it's clogging the back of his throat, so thick he can almost taste it. So heavy, so heady, his head swims. Ozone. Charred wood. War tucked in a bottle.

The soft fingers against his pulse was a shock, made potent by the little curl of your brow when you counted the beats per minute and found they were much too fast. He isn't embarrassed. Doesn't think he has it in him anymore to feel that way, but there's a sense of frustration in the back of his mind as you move around him, commandeering him with an ease that leaves him feeling a little breathless. 

"You're concussed," you say at last, lips pitching downward as you read his charts, the scrawl left behind by the nurse who'd seen him earlier. The one who promptly sent him to you. "And it isn't mild."

With that, and a list of things he ought to do (non-negotiable), you send him on his way. Gaz, too. Fixed up with gauze and made shiny and new. 

Soap asks why he's so quiet later when they meet for a debriefing later on (one that he knows is definitely on the list of things you told him not to do), and has to stop the rip current from spilling past his lips. 

"He's concussed," Gaz supplied, narrowed eyes clipping the side of his face when it lands; a physical blow. "Doc said he needed rest. But good luck telling him that."

"Don't need rest," he grumbles. There's a blossom of pain in his temple. A little sapling that flourishes under the waning sunlight. "'M fine."

They don't believe him, but the debriefing is too short to push him to lay down, and he spends the next hour pretending he's not seeing shadows in his periphery. That the words on the pages don't bleed together. 

(That the scent of Petrichor doesn't glue to the back of his throat.)

When the hurt in his head dims, he finds his thoughts drifting back to you. Meek and unassuming. A wolf in sheep's clothing. It lingers long after the meeting has ended and he's ushered to the barracks for rest. Home tomorrow, Gaz promises on the tail end of yawn. Gonna sleep for a whole year, I think. 

Aye, gonna head home in the morning, Soap murmurs, but his eyes don't stray from the corner where Ghost leans, chin dipped low to his chest. 

(Price wouldn't put it past him to be asleep already.)

They tell him to get some sleep, dressing the worry in their voice as a friendly admonishment, and he takes it as it is. 

But rest doesn't come. 

He's curious about you. The little hellion that managed to snatch him clean from the air, and cup him in the palm of your too-small hands. 

(He wants to feel it again.)

It begins as idle curiosity.

Price is a large man full of bulk and grit. The snarls in his throat command authority, respect. He isn't used to feeling so wing clipped, sidelined, and he blames that on why he seeks you out. 

A pinch in his shoulder. His chest feels swollen around the broken rib. His knee hurts. There's an ache in his throat. A throb in his kidneys. 

Each time is met with the same stern expression, firm hands. You commandeer him around the room, dragging out the ailments with ease that always seems to leave him off-kilter and breathless. 

He realises what it is the fourth time he comes to your office, exacerbating some mild pain. 

You take up space. All of it. Any crevasse, or corner is immediately filled by you. You have this presence about you that is so at odds with the meek façade you carried on your countenance like an ill-fitting mask when he'd first laid eyes on you. 

You're an enigma, a paradox. A riddle begging to be solved. He wants to take you into his hands and pull you apart until your insides are bared to him, true and real, and known. 

He's met people like you in his lifetime. Leaders in roles that don't fit them. He thinks you belong in worn pages of history, tucked behind a desk as you commandeer the world around you with firm hands and a gnarled smile instead of standing before him, musing softly at whatever ailments he throws your way. 

Despite his plethora of issues, you tackle them all with an air of severity and seriousness that he finds kinship in, touching softly at the twined mass that writhes before him. The cuts in your gaze are made from the same shorn razor as his, and he wants to see what's behind that ill-fitting mask. 

He wants to see you slip. 

But you don't. 

Tongue between teeth, clenched so hard that blood blooms and swells in the tip, you keep everything locked tight to your chest, and usher him out with pantomime remedies to heal his farcical hurts. 

Price isn't sure why he keeps going—curiosity, maybe. An attraction that cracks like lightning striking through his chest. A gale of turbulence that leaves him seaswept and standing on shaking knees. He doesn’t know what to do with the kinetic energy that buzzes in his veins, begging to be free, and so he tests. Pulls and tugs at the seams that keep you spooled tightly together just to see that fissure that once split across your face, leaking fury and fire into the air until it ripped through his nerves, an electrical fire, and set him alight from the inside out. 

(He finds he likes the way it hurts.)

As much as he tugs, he finds he likes it when you pull back. 

"Should be careful," you coo, and the syrupy sweetness of your voice sparks against some dormant part of his mind. "You seem to have a lot of bad luck when it comes to ailments."

He shrugs. "Just unlucky."

"Or you're being cursed." 

"Oh, yeah?" He hums. "Could be." 

You offer a flimsy smile, but it’s enough to soothe the ruffle through his plumage. 

"What's your name?" He asks, fingers plucking at the gossamer that sits between you, unsettled by the quiver in his chest. 

The smile you flash at him is all teeth. "Sekhmet."

Laswell doesn't ask why when he requests your records, but he senses the confusion in her voice when she calls. 

"All of them?" 

He grunts in response. 

"I vetted them personally, John… but," there's a shuffle in the background. Boxes sliding on linoleum. She's overseeing the tearing up of Shepherd's office, and this minute request suddenly turns his stomach sour. "Fine. If that's what you want."

"It's just—"

He isn't quite sure what to say. He was weakened and flummoxed by the world around him. You turned the tipping axis on its head, leaving him feeling asunder. 

"Heard they were quite rough with you," she teases, an olive branch. An excuse. "Bossing around the boss. Is this what it's about?"

He scoffs, then, and only feels an inkling of pain. "No, Laswell. And I wasn't bossed around."

"Manhandled?"

It gives him pause. That feeling from before swells in his chest. Soft hands against his talons, clipping his wings. 

"No," he mutters, but the airiness of his voice gives him away. 

Laswell, in a feat of mercy, just hums. "They're good, John. Good for this team."

Good for you, she doesn't say. John thinks she doesn't have to. He hears it, anyway. 

There are cracks inside of him, ones made from the chipped clay that once concealed an unslaked black hole. 

You fill space, he thinks. 

He isn’t surprised to find you fill the gaps inside of him, too. 

He goes again, but this time it’s real. A bullet grazed his shin, deep enough to warrant stitches, and finds you waiting for him with that clipboard pinched between your hands. 

The look on your face gives him pause. It’s pulled taut, coiled like a defensive viper, but where he expects the same clinical efficiency and detached airs, he instead is met with a palpable sense of uncertainty—too much, he thinks, like the first time you walked into the room, unsure and wobbling on unsteady feet. 

His heart thunders under your prying gaze. “Need some stitches,” he says, if only to fill in the terse silence that settles over the room, hushed and aggrieved. 

“Right,” you echo, eyes dropping to the blood that runs in streaking rivulets down his leg. 

And you say nothing else after, working quietly as you knit skin back together and sponge the drying blood from the wry thatch of curls that blanket his shin. 

Price takes in the paleness of your lip, pinched tight against your clenched teeth. The deep ravine that cuts a line between your brows, heavy with shadows and flooded in some strange amalgamation of anger—potent enough that he can catch the embers in the air on his tongue—and this uncharacteristic sense of disquiet that makes your shoulders tense, your hands slacken. The firm, sure touch is gone—replaced, instead, with clouded unease—and you no longer commandeer him around the room, catch him from the air and manoeuvre him to your fanciful whims. You nudge, now. Soft utterances; requests. 

You don’t move space to fit yourself between the brackets. You linger in the periphery. 

He isn’t accustomed to this, and the hesitancy in your brow needles behind his ribs, pinching and pushing until he’s left feeling that same, strange sense of weightlessness as before. But where you led him around by the tip of his ears, he finds himself unmoored. 

(He likes the loss of control, but only when it’s tethered to your hand.)

His wound is patched up, skin knitted together with silken black lines that cut a neat crisscross through his tumid skin. There is no reason to linger, despite the weight on his tongue urging him to speak. 

But you strike first, catching him at the door. 

"Is there a problem?" You ask, words stripped bare, and masticated between clenched teeth. Reluctance is a heavy weight on your brow when he turns to you, as if you don't want to ask, but are compelled to. Forced to. 

It's the first time he's felt any sense of control around you. He stretches his wings. 

"Problem?" He echoes, and tucks his hands beneath his arms. Steadying his stance. Preparing for the fight. 

You mimic his pose, but grab the knobs of your elbows between tense fingers instead. There's fire in your eyes. The room fills with smoke. 

"You asked for my papers."

The meagre file tucked away in his cabinet spoke of your accomplishments in the same detached, clinical distance as one of the many façades you adopt. It listed your education, your former employment, and your accolades in Times New Roman, all standard affairs. Impressive, of course, but he found it all to be quite lacklustre. 

It didn't mention the firmness of your fingers when you take his pulse or commandeer him to your liking. It said nothing about the paralysing weight in your gaze, vipers tucked in the corners of your eyes when he meets your stolid authority with his own fiery wrath. 

(Or the softness of your cheeks when you try to hide a smile. The admonishing pinches made in jest when he says something that distracts you from your task.)

"I did."

"Okay," you breathe heavily through your nose. "Why?"

"Is there any reason why I shouldn't?" 

"You just—" another breath. He has the peculiar urge to syphon the next directly from your lungs, to taste your air on his tongue. "You come here, week after week, with some—illness, and just—"

"Just what?"

"If you have a problem," you say at length, eyes flashing. "You could have come to me? One on one. I would have—"

"A problem?" He singles the word out, tossing it back at your teeth. “I don’t have a problem.”

You laugh, but it's scathing. "Are you undermining me? Is this—hazing?"

“Hazing? No,” he shakes his head, chasing the tail end of your derision. “Consider this vetting.”

And there it is—that fissure. Heat pops from the lavascape, spilling down the split of your lips. 

“Right.” You snip, shaking your head. “Well, I hope I met your expectations, Price.”

He huffs, then. The noise is a broken facsimile of a laugh forced through crooked teeth. “Of course you do.” The pinch in your brow wobbles. “Wouldn’t be here if you didn’t, love.”

He rents the air with his admission, splits the seams of this tenuous dance you make each week he shows up, speaking of some phantom pain ripped the pages of the textbooks that sit, worn and well-loved, on the shelves behind your desk. 

You say nothing when he leaves. 

(Or when he rests a piece of himself on the doorframe—a glossy feather from his primary remiges just for you.)

He doesn’t go for the next three weeks, but it isn’t cowardice that drags him away from this oddly shaped choreography. He’s caught in a storm halfway across the world with sand in his hair, and the curve of your confusion nudged between the fibrils of his chest. 

In the softness of night, he wonders what you've done with his clipped feather. 

Price meets you at the beginning, but this time, he stands in the medical bay with firm knees, and a clear head. Searching, seeking. 

The thread vibrates, and he finds you with your back to him, doling out gentle, firm, commands to the medical staff congregated around you. Clinging to your breathy orders with the same listless uncertainty that makes his chest swell with the urge to lead whenever it's rested on his shoulders. 

He isn't sure if you can feel the reverberations through the thread, the leftover sutures from when you weaved a needle over the cut on his forearm, and accidentally sewed a piece of yourself into his skin, or if it's just the heavy weight of his gaze burning brands into your back that draws your attention. 

(It certainly garners enough from the staff around you, their flighty eyes flickering from the mountain of a man seething at your back, to you—feigning obliviousness as he strips you bare beneath his glacial gaze, cutting a path to your membrane where he knows he'll find the piece of himself that you snipped off months ago.)

When you finally turn, you give a peculiar look over your shoulder, eyes clouded over, gaze inward. He watches you for a moment, taking in the curve of your cheek, the slope of your nose. Foreign, of course; but familiar under the cloak of darkness and the hail of gunfire. 

The fire still burns in your unreachable depths, but the embers are smouldering. He feels the heat even from this distance, but when you return from whatever thoughts were racing through your head, he finds the look that fixes itself there to be strange. Pensive. 

A quiet contemplation as you take in the length of his shoulders, the width of his chest. 

His heart hammers against the cages of his sore ribs, leaping to the base of his throat where it pulses like a raw wound. 

The whole of his body smarts like a massive contusion—muscles bending at odd angles, bones brittle—but he knows in an instant that he won't mention it to you. He'll tuck the hurt aside. Let it moulder. Let it rot. 

This thing between you—crafted from the design of his heart—has been pulled and pinched, flexed and stretched too taut. It's ready to snap. To break. 

He waits for that moment, bracing himself for the inevitability of the recoil clapping him against the chest, but it doesn't happen. 

You give a small dip of your chin. 

Then, you're gone. 

You've been moulding him between form hands since the beginning, moving him around however you please. 

So, it just feels natural when he follows. 

This time it's his chest. 

You go through the same dance, steps known. Ingrained in muscle memory. Your hands are firm, authoritative as you lead him on this little chase, pushing and pulling, tugging on the threads that keep him sewn up and whole. 

But an incipient path is born. A new routine. The hand on his cheek, as you read his temperature, lingers, thumb brushing over the dividing line that separates skin from wry curls. 

The touch is familiar. You’re no strange to feeling around the phantom aches and pains he presents to you, but this is an electric shock that rattles through his nerves. The trail your thumb leaves behind as it strokes idly at his skin prickles and burns. Goosebumps rise, creating cresting hills and peaks along his topography. You map it all with nimble fingers, firm and sure. 

You take the thermometer out of his mouth after a moment, not even pretending to read the results (thirty-seven degrees, always), and it’s tossed back on the tray quickly before your hand returns to his skin, drawn there by that same innate pull he feels in his iron bones. The warmth of your palm threatens to suffuse his skin, mated together in ferromagnetism. 

His chin rests, plinthed in your palms, and there’s a sudden swell, a rush, that gorges on his heart. The façades fall, clattering to the ground. The broken pieces lay in remains by his feet. 

Price doesn’t spare them a glance. 

Can’t, maybe, because in azimuth he finds that solidary feather he plucked for you resting between your teeth. 

Wonderment. Awe. He feels the surge of something ripping through his body—a paroxysm—but he can’t look away from the shapes of your bare face; the imperfect asymmetry, the wrought iron lines, the convulsing atoms. It’s mesmerising. 

