if you’re an artist and feel like you’re horrible and will never succeed, just remember that Rob Liefeld is a professional comic illustrator and was probably paid upwards of a thousand dollars to draw this
Andrew slips through a slit in the crowd, brushing through the sleek trains of expensive gowns, rich wool suits jackets catching on his own. He’s on his second flute of champagne, and the tartness keeps him focused. His attention is on the flavour and the rim of the glass and the warp of faces through it. His earpiece crackles and whispers.
He can see his mark on the opposite side of the room, surrounded by servers and liars and pretty things. One of them is all three, Andrew can tell: a waiter’s vest, a seam of over-applied foundation, and bright blue eyes.
He’s distracting, flighty, a rubber band pulled all the way back. He looks like the memory of a case file, and a name occurs to Andrew one second before Kevin hisses it into his ear.
“It’s fuckin’ Charlie Pilot. Don’t engage, Minyard, we’re not here for him.”
Andrew doesn’t make any effort to reply, just takes another pull of champagne. He’s not really watching the troupes of entertainers or the clockwork security or the velvet and silk blooming under bowing chandeliers. He’s not even watching the man he’s either going to rob or kill, who’s laughing and weedy, red in the face from the alcohol. He’s stuck on Pilot – next to his target, holding a heavily stocked tray of appetizers, his expression pleasant and empty.
He’ll be an irritant to what should be a straightforward plan, if he keeps hovering. Andrew takes a loaded step forward and the voice in his ear complains.
“Don’t even think about moving in until Pilot leaves. He’s probably doing reconnaissance for Matt. I bet he doesn’t even know about the file.”
Andrew watches Pilot’s face tick, the way he blinks like he’s on a timer, the way he’s worrying the inside of his cheek with his teeth.
“I bet he does,” Andrew murmurs, and he drains the last of the champagne. He plucks his tie pin away from the fabric and drops it in the empty glass, leaving it on a passing tray.
“What— what the fuck Minyard, we’ve lost visuals. Do you hear me? Andrew? Andrew?”
Andrew weaves through the rest of the golden crowd, ignoring the buzz of Kevin’s reprimands in his ear. He finds a new spot on the outskirts of the crowd where Pilot has installed himself.
“Do you know how fucking expensive those cameras are? You’re such a piece of shit operative,” Kevin says. “When you inevitably come back without the intelligence and without our equipment, it’s costing usto keep you around, do you realize that?”
Andrew’s more focused on the way Pilot’s shoulders are turning to face him, the slim line of his tailored pants, that eyelash-thick smudge of un-blended make up.
“Shrimp?” Pilot offers, swaying the tray in his direction.
“No,” Andrew says, but he stays uncomfortably near, feeling along the edges of his boundaries without finding any seams. Pilot’s composure is still and reserved as a frost-ravaged garden.
“Have a good evening then,” Pilot says graciously, turning back towards the host that Andrew should be sizing up but hasn’t even looked at. He glances at him for a sliver of a moment, finds himself uninterested, and looks back at Pilot.
Andrew catches him suddenly by the arm, but relaxes his grip just as quickly, caught off guard by his own impulsivity. His own disguise is just an invitation and sun bleached hair; he isn’t playing a character like Pilot is. He’s neutral for a living, but Pilot is a new weight on his scale, unbalancing him so that he can’t quite settle at zero.
When their eyes meet, the polite, curious waiter snips out of existence. Charlie Pilot stares at Andrew, with eyes like the bluest part of a fire.
“There’s a conflict of interest,” he tells Andrew calmly. “And your interest will lose.”
“I’m not interested in anything,” Andrew says broadly.
“Hm,” Pilot says, unconvinced. “You’re lying.”
“I don’t lie,” Andrew says. He’s always saying it; it’s a novelty that employers enjoy and enemies challenge, amused.
Pilot raises his jaw, mouth twitching. “No, you wouldn’t, would you.” His eyes flicker to the side of Andrew’s face, where Kevin is breathing furiously through his earpiece, then down to the grip he still has on his forearm. He lowers his tray down until the rough edge is pressed to the root of Andrew’s hand threateningly. “You’ll want to let me go, Andrew, or you’re going to end up needing a longer armband.”
