#unmoving and insensate

[legend-as-old-as-time]

Yes, and then Piraka transforming into the GSB makes everything worse! Leading to Ignika somehow being dropped in Lake Naho. Maybe even out of sight, leaving the toa and turaga without information where she is, because the Piraka refuse to say.

I remembered suggesting Vakama in that previous ask because of the parallels between him and Matoro in canon. There's hints that the writers patterned part of Matoro's arc after Vakama's journey in Time Trap and adapted specific plot points. It feels thematically fitting for the AU that Vakama's near-death parallels Mata Nui's death and resuscitation, and whatever happens to Matoro when he revive the latter with the Ignika.

If Tien helps in the fight with the Golden-Skinned Being as we've been speculating, that means the fusion happened a relatively short time before Vakama's vision. The mental link is even stronger than usual - so the already huge, hurting emptiness where he should be becomes a tear cutting into the other five turaga's very being. They're heightened like in an echo chamber. Maybe they even experience, like a vision, the moment his heart stops.

I've remembered a plot point I suggested - how the toa and turaga learn that the Toa Inika (somehow) must dive into Lake Naho to the Ignika.

This has shifted significantly with the brainstorming we've done since then, but I think Vakama still could have that lethal vision containing significant information. (And his heart stopping because Mata Nui dies temporarily and the feedback plus the terror is so strong that Vakama experiences the same thing as Mata Nui.)

Also. Tien is a thing now. They add another complication because of their physical, metaphysical, and emotional connection to the turaga.

This is at least a few months old sorry Shauni

I think definitely that can still be how they figure out that Mata Nui is dying! Ignika doesn't really have a full memory, and his Swiss cheese brain is struggling to fill in the gaps. On top of that, it's not until a little ways in that the gang actually meets up with Ignika, so they might not be in the picture yet and even if they are they'd be a fairly faulty source of information.

And yessss the addition of Tien really makes this hurt. There's almost an emotional feedback loop of shock/grief/pain/anger going around all five of them, and then relief/joy/anger (but different this time) when Hahli and Kongu revive him.

[misstycloud]

Imagine yandere vampire hunter finding out he married one of the creatures he vowed to destroy. The very monster he dedicated his entire life to kill.

“…no..i-it can’t be..” his voice was barely a whisper, but you heard it loud and clear as if he was right next to you.

You stood still in the darkness, your face was a mask of indifference. If you hadn’t been blinking he would have mistook you for a statue. It appeared you’d been careless and let yourself be seen- by him no less. You could still feel the warmth of the blood dripping down you chin; a curtain of red fell down the front of your dress and stained it.

“Please tell me this isn’t real..” your husband let his eyes wander to the soon-lifeless body laying not far away. Small puffs of air was seen coming for the person, indicating they were not yet dead. The disgusting sound of gurgling in one’s own blood sent a shiver down his spine. His eyes met yours, searching for any sort of confirmation that everything was indeed a figment of his imagination.

“It is, I’m afraid.” You said.

He let out a devestatd choke, muttering ‘no’ over and over while shaking his head, clearly in denial.

You reminded yourself not to show any emotion and stepped forward. “I will not lie to you and therefor I will utter the clear truth in front of you. I am a vampire.”

“No, no you’re not.” He refused to believe it. If it had been his friend; he would prioritise duty before friendship. If it was his brother; he would do the same. Even if it was his own parents; he would die before letting insensible things such as emotions to come in the way of doing what is right. But this was different. It was you. It can’t be you. It could never be you.

But it was. Clearly. The evidence- the body- was right in front of him; unblinking and unmoving.

“You cannot look away from what is in front of you-“

“Stop saying that!” He suddenly shouted, surprising you with the sudden change in tone. “You can’t be one of….them.” He expressed in great repulsion.

Despite knowing how evil your kind is, you still though of yourself as quite good- well, as good as you can be when you’re a blood sucking, murderous creature of the night. So your husbands disdain awoke some sort of defensiveness in you.

