normaltothemax

[normaltothemax]

I want to do things but not the things I have so I guess this is a starter call

[normaltothemax]

He does not read her, not like she does him, but somehow, the man knows she’s lying as well. She can see it in his eyes, in the way he considers her challenge. He looks at her cards as if he knows what they are. Part of her wonders if he does.

But then he puts his cards down and stands. He ends the game. He lets her win.

Cass does not like that.

There may not be any condescension in the action, in the way he moves. No indication that he sees her as a little girl unable to win on her own, but it still rankles. It rankles all the more when all she sees from him is respect, good job, I concede.

In the League of Assassins, there is no letting others win. There is no baring of throats, unless one wants theirs slit. Fights are to the death, outside of training—sometimes even then—and while she may not like it, it is still how part of her thinks. To have this man roll over and lose so willingly…she does not appreciate it and she does not understand. Not when the condescension is strangely missing.

Huffing in annoyance, she collects her plastic discs, keeping his from this latest round separate. A nod of thanks is given to the card-giver, before she leaves the table with her head held high, much to the irritation of those around her. They hate that she wins. That she does so while she is young.

She ignores it.

Instead, Cass goes searching for the man. She is trained in many things—tracking is only one of them. This man is not hiding, which makes him all the more easy to find.

A tall counter with stools, a man behind it amongst bottles of different coloured liquids, people either standing or sitting with drinks in their hands. She finds him there, with his own drink. There is an empty stool beside him.

Perfect.

She smoothly slides into it before another woman gets the chance to. Ignores the dirty look and snapped words. Chooses to focus all of her attention on the man instead. Cass scowls at him to make her unhappiness known, before placing his forfeited plastic discs sharply on the counter with a bit of a clatter, right beside his drink, and huffs again. She does not enjoy this sort of winning. It does not make the game good.

She is not given a chance to do more than that, however, as the man behind the counter appears before them and asks her something. Expects her to tell him something. What? he says, and Cass is forced to blink at him blankly. Wrongfooted and unsure of how to respond. Quickly, she assesses her surroundings again.

Everyone here has a drink, he has shelves upon shelves of liquid behind him, he asks her what?—she assumes that must be it. Not knowing what anything actually is, or how to ask for something she might recognize, she points at the forfeiting man’s drink (after a brief moment of internalized panic). She is relieved when the man behind the counter leaves, presumably to fetch her one.

Then it’s back to scowling at her former-opponent.

He has, indeed, been watching her.

Ever since the young lady had taken a seat at his poker table, joined the game in a rare display of almost unbothered swiftness, Will has kept an eye on her movements, her overall stance, her behavior as a whole. Had watched her moving cards, stacking chip upon chip as players left the table; One by one, piles of cards were abandoned and chips taken over, collected, put into neat little piles in front of whoever remained, whoever managed to stay standing...

Or rather, remained sitting at the very same table - able to push their way through the act of keeping up a face, a facade, until any and every chance of a win had been taken from their shaking fingers.

It's not new to Will, the process of playing poker - far from it, actually. Has witnessed countless people giving up and leave, with some of them even losing their temper while others internalized the loss and drowned it within their drink of choice at the casino's bar. He himself has lost in the past, of course - knows when to leave a table behind, when to give up on his chips, when to seek out a new chance rather than to pursue the one he was never going to get in the first place.

He's got the advantage of being able to count cards. He can calculate his chances of winning, of losing; It allows him to bet low when cards aren't being played in his favor and bet high once he's in the good. Yet he's balancing it all out at the same time - makes sure to win modest rather than to go all in, just enough to get by and have some extra on hand.

It prevents the casinos he visits from becoming suspicious of his activities - allows him to keep a low profile while traveling through the states.

---Will swallows, inhales softly, watches that woman watching him, pushing forward as she adds to the pile of colorful chips. She's reading him in a way, he can tell; That gaze of hers almost makes him feel a little itchy, a little uncomfortable, and he's not too sure why that is - what exactly is going on with her.

What he does know, however, is that she's challenging him now; They're the only ones remaining, and whatever happens next might decide over who's going to win this round, and who's going leave the table first.

