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juju-on-that-yeet · 3 years ago

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Recovery

Whumptober Day 31: Today’s Special: Torture Prompt: Experiment

Although the egos finally have Oliver back from Enigma Data, they’re forced to keep him in The Cell as he still has no memory of his old life or relationships. When memory backups fail, Bim offers his magic as one last hope. (cont. from “From Dusk till Dawn”)

Warnings: None (this is barely whump tbh, I took the prompt in a very not-torture direction sakjfhsdjfsdk)

Read on AO3 (Full Whumptober Series)

Enjoy!

It’s still late at night when Dark, Wilford, and the Googles return to Ego Inc., so late it’s almost morning. But despite the hour, a few egos have stayed awake to see how the rescue mission went. The moment the leaders and Googles come through the door, the group rushes to them, eyes on Chrome, still supported by Plus, and on Oliver, still unconscious in Google’s arms.

Dr. Iplier is one of the egos who waited up, but he hangs back as the others approach the Googles. His main purpose was to make sure Dark and Wilford didn’t get maimed on the rescue mission, and after seeing them both no worse for wear, is much calmer than the other egos he’s been waiting with. He doesn’t leave, though, looking at Oliver and Chrome with some worry.

Yandereplier and Yancy are there, too, and Yandere nearly knocks Chrome over from the force of his tackle-hug. Yancy is calmer, but not by much, giving Chrome a forceful embrace of his own. Neither is deterred by Plus, who scolds them both to be careful. Chrome, though, reacts with only mild surprise, and makes no move to hug them back. His brows furrow, like he knows he should recognize the two people hugging him. Yandere notices the lack of response first.

“Aka-kun?” he asks, pulling away. He lifts his hands, cups Chrome’s cheek. He can feel the parts where Chrome’s skin has worn away from tears, feel the metal now at the surface. “You didn’t forget me, did you?”

“You…” Chrome murmurs, still thinking hard, “I don’t remember your name, and you don’t look familiar, but something…” He lifts a hand to cover one of Yandere’s. “Something feels right. You’re my friend, aren’t you?” He looks at Yancy. “You both are.”

It’s both everything Yandere and Yancy wanted to hear, and none of it. Chrome speaks the words in a faraway fashion, knowing what he says is true despite lacking the memories to back it up. That lack shows in his eyes, which still fail to flicker in recognition, still fail to capture Chrome’s normal personality and love for his friends. Yandere and Yancy both notice, Yandere especially.

“Yeah, I am,” Yandere manages, before bursting into bittersweet tears. Yancy doesn’t cry, but he looks like he wants to.

Meanwhile Bim, the final person who stayed up waiting, beelines for Oliver the moment Google steps through Ego Inc.’s threshold.

“Ollie,” Bim gasps, tears already in his eyes as he rushes to his side, reaching out a tentative hand to stroke his hair. “Oh sunshine, sunflower, I missed you so much–!”

He kisses Oliver’s cheeks over and over, free hand grabbing one of Oliver’s to hold. Google stands stoically, allowing Bim to fret and weep over Oliver. Bim completely ignores Google for a good minute, until he notices the charred spot on Oliver’s neck.

“Wh-what happened to his neck?” he asks Google, still sniffling.

“Plus used an Enigma Data taser to…incapacitate him,” Google says carefully. Seeing Bim’s shocked expression, he continues, “Oliver had no memory of myself or any of us. His only goal was to kill me, and he might have succeeded had Plus not stopped him.”

“Oh,” Bim mumbles, going quiet with thought.