And maybe it’s an electrical phenomenon—no let go—but he doesn’t spare it a single thought, even as the current burrows deeper into his chest, igniting his tissue until red-hot, blistering, charred. Even then, even with the scent of smouldering, necrotising flesh brimming cloyingly into his scenes, the absolute apathy he feels for himself at that moment is a testament to the unshakeable draw, that primal magnetism that glues him to you; met in perfect equilibrium in the middle.

It’s you who moves, who splints the poles until they fall apart when you let your hand drop.

But you’re not finished. The tips of your fingers move, a long peregrination down the twisting, sloping topography of his visage; snaking down his temple, the dip of his nose, the rough bushel of curls, the soft pout of his lips, the ulotrichous hair along his cheek and jaw, the long decline of his check, the ridged of his collarbones, the swell of his chest. It’s there where it lingers, fingers spreading like webs along the birdcage of his thundering heart. 

Price watches you, rapturous and nearly choking himself on the avarice that spills from his heaving lungs. 

You rest the flat of your palm there for a beat; lost in perambulation. Feasting on the thud of his heart. 

He thinks you’ve had your fill. Quenched yourself. 

But when you look up from the slight tremor of your hand, pulsing in time with his hurried beats, the look in your eyes is distinctly unslaked. 

(—and he can’t stop the rumble from spilling out of his chest at the sight.)

Price isn’t sure how long you stay like that. Minutes, seconds, hours. Aeons might have passed since you let your mask slip. Since he plucked at threads keeping it upright. But he shakes back into cognisance when you pull away, cutting through space and time, and filling the gaps once more with the heavy weight of your presence. 

“You’ll be fine,” you say over your shoulder, reaching for your clipboard. “A little rest is all you need, captain.”

There’s an insurmountable number of things he can say, but you press on his throat, and he swallows them down, nodding at your back instead. 

The cloven strands fall around him, broken with distance. There’s an urge in his bones to sew back into his skin, to press them like drying flowers into the folds of his heart where they’ll say, nurtured on his blood and suffused into his being. He rests his laurels on it for a moment, feels the weight of his want, his desire, and compares it to the fraying wisps dragging along the linoleum. 

But he doesn’t reach for them. 

He is wing clipped and flightless. You hold the only feather that gives him lift between the monoliths of your teeth. 

A fine place to keep it, he thinks and turns around, ready to leave on unsteady feet, but—

"Seven," you say, firm and sure. No nonsense. But when he turns, he catches the pallor of your knuckles gripped tight around the clipboard. You hold it to your chest like a shield. The vipers in your eyes quiet their hissing, tongues lashing out to scent the air. "There's this place in Manchester that makes the best Beef Suya."

You're not asking him. 

(But you don't really have to, do you?)

His lips pull up. He catches the drifting threads in his bare palm. "Manchester, mm?"

"I hope you like a little bit of spice."

"I can handle the heat." 

You swallow thickly, and he thinks the action on anyone else might be easily mistaken for nerves, but the livewire that pulls taut between you thrums with a heavy sense of anticipation. 

"I hope so, John," he startles at the mention of his name. It makes your lips curl back, and he shouldn't find it so mesmerising when can't tell if it's a smile or a sneer. "Otherwise I'd be quite disappointed." 

His chin dips to his chest. It renders his voice to little more than smoke and ash, but you shudder from across the room at the growl. 

"Wouldn't want that, now, would we?" 

It isn't breathless when you speak, but he licks his lips and tastes the pulsing excitement that sparks in the air. It curls in his lungs. Saltwater on burning coals. 

"Don't be late." 

It's a promise, he thinks; a warning, too. A threat. "Wouldn't dream of it, love."

He turns away from you, shielding the growing smile from your searching gaze, but your voice stops him short at the door, fingers curled around the frame.

“And Price?”

“Yes, love?” He calls, featherlight in a way he hasn’t felt since he was eighteen and free. Ready to soar, to fly.

"You know," you say, brows knotting together. Despite the severity of your expression, there's a note of playfulness between your teeth. "If you wanted to see me, you could have just asked." 

After dinner, they fucked so nasty that Qadesh could be heard gagging across the aether.

[galkyrie]

Inspired by this post and its notes (and by that I mean it refused to leave me alone until I wrote these scenes)

Jason tried not to make going to the ‘Cave a habit. No, he much preferred to conduct any Bat-related business in as close to neutral turf as possible, but- 

Tim. Tim was in the ‘Cave, had been manning the comms for the group all night as he nursed a couple bruised ribs. Oracle was away on Birds’ business, so the responsibility of playing coordinator had fallen onto his lap while he recovered. 

It made him easy to find, luckily. Jason wanted to have a chat with the little bird.

“Hey Babybird,” he tried to keep the thrilled, self-satisfied smugness out of his tone as he climbed off his bike and tugged off his helmet, but- 

This was just too good.

The numbers- courtesy of the magic user and dimension-jumper they’d had to coordinate taking down last week- had appeared just as they’d managed to shove him back into the universe he’d come from. A parting gift in the form of a spell. 

May you all see what you truly are. 

It’d been ominous, but anytime a magic used opened their mouths was a pretty ominous fuckin’ moment in his book. And nothing had come of it, not really. Just these- numbers, hanging over their heads silently. Only seen by one another, and seemingly nonsensical. 

Until tonight. 

“Jason, what are you-” Tim turned in the leather computer chair in front of the set of monitors, mug of coffee in hand as he moved to greet him. He stopped, looked above his head with a furrowed brow. “Your number went up.” Jason couldn’t help the smirk that spread across his face as he ambled over to the platform, neither pausing nor bothering to give Timmy his space as he responded. 

“Yeah, funny thing. I ran into someone I’ve been lookin’ for while goin’ about my business tonight- real scum of the earth type, yeah? He’d just gotten off on another rape charge on a technicality- it went about as well as you can guess.” He spun the helmet in his hands lazily before setting it to his side, leaning against the desk and grinning down at a stone-faced Red Robin. “Imagine my surprise when I got back from that little meetin’ to find my number’d gone up.” 

If the cause was surprising news, Tim didn’t let on. “I see.” His tone is level, even. It meant nothing- gave nothing away, about how Drake was feeling. 

“And it got me wonderin’, Prettybird,” Jason added, lips twitching in amusement as the nickname did not draw out the usual faint scowl on Tim’s lips. It was as good a tell as any that the neutrality in his features was an act. “Why your number is hovering around triple what I’ve got hanging over my head.” 

He leaned over, taking full advantage of their comparative sizes and Tim’s seated position to loom, a taunting grin spread across his lips. “How’d’ya think Daddy Bats is gonna take to his perfect little soldier bein’ no better than his biggest failure?” He reached down, taking an errant lock of hair between his gloved fingers before adding, “bein’ three times worse?” 

Tim looked up at him, glacial blue eyes taking in the triumphant grin on his face and finally emoted. 

He laughed.

“I guess we’ll find out, won’t we Jay?” He took the moment of surprise- fully fuckin’ earned, because the little shit just laughed at him holding destroying his life over his head- to push back in the seat, rolling away enough to get standing. “When you tell him, that is. I’m assuming you are going to tell him, yes? That’s why you’re dangling this in my face first?” 

Tim looked his way, head tilted in that studying-a-bug way of his that always made him feel both small and about to be skewered. Jason blinked his way, sure he was broadcasting just how off-kilter he currently was-

“I thought one of you would figure it out eventually, but- honestly my money was on Dick before you.” Tim gave him a grin, small and conspiratorial, seeming utterly amused by the truth coming out. 

Jason was at a fuckin’ loss. “What’d you do, to get that number?” 

“Oh no, that’s not how this is going to go.” Tim laughed again, shaking his head. “We’re not going to share stories, Jay. You didn’t come here to do that. And it wasn’t to warn me, tell me you were so sorry but you had no choice but to tell the others. You’re gloating. You came here,” and Tim stepped closer, that grin and gaze sharpening enough to cut, “to make me squirm.” 

Tim stopped in front of him, just barely within reach as he regarded him. He wasn’t in the Red Robin uniform- opting instead for a loose hoodie hanging over the sleek black athletic wear used by most of them when running training exercises. He looked underprepared to fight him and unconcerned by the prospect, the combination of which managed to turn his looming back around on him. 

“I’m afraid this isn’t going to get me there, Jason.” The cool condescension in his tone killed any quip he might’ve come up with for the innuendo in their tracks, making him sneer. “But go ahead,” Tim waved his hand, turning to gesture towards his helmet, “I’m sure everyone would love to hear it.” 

“You’re bluffing.” He didn’t even sound positive to his own ears. He’d- this was not what he’d been expecting. He’d been thinking he might get denial, a fight, maybe. Not cold, calculated acceptance of the revelation and this...heel-turn. 

Tim huffed another laugh, meeting his eyes again. “Feel free to call it, then. Do you think Bruce will even remember my number when he finds out what the one hanging over him means?” 

“Do you really think he’ll believe you, when his whole idea of himself is at stake?” Fuck, Tim was right and that grin on his face did little to hide that he knew it. “Your word’s worth more than it used to be, Jay- but nobody’s is worth that much.” 

Fuck. He’d have to prove it. “This isn’t over.” He promised, narrowing his eyes at the little bird. 

“I wouldn’t dare assume otherwise.” Tim eyed him coolly, watching as he straightened and yanked his helmet off the desk. 

“You know- I might be a fuckin’ asshole, Tim. But you’re ice cold.” And his judgement was probably less than meaningless to the man, considering he’d come here fully expecting to rub this in his face, but-

“So I’ve been told.” Tim shot back, sounding bored, “now do you mind plotting elsewhere? Some people didn’t abandon their patrols to play mind games and I have a job to get back to.” He gestured back to the computer, easing into the chair and returning to the monitors. 

Jason stormed out, trying not to let the curveball that was this entire interaction get to him. Tim- seemingly adept at finding new ways to be infuriating when given any opportunity- was right about one thing. Bruce wasn’t going to believe him if he just told him. 

He’d have to show him.

...

Tim made it until the roaring of Jason’s bike faded into the distance before his head was between his knees, forcing himself out of the instinctual hyperventilation he’d been trying to avoid since the moment Jason had told him why his number had gone up. 

So- it was over. Tim’d killed people- a lot of people. He hadn’t- god he hoped his bluff had bought him some time, that he hadn’t just goaded Jason into finding Bruce in person and telling him. 

Hope wasn’t enough and he didn’t have time to lose it now. He stood- probably too fast, since he was lurching to the side of the platform just to empty the contents of his stomach over the side. God, he’d- he’d killed people. 

He wiped his mouth on his sleeve, grimaced at the acid clinging to his tongue before forcing himself to get it together. 

The first thing he did was get onto the ‘Cave recording and delete any record of his conversation with Jay- the Hood’s would be a problem, probably having picked up the entirety of his act from its spot on the desk. 

Jason could just go show that to Bruce. That brought down his possible time-table considerably.

Tim moved quickly after that, grabbing every bit of gear he thought he’d need to get out of Gotham and quickly divesting his motorcycle of every piece of tech that could be tracked. 

It came out easily, considering he’d designed it with something like this in mind, someday. 

And- sure, his idea hadn’t exactly been ‘turns out you’ve murdered a few hundred people’ that would be the final nail in the coffin, but- 

Bruce had been vocally disappointed at him considering where to draw his own line with Boomerang, no killing required. Enough so that he’d planned a few exits, should the need arise. 

Yeah, seemed like the need was there. He had to go, like, yesterday. 

He kept his own readout tracking the rest of the Bats’ movements- Jason was sure to act if his control of the comms seemed amiss. Luckily he tended to keep things quiet on the group comm anyways, unless something big was going down. 

Thank god it was a slow night. Outside of Jason, apparently, committing a murder. 

Not that he could judge. 

He got to one of his safehouses tucked away from anybody’s current route, logging into the Nest’s system from the pared down system inside. He set a countdown and activated subroutines that would be necessary for the rest of them to go on without him- and not find him, hopefully. 

After that he bought bus, plane, and train tickets in every direction under every alias he could afford to burn. 

He used none of them, abandoned his bike at the border of Chinatown and backtracked to execute the rest of his plan. He didn’t break down, not when he successfully crept through the marina to the small, solar-powered yacht he’d carefully kept off the books and got aboard. He didn’t fall apart, when he’d carefully slipped below deck and into the dimly lit space that was to serve as his home until he’d managed to put as much distance between himself and Gotham- and seven or eight of its residents in particular- as possible. 

A buzzy, distant kind of calm washed over him as he carefully, purposefully changed once more into clothes more suited for sailing, and tested just how silent the electric motor was as he undocked and left Gotham’s tainted waters in the rearview. 

[dilf-din]

hiii! can i request things you said between your teeth with Poe?

Hi nonny! I’m so sorry this took so long. I actually just stumbled upon the ask game you were referring to when you sent this in.

This got a little bit away from me, but I had so much fun writing for him!

Please request more Star Wars boys with one of these numbers!

Snowfall

Character: Poe Dameron x f!reader

WC: 1650

Warnings: light language, mild depictions of wounds, mention of a needle, reader has a nickname

Since the empire drove the rebellion away from its base on D’Qar, Generals Dameron and Organa had been trying to find a new permanent base. Being left with next to nothing on Crait after Ren’s attack, everyone was wracking their brains for somewhere safe to rebuild.

“Hoth, I don’t know why I didn’t think of it before!” Leia exclaimed. She recounted a story of when the rebellion had to flee the base there when she was younger.

“It might be a little outdated, but it’s roomy and secluded. Poe, I want you and Sharp to check it out. Take one of the tandem X-Wings and see if it’s worth a shot.”

Poe nodded and headed to find you. He knew you’d be in the hanger trying to salvage what was left of the fleet. Few people believed in the cause as strongly as you do. You had been with General Organa since the early days as one of her best pilots and sharpshooters, earning you your call sign, Sharp. Poe, being just as driven, found a quick kinship with you when he joined the rebellion. The two of you had flown together for years, gone on countless missions, lost crew mates, drank yourselves sick on joyous and dark days. He was thankful for the constant you had been when the whole galaxy seemed to be off kilter.

He strolled down the darkened maze of hallways with BB-8 by his side until he came up on the hanger. Sure enough, you were amidst a group of people clearing out some of the wreckage from last night’s attack. Your flightsuit was tied around your waist, leaving you in a black tank top with grease and ash in matching shades smeared across your arms and chest. You wiped the back of your arm across your forehead, further spreading the filth while you caught your breath.

“Sharp! Pack up, General wants us to go recon another base,” Poe called to you.