As said, Will never wants to take home the big bucks. Hasn't planned to do such today. Could even go back to his motel empty-handed; He's not out of funds just yet, gets by rather comfortably.

A second passes, dark eyes on her hands, her cards, his cards, the stack of chips.

Based on his calculations, chances are pretty high for him to win this one. She's bluffing, and she's good at it.

Another moment passes, another heartbeat, a second breath... and then Will, finally, moves.

---Cards are being placed down and Will surrenders, stands from where he's been sitting - adjust the placement of his tie, rolls his shoulders; He allows his gaze to roam for a moment, only then it returns to the young lady who's been impressively good at her own game, her firm demeanor, her will to win this round. And Will offers a nod to her - a respectful one, taking his loss with seasoned ease.

"Good game. Thank you.", he says, then turns around and leaves - lets her have his chips, his cards, his potential win as he walks over to the bar; He'll have a drink for now and allow his brain to settle for a moment - to have a breather, so to speak.

[normaltothemax]

Jake kept his head held high, his resolve unwavering. He was tough. He was the one that could handle anything anyone threw at him. That included some insanely spicy alien snacks. Carol could call his bluff all she liked—he wasn’t gonna break.

For a long moment, he stared at the little, purple puff she held up. Glanced up at her expression for another moment after that, his own eyes narrowed. It can make Drekonans spit fire.

God, was he ever gonna regret this.

Sorry, Marc. Sorry, Steven.

Looking her dead in the eye, he took the snack and popped it into his mouth. Bit down, chewed, and lasted all of three seconds after swallowing before he fell into a coughing fit.

Literal flames shot out of his mouth with each cough into his fist—somehow, they didn’t burn him. Not mouth, not his hand, but the heat was intense. So intense that he decided, fuck it, this wasn’t worth his ‘tough guy’ reputation, and made a grabby hand at the table beside her.

“Gimme the milk.”

She was trying not to laugh too hard at his circumstance. Carol watched, milk in hand, as he tried to pass off his obvious suffering. She grabbed a few other little snacks she’d brought from space and flopped onto the couch, relishing in the fact that she wouldn’t have to be on her feet for a little while.

         She placed her glass on a side table and watched him. He still had the spicy munchies. If he wanted to pretend to be okay, then she’d call his bluff.

         “Here,” she took the bag as he sat and pulled out a purple one. It looked harmless enough, like a Cheeto Puff. It didn’t even smell spicy. Xandarian children loved to prank one another with them, because there was a similar coloured snack on their planet that was deliciously sweet. “Try it.”

         The movie’s slow lead in accentuated her challenge, as the title began to filter onto the screen as she watched him, wondering if he’d waver.

[normaltothemax]

OKAY

HOLY SHIT

I have FINALLY managed to get all the verses and relationships up for my muses (not including Yelena and Krypto bc I need to make bios for them still). This is both on my blog and on my carrd.

Fucking hell I need food now lkasjdflks

[normaltothemax]

@offdxty liked a starter call (accepting!)

He has been watching her.

Not all that surprising—a lot of people watch her for a lot of reasons, when she allows herself to be seen. Right now, though, she is not slinking through the shadows, invisible to all who do not know the ways of the League. Right now, she is sitting at a table with several other adults, a small, curious crowd having formed around them. A few cards lie face-down in front of her, a large pile of small, colourful, plastic discs in front of those.

The others sitting at the table are unhappy, annoyed, threatened. They hate that she is young and has still beat them in a game that they have devoted endless hours of time to learning.

Perhaps they should learn to lie better with their bodies.

But one man…he is intrigued, curious, fascinated. He does not watch her openly, obviously, but he might as well be doing so. The two of them are the last to have cards still in this round. He takes his turn, adds more discs to the pile in the center of the table, indicating he thinks his cards are best.

He is lying.

A very good liar, better than the rest of them, by far, but she is better. Cass is best. She does not glance at her cards again—there is no point, when she remembers what they are—but instead also adds discs to the center pile. Adds even more than he did, then raises a brow at him, challenging. Her cards are not as good as they could be, but she can certainly out-lie this one any day.