“Well I am. And I have been for a while now.”

He seemed to think for a moment. Then he asked, “how long? How long have you been a…a vampire?” He furrowed his brow at the end, not believing he’d connect ‘you’ and the word ‘vampire’ in his life.

“36 years. Not as long as some others, but it should still count as something.”

“Oh god..”

It meant that you were one since the start- no before- your marriage. Was he truly that blind? Had love taken such hold of him that he could no longer do his job properly?

How many vampires had he killed during you union? All that while simultaneously being wed to one himself. While loving one, caring for one and even making passionate love to one. It was like some fucked-up punishment tailor-made for him.

He knew what he had to do.

The first tear fell down his cheek, betraying his stern expression and showcasing his endless sorrow. “You are evil,” he raised his crossbow, “and now you have to be judged for your crimes.” How ironic of him to talk about committing crimes of slaughter as if he wasn’t doing exactly the same. He wasn’t stupid; not all immortals were pure darkness, it wasn’t that simple. They do what they have to in order to survive. Only some killed more than they had to. Still, it didn’t change the fact that they all need to be destroyed.

Your eyes widened when he pointed the weapon straight at you. You expected this. Of course he would kill you. However, a part of you could not stop from hoping he wouldn’t think of you as a monster. That perhaps you’d finally find somewhere you can call home and be accepted for what you are. It was a naive dream. Weren’t you his wife before you were a monster? Apparently not, because an arrow shot at you at incredible speed. It hit you in the arm and you cried out in pain.

While you had physical advantages, it doesn’t mean you are immune to pain.

Ripping it out, you studied the black liquid staining it. Your husband swore and immediately prepared to launch another. You felt your fangs grow in length and you hissed at him. Throwing yourself at him the two of you rolled around on the floor, each trying to restrain the other. You managed to get ahold of his crossbow and threw it away form his reach.

Your husband quickly dug into his pockets to grab a dagger, and tried to stab you. Luckily you stopped him in time, fighting him with your vampiric strength. You had to give it to him, he was surprisingly strong for a human. Despite you having supernatural gifts, he was definitely a match and you had a hard time holding you down. If it was any other situation you would have been impressed and rather seduced by his sheer strength, unfortunately this was not a good situation for you.

You leaned down, planning to bite him, but his fast reflexes let him use his free arm to keep you at a distance. He was now on the floor with you straddling him and trying with all your might to end his life.

Your husband knocked your heads together which was the distraction he needed to kick you off of him. You clenched you forehead in pain and backed away. But there was no more time to dwell on that pain, because it was minor compared to what you felt next. Agony was in your side, accompanied by the dagger you had previously defended yourself against.

Your lover was close. Enough for you to feel his breath, and enough for you to see tears running down his regretful face.

“Why was it you?”

Whether he referred to you being a vampire or you being the one he married, you did not know. It hardly mattered anyway.

In a way, you did love your husband. It was probably not in the normal spousal way but it was there. Maybe if you weren’t a blood-sucker you two would have been truly happy together. Too bad fate had other plans. Even though it was true that you were probably evil, you wanted to live. And despite the one threatening your existence was none other than the man who’d show a you devotion and love you though t you’d never find again, this was not where you wanted it to end.

With a shriek, you used all your power to push him as hard as you could. He flew backwards into the wall. You supposed he’d fainted from the force since he wasn’t making any move to get up. You clutched your side and groaned. You had to get out of there; somewhere safe.

You stumbled to the window and put your foot on the ledge. The dagger he’d stabbed you with must be silver, otherwise it wouldn’t have made as much damage. The wound in your side burned and sizzled with pain. You had no idea if your body would be able to fully heal you in time for when you need blood again- or even at all.

“Ugh….”

You heard a cough from behind you. It was your dearest. He must be sturdier than he looks to have woken up so quickly. He had rolled over to lay on his stomach and had his arms pathetically stretched in your direction.