You turned to face him with a grin on your face, “You think my ass is dumb enough to unpack? Let me go wash up real quick, and I’ll be good to go,” you said, clapping him on the shoulder and retreating to the bunk hall.

He chucked at your response and went to make sure the double seater X-Wing was in working order.

Within no time at all, the two of you were airborne, headed to the ice planet not far outside of this system.

“I’d like to get off of that rust ball, but I didn’t know our other option was a blizzard,” you said bleakly.

“We’ll make it feel like home. Have snowball fights and all that,” Poe smiled, ever the hopeful one.

You were quiet for a beat before asking, “Do you think we’ve still got a shot?”

Hearing you doubt almost knocked the wind out of his sails. Of course, you would always have a white knuckle grip on hope in front of the rest of the team, these moments of transparency only taking place late at night or in the solitude of a cockpit.

“I can’t have my best girl giving up on me,” he said softly over his shoulder, “It’s just a little setback. We just need time to regroup and plan our final blow. We’re close, Sharp. I can feel it.”

Hearing his reassurance fanned the flames in your spirit again. You had a feeling the ending was just around the corner, you just hoped it was the ending you had all been working your bodies to the bone for.

You didn’t realize your joke about a kriffing blizzard would be the reality you faced once you descended into the white planet’s atmosphere, but you were met with blinding snow and winds so hard Poe could barely keep the ship steady. By the time you saw the tip of a tall rock formation jutting out of the ground, it was too late to warm him. The X-Wing was sliced nearly in two in an instant. Both of you were sent flying into the icy ground, hard. You tucked your arms around your knees, praying your helmet would stay in tact as you tumbled. Debris from the X-Wing was strewn all around you. Somehow, you avoided getting hit by any of the larger sheets of metal and machinery. Your mouth was full of slush and blood. Your head spinning from the hard landing as you tried to right yourself. You spit the snow from your mouth, and ran your glove along your lip to find it swollen and busted, the below freezing temperatures instantly stopping the blood flow.

Poe. You didn’t see Poe.

“Dameron! Where are you!” you shouted against the wind, your voice already hoarse from the elements. You craned your neck, desperate to find a peek of orange in the snow drift. BB-8 chirped faintly from behind you, and you turned into the howling wind, barely making out the faint outline of the small droid next to a pile of what used to be your ship. Chills overtook you despite the warm coats you had both pulled on before approaching Hoth. Each step into the storm felt like a mile, like every ounce of energy you had was being drained from your body.

“Poe!” you called as you got closer, finally making out the scene of him trapped beneath one of the wings, still strapped into his seat. BB-8 was trying desperately to lift the metal frame from him.

“Kriff,” you cursed under your breath, a new wave of strength coming upon you. “Poe! Can you hear me?” You nudged the wing up, it slid easily off of him and down the icy wall it was wedged against. Poe was slumped over, presumably unconscious, but you didn’t see any blood or major injuries. “No blood, no blood is good,” you tried to reassure yourself, as you quickly unbuckled him from his seat and awkwardly dragged him closer to you. You pulled a glove off and pushed it to his neck, searching for a pulse. His skin was still warm beneath your fingertips, and you found a steady heartbeat to the left of his adam’s apple.

“Let’s get you inside,” you whispered down to him. “BB-8, how far are we from the base?” you called over the roar of the storm.

He beeped something in binary and holo-projected a map of the planet onto the icy wall beside you. We’re right on top of it, thank the Maker, you thought to yourself. You wrapped Poe’s arms around your neck and slumped him over his back, hoping to make the short walk with no other snafus. Sweat beaded down your back from the weight of him and the extra layer of heat he was providing. Right when you thought your whole body was about to give out, BB-8 rolled ahead and started working on opening a large bay door that was cut into the side of what you could only assume to be a mountain. By the time you reached him, the door was fully open, and lights were flicking on revealing a long hall. You laid Poe down gently and ran ahead to see if there was anything useful. By a small stroke of luck, you had crashed just outside the medbay that was still heavily stocked. You filled your arms with supplies and ran back to your fallen companion.

“BB-8, can you find a way to send a distress call back to Crait?” you asked, quickly shedding your jacket and folding it into a makeshift pillow to elevate Poe’s head.

He beeped in affirmation and whizzed down the hall.

“C’mon baby, I need you to give me something,” you said quietly, pulling his helmet off, being careful to keep his neck steady. You unzipped his jacket and flight suit, lifting the hem of his shirt to check for any damage. His right side was almost one massive bruise, hinting at rib damage. His arms and legs showed no sign of any breaks or abrasions, but he was sure to be in a good bit of pain when he came to.

You prepared a bacta shot, drawing a deep breath before plunging it in between two of his ribs, hoping to get a head start on the healing. This drew a low groan from the back of his throat. You cast the needle aside and drew your hands to his face.

“C’mon baby, wake up,” you urged. His brown eyes fluttered under thick lashes, grimacing as he came to in a bright tunnel.

“Ohhh god,” he lamented as the feeling surely returned to his torso. His hands shot to his side.

“Thank the Maker you’re okay,” you breathed, wrapping yourself around him.

“Sharp,” he coughed, “Ribs.”

“Sorry, sorry,” you pulled yourself away and gave him a hand up into a sitting positioned. He grimaced and huffed out hard as he propped himself uncomfortably against the wall next to you.

“What happened?” he asked, squinting as he was still adjusting to the light.

“We hit a rock,” you said point blank, as you checked his pupils for any sign of a concussion. He let your gentle hands rock his jaw back and forth as you looked into each eye. You ran your hands through his hair checking for any bumps.

A soft laugh left his lips as he leaned into the touch.

“What, did that hurt?” you asked, drawing your hands back.

“You called me baby,” he smiled dopily, causing you to roll your eyes.

“You remember that but not the mountain you practically drove us into?”

“You called me baby,” he said in a sing song voice, leaning his head back and closing his eyes.

You gritted your teeth, “Next time I’ll let BB-8 drag your ass through the snow.”

“Whatever you say, baby.”

“Shut up, Dameron,” you shoved his shoulder lightly.

“Ouch, wounded baby,” he feigned distress.

“Oh, I’ll wound you, alright.”

[doublerainbow-if]

How about the RO’s trying to help a drunk MC to bed but the MC is so drunk they don’t recognize the RO’s and they resist, saying they already have a partner they love.

M is trying to hide their smile as they wrangle you into their arms. The need to kiss you is strong for how cute you are but they will wait until you are sober. This moment is going into their mental folder of cutest things you have done around them though. They simply lay next to you like you were kids again, holding your hand within theirs as the two of you fall asleep.

L is chuckling as they carry you on their back. Piggy backs are a cornerstone of your friendship and now relationship. This scenario has happen couple times in the past but the feeling of them being consider as your partner is new. They just continue on their way, telling you will see your partner in the morning. Tucking you in for sleep, they relax on their window perch for the night.

B is a mess. They nearly drop you with how frayed their nerves are from such a blunt form of affection. So much affection is filling up in their chest that bit might burst from their chest. They struggle between running to calm down or kiss you for how sweet you are. They compromise though and leave you with chaste kiss on the forehead after putting you to bed. They cuddle with their bunny extra hard that night as they can't believe how lucky they are .

J's chuckles rumbles through their chest as they carry within their arms. A pleasant vibrations sink into you in the warm embrace you found yourself in. "You are adorable cher, " their voice filled with boundless fondness for you. They promptly settle you on the bed and curled up against you. Soft kisses on your cheeks and jawline are paired with J cuddling against pure bliss. They never once look at their marks.

V is a bit off kilter by the statement. They stop their planned course of getting to bed, simply staring at you in pure disbelief. They can't imagine why you couldn't recognise them even if you were drunk. Self loathing slowly rises before they stop it in its tracks. They promise themselves that they won't let this rule their being anymore. They want to love you without all of their emotional baggage. You deserve better than that.

C is not surprise in the least. Personal experience with V has taught them that alcohol can really mess up the brain. They rather not think about that night though as they focus on you, their partner. They simply nuzzle into you, light chuckles sending shivers down your spine as they place little kisses on your neck. Pure need to just bury you in affection is too much for them to ignore, getting to bed will have to wait for now. You deserve all of the love and adoration this cruel world has to offer.

Avery is very new to this. They have dated briefly in the past but drunk significant others never made it on the list. They stop to remind of who they are and where you currently are, making sure that you know that you're safe and protected in their home. But if that doesn't work, they get you settle in their room with the fluffiest bed comforts they can find and a couple of their dogs to stand guard. Even if you don't remember them at the moment, they care aboumaking sure you are secure and comfortable in your inebriated state.

Kahula is also in the same boat as Avery with taking care of drunk partners. Often they are the ones to get more tipsy from drinking so this is a surprise for them. They flail around for a bit and consider calling L for any advice to make this situation more besrable. But they go with making sure you know they are your partner and that you are safe with them. That's what they appreciate if they get too drunk so maybe you'll comfort in that as well. But even if that doesn't work, they stick by you to make sure you get there okay and sing you to sleep. They feel happy seeing be lull by their voice in to peaceful slumper.

[witchofthesouls]

Alright, a continuation of Bayverse Autobots dealing with a rogue human carrier due to the absolute fuckery (as in the noncon body modification and unethical human experimentation) from Sector Seven.

(Needless to say, Optimus makes a good impression. The rest of them? Not so much...)

You’re not exactly sure how to feel about your life at the moment. Just one major upheaval after another. It feels more from like a supernatural or superhero action movie with the subplot of a shadow government agency making people disappear Just Because insert-whatever-plot-revalent-reason-of-ultimate-power… 

In the end, there’s no secret order or great prophecy or hidden school with a twinkling headmaster too full of secrets and too much regrets. Just a human that managed to escape on sheer dumb luck that’s trying lay down low and not get caught.

The accelerated healing seems to either cure your terminal illness or keep it in check, but you’re no Deadpool. Jumping from one fourth-story window is one time too many, and not a thing you wish to repeat if it can be avoided.

Now your life is veering into another direction. A sci-fi one.

One with aliens.

Giant metal titans that can transform in vehicles and what not.

What not also includes the ability to project a physical avatar which is sitting across from you right now as you’re wolfing down the fourth Grand Slam plate. Leo Cullen, the alias, is still nursing his hot chocolate, the lumberjack slam barely touched; whereas Optimus, the real man… mecha, alien, is parked outside.

A boot taps your shoe, you look up to see him smile, dimpled and a bit crooked, as he pushes his plate forward and quickly switches it with your empty one.

You’ve gotten used to the constant low buzz at the back of your neck, but the sudden jolt that sears your spine is a different story.

You stop eating. Fork down and napkin up as you pay attention to the direction.

“Something wrong?”

“I think it’s an eyelash.” The lie comes easily. After all, you and him are both hiding in plain sight for similar reasons. “Hold on.”

The angle of the compact mirror catches a couple half-asleep at their table, and behind them, an older man with greying red hair with glasses. He’s staring at you and a flare lights your nerves on fire.

The table rattles as you push up, the smile feels like a grimace as you say you’re going to the toilet.

The restroom is single users and it suits your needs perfectly. In the reflection, a wan face stares back at you; still thin and sharp from the weight loss and stress still etched on your features. Recovery is an absolute bitch and being on the run gives it a caustic tongue.

Splashing water over your face does little to settle your newfound sparky nerves, and you’re finishing up when there’s a loud click of the door unlocking without your damn permission and it swings open to-

“There you are!” 

The face and body is different, softer with floral wear but the same greying red hair and glasses. You hold your breath and let the static build in your gut. There’s a distant thought that’s amazed by the aliens’ adaptiveness. To have different forms at a blink of an eye? What a skill to have…

They’re saying something but it doesn’t matter. All you need is for them to come closer. Closer.

Cold porcelain digs into your lower back as you wait for the door to finally settle, and finally-

You have no idea who’s more surprised when they disintegrate in an electric rain as you dig your hands into them. The gold chains and rings around your palms and fingers aren’t to just look pretty.

The dryer sputters in a slow death and soap dispenser sparks, drooling out all of its contents. Only the toilet and sink escaped due to the lack of sensors. Lucky them that you’re getting better at that trick. You once shorted out half a block -signs, posts, and even the cars, nothing was left unaffected- to escape in the dark streets.

It does leave you off-kilter: bodily disconnected, yet hyper-aware of all the running currents.

Leo’s outside the door, and you force your shaking, wet hands to smooth out the static in your hair, patting them dry with your clothes. (A small, distant part of yourself jokes about matching Leo’s greying side streaks should you ever return to your original hair.)

There’s concern on his face and he says something but you honestly want to go back to bed. Just sleep it off for awhile.

He pulls you close and hot air hits your wet face. Sun beating overhead and you drag your feet to disperse the extra charge, teeth hurting whenever a radio is changed.

Leo makes no comment when you kick up dust, but he hum in a strange singsong and unrecognizable tune that bleeds out the itch under your skin.

Besides the weirdly green ambulance in the far corner, there’s a hummer and a sports car nearby giving you the same sharp sense of jittery awareness. And unlike the ambulance who’s avatar you knocked out, those two weren’t muted and had their attention on you.

Static numbs your clenched fingers and your spine buzzes as you and Leo pass them. You're tense. Absolutely ready to bolt away, and if it wasn't for the arm around your shoulders and the calming presence exuded by Leo, you're pretty sure you would have taken your chances to run into traffic. 

The lizard part of your brain is still screaming to try: Don’t turn your back!

A bizarre sensation of cool water slides down your neck and you shiver as it spreads down your back, like a huge icy-hot pack and a massage as it rolls and digs into your muscles, unknotting them, playfully tapping each individual knobs of your spine. 

It’s enough to shove the overwhelming urge to run to back of your head. Enough to realize that you need to breathe and had a death grip on Leo’s clothes. Leather and flannel twisted in your hands, straining the materials even.

In a way, you’re operating on a cross between autopilot and hyperviligance. You know that the Leo/Optimus hybrid is physically guiding you back to him, but your entire focus is tracking the other not-cars. Too many, persists the lizard, what’s stopping them?

You’re suddenly back inside the cab, seatbelts curling and sliding back to its proper place. 

Your life is turning upside-down again, but all you do is stumble to the bed in the back. Too strung out by everything to speak. The mattress shifts and bury your face into the eerily smooth skin of a neck and inhale the mix of tires, metal, and fire. He pulls you over to rest right on top of him and you follow it, soaking his body heat and matching his slow rise of his chest.