One thing is clear, not just to Bim but to all the egos in the room: Just because Oliver and Chrome are back in Ego Inc., it doesn’t mean that this ordeal is over.

~~~

Less than a week later, Google is in the control room, staring at a set of screens. The data in them would take a human hours to read and days to fully analyze, but Google has practically memorized every line of code already. The data isn’t from a project, a piece of tech, a website, or even from his own coding.

It’s a snapshot of Oliver’s mind and all the data inside, every line down to the last character. But none of it is normal. His time with Enigma Data, all the ways they fiddled with his hardware and software, have mangled each line beyond recognition. It’s a wonder Oliver can still walk, or talk, or do anything at all without suffering catastrophic errors.

Chrome’s mind wasn’t nearly so complicated. It was in the process of being changed, but all he needed was a data backup to clean up the bad code and restore the memories he’d forgotten. He woke up after the backup with his full memory back, including the time he spent at Enigma Data after being taken. He remembers, still, how it felt to watch a lifetime of memories nearly slip through his hands like water, how it felt to look at his loved ones and barely recognize them, how it felt to see their grief and feel almost nothing. Despite how his experience has hurt him, his injuries are healed and his personality is restored, and he’s gone back to living his life as normal.

But Oliver is a different story.

The data backup didn’t work on him, which is why Google looked into Oliver’s data in the first place. He and his brothers tried to untangle the mess inside Oliver’s head, but it proved too huge even for them to tackle. It’s not just the software, not just the code that’s bad, but the hardware, too. Screws are missing, wires are crossed, plates and nodes have been removed and put back in the wrong places. Chrome had had a few hardware issues too, but nothing on this level, nothing so pervasive. Even if they could stand to wait the weeks it would take to get the missing parts Oliver needs, even if they could stand to spend months replacing all the broken parts and fixing the broken code, they can’t do it without risking Oliver’s death. His brain is a precarious Jenga puzzle; one wrong move and the whole thing will come crashing down. Infuriatingly, if Oliver were to die, if he came back afterwards, his mind would likely be perfectly fine once he woke (if he woke). That’s how returning from the dead works for egos; it would do no good if they came back still sporting the injury that killed them. Google, of course, refuses to entertain that thought, to consider the possibility of Oliver dying, and his brothers feel the same. They’ve gone so far to get Oliver back, and they aren’t giving up on him now.

But their options are shrinking by the day. Plus suggests they try reconnecting Oliver to the network before the backup, instead of after like they did with Chrome. That fails. Chrome suggests inserting only a few core memories, in hopes that they can help rebuild faulty neuron connections and allow the rest of the memories to be returned. That fails. Google pores over Oliver’s twisted data, looking for a way to fix it, as he and his brothers try to brainstorm other solutions. They all fail, and by now, even their superpowered intelligence is struggling to give them any more ideas. After days of working, thinking, and reading code 24/7, even while charging, the well is drying up, and Oliver remains out of reach.

Google finally closes out of the files, copied from the last time they had Oliver shut down on the workshop table, and leaves the control room to clear his head. He shouldn’t need to, being a genius android, but somehow he feels the need.

It figures that his feet lead him into Ego Inc.’s basement, where The Cell sits, where Oliver currently resides.

Google built The Cell himself a long time ago. Dark wanted a place to keep egos that were volatile, dangerous, at risk of hurting others or themselves. His own void works for short stints, but he felt that a place to keep an ego long-term was necessary as well. It’s been used rarely, but now, it’s where Oliver spends all his time. He was put there before he woke from being tased, and as much as Google hates to admit it, it was a good thing that he was. Because the moment he woke up, he tried to break free to finish what he started with Google and get back to Enigma Data. He can’t be trusted not to hurt the other egos or run away, so for now, Google’s little brother is stuck in this tiny prison.

When Google goes to him today, he’s sitting cross-legged on the floor. He regards Google with a poisonous glare, but doesn’t bother standing. The mark on his neck is gone, having been fixed even before Google’s many injuries were addressed. He’s given up trying to brute-force his way out of his prison, and Google imagines that he’s going through a process similar to Google’s own. Just as Google’s spent these past days going through Oliver’s coding for ways to get him back to normal, Oliver must be puzzling over how to escape his imprisonment, going over every possible escape route, analyzing the inside of his room and looking for weak spots. They’ve each reached a block and are now at a stalemate, and neither know what their next move should be.

Google had known that taking Oliver home wouldn’t solve everything immediately, but he hadn’t known it would be this hard.

Despite being so embroiled in his thoughts, he still notices the sudden sound of footsteps descending the stairs to the basement. Just by the sound of the shoes (fancy dress shoes), he knows exactly who it is that’s come to see Oliver. He isn’t surprised when Bim approaches and comes to stand next to Google.

“Hey,” he says weakly. He can’t manage a smile in greeting, and Google doesn’t blame him. The bags under his eyes are pronounced, his face is pale, and his hair is rumpled instead of meticulously gelled back. He hardly looks at Google, staring at Oliver like he hopes to see recognition on his face. Instead, he receives nothing but Oliver’s cold, indifferent stare.

“Why are you down here?” Google asks Bim. “Nothing has changed, surely you know that.”

“I could say the same to you,” Bim says wryly, finally looking at Google.

“I’ve been staring at his code for hours now,” Google replies, “I needed to step away for a moment.”

“Is it helping?” Bim asks, only a little sarcastic.

“No,” Google answers. He pauses. “I knew it wouldn’t.”

“What else is left to do?” Bim asks him sadly, “I don’t know what you guys have tried, but you’ve tried a lot of things, right? So…”

Part of Google doesn’t want to tell Bim what's been plaguing his thoughts these past days, but he knows he owes something to Bim, that Bim deserves to know what’s happening. Google usually finds Bim pretty annoying, but despite that, Google can’t ignore how much Bim loves Oliver and how good he’s been to him since they got together. Bim should know, at least, how much Google and his brothers have tried.

“We have,” Google says, “Every method we thought of, we tried, and none of it has worked. The code and hardware are so damaged that they can’t accept the memory files, and the internal structure is too precarious to fix by hand. We’re brainstorming new things to try right now.”

A long pause as Bim thinks.

“What happens if you can’t fix him?” Bim asks.

“We will fix him,” Google says sharply, “We won’t stop trying until we do.”

“I’ve never seen it take you guys this long to solve a problem,” Bim mumbles, “Even when it was just you here, I’ve never seen you have to try this hard to fix something. If it’s this bad, maybe the only way to fix the code is to…” Bim sighs, shaky, and it takes him several long moments to give voice to his thoughts. “…is to give it the chance to fix itself.”

“No,” Google growls, stepping towards Bim threateningly, glaring down at him with bright, angry blue eyes. “That is not happening, and you’re lucky I don’t snap your neck for suggesting it.”

“Like you haven’t thought about it, too!” Bim counters, eyes blazing with his own anger. “You’re a super-smart android, there’s no way it never crosses your mind!”

“We’re not doing that, never in a million years,” Google mutters, voice steely.

“Then what will you do!?” Bim shouts, “What else is there?? If everything in his brain is twisted up too much to pull apart, then what–” He gasps, stopping short.

“What?” Google mutters.

“I just–” Bim says, suddenly so deep in thought that he cuts himself off again. “Maybe…pull apart…I thought of something. Something that could fix Oliver.”

“Hm,” Google says. He doubts Bim could’ve thought of anything that Google and his brothers haven’t already, but he decides to hear him out.

“I could fix Oliver!” Bim exclaims, “I could use my powers to put his brain back to normal!”

There’s a long pause. Bim stares at Google expectantly, grinning widely. Google stares back, unimpressed.

“That’s moronic.”

“Oh, come on, hear me out!” Bim whines, now frowning. “Look, my powers allow me to pull things apart and combine things together, right? Who’s to say I can’t pull apart all the twisted wires and stuff in Oliver’s head and put everything back together how it should be?”

“You don’t know the first thing about our mechanics,” Google snaps, “How would you know what pieces belong where?”

“I don’t have to know,” Bim says, “I just feel it. That’s what I do whenever Anti gets inside one of your heads.”

“That’s not the same,” Google mutters, “And every time you’ve tried to use your powers for something not related to Anti, it’s backfired completely. Didn’t you almost kill Eric trying to fix his broken arm? How can I trust you inside my brother’s head??”

“It is the same!” Bim protests, “Anti’s as technological as you guys are. Whenever he’s in there he makes himself a part of your brain. Yet I can always pull him out, because I can feel the difference, I can just feel what belongs and what doesn’t. This won’t be like Eric’s arm, I know it won’t.” He looks at Google, eyes bright and glimmering with emotion – and determination. “You know I love Oliver. You know I wouldn’t do this if I thought I would hurt him. I can fix this, I know it. And what other choice do we have? This is the only thing you haven’t tried. If I’m wrong you can say so, but you basically told me yourself that you’re out of ideas.” Bim sighs. “Let me do this. Let me help him.”

Google glares at Bim, though his mind churns with the possibility. He doesn’t trust Bim’s control over his powers, he fears what a single error on Bim’s part could do to Oliver. At the same time, he has to admit that Bim is right on one thing: they’re virtually out of options. There’s no ideas left but this. And if Bim is right about his description of dealing with Anti, then maybe fixing Oliver’s head isn’t so far removed. Maybe there’s a chance. Maybe it’s the only chance.

“…I need to discuss with the others,” Google finally says.

“So you’re on board?”

“I’m tentatively considering it. I’m not making any promises.”

“Good enough, I guess, coming from you.”

The whole time, the whole conversation, Oliver himself watches the pair through the walls of The Cell, silent and glowering.