[normaltothemax]

“Kind of is. Seeing as I was letting you believe I was someone you trust.” Hell, Marc had been using that to his advantage. To get the kid some medical attention, sure, but still. “You don’t need to downplay it, kid. It’s not like you’d’ve done that if you knew you didn’t know me. You hadn’t even wanted to when you thought I was Jake. It was shitty of me to act like him while you were vulnerable, and I’m sorry.”

Not that Marc had known why he hadn’t wanted to take his shirt off, and it’s not like he’d forced him to, but still. It was a breach of trust. Conrad didn’t need to pretend it wasn’t for the sake of Marc’s feelings, or whatever.

Brows furrowing, he frowns deeply at the kid when he starts stammering, piecing together pretty damn quick what he’s nervous about, now that he knows the big secret. Anger flares hot and bright in his chest, but he does his best to keep it contained and out of sight.

Someone hurt this kid. Someone, other than Marc, had a terrible reaction to finding out he’s transgender, and now he thinks Jake’s going to, what, kick him out over it? Something worse?

Marc might need to put on the suit and bash a few heads in.

He might not get the chance to, depending on how quickly Jake finds out.

“Hey, kid. Conrad. Listen to me, alright? You could be some alien from outer space—you could have tentacles and a beak and be bright purple with polka-dots—and Jake wouldn’t give a shit. Whether or not he says it, you’re his kid. Nothing’s gonna change that. This isn’t gonna change anything, alright? He loves you like you’re his own, so believe me when I say, you’ve always got a place here, whenever you want, for as long as you want.”

He lets that sink in for a minute, before adding, “I won’t tell him, if you don’t want me to. Steven either—he’s the, uh, the other one—though he’ll be fine with it too.” Steven might fall down a bit of a rabbit hole reading up on it, but that’s just who he is. “This is your thing to tell, if you ever decide you want to. I’ll keep my mouth shut for as long as you want. But I promise you, the two of them will be supportive as all hell.”

DID. Multiple personalities. It's…kind of a lot to take in. Jake isn't a real person, he's-…well, no that's not true, he is real, he's absolutely real, but he lives in someone else's head. Or someone else lives in his head, shares the body, Conrad's not actually sure how that works. Someone has to exist first and it's their body but then there's some kind of split and other people end up in there and-…

Maybe he should go look it up at the library, try to understand it better. For now he needs to focus. This is Marc and Jake is an alter, so that means…that Marc is the original? The primary? Whatever you're supposed to call it?

Does it even matter?

And Jake is one of Marc's alters, so there are more in there somewhere. Conrad's just outed himself to a total stranger, basically, but…well, Marc seems like an okay guy. He's apologizing for the whole mess, and he hadn't even had to admit the whole personalities thing in the first place; it's not like Conrad's even told Jake about this, either, and Marc's basically just traded him secret for secret. A bad guy wouldn't do something like that, would they?

"It's…not exactly your fault," Conrad tries with a shrug. "I mean…it's not like Jake knows either…" God it's weird talking about Jake to a man who - from Conrad's perspective - is currently running the guy's body. "Um."

He curls in on himself a little again, bracing for metaphorical impact, and takes a deep breath before speaking again. "…is…is he…w-would-…look, I-i can get all my stuff out pretty quick, if…if I n-need to, um…I don't really have much anyway, so…" Marc doesn't seem to be taking it badly, no, and that's good, but that doesn't mean Jake will. It's a good sign, sure, but it's not a guarantee. And then there's the other mystery alter, or alters; they might not take it well, either. It might be safer to leave now, voluntarily, rather than get kicked out again.

[normaltothemax]

I want to do things but not the things I have so I guess this is a starter call

[normaltothemax]

@agentsterling liked a starter call (accepting!)

Project Lamia had escaped.

It hadn’t been very hard—it usually wasn’t, for an actress like her. All it took was a few quick costume changes—a bubble floating up in the air, a mouse crawling through the vents, a dandelion fluff drifting down to the back of a shirt, a loose sheet of paper slipping under a locked door, and just like that she was in an empty office. She moved to the corner of the room where she turned into a comfy-looking chair, and there she stayed while they continued to search for her.