Optimus hums, the pitch low, and you realize it’s his whole frame, not just the avatar, that’s gently vibrating in a strangely soothing noise that slowly eases away the harsh tension in your back and unclenches your belly, limbs relaxing as you cling to the other body and broad hands, warm and sure, are resting on your lower back, heat sinking into the sore muscles.

Hunger still nips at your senses, but it’s the exhaustion that drags you down.

The noise drowns out the sharp awareness that’s outside, and somewhere between the easy, slow strokes across your lower back and rocking motions of the drive, you fall asleep.

You’re vaguely aware you’re purring back.

_________________

:: Congratulations, Prime, we have a feral carrier in our grasp now. ::

[inkmimicry]

@drachliebe liked for a starter!

he’s had better landings. could say it’s a blessing that he didn’t crash into the little tykes lounging by the stream, but then, Gray seems to have a habit of hitting anything with leaves in it. Maybe its the bird in him, forgetting it can’t land.

Either way, one moment all is calm; the brook is bubbling and birds are twittering, the next something gangling and gray comes crashing against the nearly trunk; pale feathers scattering.

He’s not sure what got him so off-kilter. But something in him is chanting magic magic magic. Like he could do anything about it!

“What’re you lookin’ at?” he says to the children, though they hadn’t said anything, “I’d like to see you do better.” As snippy as his words out, there’s no real venom in them, in fact, he seems distracted. Maybe he’s hit his noggin. 

[lameotello]

title: Blood on my shirt, Rose in my hand (read on ao3)

rating: T, for blood and death

summary: Leo is a loving boyfriend with one crucial secret: he's an assassin for-hire. He never wants Mikey to find out, but when a rival assassin makes an attempt on his life, it all comes crashing down.

written for @tcestweek

Rain drizzles down the abandoned alley, pattering against cold stone, creating circles in pre-existing puddles. It's dark the way New York isn't supposed to be, even at a little past one. There's no bright lights shining down this path, no neon signs or lit-up windows. The street beyond is empty. A lone, failing lantern at the alley's entrance casts a pale glow against the wet pavers.

Leo sighs, turning the rose in his hand. It bends pitifully down, stem snapped in half. Its pretty red petals are askew, knocked loose. A few fell and now stick to the ground.

"After I spent so long making sure I picked the most perfect one," he mutters. The assassin at his feet makes a pitiful gargling sound. "I suppose you're satisfied with yourself? Oh, wait." A humorless, mocking chuckle. "Maybe not."

The assassin quivers. Their pupils are pinpricks, but Leo doesn't need to see them to know his victim is afraid. He can smell the fear in the air.

Leo smiles down at them, empty, predatory. If they had any strength left, perhaps they'd have tried crawling away, but Leo's injured them thoroughly - he's not someone to do a half-assed job, certainly not when another assassin comes after his life. They were almost admirable in their stupidity, really, to think they could knock him off his throne, with a sloppy sneak attack from the depths of New York shadows. As if this isn't his town and those shadows not his home.

The rain mixes with the blood steadily pooling under the assassin. It runs in a stream down cracks and uneven pavers, down to the gutter, where it gurgles and disappears into the sewage.

"P... Plea..."

"What? Please?" Leo draws his brow ridges together in fake sympathy, sardonic. "You can't even try to save the last bit dignity you had left? Now that's just sad. Listen, if it makes you feel any better, this never would have ended any other way. Sure, you picked a really wrong time to do it, but you never would've won."

He positions his sword, sharp point at the assassin's neck. 

"So don't feel too bad," he says, but it's still a sneer, despite the words.

The assassin stares up at him, breath falling short. Death smiles back down at them.

"Please..."

Leo slashes their throat.

Blood splatters on him, warm, sticky - a familiar sensation. Not pleasant, nor repulsive, but simply something that is, something he's used to, and experiences with a sense of detached apathy. The assassin crumples, choking at first, lifeless a moment later.

Leo looks at the ruined rose in his hand, and tosses it on the corpse.

He wipes at blood on his cheek with the back of his hand. He isn't sure if he wiped it off or smeared it, but he supposes it doesn't matter. Raindrops slide down his temple, down his shell, his plastron, and he knows that, in a few minutes, the blood on him will have washed away.

"Maybe I'll be able to make it still," he mutters to himself. "Mikey's been waiting a while, though... And he was so excited about today, too. Can't believe some no-good assassin is going to make me miss-"

A sharp rattle rings behind him.

He whirls around, sword raised, ready, body coiled like a viper ready to spring into action, showing off teeth that would sink into flesh without a second's hesitation. 

Mikey stands in the alley's mouth, features pale underneath the flickering sickly yellow of the street lantern.

Something in Leo teeters dangerously off-kilter. He almost drops his sword, steel clattering loudly against the ground. It leaves a red smear in the grime.

"Leo...?" Mikey's voice shakes. Leo's throat closes up, it's hard to breathe.

He can't be here.

He can't know.

Mikey's eyes take him in. They go from his sword, trail up his plastron, and linger on his face. And then, slowly, hesitantly, they glide past him, to the assassin's crumpled, mangled body and the pool of blood amassed under it.

He looks like he's going to be sick. He shakes his head, disbelieving, horrified, hand coming up to cover his mouth, and when his gaze returns to Leo's, it's like he doesn't recognize him anymore.

It hurts worse than any injury Leo's ever had.

"Mikey..." he gasps out, and takes a step forward.

Mikey steps back.

"Please," his breath shakes. The word echoes in his mind. "Let me..."

He takes another step towards Mikey, and Mikey stumbles back, away from Leo, shoulders hunched as if he's trying to disappear, or protect himself, and when Leo looks into his eyes, he can't read anything but disgust and terror in them. And then Mikey turns and rushes back down the sidewalk, disappearing from view in less than a second.

Leo's breath stutters, picks up pace. It's like his chest's been run through by a white-hot fireplace poke. A call of Mikey's name gets stuck in his throat and turns into a pathetic whine instead. His knees buckle under him. His sword slips from his limp fingers as he stares, almost unseeing, down the alley.

Mikey doesn't return. No matter how long he waits.

The dark red on his sword jeers at him.

[horuslupercal]

Magnus Makes Marijuana Mistakes

(ao3 link)

or: Magnus Accidentally Steals Mortarion’s Weed

or: Perturabo Is Trying

CWs for: weed

After Prospero, Perturabo does his best to be kind to his favourite brother. Who is incredibly, excessively high.

⚠️  IF YOU SHIP THE PRIMARCHS TOGETHER GO FUCK YOURSELF YOU ARE NOT ALLOWED TO TOUCH THIS POST ⚠️   

It maybe doesn't bode well for Perturabo's day that he finds Magnus halfway fallen off the couch with hot sparks fizzling out between their fingers. He can almost fit it into a perfect rhythm in his head as he watches — a flick, a hundred differently-hued sparks, a moment as they drift and then fade away — except Magnus keeps flinching whenever one alights onto the softest skin at the center of their inner wrist. It's throwing off the rhythm, off-kilter like their shoulder pressed into the edge of the seat cushion or their knee curled nearly against the wooden upper frame of the sofa. Their eye is closed but their presence has whirled around Perturabo since he set foot aboard the Photep, all hot sand and crashing waves, as intense in their friendliness as a particularly poorly trained dog, so at the very least he knows they're not sparking out like a dying machine.

"Magnus," He says, and nothing else, and they immediately burst into giggles.

They're still giggling as they draw out a long, "Hiiiii~!", turning towards the door. Their right elbow and upper back meet the cushion almost in unison and they slide a little closer to the floor for their efforts.

It takes a lot for Perturabo not to make his response, "You sure are," but he must think it clearly enough because Magnus only laughs more, breath catching against their soft palate in an undignified, gasping snort. It's halfway like a sob, to Perturabo's ears, and he moves just far enough to let the doors slide shut behind him.

"Yuh" — Perturabo frowns at the slurred word — "I got some of the gooood stuff. Real good. Nice n'- n'... good." Their right arm flops behind them, some kind of boneless fling that ends with their wrist bent against the arm of the sofa, and Magnus slides another inch off the cushion. They seem to realize their proximity to the woven rug at that moment because a psychic hand twists its way into the fabric of Perturabo's chiton like they intend to use it for assistance. They grunt with effort, sitting up halfway, but at that point the drugs must take vicious hold of them again because they proceed to fall face-first off the couch. The dull thump of their entire body follows, leaving them sprawled prone with their left arm trapped under their chest.

(He notes the scars running along their free arm, precise and surgical and still visible. He wants to throttle Leman Russ, a broken neck far more deserved than some others have received. He can't right now, though, and Magnus is still stuck on the floor. Priorities.)

Perturabo doesn't do pitiful, but the long, low whine muffled against the rug concerns him enough to cross the room and turn them over. Sibling-he-actually-likes privileges, he reasons. Magnus's actual hand, flesh and blood this time, clutches his tunic loosely. When they don't move beyond that, he sighs and lifts them, depositing them neatly on the blue cushions. Their hand remains where it is and Perturabo resigns himself to it.

"What happened to you?"

Magnus's eye closes again and they give a wobbly little hum before offering, "Weed. I was- was doin' something with Horus." They cut off their sentence there to mutter darkly in Prosperine before continuing, "Horus is- he's doin' shit and he shouldn't be but whatever I took his weed. Asshole. And-anddddd…" They fall silent for just long enough that Perturabo would wonder if they had fallen asleep mid-sentence if it wasn't for their presence fluttering like a hummingbird's wings, and he takes it as a chance to clarify:

"You took Horus's weed."

Magnus sounds a tad too proud of themselves as they hum a peppy, "Mmmmm-hm!"

Well, that explains a lot. "You are aware that was probably Mortarion's, then?"

The change from proud to paranoid is immediate and tangible. "Oh Gods, you have to stay here." Magnus cracks their eye open, gaze roving around the room like Mortarion will materialize any moment. Their presence dissipates like a fine mist, sweeping out briefly and then crashing back against Perturabo. "Fuck he prolly- probably planted it. That's- because then if I took it I'd be so high and- that's why it's so bad and I can't move and-"

Perturabo cuts off the rambling with a squeeze over the hand twisted in his tunic. "I believe Mortarion just has stronger drugs than you."

Magnus makes a small, sad noise in response, wordlessly tugging at the yellow fabric in their hand until Perturabo promises, "I won't leave you, regardless of whether or not this is Mortarion's plot to kill you with drugs. Alright?"

Magnus sits up, managing a upright slant until Perturabo sits down in the new space, and then immediately flops sideways. With inordinate effort, they shuffle their knees and hips towards the other end of the sofa until they can sprawl with their head in his lap, arms wrapped around his legs as if to trap their brother there.

Magnus seems content to lay there for quite a while, picking at an oil stain near the bottom hem of Perturabo's chiton and rambling half coherently about some thesis on material objects in warpwork, though they do apologize. Perturabo can only catch half of it, something about his usual aversions to both sitting idly and cuddling, and he doesn't know what to say in response so he just sets his attention to a complicated plait.

Well. That settles Perturabo's fate for the next several hours.

…

Magnus's back hurts. It naggles at them like an itch they can't scratch, shoots electric fire up the right side of their back and down their legs whenever they move too much or lay wrong. This is a terrible combination, because they keep having to move to find something more comfortable and moving keeps screwing with their right lung. Maybe. The weed certainly says the nerve pain is the only thing stopping their side from collapsing inward and taking the lung with it.

Great Ocean, this weed is fucked up.

Yeah, their arm hurts too, but at least pulling energy through it to flick little sparks soothes the muscles. They don't trust the cables and struts sheltering by the bones, which is fine because Magnus doesn't like them either. But they can't have their muscles all spooked, so they have to soothe them. Like a startled horse, like Jaghatai showed them that one time.

The idea of patting their bicep and offering it grains from a flat palm makes Magnus laugh so hard they snort again (Sob? They ran out of tears some time ago, so definitely not a sob. Shut up, brain.). Perturabo just kind of pets their hair, which is nice.

And then they start purring, somehow, as the staccato snag-release against their soft palate softens and stretches from a snort to an extended purr. Every time they breathe, it's accompanied by a feline's soft rumble. When Perturabo asks them what they're doing, ("Are you purring? Like a cat?") they can only manage to explain that their biomancy might have taken a little liberty with their vocal cords after two tries.

Great Ocean, this weed is fucked up.

Everything, recently, is fucked up. Mistake after mistake after mistake.

Perturabo pats their hair to indicate that he's done with the braid, which means they've been laying here for a lot longer than they'd realized, so Magnus rolls onto their back to see if that feels a little less like their lung is going to collapse. They can't flick sparks from this angle so they settle in to think while their current favourite brother is still willing to deal with having his legs squashed, pushing and pulling psychic energy between their fingertips and shoulder like water in a bucket.

And Magnus likes to think they're a good brother, the kind who notices when their brothers are upset. And Perturabo is their favourite brother and not recognizing weird would be wrong. And not recognizing pain would be worse.

He jostles their thinking spot twice in under five minutes, restless, and they crack their eye open to scowl at him. Except he's got his own eyes closed, which wouldn't be weird if it weren't for the tightness in his jaw and the occasional measured breath. It could be a headache — sometimes having a bunch of metal cables in your head messes with things — but a cursory biomantic sweep rules that out. Magnus's brain helpfully reminds them that they've filled it with mind-altering drugs and they might need to take this in smaller steps and so their next attempt to find the cause is more thorough and just slow enough that Perturabo must notice.

He furrows his eyebrows, blinking down at Magnus, and opens his mouth to say something.

It's at about that point that Magnus's check reaches his mid-back.

Perturabo jerks so hard he almost kicks Magnus off the couch with a sharp and passionate Olympian swear. That has Magnus sitting up immediately, concern temporarily dunking their high underwater to be dealt with later. They reach out again with a mental hand, wanting to solve the mystery.

"Fucking Eye, Magnus, keep your damn-" Perturabo starts to snap, cutting himself off partway. Magnus pulls their presence back, letting it circle their arms restlessly, and fights to just… sit there as Perturabo takes another measured breath. Inhale, exhale. His tone is palpably softer when he speaks again.

"You're projecting."

Oh.

"You should have mentioned."

Perturabo opens his mouth, just barely, shuts it. (Takes a moment to try and envision a world where he cared so much for his planet and people that their deaths felt as though they were his own. Where the cleansing of Olympia was anything more than an insult to him and the time he had spent on it. He can't do it.) He opens his mouth again and says, kind of lamely, "It didn't hurt much until you went poking at it."