~~~

Bim expects the younger Googles to push back against his suggestion, and while they do, they don’t protest as much as Bim thought they would. It turns out that they’re tired, too, their optimism has also run dry, and they’re willing to do anything at this point. That doesn’t mean they aren’t afraid, though. That doesn’t mean Google isn’t worried. Bim can see it clearly, despite how much they try to hide it under cool stoicism.

For one thing, they insist on being there when Bim goes into Oliver’s head, standing on one side of the room, eyes trained on Oliver’s still form on a workshop stretcher. They’ve shut him down to prevent him from trying to escape or hurt them, and it kills Bim to see him like this, knowing how little of his love is there now.

But Oliver’s not all gone. He’s in there somewhere, the memories are just waiting to be unlocked, and Bim is the one who will unlock them. His words to Google weren’t empty bravado, he knows he can do this. Oliver’s backed up memories, the ones from before his capture, sit in a deceptively tiny USB drive laid beside him on the stretcher. It’s a more powerful USB than any human could get their hands on, storing terabytes of data, Oliver’s every thought and experience. It’s only a copy, of course; Oliver’s memories are on the control room’s main supercomputer, too. But Bim can hardly believe it, that before him in this tiny object is everything that makes the man he loves who he is, and in turn, every detail of Bim’s relationship with Oliver, even the little things his own human mind has forgotten.

It’s all here, laid bare, ready for Bim to put together.

He takes a deep breath, closes his eyes, lays a hand on Oliver’s forehead, and begins.

At first, he can’t detect much at all. It’s harder to start when there’s nothing concrete to start from. With Anti’s takeovers, he can immediately pick out Anti’s unwanted presence among the neurons. With Eric’s arm, he could instantly find the break in the bone. The anomalies were obvious and clear. But Oliver’s mind right now is one huge anomaly, and for a few moments, Bim can hardly tell what’s what among the connections and wires and neurons that fill his mind’s eye, the vision his magic grants him.

But Bim doesn’t let himself get discouraged, and after a few moments, errors become clear. He can see twisted wires, see misfiring neurons, see the flaws in both hardware and software. And once he sees the flaws, he can start to fix them. He starts slow, untangling and straightening wires carefully, pulling together separated connections cautiously, aware that a wrong move could be disastrous. The Googles, as intelligent and meticulous as they are, could never have done this without tripping a wrong wire or nudging a faulty plate. As he works, he can see data alerts, the same things Oliver would see if he was awake. Bim can hardly comprehend them, but he doesn’t need to. He has his instincts and magic to guide him through the maze of Oliver’s mind.

The more Bim does, the easier it gets. He starts addressing multiple components at once, pulling apart twisted data and pulling together frayed edges, hitting his stride in Oliver’s mind. He finally moves on to the tougher fixes, the ones that are more than just wires. He unscrews and transfers the plates that are in the wrong spot and puts them where his instincts say they go. He pulls data chips out of cracks and slots them where they belong, pulling the unneeded cracks back together afterwards. The error message gets shorter and shorter, the listed problems become fewer and fewer. Bim has no idea how much time is passing, and he hardly cares. All he knows is that he’s getting closer.

Finally, there’s nothing more Bim can do. There’s parts of hardware that are beyond Bim’s ability to fix. Things like missing screws can’t be replaced; Bim can’t make them appear from thin air, and he of course can’t take them from elsewhere in Olvier’s head.

He can only hope that what he’s done so far is enough to make Oliver’s brain accept a memory backup.

He opens his eyes again for the first time in what could be minutes or hours. The three Googles stare at him expectantly, waiting for Bim’s word. Instead of speaking, Bim looks down at the USB, the little chip that contains his boyfriend. He picks it up with the hand not on Oliver’s forehead and shuts his eyes again, preparing to combine. Combine the contents of the USB with the mind in which they belong.

His eyes fly open again involuntarily, and he gasps. The Googles all startle, taking a step forward, but Bim shakes his head, signaling that he doesn’t need their help. The Googles stop, still wary, but Bim hardly notices.

His mind is being flooded with memory.

As he puts together the data on the USB and the near-empty storage space in Oliver’s mind, his own mind becomes the conduit through which each memory passes on its way to be combined. It’s too fast for Bim to keep track of, too advanced for his human mind to process. All the details of every memory, the details Oliver could see and feel and hear that Bim can’t, all of them wash over Bim as he directs the flow of memories into their proper place. Though he can’t perceive much of these memories, he can catch glimpses of details. What the sunset looked like to Oliver. What his favorite song sounded like to his advanced auditory system. The burst of joy that went through him whenever he saw one of his brothers. How Bim’s hand, the same one that rests on his forehead now, felt in his own. Bim could cry and laugh in equal parts at how these bits of Oliver’s memory make him feel, and maybe he would if he weren’t so focused on making sure each memory finds its proper place in Oliver’s mind.

After what could’ve been a hundred years or only a moment, the USB runs empty, and Bim has nothing more to combine, nothing more to separate, nothing more to fix. Aside from those tiny bits of hardware that the Googles will have to repair, Oliver is complete. At least, it appears that way. Bim won’t know, none of them will know, until Oliver wakes, if he wakes. He should, once Bim lets him go.