Supposedly, they had freed her from Blackwing. They wanted to protect her, to keep her safe, to understand her. She didn’t see what made them any different from Mr. Riggins and his men, though. These self-proclaimed protectors.

After all, Mr. Riggins had wanted to protect people, too.

[normaltothemax]

One wheel would’ve been enough to buy him food for a day or two.

Two wheels, and he was already starting to push his luck, with how long the owner of the car would continue to stay away for.

Jason had jacked three wheels so far. Had gotten them off the axels, rolled them away from the car, and hidden them behind a dumpster a little ways from the scene of the crime. Going back for the fourth one was cocky. It was stupid. But a full set would be worth more than a handful of individual ones would be, and Jason was hungry. He was cold. A full set of tires would not only get him food for a while, but a warmer sweater than the dull red, threadbare hoodie he currently had on. Hell, it might even get him a real coat—something he was going to need if he planned on lasting the colder months out on the streets.

Unfortunately for him, when he got back to the car for that last wheel, someone else was already there staring at it. The owner? Maybe. Their expression sure looked like they might be. Keeping his mouth shut, Jason started to slowly back away again. He hadn’t been seen, yet. He just had to—

His heel hit an empty can and sent it clattering away, making enough of a commotion that the person looked his way. Eyes widening (though he quickly schooled his expression into a scowl), he hid the tire iron behind his back. “…What?”

[normaltothemax]

Max sighs, because that’s so not the point. It’s also just as bad. She wipes a hand down her face. “You don’t have to specify the type of cuddling,” she mutters. “I know what we just did. It’s implied.” Is there even a point in arguing this? Probably not, and she’s sure Gabriel can out-argue her anyways—he usually does. She just can’t seem to help herself. Glutton for punishment, she supposes.

She’s only about half-listening to his explanation, her mind wandering to not great places. Until she’s pushed onto her side and Gabriel is suddenly right there. Pressed up against her back, an arm around her middle. Just a solid line of warmth that’s…comforting. Even though she knows it won’t last. She sinks into it, scoffs softly. “Of course you do.” He likes talking and eating? Shocker. Biting her lip, she shrugs, the tip of one finger drawing absently on the back of his wrist. “I’m…not really sure. It’s not…this stuff isn’t really something the guys I’ve been with were into, I guess. This is good, though.” She can’t completely shut her brain off, but it’s making it a little easier to carry those negative thoughts.

                             "AND HERE I THOUGHT YOU'D PREFER POST-COITAL OVER AFTER FUCKING." He rolls his eyes because it's all semantics, really, and she should just spit it out. There's nothing wrong with saying out loud what you want in bed during and after the act, and Gabriel will never understand where humanity went wrong to taboo it like they did. They had such a good start at Sodom and Gomorrah, for example. Alas, smiting two entire cities might make you rethink your openness.

                              Anyway, time to educate somebody. "Sure, it was introduced by the BDSM community, but it has since then spread out, and why should you only take care of your partner after getting a bit kinkier? Everyone focuses on the foreplay and the actual act, but the after is just as important." Oh man, is she spiraling? She looks like she's spiraling. She also looks like she wants to be the little spoon, so Gabriel pushes her over and cuddles up from behind. "It's all about making someone feel secure and close and respected. And that's different for everyone. I personally love to talk and eat snacks afterward. Others like to cuddle or take a shower together, or just watch a movie. So. What's it for you?"

[normaltothemax]

I want to do things but not the things I have so I guess this is a starter call

[normaltothemax]

Max scowls, side-eying him suspiciously. “We’re not?” Why would he take her to Wayne Manor if they’re not going inside? What else could there be here that he wants to show her? God, she really hopes there isn’t something even crazier out back, because she might actually lose her shit, at that point.

She can’t help but look around curiously at the buildings they pass by, though she tries to hang onto that annoyance and, at the very least, downplay that curiosity. Best she doesn’t give him even more ammo to work with.