Andrew feels genuine surprise squeeze his fingers around Pilot’s wrist. He hadn’t noticed the black fabric extending a whiff beyond his crisp white sleeve. He lets go, and Pilot tucks his shoulders back, satisfied. His hair is too dark to match his freckles, Andrew notes quietly. It is, perhaps, what the make up was meant to cover up.
“You are not going to win, Charlie,” Andrew says. “We’re the more capable team.”
Pilot smiles indulgently. “‘Charlie’,” he repeats, mouth curling around the name. “It’s been a long time since I’ve been Charlie Pilot.” He jostles his tray from one hand to another, and loosens his collar with his freed hand. “And I don’t think you understand how much farther ahead we are than you. If you’re looking for information, we already have it. If you’re trying to find the connections this place has to the Yakuza, we’re the ones undoing them.”
“Who’s we? I don’t remember seeing anything about loyalty in your case file. You’re just a runner.”
Pilot looks briefly bothered by this, and he juts his chin again. “I’m loyal to whoever’s doing the work that needs to be done.”
“That doesn’t answer my question. Who are you?”
He looks down, at Andrew’s empty hands, at the hip where he’s hiding his gun. His expression is warped and sad when he looks up, like the real filling in his strange costume is finally oozing out.
“You can call me Neil,” he says, and drops the whole tray of food so that it clatters and rolls into the host’s feet. There are gasps and yelps, partygoers dodging and stooping to catch the runaway platter. Andrew looks impulsively down to track its progress, and when he looks sharply back up into the knot of activity, Neil is gone. Of course he is.
He doesn’t have time to think about where he might have disappeared to, just steps neatly into the opportunity that’s been afforded to him. He uses the distraction as a doorway directly into the offices behind the coddled host.
Kevin is asking repeatedly for updates, and Andrew fishes the earpiece out and tucks it into his breast pocket. He likes to be alone for this part, when the most important door closes behind him and everything makes as much sense as a ticking clock.
He keeps thinking of Neil’s reaction to ‘runner’, of the vulnerability trussed up in his persona. He finds himself sick to his stomach wanting to know what his real hair colour is.
He tries every door in the polished row of them, finding all of them locked. He picks the lock on the door farthest from the burble of the ballroom behind him, and cracks into what looks like a room built for business arrangements and drinking. There’s a snifter next to a half dozen tumblers on a cart along the wall, and extensive cabinets under the desk.
He feels his way along the underside of the desk, and opens each drawer, idealistically left unlocked and unprotected. He finds useless information and shady information and heaps of anonymous, unlabeled tapes.
He finds the safe in the floor, facing up patiently under a wingback chair and a panel of floorboard. He stoops so that he’s face to face with it, shrugs his jacket off like a dead skin onto the floor, and puts the heart of a stethoscope to the face of the safe.
He’s sweating, spread out surreptitiously on the floor, but the safe is flimsy. It cracks in under an hour, the party wilting two rooms over, pressure taking him by the hair. Andrew flicks the door open impatiently, unwinding the stethoscope from around his neck.
It’s filled top to bottom with paper, and he reaches for the first file, carding his fingers through the spill of sheets.
Got you, it says. Over and over again, in unassuming little typescript. And on the next page, got you.
Andrew’s fingers flex. The next file is the same, and the next. A million taunting, twirling repetitions: got you.Got this. Got here first.
The safe was already cracked. The list of names was already stolen. Neil’s face winks and swarms when he closes his eyes, furious. If you’re looking for information, we already have it.
He roots around for the bud in his pocket and pops it back into his ear. He leans back, splayed away from the spill from the safe, the stacks of failure. He enunciates clearly into the microphone sewn into his collar.