Bim blinks the lingering images of Oliver’s memory out of his eyes, lets the USB fall out of his hand onto the stretcher. He feels exhausted now, yet his hand still rests on Oliver’s forehead. He’s afraid of what will happen when he leaves Oliver’s mind. But everything felt right, everything he did felt good, it all worked out like he’d known it would. He can only hope he wasn’t deceived by his own overconfidence.

Carefully, shakily, Bim removes his hand from Oliver’s forehead. The other Googles peer closer from their spot across the room, expressions severe yet hopeful. The tension in the air is thick enough to choke.

After a moment, Oliver’s eyes open.

“Ollie,” Bim whispers, though he’s still too nervous to smile.

Oliver sits up, rubs his head with one hand. His face is confused, distant, but as seconds pass, it becomes more shocked, more anxious, more full of Oliver’s characteristic expressiveness.

“Ollie?” Bim repeats, questioning this time. Oliver looks at him.

“Bim?” he asks, voice shaky, eyes filling with tears.

“Yeah,” Bim whispers, already about to cry. He reaches out to touch Oliver’s shoulder, squeezing gently. “I’m here, Ollie. You’re okay.”

Oliver’s face crumples, and he hugs Bim tight, so forcefully he lifts him a full foot off the ground. Bim hardly notices, letting his feet dangle as he hugs Oliver back, comforting him as he sobs with relief and guilt.

“I f-forgot everything,” Oliver wails, “I forgot about you–”

“It’s okay, sunshine,” Bim soothes, crying nearly as hard, “You’re okay, I love you–”

That’s when Bim hears the rapid footsteps of the Googles approaching. Oliver hears them too, and gently puts Bim down as his brothers swarm him, wrapping him up in a many-armed embrace. Bim steps back, wiping tears off his face and allowing the four brothers to reconnect. The other Googles don’t cry (maybe they would if Bim weren’t in the room), but emotion is still clear in their faces.

“Red,” Oliver gasps at the sight of Chrome, “Red, oh my god, I’m s-so sorry, I’m so so sorry–”

“It wasn’t your fault,” Chrome tells him, voice tight as he hugs Oliver.

“Blue, y-you too, I hurt you,” Oliver sobs, “I hurt you b-both, and Yancy and Y-Yandere, I’m sorry–”

“They’re fine, we all are,” Google murmurs into Oliver’s hair, “Chrome and I are okay, Yancy and Yandere are alive and well.” He kisses the top of Oliver’s head. “What matters now is that we have you back.”

“We missed you,” Plus whimpered, the Google closest to tears aside from Oliver. “We’re sorry it took us so long to find you.”

The conversation goes much the same way for a while, apology after apology being given and refuted by Oliver and the other Googles. Oliver stays sitting on the stretcher, surrounded by his brothers as they soothe him, and Bim stands apart, though he doesn’t mind it. He looks on with joy, relief, and more than a little pride knowing that this was his doing, that he was the one who was able to save Oliver.

At long last, this ordeal is finally behind them, and all is right in Ego Inc. again.

#markiplier fanfiction #bim trimmer #googleplier #google oliver #my writing #fanfic #markiplier #kristin says stuff #whumptober2020 #AT LONG LAST IS FUKKIN RIGHT #now i can get back to unravel 👀

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dear-yandere · 5 years ago

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I’m not sure which creepypasta you write for, but if you don’t write for Ben Drowned, then please ignore this (^^;;). Can I have some headcanon of how he goes about approaching his obsession and how he (I assume either through kidnapping or stalking for eternity) goes about approaching them? Thank you!

tw. emotional manipulation, kidnapping, isolation.

BEN Drowned

★ On this timeline, anyone who plays the cursed Majora’s Mask cartridge will be Ben’s next victim. You, despite knowing that the copy you bought is glitchy and extremely difficult to cooperate with, still went out your way to play through it all. Whether you were curious or simply lacking a few brain cells, Ben finds your unfortunate decision laughable at best.

★ Still, he doesn’t mess with you just yet, instead taking his time to observe you, even when you’re not playing his game. With just a few adjustments to the many electronics you surround yourself with, he’s able to witness anything from you puffing your cheeks at a frustrating part in a game to your interesting reactions when binging tv shows from dusk till dawn. For the first week or two, he’s busy analyzing your daily life in this way. There’s no reason to go to such lengths other than curiosity of course – Ben simply wants to get familiar with his dear playmate. To think he hasn’t killed…rather, made himself known in your life is impressive as is since he’s known for his impatience; it’s peculiar how he finds simply being in your presence entertaining – almost as if he’s already part of your every day life.

★ That doesn’t mean he hasn’t interacted with you before, though. Fortunately for him you’re an especially easy, especially vulnerable target. If your lack of social life, dictated by your phone which hardly receives messages from anyone you’d consider a friend wasn’t enough of a clue, Ben quickly comes to the conclusion that video games are the only escape in your lonely life. It’s not that you don’t want to socialize, you just… don’t know how. After observing you for only a few weeks, seeing you shed a few tears in particularly vulnerable moments, he has an epiphany: he hates seeing you sad. Not being able to sweep you up in his arms and wipe away those tears pains him, but that doesn’t mean he is capable of not talking to you.

★ Sometimes he’ll send a few text messages from a number that shows up blank on your phone; other times, Cleverbot will suddenly open in a new tab on your laptop, if only so he can speak with you more intimately. You’re far too crestfallen to notice how absurd it is for an anonymous website to appear when you have ad-blocker running in the background; or rather, you’re far too lonely, far too in need of some semblance of company to keep you adrift. You’re quick to accept these odd happenings into your life.

★ You do find it odd how this mysterious number and human-like chat bot seem to hold conversations with such ease and finesse, often knowing things about you that you hadn’t told anyone before. It sets off alarms immediately, but some part of you feels… exhilarated by the prospect of someone caring enough to go to such lengths; or… perhaps it’s the way this person speaks to you with words crafted to appease your sense of love and belonging. Perhaps this person is doing this on purpose, to lure you in with a false sense of hope, but you’ve become so dependent on him that you can’t find it within yourself to care. Besides, it’s not like he knows your identity or where you live… right?