Magnus is not high enough to believe that in the slightest, but a quick nudge at Amon and the returning statement is enough to believe that they haven't been projecting it across the Photep, which just leaves them to this concern.

"You need to tell me if I do that. I didn't realize my grasp on my presence was that loose." They grab his arm, shaking it for emphasis, and Perturabo stares, deadpan.

"Do you have a secret history of inadvertently melting people's brains?"

Without quite meaning to, Magnus tightens their grip. He needs to listen. "Perturabo."

Perturabo sighs. With it comes the sense of the petals of a flower unfurling, a shield comprised of intricate clockwork releasing. That was one of their own teachings to their brother, early on, and it brings some measure of comfort that he hasn't forgotten and is indeed using it when necessary.

"I'll tell you if it happens again," Perturabo assures.

Magnus allows their presence some manner of freedom again, no longer held so tightly to themselves. When they release Perturabo's arm, he simply lifts it, tilting his head.

"You know, being all nice and cuddly isn't all too convincing on the 'you didn't melt my brain' front," Magnus mutters. Still, they take the invitation, sprawling across his lap again.

Perturabo huffs and doesn't say anything else.

…

"What are you drafting?"

"What?"

"I know you. You're drafting your latest idea in your head. You always are. What is it?"

Magnus allows their eyes to shut, building a little model in their head as he speaks. And okay, yeah, maybe they spend a not inconsiderable amount of brain power on envisioning it being used to kill Leman Russ gloriously and violently. And hopefully leaving just enough intact that they can burn up his other heart with Warp fire in front of all of his sons. But Perturabo just snickers and keeps explaining, throwing in a line about Russ's charred corpse under tank treads, so it's probably not much of an issue.

[animebw]

Short Reflection: Mob Psycho 100 Season 3

Mob Psycho 100 is one of the greatest anime of all time.

This is not up for debate. Though even if it was, I doubt many of you would disagree. Was it really only 3 years ago that the second season of this off-kilter little slice-of-life action comedy showed up and utterly blew everyone away? Only 3 years since ONE’s crudely drawn webcomic about an overpowered psychic boy just trying to live a normal life stepped out of One Punch Man’s shadow and rocketed to the top of everyone’s Best Of lists? Mob Psycho 100 is the kind of show that feels like it’s always been with us, one of those enduring staples of anime that defines everything good about this medium and remains a permanent nostalgic fixture point for new and old fans alike. From its utterly gobsmacking animation that forever raised the bar on how to portray superhuman action to its achingly human story of the things that make even the most extraordinary of us so wonderfully ordinary, this show is a triumph of empathetic storytelling and visual artistry on a level almost nothing else even comes close to. And while my opinion of the second season may have cooled slightly over time- I’m not the biggest fan of how ONE writes dialogue- it still stands as one of this medium’s crowning achievements.

So when I say that this third and final season feels like a step back, let me be clear: I am in no way saying Mob Psycho 100 Season 3 is a bad twelve episodes. Even if I were the most contrarian asshole imaginable, I couldn’t say that with a straight face. This is still Mob Psycho Goddamn 100. It’s still some of the most likable characters and some of the most spectacular animation ever put to screen. Even on its off days, this show runs circles around 90% of your average seasonal slop. But as this season wore on, knocking down the last few dominoes necessary to bring Mob’s story to a close for good, I kept waiting for the moment that would shoot this season into the stratosphere. Mob’s first fight with Teru in season 1, the astounding Mogami arc in season 2, every prior season of Mob has that one spectacular moment that kicks the story into an entirely new gear and never lets up for a second after. And as we approached the final episode, almost everything as wrapped up as it could possibly be, I realized... I was still waiting for that moment. As much as I enjoyed this last round with Mob and company, it never took off the way I know this show is capable of. It just coasted at 80% the whole way through, hitting plenty of killer pitches along the way but never pulling off a single grand slam. This is a good season of Mob, even a great season; it’s just not a spectacular one. And considering how damn high this show has raised the bar, the fact that it’s ending on such a comparatively lackluster note (again, I must stress the comparatively part of that statement) leaves me a little disappointed.

So why does one of the greatest anime of all time feel like it’s taken a step back for its victory lap? Well, after rolling it over in my head for a while, I think there are three big issues that keep season 3 from reaching MP100′s previous heights.

Reason #1: A lack of purpose

Let’s be honest, MP100 could have ended with season 2 and it would feel almost completely natural. Sure, there might be a couple loose plot ends here and there, but the actual story- Mob’s personal journey of self-acceptance and self-betterment, Reigen managing to overcome his worst impulses and treat Mob with the respect he deserves, the looming threat of Claw and the thematic challenge they pose to Mob’s humble worldview- was basically all wrapped up by the time season 2 ended. We’ve watched this bowl-haired, awkward middle schooler embrace what’s special about himself, work to overcome his flaws and become a truly well-rounded person, and defeat the literal manifestation of egotism and narcissism that stands in opposition to everything he believes about the inherent equality of people. His story is already about as complete as it could possibly be. Anything after that would just be icing on the cake. And sadly, that’s kind of how season 3 feels a lot of the time: icing. Very delicious icing, to be sure, but by now the cake’s already finished, and there’s only so much icing you can eat on its own before you start yearning for the solid food that used to be attached to it.

Which brings us neatly to:

Reason #2: Less interesting characters

This is related to reason #1: with all the important characters’ stories basically taken care of, most of season 3 is spent wrapping up the loose ends of the various remaining side characters who could still use some closure. Unfortunately, that means the focus is on the characters who, in my opinion, are among the less interesting parts of Mob Psycho as a whole. Like, I like Dimple well enough as a comic foil, but it’s been so long since he’s had any sort of serious pathos. And while I appreciate how the giant broccoli arc that takes up the season’s first half gives him a meaningful place in the narrative again, I just don’t have the built-in investment to care about him like I care about Mob, Ritsu, and Reigen. It’s a good way to close his arc, but he’s just nowhere near as compelling a character as Mob’s star players, so it doesn’t hit nearly as hard. And it’s completely blown out of the water by a two-episode wrap-up for the lazy telepathy club that Mob refused to join back at the start of the show. Now that’s what I call comedy.

Meanwhile, the final arc of the entire show brings the spotlight back around to Mob’s crush on his classmate Tsubomi, and... alright, full honesty, I was initially planning to write something here about how I really don’t care that much about Mob’s crush on Tsubomi and how it’s always been the least interesting part of this show, so spending the final arc focusing on it wasn’t my idea of a good time. But after seeing the way it actually played out? It actually works. I think ONE understands, on some level, that the actual question of whether or not they’re going to get together is far less interesting than how Mob’s feelings toward Tsubomi reflect his ongoing personal growth and struggle with his own inner turmoil. So instead of being about Mob trying to finally get the girl, this final arc uses those feelings as a lynchpin to finally make Mob confront the last hurdle on his stage to self-acceptance, all while inadvertently becoming a locus around which everyone else can bring closure to their own character arcs in turn by showing how much he’s improved their lives while he’s struggling with the last stage of his journey to improve and accept his own life. And it’s really fucking solid! Especially the final episode, my god does it bring it all home. The only issue is that this is the final goddamn arc of Mob Psycho 100, and it’s largely about the part of the show that’s always interested me the least. Even if it handles it about as well as it possibly could, there’s just no way for that not to feel underwhelming, especially compared to the astounding work of action spectacle that was season 2′s climactic showdown with Claw.

Reason #3: Weaker visuals

OKAY STOP AND LISTEN BEFORE YOU RIP MY THROAT OUT. Mob season 3 is a great-looking show. The way studio Bones brings ONE’s sketchy, janky drawing style to life is, was, and continues to be a singularly unique delight. Weaker, in this case, does not mean “bad” in any way, shape, or form. It’s just that, once again, I’m used to Mob being a spectacular-looking show, so anything less than 120% feels like a letdown. But weaker is weaker no matter how good it still is, and there’s just no getting around the fact that this is the least visually interesting season of Mob yet. Look back at any random episode from the previous two seasons, and you’ll find enough experimental animation, creative cinematography, and truly gonzo visual style in five minutes to outdo many full episodes of season 3. Far too much of the time, it relies on simple medium shots or panning shots when it’s not time for the action to break out. And even then, the action, excellent though it still is, has so few moments that match the sheer awe of the Teru fight, the Mogami fight, or either of the big Claw fights. Sadly, it seems losing Yuzuru Tachikawa, the director who pushed those first two seasons to such incredible heights, really did leave a dent in its visual identity. MP100 in the past felt like it worked to make every single moment of animation interesting and uniquely meaningful; now it only feels that way maybe 70% of the time.

And again: this is still a really good fucking season of anime. It’s still a ton of fun, the action kicks ass, and getting one last chance to bid these characters goodbye was definitely appreciated. The only reason I’m being so critical is because I know what this show is capable of. If MP100 had been at this level of quality from the beginning, it still would’ve been a high-tier shonen romp with enough heart and style to easily recommend to anyone. But I’m not used to MP100 settling for just being good. I’m used to MP100 shattering every conceivable barrier in its way as it rockets into the stratosphere. I’m used to MP100 going so far above and beyond that it redefines what’s even possible in animation. I’m used to this show being an absolute masterclass of spectacle and storytelling alike. So the fact it doesn’t get to be that one more time for its final outing turns what’s otherwise a perfectly delightful season 3 into a sorrowful reminder of glories past, weighed down by just how much better it used to be. Never before has a really good show felt so crushed under the burden of failing to rise to greatness.

But you know what? Fuck it. Just because it’s not as jaw-dropping and landmark-setting as previous seasons doesn’t mean Mob season 3 wasn’t a damn great ending to a damn great series. If nothing else, the OP drop in the final episode probably pushed my score up a full half-point all on its own. This may be a step down from what this show is capable of, but at the end of the day, there’s still more than enough heart, imagination, and sheer talent on display here to close Mob’s story out on a deeply affecting note. Mob Psycho 100 has already earned its eternal place in the anime pantheon; it’s earned the right to rest on its laurels for its farewell party. And I’m sure I’ll still be thinking fondly back on the whole beautiful journey long after the momentary disappointment fades from memory. So with all that said, I give MP100′s final season a score of:

8/10

So long, Shigeo. So long, Reigen. Here’s looking forward to whatever the future has in store.

[scout-company]

Dead or Alive—Chapter 5

Their trek takes them down the steepest slope of the hill. Past the small grove they beamed down into, they travel mostly through empty fields. There’s still patches of thin forests, but they’re mostly individual clusters of trees shepherded by bushes and undergrowth; small circles of natural towers above the rolling fields of grass. The wind sings through the grass and the clusters of trees, bringing with it more humidity. It seems to be mostly coming from the mountains around them.

It’s rather odd to Scout how empty the land is. Aside from the native critters hopping through the grass, scurrying away from her and the others as they wade through, there’s little here. But they keep passing evidence that there maybe used to be.

They pass an old well early on—vines and flowers have claimed the cobbles and rotting wood as their scaffolds, tying it to the soil. Scout can’t even tell if there’s still water in the well, the vines have embraced it so thickly. 

Tree stumps of various sizes dot their path through the valley as well; each one sprouting branches anew as if rebelling against whatever cut them down in the first place. 

Here and there are still more piles of stones, some more natural looking than others. Most of the stones look like they might have been pristine and even, once upon a time, but now all of them are covered by leaves and flowers claiming them as their home instead of whatever out them there in the first place.

It’s a peaceful planet, sure—the native birds keep chirping their own songs above the wind’s accompaniment as if they own the world, and none of the other critters seem to care. They just keep hopping along on their merry ways.

But Scout can’t help but feel…off. Like an intruder in an abandoned sanctuary.

Particularly when Alice stops at one point, when the sun has started to hide behind the mountaintops. When Scout turns around to see why she stopped, she sees her standing in front of a denser cluster of flowers, protected by a thin wall of trees behind them. Carefully she starts to ask, “Did ya…find something?”

“…This is a grave,” Alice states softly. Her hands tighten on her broom. But her eyes soften.

“A grave…?” Semyon echoes, soft enough the words are little more than a rumble in his chest. He walks back over to join Alice at the edge of the flowers, and Scout follows.

The flowers look like they’ve overgrown an invisible square barrier, overflowing the corners and spilling out into the surrounding tall grass. And in the middle of the flower patch is a small stone. It stands like a squat guardian of the flowers, off-kilter like the ground settled beneath its weight; worn by weather and time and embraced by the nature around it.

There’s writing on it.

Semyon notices the writing at the same time Scout does, as he adjusts his bag until the bulk of it sits behind his back, then carefully leans forward to squint at the writing. After a moment he huffs, “I…can’t read what it says. Can you guys?”

Alice shakes her head. But Scout looks closer.

Most of the writing is worn away, the engravings filled by lichen and dirt. But some of the symbols look vaguely like something Scout should know. The familiarity niggles at the back of her mind, especially when she recognizes a symbol that resembles one she does know. “Honor,” she reads aloud. “It…says somethin’ about honor.”

Semyon whips his head in a double-take fast enough to almost look painful. “Wait, you can read that?” he marvels.

Scout shrugs, glancing at him briefly before studying the stone again. “There ain’t much to read. It’s all muddled up.”

“But you could read part of it.”

“So?”

“It’s just…” Semyon wiggles his hands in front of him as if flailing for words until he settles for gesturing back at the stone as he says, “I can’t even tell what kind of writing is on that stone. But you…I-I’m just amazed, that’s all.”

Scout bubbles with another shrug and shake of her head, “I’m jus’ readin’. But then she takes her miniature Matter Manipulator out and notes, “Might as well scan the thing, though; show it to ol’ Bronze-Head and Riku when we get back.”

“And see if they can read it?” Alice wonders, stepping back from the blue beam Scout’s Manipulator shoots out. 

“Somethin’ like that.”

The beam casts a holographic grid over the stone, taking in all of the dimensions and crevices in a matter of milliseconds. Done! 

After the little screen in the handle of her Manipulator reports the stone as scanned, though, it also reports signs of a hollow not far beneath it. Explains the stone being partially toppled over.

But it’s also probably where the dead was buried. Curiosity begs Scout to find a way to peek into the hollow, particularly when she glances over her Manipulator’s data again and notes its report of a wooden container of sorts. But it’s a grave. And something she can’t place tells her to not disrespect the dead.

