I found more Concept art for Buster while digging through my external harddrive.
Man he went through SO many re-designs, I wanted to make him look WAAYYY different, yet kinda similar to Bendy at first. But I kinda felt like it betrayed the idea of him being Bendy’s older brother, which is why i went in the direction that I did.
And yeah he almost had a tail.
This was a gift for an acquaintance of @gengarofinterest ‘s. Commission slots are still open, if you’re interested. (More on this in a minute.)
They were staying in upstate New York, very close to New Rochelle and its boarding school where Root had had her meeting with Samaritan’s Analogue Interface. The house was large and modern, with a backyard that faced a woody park. According to Root, it was one of Harold’s very first safehouses. When they’d arrived last week, it hadn’t seen occupants in years, and yet someone had kept it clean.
John had left Root in the master bedroom in favor of going out and getting groceries and coffee. By now, he knew of Root’s affinity for Starbucks coffee, and got it for her as often as he could. Every person on Earth had a winter vice. Root’s just so happened to be that one. But coffee was what kept her going, and a decent amount of pills that she took once a day to keep herself from falling over. She slept poorly. Several times he was tempted to buy melatonin, or a stronger sleeping pill, but he figured he would have to ask before making that kind of purchase.
Just get what you’d gotten when you were a college student, Root had told him when he was making the grocery list.
What about when you were a college student? he’d asked.
I was a killer-for-hire when I was college-aged. I lived off takeout and room service and the occasional beef-flavored cup noodles.
Had it been Shaw he was staying with, he would’ve bought her her comfort foods. But this was Root, volatile and fragile, and he didn’t know what her comfort foods were. So he had to guess. He grabbed various meats and vegetables, frozen meals, bags of pasta and different sauces, and desserts. On the way back, he stopped at the nearest Starbucks. Since the month had rolled over to December, they had their Christmas flavors out. The Christmas roast was ever-popular; every customer seemed eager to get their hands on it. John scanned the menu, and realized that he didn’t know what Root’s usual coffee order was.
Hi there, said the cashier. What can I get you?
A grande pike in a venti cup, John said, and a grande Christmas roast.
Is that all?
Yes sir. He pulled out his wallet and paid with a twenty, accepting the change and stepping off to the side to wait.
—
There was music playing when John got back to the house. It was coming from the master bedroom upstairs. A classical piece, by the sound of it. Schubert, maybe? He wondered when Root had gotten an ear for opera.
He put all the groceries in their proper places and went up to tell Root. He found her sitting in the middle of the king bed, laptop open and brightly lit, but not working. Just staring. He cleared his throat, and she looked up at him over the rims of her glasses.
Bought some things, he said. He held out the cup of Christmas roast for her. Got you some coffee, too.
Root got out of bed for the third time and accepted the coffee. She asked, What did you buy?
A few things. I didn’t know what your comfort foods were.
Root’s face softened slightly. Maybe the only person who’d bought her comfort foods was Shaw, after their partnership turned into a friendship.
How’s your cooking? John asked.
It’s decent, Root said, though it’s not Sameen’s.
She made you food?
Despite everything, there was a sad sort of smile in Root’s eyes. She made me food every now and then. It was a habit that started when I interrupted her private time because I needed her stitching skills. Root sipped her coffee. Are we going to make dinner?
We can start whenever you want.
Root went over to her laptop and the music stopped.
I didn’t know you liked opera, John said.
It’s growing on me.
—
Dinner was quiet, as they almost always were. Root played with her food more than she ate it, dragging her fork through the pork dish, or painting the other side of her plate with the sauce that was supposed to accompany it. Reminiscent of a habit of Jessica’s. She’d do this too, when something was on her mind. She would brush it off with a, It’s nothing you should worry about. John hadn’t known what Jessica was thinking. With Root, it was easier. She was thinking of Shaw, and Samaritan, and outcomes.
Sometimes She and I are similar, Root had said, at the beginning of all this. We run through possibilities, sometimes about the future, and other times about what could’ve gone differently.
John’s appetite was dwindling, too. And even though the food was supposed to taste good, he took no notice. Everything was tasteless. Worse than the ready-to-eat packs that his troop had used when he was in the military. But he forced the food down anyway. They wouldn’t find Shaw on empty stomachs or when they fainted from lack of substance.
Root was still sitting at the table when John was cleaning up the dishes. Her plate was barely touched; she’d only taken a few bites of her pork and drunk only half her glass of water.
Do you think they passed through here? John asked softly.
Don’t know, Root replied. I don’t even know where to begin. She picked up her fork again, painted with the sauce. We’re supposed to be tracking a truck.
There’s little sign of it.
I’ve worked with worse. We have footage of it.
The footage was grainy, John remembered, but it was the truck. He turned back to the dishes, plunging his hands into the hot dishwater. So far in their search, there weren’t many signs of the truck. They stopped at every gas station they could think of and asked to see their security footage, flashing their various badges to gain cooperation. They’d had almost no luck until their last stop, just before coming up here, where the grainy footage was shown to them on the gas station’s staticky TV. Root suspected they’d come through New Rochelle, though until they explored tomorrow, there was no telling.