★ Of course, this goes on for weeks, nearly months, with him slowly grooming your personality and using your fears against you under the guise of words laced with concern. Ben is ruthless and cunning, a manipulative hand guiding you as if you were another NPC in his game. And if there’s a sudden boost in confidence from his comforting words? He’d find a way to tear it back down – can’t have you suddenly making new friends like that. He would isolate you, enough to keep your confidence waning on the brink between self-destruction and normalcy. Give you hope, tear it down, charm you with his comforting words – make you completely reliant on him, and soon you’ll realize that you only feel truly happy with him, when you’re talking to him. There’s no need for friends or company, just your video games and only friend… You only need him.

★ The stalking eventually inevitably gets old, manifesting into a full-blown obsession once he loses his patience. You’re his, it’s only right that he approach you. Naturally, he finally shows himself once you’ve gone outside in search of groceries, school, or a peaceful walk. He introduces himself, easily charming you with his beautiful blue eyes, golden hair, and boyish smile – and it’s easy. You’ve never been wooed like this, never gotten this kind of attention, so you fall hard. He knows exactly what to say and when to say it – he’s perfect, for all the wrong reasons.

★ He’ll take you on dates over the course of a few weeks, until he decides to ghost you. Contacts you infrequently, keeping you on the edge of internal conflict and neediness. Did he lose interest? Did you do something wrong? You realized you’re in love – that you need him, that you miss him, that you’re nothing without him.

★ When you’re at your lowest, with not even your mysterious online friend contacting you as well as your ‘boyfriend’, he pops back into your life like a ray of hope, and you’re far more clingy and obedient as a result. It’s only now that he shows his true nature – shows how possessive he is, how manipulative and cunning, how he can control you as easily as a character in his games. And at this point, you’re too far gone to find a way out much less protest when he coaxes you into his virtual world – where even if you come to your senses and try to escape, you can’t. It’s his world, his rules.

★ “You’re in my game now, babe.”

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fk12b · 7 years ago

Text

TV Land: open dusk till dawn

Castiel x Reader

Plot: Open dusk till dawn

Main Characters: Team Free Will, Balthazar, Gabriel

Prompts: 48 - “Tell me this is a dream” & 104 - “You work for me. You are my slave”

Warnings: If you’ve seen this movie, uhm... you know what I mean.

Word Count: 2677 Words

A/N: Based on Quentin Tarantino’s From Dusk Till Dawn (Full Soundtrack) & Based on this song -> After Dark - Tito and Tarantula.

A/N/N: The original dialog from the movie is in italics, I’m sorry if it’s not accurate. Feedback is really appreciated. Also, tell me if you liked it or not, and if you want a sequel or maybe another TV Land Based On A Movie (You can suggest a movie too’, I’ll love it)

Since the very first moment, you woke up you knew this will be a boring day, even with you boyfriend Castiel, Gabriel and Balthazar's company in the bunker. It’s only 10 A.M and you are already tired of surfing on the net in search of a new case.

“Come on, man!” Dean complained leaning in his chair throwing his arms to his sides in surrender “It’s Saturday! Even the monsters seem to have a weekend off” Sam simply ignored him tipping on his laptop.

You closed another article about a car accident, no mortal casualties on it. You groaned in annoyance and felt a punch on your left shoulder from Dean who was sitting next to you.

“What” You wondered tilting your head but didn’t look up from your laptop.

“Wanna play poker?” The older Winchester suggested grinning.

“You know, I only play strip poker. Even when you lose, you win” you joked earning a laugh from Sam and Dean’s grin growing wider. The angels watching the display before them intently. Turning your head to look at Dean, before he could wiggle his eyebrows you said you wouldn’t play any kind of poker with them, much less strip poker earning a groan from Dean, Balthazar, and Gabe. Despite all the encouragements and prises from Castiel saying that you were even more beautiful than a goddess and perfection itself, still you had your doubts, you didn’t want any of the boys to make fun of your body, not today, not never.

Gabriel instantly grinned mischievously an idea popping into his mind. Maybe you were going to kill him in the end, but, anyway, he raised his hand and snapped his fingers.

It was dark and they were all in the middle of nowhere, in the middle of a desert, warm breeze in their hair.

“Where the fuck are we?” Dean cursed turning to face them, earning a frown from Cas. “What?” He asked and turned to look himself at the caravan’s side view mirror. “What the FUCK?!” Dean yelled when he saw the tattoo on his neck

Sam, on the other hand, looked at his hand which was covered in blood wrapped in duct tape. “What the fuck happened to my hand?” Yelling he looked up from his hand and noticed they all were standing next to a white caravan. “Why the fuck you got a tattoo on the damn neck, Dean?” the younger Winchester cursed when he looked at his brother.

“Alright, boys calm down, I’m gonna get us out of here” Castiel spoke snapping his fingers. Nothing happened. Balthazar did the same but nothing happened again.

“By the way, where’s Gabriel?” Balthazar wondered looking around “And where’s Y/N?”

Castiel took a step forward walking between trucks, hearing motorbikes roars and someone talking loudly into a microphone. He was greeted by a bright colorful poster on bar’s main entrance.

“Titty twister?” Castiel asked frowning and tilting his head to the left. The boys shortly after joined him. Gabriel stepped out from the caravan and followed them.

“I think I know where are we,” Dean said grinning like an idiot and smacking his brother in the chest. Sam instantly threw a bitchface but suddenly turned to one of pure and complete fear.

“Oh no! TV land no! Not again!” The younger brother shook his head.

“Come on Samsquash! It’ll be fun. I promise no genital herpes ad this time” Gabriel spoke, making all of them turn to him, raising a hand in surrender “I promise”

“Okay,” Sam frowned not trusting the archangel at all “But where’s Y/N” Sam wondered making Gabriel wiggle his eyebrows.

“That’s not really reassuring” Castiel and Balthazar spoke this time while Dean started to head to the bar Gabriel following him and the rest shortly after.