Eventually Scout makes herself back up from the flower patch, tucking her Manipulator away into her pocket. “Let’s…let’s just keep goin’. Don’t wanna wake the dead, now,” she fizzles. 

Alice and Semyon both nod and take steps back from the flowers. While they do, Scout orients herself by the planet’s magnetic field and the unceasing buzz in the air. 

The mountains around them prolong the twilight, letting the sky fade slowly from blue to lavender to magenta as they walk. And the pulse in the air gradually gets stronger as they reach the mountains at the southeastern part of the valley. 

The clouds above start to collect more and more as they get closer, too. They pour over the mountain peaks like spilling foam, getting thicker as the sunlight fades. But they don’t look like they want to rain on them just yet.

There’s more of those signs of old life, even this close to the mountains. Piles of rocks that look like segments of ancient walls, with vines as their framing. Critters of all sorts scamper around them and the trees, making the ruins their homes. A few of the braver ones—mostly ones that look mostly like little two-toned orange blobs—try pouncing them from around the rocks, but a few pops from Scout’s pistol dispatches them just fine. And even when one that manages to avoid being shot when Scout’s pistol jams again, Alice whacks it away with her broom. Not too much trouble. But Scout makes a note to herself to check the pistol’s chamber when they take a break. 

Scout tries to make idle conversation with Alice and Semyon as they walk. Semyon’s more willing to chat and keep conversations bouncing, but Alice isn’t. She adds a thought or two when prompted, but for the most part just keeps looking around at the scenery, her gaze fixing on the old ruins. Eventually conversation falls silent. Scout’s attention drifts back to the buzzing, slow pulse in the air.

One of the ruined walls they pass looks like its weight has sunk the ground around it, only for a small pond to fill the hole. However, as they pass that pond, starting up the shallow part of the mountain’s slope, Alice finally breaks the silence. “Scout, why are you buzzing?”

“Buzzing?” Scout pops and turns around, only registering half of what Alice says. “Wait, y’all feel it too?”

Alice blinks several times with a knot in her brow. “Feel it—? N-no, you’ve been buzzing the whole time we’ve walking,” she says.

“I have?”

Semyon nods, adjusting his bag with a tug. “Yeah, you kind of have. Just a low buzz; like static or something. You ok?” he then asks, tilting his head slightly at her.

“Yeah, I’m ok,” Scout fizzes. She looks back to the southeast as the air pulses, but then looks back at the others with a tilt of her head and fizzles, “Y’all seriously don’t feel that?”

It’s Semyon’s turn to frown. “Feel what?”

“That buzz in the air.” When neither of their expressions change, Scout elaborates with a wave to the sky, “The air’s been kinda buzzin’ the whole time we’ve been here. Pulsing, too. Y’all don’t feel anything?”

Alice and Semyon slowly shake their heads, sharing a bewildered glance between the two of them. Scout studies them with a low bubble for a moment, but then looks back to the southeast. The air pulses still; its rate hasn’t changed since they arrived planet-side. It’s like the planet’s sleeping breaths, or maybe it’s like that “heartbeat” thing Scout hears Semyon and Bronzemarch discuss sometimes.

When she realizes Alice and Semyon are still staring at her confusedly, Scout shakes her head and dismisses, “Aw, what the heck. We’ll figure it out later.” 

Another one of those gleaps tries pouncing her out of the nearby bushes as she starts to turn back around. She pops it with a couple off-hand shots, then starts walking.

Semyon blinks and steps away from the gleap tumbling back into the bushes, then awkwardly chuckles as he and Alice follow after Scout, “Y-you know, I still feel like I shouldn’t ask how you know how it use that so we’ll, but…”

“Ya wanna try it?” Scout brightens playfully, offering him the pistol grip-first. 

His eyes widen at the gun and his fur fluffs, but he laughs it off, “N-no, I’m good, thanks,” while waving his hands in front of himself as if shielding himself from the gun.