You should go to bed early tonight, John said. Try to get some good hours. He saw Root nodding. At last, she got up and gave her plate, fork, and glass to him.
Thank you for cooking, she murmured. It was good.
[…]
By now, John was used to quiet. It’d stretched from the moment his father’s casket had been lowered from the plane until now, where he was sitting in the kitchen on guard. Moments of expanded silence filled his life. He’d spent them with his mother in their Colorado house, with military buddies before missions and during them, with Kara in a lull before they went after another traitor, with Harold, when he was asked to stay for a drink and small talk until he was dismissed. He always knew when other people were awake. It produced an itch in the silence and a feeling in your ribcage and it was like you could sense the other person, almost as if you were a satellite picking up heat signatures. He could sense Root’s restlessness, almost hear her tossing and turning in that giant bed, almost hear her blinks and breathing and the twisting knot of anxiousness in her gut. He wondered if he should go into the bedroom after all, if she would feel better with him there.
Somewhere in the living room, a clock chimed the hour. Dong, ding. 2 AM. He got up and double-checked the doors and windows, and then quietly made his way upstairs. He peeked into the master bedroom, saw the outline of Root lying on her back with her hands folded over her abdomen.
I’ll see you in the morning, he said.
Goodnight, Root said, rather curtly.
The pillow in the guest bedroom was too hard, but he sank gratefully into the soft mattress. Within half an hour, he finally drifted off to sleep.
—
Her mother had often told her that the hours of the night were merciless in the way that they allowed you to think without interruption. Root became aware of that truth just days after her thirteenth birthday, when Hanna was officially declared missing. She’d lay awake wondering what happened to her, where she was, hoping that she was okay and warm somewhere. Yet the truth had always been there: Hanna was dead maybe mere minutes after climbing into Trent Russell’s car.
That wasn’t the case with Shaw. A truth lied there, too: Root knew she was alive. Her thoughts lay along that path. Where was Shaw? Where was that white truck taking her? What did Samaritan want with her? And, worst of all, would she ever come back?
It was no secret that their odds of survival increased with Shaw by their sides. They would need her when they battled against Samaritan at full force. There would be almost no other way.
You have to be prepared to lose people, Harry, she’d told Finch before she and John left. Or even yourself.
Death comes for us all, Root, he’d responded, and Root’s heart had almost soared at the use of her name, sometimes sooner than others. He’d spun around in his chair then, stopping both of them in their tracks. Are you sure you want to leave?
Yes, John had said. We need Shaw. We’re not going to find her wiling away down here.
History often likes to repeat itself, her mother had told her too. Sometimes twice, sometimes more. First it was Hanna that was taken from her, and then it was Shaw. It seemed history was always eager to take the people Root loved most just to shake her about. And in the early hours of dawn, she found herself wondering if this would always be her fate. She counted the differences between these two disappearances in her head: One, there was no resurfacing evidence with Hanna; there’s resurfacing evidence of Sameen in the form of a white truck. Two, you knew Hanna was dead; you know Sameen is alive. Three, you couldn’t save Hanna; you can save Sameen. Four, there was no hope; there is hope.
Terezi is finding it incredibly hard to play video games at this size, and typing was already quite typing while blind, though now she trips over about every key.
gonna just slide my url in here or something I mean hi-----
send me a tumblr user’s url and I’ll tell you what I think of them
HOLD UP. JPP IS ONE OF THE BEST PURPLE I KNOW IF NOT THE BEST. SHE'S SO SWEET LIKE-- EVEN THROUGH MY BREAK AND DEACTIVATING MY FIRST ACCOUNT IN THE FANDOM SHE STUCK BY. AFTER MONTHS WITHOUT TALKING TO HER I SEND ONE MESSAGE AND IT'S LIKE WE NEVER STOPPED. I honestly love JPP. I remember first talking to her earlier in the year and I was so scared, now I know not to be. Her many muses always make me laugh, and she managed to brighten my day, even if it were at its brightest, she can add into it. I'm not over exaggerating, I'm only saying what's true. And I'm thankful that JPP has been here for everything I've gone through.
Okay so that post where cosima says what have you done what did that one comment mean when the person says Delphine ratted Scott out?
hello! oh wow i didn’t even notice the comment. so right off the top of my head i’m thinking maybe they mean the whole Scott knowing about the clones and how that could be dangerous for the DYAD. and maybe the person theorizes that maybe Delphine accidentally let it slip to Rachel or whoever that Scott knew. i think your best bet is to ask the person who made the comment. :) hope that helps!
Merman Sebastian beautiful and charming and old broken grumpy fisher Lannert and eventually they fall in love
Or Sebastian being all professional like 'ok I got this I got this' and fishing and stuff and merman Lannert appearing every day just to piss him the fuck off and eventually they fall in love