The moment they got inside the place the only ones who seemed happy were Dean, he was greeted with the sight of almost naked girls dancing everywhere, Gabriel, who knew how this day will end, and Balthazar, who wondered how this day will end. Sam wondered why he had a fucking bullet hole in the middle of his hand, and Castiel had no clue at all why they were here.

“Okay hard drinkers, let's drink hard. I'm buyin'.” Dean paused for a moment admiring the surroundings “This is my kind of place! I will become a regular” and headed for the bar. The rest had no choice but to follow him. Castiel had to dodge two guys fighting.

“Whiskey,” Dean asked the black haired bartender who was, apparently, only wearing a black apron, when he reached the bar. Sam stood next to his brother analyzing the bartender.

The bartender poured a shot, showed it and downed it. “You can’t come in here,” he said simply.

“What do you mean” Dean wondered.

“It’s a private bar” The bartender replied looking at them “You’re not welcome”

“You tell me that I’m not good enough to drink, here?” Dean asked starting to get annoyed meanwhile Gabriel leaned in the showcase next to the bar and Cas along with Balthazar went to take a table.

“This bar is for bikers and truckers only” The bartender explained. He shocked his head “You get out!” He motioned angrily to the exit while the hell of a big guy approached Dean from behind and grabbed his shoulder tightly.

Dean simply punched the guy in his face three times, kicked him when he was on the floor, and while the bartender raised his arms in surrender, Dean grabbed a bottle full of whiskey and five glasses. Then the Winchesters and Gabriel join the other angels at the table. When they were settled Dean poured the whiskey into the glasses and give each one, they all picked it and after clinging them they down the shot and placed the glass on the table again.

You were in a red-walled room, which looked like a backstage, if they could be called walls, wearing not much than a, something similar to a crimson bikini or underwear, you weren’t sure, and a black satin robe.

You opened the robe and looked at the underwear/bikini recognizing it. Angrily you covered your almost naked body with the robe again, cursing at the not-so-sweet archangel.

“GABRIEL!” You shouted furiously, making him appear in front of you immediately.

“You called, sugar?” The said archangel asked nonchalantly wearing smug wring on his stupid face. How much you wanted to punch him right now.

“Don’t sugar me!” You crossed your arms over your chest. “What do you think you are doing, assbutt? Don’t believe I don’t know where you send us! From Dusk Till Down, really? There wasn’t any other movie available? You couldn’t have sent us to Scooby Doo?” You quarreled as you walked up to him, stopping when you were a step away from him.

“That’s what you get for not playing strip poker with us,” He said while crossing his arms over his chest too. “Seriously, how could you think any of us would make fun of your body?” He asked in disbelief.

“Well, I’m clearly not Salma Hayek!” You said throwing your arms up in the air giving the archangel a full view of your cleavage. You followed his gaze and quickly, covered your skin but it was too late.

“Come on, Cupcake, It’s midnight. The whole bar is waiting for your show,” He said grinning like an idiot and in a snap of his fingers, he was gone along with the robe covering your skin.

“What show? GABE, YOU IDJIT, COME BACK HERE OR ELSE, YOU FUCKER!” The sudden cool floor made you flinch. Now the only thing covering your skin was the crimson underwear, a cape, and a feathered crown.

Suddenly, the whole bar went dark except the stage, and Jose, the bartender went up. Now, it made clear to everyone that he was wearing black pants and a waistcoat.

“And now” He spoke grabbing everyone's attention “For your visual pleasure, the mistress of the macabre, up enemy of evil, the most sinister woman to ever dance on the face of this earth”

“Bite this!” Someone shouted. Dean, who had his back to the stage, turned on his chair to watch properly the spectacle.

“Lonely Dog! Bow your head, kneel! And worship at the feet of Santanico Pandemonium!”

The curtain at the back of the stage moved and revealed the silhouette of a beautiful young woman. The whole bar went silent waiting for the display in front of them to go further. Balthazar and the older Winchester adjusted their jackets waiting for more.

You took some steps forward scrutinizing the bar, with an angry frown that most of them found really sexy, in search of the archangel that you were going to, oh, so smite him and kill him very dead. You stopped in the middle of the stage and when the crowd got a full sight of you, some of the men cheered praising your body.

Moving the cape, covering and uncovering your body, to show off, until the fire lighted and the music started, you made a yellow boa constrictor appear out of thin air, to avoid the attention on you, what made some of the guys go wide-eyed. Now, you got the attention of everyone, Sam in particular, and Castiel downed shots of whiskey like a madman, while he watched you sway your hips to the slow rhythm of the music. The only one here enjoying fully and completely the show was the snake.

“That’s Y/N?” Sam gulped and whispered to Balthazar, who was sitting next to him.

“Mhm,” Gabriel hummed in agreement not tearing his eyes from your curves.

“You made her dance for us?” Sam whispered-shouted annoyed. “Tell me this is a dream” Sam commanded.

“Tell me you aren’t enjoying this as much as I am enjoying this, Sam,” Dean asked, earning a bitchface from his bother which he missed, following all your slow movements, watching how the snake tangles around your delicate body.

“She’s going to smite all of us when this song ends” Gabriel affirmed.

“We all are going to die” Balthazar reassured the boys “But I’ll be glad if die after watching this.” He nodded in approval. You swayed your body, to dance sensually sideways, making the snake tangle more around you, with every sway of your hips, with his head on your middle.

“I’m going to hell” Dean spoke a smug grin growing bigger “Again” He clarified.

Cas was silent watching your hypnotic dance intently, keenly interested, keeping his eyes fixed on you, downing whiskey shots, one after one, to calm himself.

The younger Winchester gulped and Cas placed a shot in front of him, witch kindly accepted and downed. He placed the glass in front of him again and motioned to the angel to continue pouring more. He needed a whole liquor store to calm himself and his fast beating heart, one shot wasn’t enough. When Sam placed the glass on the table again, Castiel placed the five glasses in front of him and filled them downing them one second each. It was impossible for them to avert their gaze, especially for Cas.