“Suit yerself.”

~~~~~

<<Previous || Next >>

[hannahsmusings]

Renee

*I can’t help but throw my head back with a laugh as he says Henrietta, Anthony being so unoriginal and of course he’d just rename this car after the other one, it feeling so good to be this carefree with someone again, barely even remembering my bitterness and resentment towards him* What a terrible name that is… but yes, for old times sake, I christen her Henrietta. *I pat the roof of my car, some of that annoyance coming back to me as he calls me his lucky charm, remembering how everytime I went to any of his games in school they would usually always win and whenever I wasn’t there they’d lose horrendously, the nickname always making me feel so special back then but now its just made my chest hurt due to all the missed moments between us, I hadn’t watched a single moment of him playing a sport since high school and I was sure he won plenty without me there cheering him on* *before I could linger on those feelings or even respond to him, Anthony grabs my arm and pulls me into the restaurant, trying to ignore the warmth radiating from his large hand, everything about him being so god damn big, my stomach dropping at that thought but quickly pushing it away* *I follow him to the table, refusing to let myself linger on the way the hostess was checking him out, Anthony being the perfect mixture of handsome and adorable that it wasn’t a shock that woman checked him out everywhere he went, trying not to let it bother me as I sit down, Anthony wasn’t my boyfriend, any woman could check him out whenever they wanted* *I lock eyes with him when he says he’s paying, narrowing my eyes suspiciously* If you say thank you one more time, I’m leaving. I’m serious. You don’t need to thank me with sushi… even though it gets you brownie points. *I giggle softly before looking down at the menu, playing with a loose curl as I furrow my brow as I look over everything, trying to decide just how much I wanted* Maybe I’ll start with the sashimi and then order… the entire fucking menu after that.

_________________________________

*heart warms as you stick with Henrietta, it feeling like a tribute to us and our old relationship and I loved that, I loved that our relationship still meant something to you* *as we’re seated in the booth I couldn’t stop grinning at you, it feeling like no time had passed between us* *pouts as you chastise me for saying thank you, but smiling as you say it scored me points* I know I don’t need to, but I wanted to. That and I just wanted to hang out with you. It’s been too long. *murmurs softly, sighing a little as I knew I should have reached out but I didn’t, regretting that massively* I just know I’m not the greatest student so I appreciate your time is all. *smiles before my breath catches a little as you giggle and look at the menu, my eyes zeroing in on your fingers playing with a loose curl and suddenly I felt warm and uncomfortable, hands twitching with the urge to reach out and take hold of your hand, eyes flicking over your furrowed brow, the slope of your nose, the natural fullness of your lips and it felt like I was seeing you for the first time all over again, like that moment in the library, you were the same Renee but different, how could I have not noticed how completely breath taking you were?* *blinks as you tease about ordering the menu, smiling but feeling a little off kilter, dragging my eyes away to look at the menu myself and nodding* Uh, yeah. *chuckles a little* Everything is good. I promise. *clears my throat to rid of this tightness in my throat, suddenly having so many things to say*

[jolienjoyswriting]

The Dummkopf from Distant Lands (ft. Kristhal Jonsdottir), Ch. II

Chapter 2 of 3 for "The Dummkopf from Distant Lands," a fan fiction story. Co-written by AI Dungeon (Griffin 2.0)

The Following is 100% Non-Canon to the Source Material!! While the written prose does try to keep things in line with established lore, some characters within may act slightly out-of-character at times. Additionally, it is a completely self-contained work and has no impact on any works past or future outside of its own storyline.

Kristhal leaves, satisfied she's scared her stalker into submitting.  Then, one week later…

Word count: 3,260 – Character count: 19,115 Drafted: April 2nd, 2023 Revised: April 2nd, 2023 –

Kristhal Jonsdottir and related characters and concepts created by and © dayax19 Joseph Dominique and related characters and concepts created by and © Jo Li

[ ← Prev. Chapter | Next Chapter → ]

    Joseph shouted before finally collapsing against the couch.  Kristhal's strikes were becoming sharper and sharper with every word he spoke…     "Ich habe dich gewarnt…" she huffed, glaring with teary eyes.  "You just kept pushing me…"     "Yeah."  The man laughed, sounding off-kilter.  "That's the kind of guy I am…"     The woman's face was twisted in anger.  She held her sword in both hands, practically radiating with strength.  She looked scarier than she ever had…     "I'll make sure you never talk about my friends ever again, Joseph…"     His eyes closed and he slumped against the couch, sighing with a smile.     "Whatever, Kris…"     Kristhal shivered in anger…  How could that man… that stalker… speak to her like that… speak of her friends… speak as if he knew her…  How could he speak so casually…?  Did he want to die?  Did he simply not care?  She clutched the hilt of her blade so tightly that her hands began to ache.  She wanted to jam that sword down his throat and shut him up for good… It would be easy.  He certainly wouldn't stop her.  She was prone and ready.  However… when she tried to bring her mind to the task, she could only stare at him.  Her anger had faded and she didn't know why.  With a twirl, the sword disappeared… and she just turned around, heading back to the door she had kicked open.     "W-wait…"     When the bleeding man spoke, she stopped.     "You just don't know when to shut up, do you?" she snorted.  "What do you want…?"     The tension was thick in the apartment…  Joseph was quiet for a long while.  Then, after several moments of simply waiting… he said two words.

    "I'm… sorry."

    Kristhal narrowed her eyes.  She snorted and spat on his carpet.  Then, she continued walking away.     "I just… wanted to get through to you…" Joseph sighed, clearly in pain.  "Show you that… even a complete stranger… could care for someone like… like you…"     She turned and looked at the man.  She wanted to scream at him.  She wanted to break his face.  But all she did was glare…     "No one asked you to."     "That's the point… 'dummkopf…'"     Kristhal felt a surge of anger when the man started to laugh.  She knew he wasn't laughing at her.  She just didn't know why he was laughing…     "You're the dummkopf, dummkopf…" she whispered.     "I love you, too…"     Another surge of emotion shot through the woman, her face showing a little color.  She quickly turned back toward the door, not daring to let the man see what he'd done to her.

    "Close the door… o-on your way out…"

    When Kristhal heard the man speak again, she paused at the doorway.  Her hands were in her pockets and her back was turned…     "Do you… want me to call someone?" she hesitantly asked.  "You're staining that couch dark red with blood."     Joseph laughed before it turned into a cough.  "Taking pity on your stalker?"     "You know what?" She looked over her shoulder.  "Just die.  It'll do us both a favor."     "Love you, too, Kris…"     She snapped, spinning around with furious eyes.  "Stop saying that!!" she roared.     "Hah hah," he teased with a grin.  "I made you caaare."     With another roar, Kristhal practically flew across his living room, throwing a heavy punch right into his face.  As she withdrew her hand, she noticed that the man was completely unconscious and bleeding even harder from his face and his new broken nose.  She brought her closed hand up, licking some of his spilled blood off before spitting it out.     "Verrückt…" she darkly growled.  "Completely mad…"     She sighed… then she looked around the room.  There was a cell phone on the side table.  She grabbed it and dialed a number.  When someone answered…     "Yeah.  Hey, can you send an ambulance over to…"     She offered directions to the man's place, explaining that he was hurt and bleeding.  When they tried to get her to stay on the line, she hung up, tossing the phone at his head.  It didn't break, but he'd probably have a bruise from the impact.     "Dummkopf…"     With that, she finally left. –

    "That person is leaving weird comments again, Kristhal…"

    It had been about a week since Kristhal's mysterious trip.  She wouldn't say where she'd gone or what she'd done, but none of her friends pressed her, so it worked out.  On a random night after, her shorter friend – a dark-skinned girl with glasses named Jessica – was browsing over some of the more recent photos that they'd posted on their shared blog.  When she mentioned "weird comments'', Kristhal stopped brushing her hair and walked over to see what was said.

    "Hrm… Looks like he's going gaga over our dumb costume play pics…"     Kristhal rolled her eyes and snorted.     "Dummkopf…"     "He makes me very uncomfortable…" Jessica said, adjusting her glasses.  "There is no rational reason for him to act so 'friendly' toward you."     "Could be worse!" another friend – a freckle-faced, brown-haired guy named Dylan – said as he played a video game.  "Remember when he was all 'gaga' over you, Jess?"     "Please…"  The short girl shivered.  "Do not remind me…"     "Heh.  Any thoughts, Jon?"

    The tall, dark-haired man seated near Dylan, going by the name of Jonathan, glanced over.  He looked at the trio with his usual, calm demeanor, eyes half-closed and face expressionless.     "You're asking Jon for input?" Kristhal laughed.  "You'd get better input from the wall!"     Jonathan flinched… but only a tiny bit.  He quietly returned his focus to the video game he was playing with Dylan, losing interest in what they were talking about.

    "How do you handle such… free speech, Kristhal?"     Kristhal was sipping some fizzy drink from a glass when Jessica prompted her.     "What do you mean?" she asked the glasses girl.     "Are you not… troubled… by this strange person and their unsolicited words of affection?"     "Should I be?" Kristhal asked, shrugging.     "Maybe…" Jessica said, folding her arms. "B-but, I do suppose the Internet is full of strange people like this."     "And this one's got a li'l crush on yooou, Krissy!"     "Shut up!"     Dylan laughed as Kristhal came over and punched him.  She was smiling, though.  Clearly, she wasn't that upset.     "How can a person develop feelings for another without interacting face-to-face?" Jessica asked, staring at the laptop screen on the floor.  "It makes no logical sense."     "Eh, love is goofy like that," was Dylan's input on the matter.  "One day, you could be walkin' along the beach, mindin' your own business, then the next morning?  Poof!  Darn if you're not in love with a cute girl from Afghanistan!"     Jessica jolted, staring at her friend with a mix of surprise and concern.     "Y-you can't be serious!" she exclaimed with a start.     "Is he ever serious, Jess?" Kristhal said with a smirk.     When Dylan smiled a bright, friendly smile, Jessica finally relaxed and smiled with them.  She rarely understood them… especially Dylan… but in her experience, friends rarely did understand each other.  Dylan once said that's why their group worked so well.  They were all "oddballs" who said or did weird stuff!

    "So, are we gonna pop in a movie, or…?" was the next thing the freckled fellow said.     "Yeah!!"  Kristhal walked back over to the couch.  "It's not a sleepover without a movie!"     "What are we watching?" Jessica asked, closing the laptop.     "I dunno!" Dylan replied.  "Ask John!"     All eyes turned to Johnathan.  He glanced back at the trio.  Then, after a long while…     "Spaceballs: The Movie."     He told them the movie he'd brought to watch.

    "That old sci-fi comedy movie?" Dylan laughed.  "Sounds good!  Any objections, Kris?"     "Eh, I could use a laugh," she said with a shrug.     "I enjoy the special effects of old movies," Jessica added as she brought the closed laptop over to a wall charger.  "The CGI of today is simply not as believable as practical effects and frame-by-frame digital enhancements."     "Neerrrd!"     The short girl blushed and went quiet, ducking her head as Kristhal teased her.  When she saw the big grin on her friend's face, though, she started smiling again.     "Well… there's only one thing left to do!"     Everyone looked at Dylan as he spoke up.     "I'll go make some popcorn!  Hey, Jonny!  Start the movie, would'ja?"     Jonathan nodded.  Minutes later, the gang was situated and watching the Mel Brooks classic together.

    Well after the movie, everyone split off, getting ready to turn in for the night.  Kristhal, in the meantime, found a spot on the couch, computer in her lap, looking at their blog and browsing photos of their various outings.  When she got back to the present, she stopped to see what kind of comments that "weird guy" had left… and was unsurprised to see that he was complimenting her, in particular.     I might have to pay this verrückter idiot another visit… she thought.  He obviously didn't get the point the first time around.     She paused, reading over his words for a second time… then a third time.     He thinks I'm "cute"…  Absoluter Schwachkopf…     By the fourth time, her face was starting to turn a little pink…     He's full of kot, she mentally sighed.  I don't look cute…     She looked at the picture where the comment sat.  She and her friends were cosplaying as students in school uniforms.  Somehow, Dylan had convinced her to wear something feminine… and she chose a short-sleeved dress shirt with a black, pleated skirt, a blue striped tie, dark stockings, and brown slip-on shoes.  Though she seemed confident in the picture, she had been a little uncomfortable during the whole shooting process.

    I do not look cute! she snarled in her head, blushing a little more.  I'll murder him!     "Kris?"     She slammed the lid down on the laptop, sitting up and looking over the back of the couch in a start.  Dylan was standing there in his pajamas, giving her a curious look.     "Sleepin' on the couch?" he said with a smile.  "Or just lookin' at funny cat videos?"     She continued to blush a little before she shook her head, clearing the funny feelings.     "Mind your own business, dummkopf!" she snapped with a grin.  "Maybe I wanna stay up all night watching stuff on YouTube!"     "Want some company?"     Her smile faded… and her blush came back a little.     "Tch.  Do what you want, Lan…" she quietly said, looking away.

    Dylan beamed, hopping over the couch and plopping down beside his friend.  The two spent the next hour watching various things on YouTube.  When Kristhal noticed that her companion had fallen asleep on her – quite literally – she just snickered and grinned.     He always does this…     The lady sighed, setting the computer aside.  She scooped Dylan into her arms and carried the sleeping man to his room, placing him on his bed.  As he began to snore, she took a moment to appreciate his calm, sleeping face.  Somehow, just watching him sleep calmed her mind and made her happy.     Sleep well, Dylan… she thought as she left his room.

    Before long, the white-haired lady was back in the living room, browsing the web again.  As she started to look at a medieval weapon-smithing site, she noticed a notification on another browser tab.  When she went to that tab… she narrowed her eyes.  That man from before… that "Joseph" person… had sent her a message.     "Take a hint, dummkopf!" she texted.  "I'm not interested!"     "Then why do you keep responding?" he answered with a little smiley face.     "Shut up!" she snapped, growing angry.  "Don't make me block you!"     "You're so cute when you're angry…"     Seeing those words on the screen made Kristhal's blood boil.  Even after she sliced him up and broke his nose, he still had the nerve to–

    "Listen…"     The lady narrowed her eyes, snapping out of her fury to see what he was writing.     "I'm sorry for being so forward.  I just… I guess I relate to you in some ways.  I know you're not interested, and I wish you'd give me a chance, but I guess you can't help who you are any more than I can help who I am…"     She blinked, calming down.  She hadn't expected him to say anything like that.     "I just want you to know that I still think you're awesome… and pretty… and really great!  I'd love to take you out, sometime, even though I know that's impossible for a lot of reasons… You're just so… cool, Kris!  It's hard not to admire you…"     She bit her bottom lip nervously.  She hated to admit it, but reading those words kind of meant something to her.     "I just don't think it's a good idea," she typed back, being oddly polite.  "We have too many differences.  I'm dangerous.  You'll only get hurt again."     "I like danger…" he answered, "and I don't mind a little more pain.  Plus, now I have all these cool scars I can brag about."     She snickered.  Again, she hated to admit it… but that was kind of funny.     "Besides…" He paused.  "I'd rather have scars on my body… than scars on the heart."     "You sure are focused on scars, tonight…" she typed back.  "Anyway, I'm not worth risking your life for.  Just forget about me.  Go back to your normal life."     She was about to close the lid on her laptop when another message caught her attention.     "You're worth it to me, Kristhal…  I'd gladly let you cut me to ribbons if it meant we would spend more time together."     "I'd rather we didn't."     There was a long pause.  Apparently, Joseph had been taken aback.

    "Why?" he finally asked with a frowning emoji.  "Why won't you give me a chance?"     "Because I don't like you?" she coldly answered.  "I have to go now.  Don't message me anymore.  Goodbye."     "Wait!  Kris!"     "Don't call me that.  And don't comment on my photos anymore," she added.  "Just forget about me.  You're better off that way."     She went to close the lid again… but like before, a message gave her pause.     "Fight me!" the text message said.  "I… I challenge you to a duel!"     Kristhal couldn't believe him.  She shook her head and chuckled…     "What?  Are you challenging me to Daumen Krieg or something?"     "A swordfight," he simply answered back.     She narrowed her eyes.  "There's no way you can beat me in a swordfight.  I've been classically trained in the art of fencing.  I've honed my skills with my zweihander.  What you're suggesting would be suicide, not a proper contest of skill."     "So be it."     "Dude, I'm not going to help you kill yourself!" she angrily typed, noisily pounding the laptop keys.  "Go jump in front of a train or something!"     "What?  Are you afraid I might beat you?"     She growled, gritting her teeth.  "That's not going to work on me."     "Chicken."     "Joseph…  Just get lost, okay?  I'm not sword-fighting you."     "Wuss."     "Joseph, gottverdammt!"     "Coward."     She had to resist every impulse in her body to keep from hurling the laptop across the room in a rage.  Joseph's trick had worked.  She was too angry to think straight.     "OMW" she typed before slamming the laptop shut. –

    It was still the middle of the night when Kristhal arrived.  She had come straight from her place, not bothering to change out of her homemade cutoff shorts and old tank top.  She had her sword in her hands and was ready to give that pushy asshole what he wanted: humiliating death.     Joseph stood at the other end of his apartment block's parking lot.  He was wearing a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt, as well as some old tennis shoes.  He still had scars on his face from a week ago and his nose was still a little crooked and bruised.  However… he, too, had a sword in his hands, held forward in a generic stance.     "Did you learn how to swordfight from movies or something?" the woman mockingly asked.  "That lazy stance leaves you wide open."     The man narrowed his eyes.  There was a metallic click then a clunk.  Kristhal watched in surprise as the one sword became two.  She then smirked as he took a defensive pose, holding one upside-down blade over his face while the other rested at his side.     "Two swords aren't necessarily better than one," she chuckled.  "Come at me, kind."     When he didn't move, she decided to make a move, herself.  Slowly, she edged forward, staying in a balanced stance with her blade raised.  She knew he was waiting for an opening… and she wasn't going to give him one.

    "Okay, klugscheißer," she snarled, her eyes narrowing as she drew close.  "You want to play the defensive game?  I'll give you something to defend against."     She kept her blade raised as she ducked low, sweeping her right leg behind his.  When he dodged and hopped back, she jumped up and thrust forward!  He couldn't dodge it and got a small cut across his side.     "I warned you," she said, stepping back and twirling her blade before holding it again.     "Come at me."     "What?"     "Come at me again," he said, taking another defensive stance.  "Unless you're scared…?"     She smirked.  "You're an idiot.  I'll make your life miserable."     "I'm not scared of you," he replied with a smirk of his own.     "I'm not scared of you, either," she said, holding her sword down and still smirking.     "Then I'll show you how I really play."     "And I'll show you how I fight!  En garde!!"

    Kristhal gave the man what he wanted and charged, making quick and tactical strikes to keep him off-balance.  Her blade nicked him time and time again as he hopped back, letting the woman strike as she might.  For some reason, though, he wasn't using his blades to either deflect or attack…  All at once, she realized what he was doing.     "You're studying me," she said as she pulled back.     "Heeey, you caught on," he answered, going back into a defensive pose.  "You're smarter than you look."     She growled and lunged forward, causing him to dodge back.     "And you think studying me will help?"     She gave him another few pokes before going for a lunge.  To her surprise, Joseph deflected her blade and swung his other sword low.  He struck her square in the right leg.     "Nice one…" she growled, not letting her new injury stop her from standing.     "It's only a matter of time," he told her with a smirk, "before that leg gets tired and–"     She lunged forward, her sword swinging high.  As she did, he stepped in and struck her in the right leg again, opening the wound wider.     "That's how I'm gonna beat you," he said as she stumbled by.     "You won't beat me!" she shouted, turning around and taking a wild swing at him.     Joseph rolled away and slashed her in the stomach.  She cried out in pain and fell to one knee, clutching her new wound.     "You'll pay for that!"     The woman quickly stood back up and let out a primal roar, not letting the pain get in her way.  She redoubled her focus and tried another flurry of balanced strikes, keeping an eye out for those twin blades of his.     "I don't think so," he said, as he stepped forward.     Kristhal weaved to the side, narrowly missing his attack.     "Don't you dare!" she shouted, dropping down into a defensive stance.     Joseph swung both blades down.  Sparks flew everywhere as his twin blades crashed into her zweihander.  He was trying to push through… force her to submit.  Unfortunately for him…     "Rrraaaaagggh!!"     She was far stronger than he was.