The barn gets a confused frown and a sarcastic, muttered question about whether or not he’s taking her to see secretly-owned cows. But, heaving a dramatic sigh, she resigns herself to whatever ridiculous fate lies ahead of her and gets out of the car when he parks. Lets him lead her inside, her thoughts grinding to a halt at the sight of the RV and his explanation.

Oh.

Oh.

“…Oh.” Well. Now she kind of feels like an asshole for not believing him (even though she maintains he misled her on purpose because he thought it’d be funny to see her reaction to the manor). She moves closer, fingertips ghosting over his family’s logo on the door.

His childhood home. The first one. The one where he grew up with his birth parents. It feels like he’s baring a very intimate part of his soul to her, right now—she hopes to god she won’t somehow misstep terribly and accidentally trample all over it. “…Can I see inside?”

Max's reaction is everything he could have hoped for. Dick shields himself from her sudden smack, not even trying to hide his laughter at the fuss she's making. God she's adorable. And honestly, she knows how rich Bruce Wayne is, so the fact that Wayne Manor looks like someone with that kind of money lives there really should not be a shock.

Not that Dick actually told her they were coming here, but that's beside the point, thanks.

And they're not actually going to the manor anyway. Sliding his arm around her shoulders he gives her a gentle shake. "In the first place there aren't any billion-dollar vases in there to begin with," he tells her, still laughing, "and in the second we're not going to the manor."

He keeps driving past the manor's entrance, down toward the garage and a couple other outbuildings, and parks in front of what looks to be a small barn with a padlock on the doors. The lock is, of course, rather unnecessary out here, with the kind of security Bruce has; it's more symbolic than anything else. Taking Max's hand in his Dick leads her around to a smaller side door, which is quickly unlocked via passcode, and flips on the lights inside.

There, old and worn but still clearly and meticulously maintained, is an RV that takes up most of the barn on its own. The paint is faded, but the Haly's Circus logo can still be seen on the side, as can that of the Flying Graysons - which takes pride of place on the door. "…this is where I grew up," he tells her softly. "Mr. Haly let me keep it, after…insisted on it, honestly. Nothing overwhelming in here, just like I said."

[normaltothemax]

aaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhh

ok I've updated the bios of everyone except for Cass and Jason (no I haven't made them for Yelena or Krypto yet shhhhh) with verses and various relationships

food now, maybe more actual writing after

[normaltothemax]

Ball! Ball, come play! Stop hiding!

Krypto barked and growled playfully, bounding from one side to the other, but the human moved with him each time. Continued to block his path to his plaything. To his toy. Unacceptable. Unfair! The man made discouraging noises, but he did not outright say no.

Whining in confusion, Krypto tilted his head to one side as he looked up at him. Plopped his rear onto the ground to sit, his tail thump-thump-thumping against it, hard enough that a crack began to form.

Another bark, this time at the man. Questioning. Why was he not letting Krypto play? The ball was a toy—it couldn’t feel. It couldn’t be hurt. And, in any case, Krypto hadn’t been hurting it! Only chasing! What was so bad with chasing?

Poe should have known something was up the second he heard the terrified little noises of his precious metal buddy. They were the types of noises only associated with pure distress, and when he rounded up on the call he was in for a sight to see. A rowdy little pup, chasing poor BB-8 around like the little guy was, indeed, its own little toy. Now that just wouldn't do. Amused as he was this dog found some joy in BB-8, he wasn't exactly a fan of letting his little guy be so stressed out for no good reason. So he did, indeed -- stand there between the dog and his precious little guy. Made sure to keep a stance that meant he could shift every time it looked like the dog wanted to get around him and try to get at the little boy again. A click of a tongue, a small ' ah ah ah ' noise. Arms crossing over a broad chest and a bend at the waist to be closer level to the animal.

"Come on now, quit that. Can't you hear he doesn't want to play, huh?"