You moved to the center of the stage again and disentangled the snake from your body, which didn’t want to leave it, by the way. Two girls came behind you and took the snake from your arms. Now, you felt even more naked. You searched the crew again and spotted the boys’ table, a table away from the stage. You left the stage with the help of a kind man, who held your hand carefully to help you balance. Walking slowly and in a sensuous way on the tables, you reached the desired table. Cas gulped hard and followed your moves. You walked past Dean, what made him pout and follow your moves too, stopping in front of Sam.

Oh boy, you were beautiful, gorgeous too, and he had clearly felt his heart explode when you bend down at his eye level, inches from his face, just to reach for the bottle he was holding and put your foot on his mouth and made him drink the whiskey that cascaded down your leg from it.

Dean wasn’t complaining, he was admiring your back and... damn that... view was something that he won’t be able to forget in a long time. he could tell that his brother was enjoying the foot drink, Who has a fetish now? But come on, he wanted some of it too, he was on the game too.

When you were done with the younger Winchester, you pushed his face with your foot and moved to stop in front of your boyfriend. Drinking from a bottle could be sexy? He didn’t know but sure as Heaven, he found it hot damn sexy and he could feel his heart pounding in his chest. It, clearly exploded when you locked eyes with him and bent down to make him drink the whiskey from your lips.

He followed your moves as you stood still and straight in front of him without being able to avoid having such damned wild thoughts that he wanted to fulfill so bad. The angel was projecting so loud that the other two angels were hearing everything, hell, the whole Heaven was hearing him and Chuck was wide-eyed.

You followed your middle with your hand until you reached your head and with a fast movement, you discarded the feathered crown from its place, as the song reached its climax, what made you follow its beat with your head, your hair moving its way.

That was something unexpected, and Castiel was so mesmerized that he didn’t feel the push you gave him with your foot that made him fall from his chair. All that could think and focus was you, and he wished the song never to end. Damn that hip sway, you were going to be the death of him.

Much for all of the present’s dismay, the song reached the end and you stopped dancing, still, eyes locked with Castiel, focused solely on him, who was looking at you intently, as any other guy in this joint.

“That’s what I call a show!” Dean shouted and cheered.

Everyone was so focused on you, that any of the boys noticed that the big guy from earlier walking up to your table. So, focusing on Castiel you hoped off the table and placed your left foot on his chest and pushed him down. In an instant, everyone in the bar was fighting. But neither Cas nor you noticed.

“I'm not gonna drain you completely. You're gonna turn for me. You'll be my slave. You'll live for me. You'll eat bugs because I order it.” You said to your boyfriend looking him right in his blue eyes “Why? Because I don't think you're worthy of human blood. You'll feed on the blood of stray dogs. You'll be my footstool. And at my command, you'll lick the dog shit from my boot heel. Since you'll be my dog, your new name will be "Spot". Welcome to slavery” You spoke to your boyfriend with a mischevious grin.

“Gladly” He replied.

“You work for me. You are my slave” You grabbed him by the lapels of his jacket and made him stand up in front of you.

“Not that I mind” He replied and kissed you passionately.

Suddenly, all the noise and commotion from the bar couldn't be heard any longer, and that’s when you new, you all were back at the Bunker’s library, wearing normal clothes, except you. Without saying any word you left the room heading to the bedroom, feeling Castiel’s eyes on you.

“Come here, slave,” you shouted when your turn the corner and were on the corridor.

Hearing this, Castiel smirked to himself and his feet started walking following you.

“Cassie is a damn lucky guy” Balthazar affirmed making everyone nod in agreement.

“Wanna go for a drink?” Dean spoke all of them agreeing with his words and leaving the Bunker in an instant

Hoped you liked it. Let me know if you want another TV Land and let me know if you want to be tagged.

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lisabelkin-yahoonews · 8 years ago

Text

Sleepless in Seattle, and other places: Trump-induced insomnia stalks blue-state America

Photo illustration: Yahoo News; photos: AP, Getty Images

Susan Rogers, a poet and attorney in California, is “hurtling through space with no direction” on a plane that, she discovers with horror, has no pilot.

Alicia Bowman, a journalist from East Penn, Pa., is racing frantically through a train that is heading the wrong way, flinging off her belongings so she can run faster, calling frantically for her son, who is transgender.

Rachelle Pachtman, who does canine rescue on New York’s Upper West Side, is searching fruitlessly through her refrigerator for something to serve Michelle and Barack Obama, who have just happened to drop by for lunch.

And Allison Graham, a Los Angeles publicist, is in a hotel suite near her old Hell’s Kitchen neighborhood in Manhattan, being interviewed by Donald Trump for a job as a supervisor on one of his big construction projects.

“But I don’t know anything about real estate; I have no qualifications or experience,” she tells him.

“Don’t worry, you’ll be great,” he says.

Then they all wake up.

Blue America is having trouble with sleep — tossing and turning as they lie awake, then falling into nightmares. And those who are suffering tend to blame the 45th president of the United States.

To be sure, a state of heightened anxiety over whoever is in the White House is not new. Two presidents ago, columnist Charles Krauthammer coined Bush Derangement Syndrome, the symptoms of which were the “acute onset of paranoia in otherwise normal people in reaction to the policies, the presidency — nay — the very existence of George W. Bush.” Next came Obama Derangement Syndrome, memorialized by a conspiracy-spouting satirical character on the “Stephanie Miller Happy Hour” radio show.

And now there’s what Hollywood screenwriter Sam Friedlander has spoofed as Trump-Induced Anxiety Disorder.

There is no way to quantify whether there are more sufferers during this administration than previous ones. But for those going through it this time around, it certainly seems very new and very real. And it looms largest in the dead of night, say dozens across the country who described their pillow-punching wakefulness and fraught sleep to Yahoo News.

“I fall asleep and wake up and get a snack and toss and turn and try to make sense of what’s going on,” says Linda Allen, who counsels parents of special-needs children on Long Island. “It’s unfathomable and that inability to reason with it is frustrating, and the whole situation is also enraging. Who could sleep?”

“I have not slept a full night since the election,” says New York fashion designer Ariane Zurcher. “I’m 56 years old. I have never had insomnia or issues with sleeping until this.”

