▲ Tʀɪᴀɴɢᴜʟᴜᴍ;;

"Well, aren't you somethin'? The name's Bill Cipher!"

#;▲: ( short. )

sleticia

#;▲: ( innuo. )

Pan looks pretty satisfied with herself, humming and placing the pistol back into it’s hilt.

Then it begins to heal—

And he’s talking again.

"Jesus christo—" Pan grunts. She slumps against the table, rubbing her face. This is just too irritating now. "Alright. You got your fun little bullet hole in your head." Pan points to the door. "Now get the hell out."

#;▲: ( script. )#shadowofanassassin

bill isn't quite all there, even when he hears her voice, and it takes a moment more for him to snap his gaze up and glare at her. visible eye shifts from white to pitch black, a white pupil making itself known with a simple blink. "you think i'mma let you shoot me, and not return the favor?! that's not very good sportsmanship!" the black cane in his right hand writhes and twists, snaps in various ways and forms, until a pistol lays in it's place, index finger laced with the trigger. "i guess i should give ya the 'any last words' chance, so have at it!"

She smirks, slipping her finger into the trigger.

Don’t have to tell me twice, asshole.

Pan fires off a round, and with her aim it’s headed for the middle of his forehead. A shot like this at point blank is going to hurt, and she hopes that when he does get hit it’ll kill him.

No more Cipher.

"How’s it feel?"

it's too quick to stop, and with the distance between him and the end of the barrel being so close, the bullet goes straight through and carries on until it crashes. a mess of crimson streams down his face, pupil dilating for a single moment before the red turns to black. it stops just before it's about to drip onto his suit, reversing and soaking right back into the wound. he's in a daze for a moment more, blinking and raising a careful hand to settle it where the hole previously was. "not really as fun as i expected--"

#;control.#aka send me an ask or something if you want my username.

-- x. i need more pals on skypeeeee.

She watches him closely, a glare trained right back onto the man. Or demon- whatever he happened to be. Pan didn’t really care what he was at this point.

"Fuck— A favor?" She scoffs. "All you did was screw my brain over. And don’t try to pull the whole 'oh, I taught you a life lesson' bullshit, Cipher.” Pan grunts.

"Whether you’re here for something or not—

Tell me." Pan picks her pistol up.

“I just cleaned this baby up and I’m ready to use it again.”

The sight of the gun makes both brows arch in absolute curiosity and Bill finds himself placing a hand to his chest and squinting to see every rivet, every sly curve of the weapon. Right eye sends a searing shock through his system, and he automatically sports that same uncomfortable laugh as always. "You think that's actually gonna scare me, tutz? Last time I was shot, I was a lil' triangle. Never been shot as a man. Show me how it feels."

#;ooc.#;decipher.#;doodlings.

-- x. it's been a while, folks. oh! drag him around! he's transparent!

She stands and pockets her pistol, soon crossing her arms.

"Then why are you here? Surely

not to be friendly. So spit it out, Cipher." Pan says.

"And yes. I can be rude— especially after what happened last time you made an appearance." She adds.

He hisses in a breath through clenched teeth, turning his head as if he is truly offended by her words. "I'm here for nothin', face it, sweetcheeks--" There is a moment he flashes an eerie grin, but that fades to regular when he speaks. "-- I did you a favor that day. I taught you to expect the unexpected."

thedreamdemon Pan stares. “First of all— Don’t call me pancake.” She sighs and watches him. “Second, we aren’t friends. Now, I’m sure there’s something you want so make it fast.” She grunts.

"You're so rude, but I can't blame ya. I don't really want anything from you in particular, so that theory's pretty much--" He swipes a hand over his throat, "-- terminated."

clocks-never-lie

[Dark eyes snapped over to the {demon}, smile gone and a frustrated growl ripping through his throat. He didn’t bother with f o r m a l i t i e s, marching over to |Bill|.]

“You! How many times have I told you to stop flitting through |Time| like that! Six hundred years! Come on!”