[normaltothemax]

He rolls his eyes, but keeps his mouth shut. “Whatever.” Okay, he almost keeps his mouth shut. The thing is, Jason can take it; he’s got thicker skin than most, and some other kid calling him shrimpy wouldn’t actually bug him all that much. It just…it’s different when Dick is doing it. He doesn’t know why, seeing as Dick’s a jerk and not really his brother and isn’t even that cool anyways.

It’s not like Jason looks up to the guy, or wants to be like him, or anything dumb like that.

Definitely not.

It’s probably stupid of him to do, but he keeps an eye out while Dick climbs the shelves. Watches for Bruce or Alfred, trying to keep the two of them from getting caught. “Thanks,” he mumbles, not meeting Dick’s eyes as he takes the tool. He doesn’t say what it’s for, just twists it around in his hands and looks away. “…When do you go back to Bludhaven?”

"If you can't take it, don't give it, kid." It's never wise to smart off at someone you've asked for help, after all, and especially not about something you yourself are sensitive about. Dick holds some things as off limits, but if the other person brings it up first then it's free game.

Not bothering with a ladder, Dick just climbs up the first couple of shelves to reach the gadget Jason's after. Just why he needs it Dick has no idea - either a case Jason's working on or a little advanced homework, probably - but there's no harm in giving the kid a hand. Bruce should know enough to keep anything he actually doesn't want someone else touching securely locked up at this point. "Here you go."

[normaltothemax]

“Wow. You’re taller than a twelve-year-old. That’s a real big accomplishment. Congratulations, that must be real exciting for you,” he deadpans. Jason huffs out an irritated breath. If he’d known it would devolve into this bullshit, he never would have asked for help—for either getting the tool or even for just finding the ladder—in the first place. “Only ‘cause you have fuckin’ circus training.”

And also because Jason’s still a little bit scared to get caught climbing the shelves, or doing anything else that might be considered ‘misbehaving’. Logically, at this point, he knows Bruce won’t hurt him for something like that, he just…can’t help it, sometimes.

"Considering I'm taller than you, I don't need one." Dick's hand lands firmly on the top of Jason's head. Generally he wouldn't make cracks about something Jason can't help - not the kid's fault he's not even five foot tall yet - but if Jason can't take it then he shouldn't dish it out himself. "Specially since I didn't need help reaching the top shelf when I was your height."

Because he climbed the shelves like a spider monkey, but Jason doesn't need to know that.

[normaltothemax]

Clint raised a brow skeptically. If Sterling wasn’t there to lecture him on not completing his mission within the ordered parameters, then what was he there for? The truth came out just a moment later, and relief crashed through him like a tidal wave.

Thank god—someone here wasn’t a fucking idiot of a corporate drone. Someone agreed that sometimes orders needed to be disregarded. A bit ridiculous on his handler’s part that they couldn’t get someone that actually agreed with them to “yell” at him, or that no one else in the area apparently signed, even though one of their operatives was deaf, but Clint could work with this.

Ever a showman, he scoffed, scowled darkly. Made his own signs a bit harsher, like he was getting frustrated. < Good. Glad we’re on the same page about that. He doing okay? He was scared. I don’t want those idiots making it worse. > He turned in his cot, throwing his legs over the side to put his feet on the floor. Braced himself to actually stand, because, unfortunately, he wouldn’t be able to just take Sterling’s words at face value. Clint needed to see the kid with his own two eyes.

Also, he really didn’t want to be in the med bay. Like, at all. Ever.

He fucking hated hospitals.

Sterling's expression remained one of frustration and anger even as Clint explained himself. He waited, patiently, for Clint to finish, before he raised his hands to sign to him again. However, this time, he didn't speak as he signed. It wasn't uncommon for them to argue in sign, to keep it more private, but it became clear to Clint very soon why he had made the switch.

"I'd never ask you to hurt a kid." He signed, but his movements remained sharp and angry. "They need to think I'm yelling at you. You did everything right and you got the job done while sparing a life. No notes."

Sterling was a company man, through and through, but he was also known to show mercy when it maybe sometimes wasn't warranted and he was known to protect children. The fact that he was asked to lecture Barton simply because he could sign proved the ones who asked didn't know him that deeply. Just the surface level loyalty to rules.