What’s going through their minds in the dark?

Erika Kilborn, a training director for a software company, who has just been diagnosed with cancer, worries she will lose her job as a result of her illness and not be able to afford new insurance as a result of changes in the health care law.

Lea Grover, a Chicago writer, has spent more than one night calculating where in her home she could build fake walls behind which to hide immigrants facing deportation.

Craig Haller, who advocates with school administrators on behalf of students with disabilities in and around Boston, fears changes at the Department of Education will hurt those students.

“I’m afraid my son and nephew will be sent to a war I don’t believe in,” says Linda Cliff Derbacher, a former neonatal nurse now living in Southern California.

“I worry that even though my family members have been American citizens for generations we will be targeted … because of our surnames and our looks,” says Soraida Justiniano of Palm Harbor, Fla.

“I’m worried about the ‘Anne Franks‘ of Syria, Somalia, Yemen,” says tech industry employee Amanda Silver, who is literally sleepless in Seattle, her hometown.

“I am afraid the democratic process is under attack by a nationalist, far-right, authoritarian leader,” says Lori Rivere Rodrig, who teaches math at a New Jersey high school.

The looming prospect of insomnia at the end of the day has led to a swath of ways to encourage sleep. For some, it starts long before bedtime.

Charles Whitin has been rowing madly in Little Compton, R.I. almost since Election Day — “the equivalent of 18 miles a day for a month,” which leads to “a sore backside, but sound sleeping.” Deborah Skolnik is spending time with the plants in her new garden. (“They’re very soothing, and they help me remember that MOST living things on the planet don’t even know Trump exists.”) Lian Dolan, writer and host of the “Satellite Sisters” podcast, stopped watching the news as of Nov. 8, and adopted a German shepherd named Steffi right after Thanksgiving so that she could “walk us both into the ground, about 5 to 6 miles a day. Good for my sleep.” Her sister and podcast partner Liz Dolan is swimming. “There’s no news, real or fake, underwater,” she notes.

Others are meditating — or trying to. Lindsay Steiman, a consumer researcher for Toyota in Hermosa Beach, Calif., was all but ordered to do so by her ob-gyn after she complained of stress and poor sleep from “trying to work full time, raise a family and bring down a fascist regime at the same time,” she says. That was a week ago, and she hasn’t managed to find time to follow her doctor’s orders yet. Hasn’t slept much, either.

As it grows later in the day, every day, the distractions become more varied.

There’s binge TV watching that has nothing to do with politics (“Hallmark Channel,” specifically “’Golden Girls’ and ‘Frasier,’” says Susan Barocas, a Washington, D.C., filmmaker) or everything to do with it (“‘Quantum Leap,’” says Donna Saady. “I keep hoping he’ll leap into someone a few years ago and put right what went wrong.”)

There are books that aim for the same. Portrait photographer Mellon Tytell will only read escapist fiction before bed nowadays — John Grisham and Carl Hiaasen are favorites. Elizabeth Wade, on the other hand, a retired nurse, goes to bed in Ashland, Ore., sharing biographies of former presidents with her husband. Right now they are reading “River of Doubt,” by Candice Millard, which she found on sale at Costco, about Teddy Roosevelt’s journey to find a tributary to the Amazon.

Photo illustration: Yahoo News; photos: AP, Getty Images

“Not sure why we went this way with reading material,” she says. “Maybe just to see what ‘presidential’ really means?”

Once the lights are out, and the screens go dark, that’s when writer Sharon Van Epps, also from Seattle, begins to pray. She’s always said a bedtime prayer, but since November the content has changed.

“I ask that God will help us with this mess and show us how to help ourselves,” she says.

Of course, there are those who skip all of the above and go straight to the medicine or the liquor cabinet. Kasie Shiflett, a bartender and waitress at Dino’s Gourmet in Plattsburgh, N.Y., turns to Tylenol PM. Mary Molina, a retired clinical research assistant in Durham, N.C., rotates among bourbon, vodka, or melatonin, depending on the night.

“Medical marijuana and Glenfiddich,” quips Frederic Alan Maxwell, a researcher in Portland, Ore. “Plus nonmedical marijuana and Glenfiddich.”

And when author Cathryn Jackobsen Ramin brought up her troubled sleep with her new internist the other day, she left the appointment with a prescription for Seroquel and a two-page handout about sleep that the doctor had “just written because so many of her patients had the same problem lately.”

Do any of these strategies work? Not always, sufferers say.

Despite exercising more during the day, Bill Marcus, a venture capitalist in Chicago, is nonetheless “gazing at my smartphone at least an additional 30 to 60 minutes, lying awake at dusk or dawn, filtering through the fake and real developing stories.”

Diana Noya also finds herself staying awake late or waking up early in Yardley, Pa., because that’s when news (and presidential tweets) seem to break. “I feel like I have to consume it all in order to get my own thoughts out to my senators and representatives right away,” she says. “So I’m exhausted, but resisting.”

And when they do fall asleep, there are all those dreams.

“Last night I dreamed we were hiding people in our basement,” says Allentown, Pa., physician Jenni Levy. “Not sure what they were hiding from.”

“I dreamed I was in downtown NYC and it was gutted like Armageddon after 9/11,” says psychotherapist Donna Moss. “Everyone looked like zombies.”

Says Kelly Fincham, who co-founded the Irish Lobby for Immigration Reform, “My weirdest dream so far has been two lions chasing three giraffes in a disused Irish cemetery. Can you find someone to analyze that for me?”

Susannah Greenberg, a book publicist, recently “dreamt I was at a dinner. Someone accused me of leaving the ‘memory door’ open and that that was illegal. I shouted at them: ‘I don’t even know what the memory door is, so how could I have left it open? I did not leave the memory door open!’

“Somehow,” she says, “I think this was about Trump.”

Then there are those who are getting their eight hours because insomnia is not where their stress shows.

Allison Slater Tate, for instance, is having no problem with shuteye in Orlando. Possibly because she’s been stress-snacking since Election night.

“I’ve gained the Trump 15, but I can sleep,” she says.