[dangan-infinity]

The Name of the Game - Chapter 1 Start

The door opened again to a view of the wasteland, and you weren't so keen to stick around this time. Especially not with someone actually guiding you on ahead. Though Neko-Neko still couldn't open the next door themselves... They still proudly led you inside once you turned the handle, though.

While this newest world wasn't so cold temperature-wise as the last, it still felt cold in its own way. The inside of a bright big top mixed with bleached-out greys, off-kilter arcade games with no one to play them. Empty posters plastering the walls stirred in a draft carrying the faintest smell of grease.

Neko-Neko didn't seem to mind the odd air of the place, though. They strutted proudly before pouncing onto an air hockey table, where you could all more easily see them.

"Attentionnnn, Passengers!"

"Welcome aboard my train! It may look a little small at the moment, but there's nothing but adventure ahead! As promised, we'll happily cough up the details for you now."

They nodded to themselves.

"First, I should probably explain what a few of you have already noticed: your numbers."

"We're not in charge of those, unfortunately. They're just between you and the Infinity Train itself."

"All of the numbers on your palms are a little different. Think of 'em as a sorta, what, level indicator? We don't play video games, don't ask us. They'll change as you change, all along your grand trip here!"

"The bad news is, they can also go down. And if your number hits zero? You're finished. Game over."

"But, but!! The Train getting to decide when you're no longer worthy of living here seems awfully mean to me, so I've put together something better for you all! I can find a way home for each of you."

"All you need to do is play a little game."

Something... felt wrong, but you weren't sure what. Maybe it was just the way the decorations twisted in the air just then. Maybe it wasn't.

"Let's cut straight to the chase now!"

"It's a killing game. If you wanna see home again, you're gonna have to kill another of the Passengers right here to do it."

"I-I wish there was an easier way to get you home, but it's hard to go against the Train, nya..."

"So we're putting the dirty work on your shoulders, since it is your problem—sorry not sorry!"

"But just... um... Killing each other. Right, just that wouldn't be any good as a game, right? So I'm at least adding a few extra rules! I wouldn't just want some kind of terrible slaughter..."

"Yeah, we'd hate for it to be over so soon! Nyaha! So, long story short, you'll need to kill another Passenger in the game—And you're all in the game! I wouldn't leave anyone out!—and get away with it. If the surviving Passengers figure out it was you, then it's game over. You're dead. Way more exciting, right?"

"Some other Denizens will help me out with that part, but...! As your stationmaster, I'll ensure you all make it home!"

"In a box, possibly. But if you do get away with murder, we'll be able to send you back where you wanna be, no problem. Aren't we just the nicest?"

"In fact!"

They pushed open an arcade cabinet door with some difficulty and gestured to the small area inside. Fourteen notepads, it looked like, and presumably the same number of right-handed long gloves.

"I've prepared a special notepad for each of you to use! By 'special,' we mean... absolutely nothing, honestly. Your names aren't even on them."

"But they do have a little guide on the inside cover! And you'll probably want a way to keep track of things, right?"

"Especially when we get to the murder investigation! Or just the murder, if you're that bad at planning in your own head."

"So please, take a notepad and pencil, and a glove if you don’t wanna declare your number to the world, and then you can enjoy your time in this car!"

"It could be very short, after all. Nyahaha!"

[Forum Post] (more plot posts to follow)

[Car Reference Post]

[jp-hunsecker]

A Signs clone that slightly improves on the original. Gotta love a film that references its very own apocryphal Saturday Night Live sketch (though SNL would never poke fun at an incident wherein people died as a result; I mean, they never did any Challenger Blows Up skits, did they?), and casts the diabolical Michael Wincott as an artiste cinematographer who’s not above doing commercials. However, I would have dropped the whole Killer Chimp thing; the filmmakers devote it to much time when they should be looking for ways to trim down the two-hour-plus running time, and the CGI/motion capture monkey is an eyesore. The CGI alien “ship” doesn’t fare much better, and the movie’s explanation for it is either genius or really fucking dumb (my money’s on the latter). All things considered, Nope is well-acted and brilliantly shot, but the writing is all over the place.

Nope movie review &amp; film summary (2022) | Roger Ebert Peele remains a master of misdirection.www.rogerebert.com

“Yuen seems to be off-kilter and the movie’s weak link, but the more I thought about his plotline, the more his performance made sense. I think he’s the film’s biggest breadcrumb in terms of figuring it all out.”

I don’t know about “biggest” but definitely the longest. and whether his performance makes sense or not matters little because his plotline feels more alien than the actual being from outer space or whatever the hell it is.

Jordan Peele's Nope is spectacle without satisfaction In 1997, the Austrian auteur Michael Haneke made the metatextual horror film Funny Games. It was a brilliant, damning…www.culturewhisper.com

“One abandoned storyline involves a former sitcom star … who runs a neighbouring Wild West theme park and has an intense, violent backstory. But don’t expect a narrative reason behind that backstory… because there isn’t one.”

See? That’s what I’m talking about. That the window is stained-glass doesn’t make any less window dressing.

Nope (2022) - SPOILER-FREE Review Directed by: Jordan Peele Written by: Jordan Peele Starring: Daniel Kaluuya, Keke Palmer, Steven Yeun, Michael Wincott…www.msbreviews.com

“Simply put, Jupe and his narrative could be removed from Nope, and what happens with the protagonists throughout the various acts would still occur with minor, insignificant changes. However, this removal would leave the film stripped of its central theme, leaving it with a much poorer context.”

Not necessarily. Just take the tertiary character, conflate it with the hero and voila!, you’re good to go. Or, in lieu of that, you could just make the tertiary character a greedy bastard and let that be the entirety of his backstory.

“Another point that contrasts with the audiovisual spectacularity of the entire film is the UFO design during the third act … It’s not a CGI issue but rather a somewhat… questionable, confusing design choice.”

The design sure is questionable and confusing, but it is too a CGI issue as well (CGI is always an issue).

'Nope' review: Jordan Peele's sci-fi horror is mostly a yup Jordan Peele's Nope has no shortage of terrifying visuals. There are bolting horses, air-filled skydancers swaying…scroll.in

“Jordan Peele’s Nope has no shortage of terrifying visuals. There are bolting horses, air-filled skydancers swaying uncontrollably and an amusement park that brings to mind the freak-show carnivals of yore [uh, no it doesn’t].”

Man, if you think a skydancer is a “terrifying visual,” then I guess Gumby must fill you with dread.

“But perhaps nothing can beat the moment when a pet chimpanzee, having run amok during a television show and attacked the human participants, turns towards the camera and looks right at us.”

Maybe if it were an actual chimpanzee. Maybe.

“The extended climax is a visual tour de force. The battle between a malevolent force in the sky and doughty humans on the ground is a tribute to the singular power of cinema to imagine the unknown.”

Not so much when the “malevolent force in the sky” is little more than a humongous digital ink blot.

Nope Review: Jordan Peele's Sci-Fi Horror Movie Consumes You In Its Bizarre Story Nope is a science fiction horror movie written and directed by Jordan Peele. It stars Daniel Kaluuya as Otis Jr…www.leisurebyte.com

“The UFO-like creature is very particular about what it likes. Its stomach has no space for plastic, steel, papers and more such waste. All it desires is flesh and blood.”

And, apparently, bones (for some reason, it doesn’t spit them out like the plastic and steel).

“The scene that creeped me out the most is when the UFO-like creature takes its full form during the climax. It looked like those creepy figures I see in my nightmares sometimes.”

Did Ralph Wiggum write this review by any chance?

Nope - Movie Review TL;DR - This is a film that swings wildly, where you have moments of pure terror, but I am not sure it all comes…tldrmoviereviews.com

“ … the sound design for the antagonist in this film is haunting. It makes the hairs stand up on the back of your arms … ”

In other words, it’s so scary it’s like a combination of getting goosebumps in your arms and having the hair on the back your neck stand up.

Nope Movie Review Jordan Peele, director and writer of Get Out and Us, makes his return to the silver screen with his trademark horror…thelodirampage.com

“The design of the antagonist strikes a powerful mix between an alluring and beautiful making it feel more like a Lovecraftian monster, further adding to the horror of it all.”

I’m reminded of 2020’s Underwater, which did a much better job rendering a monster that was a lot more than just casually Lovecraftian.

Movie Review: Nope One great cliché of horror films is protagonists who run toward the danger-or make bone-headed decisions (like hiding…www.baltimoremagazine.com

“In Nope, one of the most enduring images is OJ atop a horse. Peele reminds us that the first man ever photographed was, in fact, a Black man on a horse.”

This is a perfect example of the redundant overkill that drags Nope down. Either remind us directly that the first person ever photographed was a black man on a horse, or have OJ atop a horse be one of the film’s most enduring images. Either reference, or allusion. Either show, or tell. But you can’t, or at least you shouldn’t have it both ways.

Nope Movie Review "Nope" a 2022 movie created, directed, written, and co-produced by Jordan Peele, released July 22. This film caught the…therideronline.com

“ … this movie presents a unique twist that surprises the audience in unpredictable yet cohesive ways, giving out an experience that immerses us into the world and plot of the film. It does this via a mixing of genres like sci-fi and horror, creating a movie of mixed genres …”

Someone is certainly mixed-up here, that’s for sure. Piss-poor composition aside, this is the first review I’ve encountered that mentions Travis the Chimp. I must admit I’d been sort of doubting the authenticity of the killer chimpanzee episode (apart from the computer-generated monkey, that is), but this sets me right — so, you know, kudos on the research.

'Nope' movie review: Jordan Peele does it again in masterful spectacle How to even describe Nope? Not quite a horror, not quite a thriller, not quite a comedy, but somehow all three, Jordan…915thebeat.com

“… the effects team spared no effort on this movie.” More like spent no effort, considering the lackluster CGI on display. “[The plot is] so creative that I’m not sure how Peele comes up with this stuff.”

Short of calling Peele unoriginal, the sheer quantity (and quality, too) of the sources he has raided for Nope should provide at the very least an inkling of just how he comes up with this stuff.

“The movie goes to places you never thought it would go.”

As well as one place you’d hope it wouldn’t go; i.e., nowhere.

Nope movie review: The most creative and unique blockbuster of our time My most anticipated movie of the summer has arrived in Nope. Jordan Peele's third film is set to hit theaters on…hiddenremote.com

“I’ll begin by saying walk into this movie without reading anything about it.”

Which presumably includes the very same review we’re reading right now. So should we go watch the movie and then come back to finish the review? By then, though, we’ll already know if Nope was “worth checking out,” won’t we? What’s more, we will have checked it out regardless of whether it was worth it or not.

“Palmer and Kaluuya both have two widely different characters to play while simultaneously playing brother and sister.”

Isn’t their being siblings kind of literally written into their characters? After all, it’s not like they’re double agents in a spy flick.

Movie Review - Nope Genre: Horror/Sci-Fi/Comedy/Monkey Massacre Premise: A couple of horse ranchers attempt to capture a UFO on camera, but…scriptshadow.net

I won’t quote from this article. I’ll just say that it’s arguably the best Nope review I’ve read so far. Almost 100% spot-on. If you’re reading this, then go and read that.

'Nope' Review: A Cautionary Tale About Going Viral Jordan Peele is a genius. Nobody can tell us otherwise. His films are absolutely incredible, and each one has a deep…fangirlish.com

“‘Nope’ … A Cautionary Tale About Going Viral.”

So cautionary indeed that no one in it ever actually does go viral.

Nope Is American Mythmaking Done Right Among his most amusing directorial quirks, Jordan Peele appreciates the melodrama of a good biblical citation: 2019's…www.pastemagazine.com

“As OJ repeatedly remarks, the UFO doesn’t move like a saucer.”

What’s never explained, though, is how the fuck could he possibly know what an actual flying saucer, assuming they exist, moves or doesn’t move like? He’s never seen one before (nor after); why is he so sure that’s not how they move?

“Nope is … a palimpsest of nostalgic blockbusters and Peele’s deservedly self-assured vision of Hollywood’s future.”

Palimpsest? I do not think that word means what you think it means.

[solaroptile]

Hey i say what your request were open!!! So if you have time can you do a camilo x afab!chubby! reader, but still use they/them pronouns:)

(i hope i wrote this as you envisioned! it was a tiny bit of a struggle but i managed. if anyone finds this offensive, please just let me know in messages or some other type of communication so i may remedy my mistakes and learn how to write this type of prompt correctly in the future)

camilo madrigal with a chubby s/o || camilo x afab!reader

pairing(s): camilo x afab!reader (as the ask mentioned you will still be referred to with they/them pronouns)

warnings: mentions of lack of self esteem pertaining to body issues, misgendering, someone basically degrades the reader for their body type and camilo comforts them

word count: 1259

summary: you weren’t typically all that insecure about your body, but sometimes you couldn't help but get down on yourself for how you looked. camilo wasn't having any of that.

adults/anyone over the age of 18 dni with this post; camilo is 15, that is weird. if i notice you even so much as like this post you will be blocked immediately.

✳ masterlist ✳

"hey, amor? i'm going out to the market to get something really quickly, do you want anything?" you looked over your shoulder at your boyfriend, who was lounging lazily on the edge of his bed while fiddling with a random spindle of yarn he had found in his nightstand drawer. he hummed in thought at the question, then promptly shook his head.

"nothing i can think of, corazón." he tossed the yarn into the air, then caught it with his other hand. "but hurry back, mi mama mentioned she wanted you to stay over for dinner tonight." you nodded in acknowledgement and slipped through the door to leave. "just don't miss me too much!" he called as you closed the door behind you, leaving you giggling softly as you walked down the halls of casita and out the main entryway. "i always miss you. that's not fair," you muttered to yourself.

today was a relatively calm day in the encanto's marketplace. you were able to walk in and out of stalls without much hassle, and soon enough you actually found the mini shopping trip to be quite relaxing. it was a bit crowded, but people talked in calm and soft voices as they bartered or handed off supplies and that completed with a nice pink and red sunset upon the horizon made for quite the inviting atmosphere.

should i get camilo an apple? he might like one. you picked up a crisp red apple from a large crate next to a fruit stand, turning it around in your hand as you contemplated whether to purchase it or not. he said he didn't want anything, but maybe he'd appreciate the gesture?-

"looking to buy that apple there, señorita?"

an older man's voice sounded from behind you, making you nearly jump out of your skin. you turned to see the man's face, and after one last moment of thought, shrugged and nodded in response to his question. might as well, you thought, and began rummaging through your satchel for a peso or two to pay for the fruit. if he doesn't want it maybe i can give it to antonio or something. does antonio even like apples? i really have to start asking the madrigals their food preferences more often if i want to buy them stuff.

"2,000 pesos." you handed the currency to the man, still lost in thought as you watched him put the money in a small leather bag on top of the counter. maybe i should've bought isabela one too. although, come to think of it, i really don't think she likes me all that much, judging by a couple days ago-

"good to see folks like you eatin' healthy. must be nice losing some of that weight."

"i, uh- what?" you asked, stupefied. surely you hadn't heard him right.

"you know. with your size and all." the man shrugged. "just don' see people like you around the encanto all that often."

it was as if the world had turned ever so slightly off kilter on its axis. this wasn't the first time you had heard little comments like this due to your size, but it was your first one since you had gotten together with camilo, which had been maybe 8 months before today. people had treated you with much more care since then, however apparently this man thought differently.

you didn't even know how to respond. your mouth felt as if it was glued shut, and your movements were almost sluggish as you stepped back and attempted to register what was just said. "i... you really can't be saying things like that to other people. it's, uh-" jarring? rude? incredibly out of nowhere and actually kind of offensive when all you wanted was to buy something for your partner? "insensitive."

The man just shrugged. "sorry if i offended you, missy," he replied, and your eye twitched at the patronizing nickname. "i'm not even- okay. you know what." you snatched the apple off the counter, and with one final glare towards the salesman turned on your heel and began stalking back to the madrigal household. just walk away being the bigger person, you recited internally. what is it that sugera pepa always says? clear skies, clear skies-

"have a nice day, ma'am," the man's voice called from far behind you, and you clenched your teeth to control yourself from snapping back. not a ma'am, your mind oh so helpfully supplied.

it didn't take you long to return to casita, seeing as you had memorized the route long ago, and it was only when the brightly glowing blue door appeared in view did you finally begin to slow down. for you to say that you had ranted and raved your whole way back was an understatement.

can't believe people still act like that, you thought, shoving the front door open as you hastily made your way back to camilo's room. at this point he cares about my body more than i do. and what even him made him feel like he needed to say that? it was just a fruit, i don't-

camilo had popped his head up from his spot on the bed where he sat when you entered the room, prepared to greet you only to pause at your irritated expression. "corazón? i thought i heard you downstairs- oh, you're angry."

"just a bit," you retorted sarcastically. you threw in the apple in his direction, and as expected camilo caught it with ease in the palm of his hand. "that's for you, and even though i know you didn't ask for anything if you ever ask me to buy you any sort of food and that same thing happens again i am going to-"

"woah, woah. same thing? amor, what exactly happened while you were out?" camilo's concerned yet curious tone washed over you like a soft breath of fresh air, and when you settled down beside your boyfriend you felt the weight that was hammering down on your shoulders begin to loosen and dissolve. "it was this stupid... guy, is all," you mumbled, sparing a quick glance at camilo as he leaned over you with an interested expression on his face. "when i was buying you that apple, he said something like 'good to see people like you eating healthy and losing weight', insinuating that people who have the same body type as me are unhealthy, and i just-"

you broke off in the middle of your rant to give yourself a chance to breathe. "i'm not even all that hurt by it." you shifted onto your side to meet camilo's gaze properly. "i just... it came out of nowhere, was all."

"no one deserves to have their body commented on by other people, mariposa." camilo raised an eyebrow at your hesitance, almost as if he could sense you were holding yourself back from saying something. he probably could, in all honesty; in your current state you were certain your emotions were clearly displayed on your face.

"well, of course there's also that." you gestured for camilo to inch closer, wrapping his arms around him as he did so. "you don't have to pretend it didn't upset you, you know," camilo murmured. "i know you try your best to have a positive view on your own body, but words can hurt sometimes, and that's okay. you're allowed to be angry for yourself."

the shapeshifter hesitated after a few seconds passed without a response. "sorry, uh, am i saying this right? i just want you to know that his opinion of you and your body doesn't matter, and while it may feel like it matters right now, i'm here and would never judge you for something like tha-" you cut him off with a nearly bone crushing hug, making him squeak with the sheer intensity of your affection.

"you got it right for the most part, don't worry." you slowly let go of camilo and gave him a moment to breathe only to wrap him in your arms again once more. "that's- that's good. okay." he relaxed against you, letting your body cushion him like a pillow. "you're very good at cuddling, you know," he murmured as an afterthought.

"really?" you smiled wryly. "then prove it."