what if yusuke’s Demon Powerz had awakened like, Way before the whole spirit detective thing
and the spirit world makes Kuwabara their spirit detective
like, consider. Yusuke disappears one day. most people think he’s run off, a few people think he’s dead. in actuality he “died” fighting some demon that he didn’t know was a demon, awakened his demon powers, and was taken to Raizen before the spirit world knew what the fuck happened. Raizen says “hey neato I have an Heir” and starts training him to be this super-strong demon badass. so he’s off doing that for however long
meanwhile the spirit world’s lile “ah fuck. ah fuck this kid just, Spontaneously Demonized. that’s probs gonna bite us in the ass.” so they decide they need to do some shit to like, try and have a countermeasure. or someodd, idk. point is they decide to reinstate the spirit detective program. so they’re lookin at people and go “hey this weird tall kid can sense ghosts n shit and he’s good at fighting, let’s try him out”
so they send botan to handle it, right? and Botan’s entire tactic was like “hey yo come fight ghosts n demons n shit” and kuwabara is like “yo that sounds FUCKIN AWESOME sign me up” and boom, kuwabara the spirit detective
so like all that shit goes down, kuwabara still gets his spirit sword, yusuke still gets the energy stuff but More Demon-y, at some point kuwabara teams up with hiei and kurama, it’s all a big damn party.
and at some point raizen sends yusuke out on like, an errand, or something. go fight in the dark tournament to test your strength, or whatever. just go fuck shit up somewhere. I don’t care. and yusuke does just bc it is god damn boring being locked up in your Granddad’s Demon Palace for however long it was
and he crosses paths On The Battlefield with kuwabara
which leads to this Fantastic scene where yusuke’s like, “hey its my favorite punching bag, how ya been” and kuwabara’s like, “fUCK GOD DAMMIT SHIT BALLS FUCK”
and hiei and kurama are like “what the fuck dude, who is this punk, why are you crying”
and kuwabara’s like “I knew this guy from school man, everyone thought he died (yusuke interjects ‘I did actually die btw’) man he used to beat the shit out of me when he was HUMAN and now he’s a god damn DEMON god DAMMIT”
kurama’s like “wait I heard about this shit, he’s raizen’s heir,” and hiei is just screaming on the inside
so Demon Yusuke and Spirit Detective Kuwabara have their little fight, yeah, and yusuke just Annihilates kuwabara. Completely Obliterates him. it’s embarrassing. but he’s like “yo I remember you from school and that was a lot more fun than I’ve had recently so like, we cool” and spares kuwabara, and Somehow, they manage to be allies. and have some Weird Shitass Adventures.
Olivia Flaherty, well Liv Dingle, is a cheeky, beautiful, artistic little mischief maker that I can’t help but adore.
She is legitimately equally alike to Aaron and Robert with her abandonment issues, her wildness, her independence, her cheekiness and slightly more successful master planning. Robert clearly recognizes his younger self in her so its no surprise he understood her so easily, and her need for Mill Cottage to establish a sense of belonging. Aaron is so keen to nurture her but hates the discipline side of things. I think he’s terrified of being anything like Gordon, I mean obviously he is nowhere near. I wish he knew how much of a big softie he is. Liv is so lucky to have these boys as her “weird gay brother Dads” because they so obviously dote on her and are so proud.
Summary: It wasn’t your place to worry for him, you shouldn’t, it wasn’t good for you. But since the day you saw him that hurt, you couldn’t help it.
Author’s Note: SO this scenario is kindaish based on lust but I also tied it in with this idea I had before where I wanted to write a bad-boy jimin au, so I kinda mashed it together! Hope you like it anon!!
You knew you shouldn’t have come. You knew coming would put you in trouble, especially after he told you not to.
But you couldn’t help it. Not after he came back hurt last time, hurt bad.
“Wha-” you gasped, as you opened your front door at 2 am in the morning.
A body fell through, collapsing onto yours as your arms shot out to hold them from falling to the ground.
“y/n…” a low voice grunted, as you struggled to pull them up when you took a good look at their face, your eyes widening in shock.
“J-jimin?!” you cried in surprise as you cupped your hands around his pale and bloody face. Dragging him to your couch, he groaned in pain as you placed him down gently, careful of his wounds.
“What happened to you…” you whispered, as he opened his eyes slowly, staring at you.
i watched rob’s live!!!
the flannel he’s wearing is the exact one he wore in the movie !!! 😍
he “dropped the towel” and his son johnny (who was operating the camera) was like “well that was disappointing.” and one of the camera guys (he’s shooting something in tulsa) squealed like a girl when he did it and rob was laughing so hard 😂
he said that the house is opening up in may so i can’t wait!
happy birthday rob !!! 🎉💜