“D-don’t go.”

You scoffed at his audacity. “What, so you can finally finish me off?”

He whimpered, “ N-no, I’m sorry… I shouldn’t have done that- why did I do that?” The last part appeared to be a criticism on himself. Nevertheless he continued, “please, I won’t do it again. I was wrong, you’re not evil I know that, I don’t know why I said that. I’m so sorry, please..”

A frown adorned your face. “It’s okay. I’m not evil, but I know I’m far from good- I’m not that delusional.” Then you turned back to the view of the outside world.

“Wait, no-“

“I have to go. I really mean it when I say this, ‘thank you for all these years together, they have been the happiest days I am now able to remember’.

“My love, don’t-“

You ignored his pleas as you jumped from the window. You landed in the dirt outside. You looked back at the house which you’d just escaped from and as you prepared to run off to another town and build up a new life (until you’d eventually have to run again) you listened to the scream of the man who’d been your husband for six years.

What was he screaming? What else if not your name.

-

[victoriadallonfan]

I saw a really funny meme about Victoria’s interaction with Gong, and it made me think…

There’s probably a LOT of unexplored potential in bias and prejudice against Cauldron capes, right?

What kind of micro aggressions can form due to this? How does it interact with capes in the same team, politically?

For context:

- Dying 15.3

Victoria gives a pretty well explained summary of Shaker-Movers, helping to explain why the cape is acting like she has PTSD (which is why Vic’s orders work and Gong’s didn’t), and Gong’s simple response is that she is a Cauldron cape.

Ergo, she wouldn’t have these issues like “real” capes. Right? Victoria wants to argue against it, but she has no real proof of this. She has theories but that’s all they are. Theories.

But WE know the truth. Victoria is correct in that vial capes get powers based off of their personality and mental states!

Battery was a passionate and fiery person who uses memories of staying calm, using breathing techniques from her past to help her manage her fear and pain, which gave her the power to become untouchable so long as she forces herself to remain calm and unmoving to charge up.

Newter was insensate with pain, delirious, and his body torn apart when given his vial, and he gained a body that deals with damage, heals, and induces delirium in others.

Sveta was trapped, torn to shreds, skin peeling off in ribbons and trapped metaphorically in a body that wasn’t right for her. She was given ribbons that could get her out of danger, that would provide and protect her with minds of their own, and a body that was what she wanted while still not being hers.

And WB did a great breakdown of the travelers:

There’s more to explore like how Alexandria had a desire to remain young, a mind foggy from drugs and a body sensitive to pain etc etc, but the gist is that cauldron capes DO have power issues related to what they can do. And according to Battery, they experience mind boggling amounts of pain with each drink of a vial.

However…

Would non-cauldron capes even care?

When Taylor learns about cauldron capes, her first reaction is disgust that these people didn’t earn their powers. That they didn’t suffer like REAL Parahumans did.

Even Victoria is offended when she learns Dean was a cauldron cape, as the intimacy of sharing their trigger events was seen as the next step of their relationship.

When Legend explains how they all should have had trigger events, but didn’t, it falls on deaf ears. No one responds to him and Taylor doesn’t give his words much thought at all.

And why should they? Cauldron capes are liars. They’ve been lying all this time. Nothing they say could be taken at face value. Eidolon could give a huge public speech about being born disabled, suffering from seizures, and his suicide attempts… and it would mean nothing.

He LIED to them about his origins. An unspoken rule has been broken. He didn’t suffer enough to earn his powers.

It’s interesting to me that the Undersiders nor Breakthrough had someone who was a voluntary cauldron cape. Sveta was an advocate for C53’s and hated Legend for being part of Cauldron, but we don’t hear her thoughts on people who simply bought powers. Taylor never knew Accord and Citrine were Cauldron until the very end.

I don’t know how to end this, but his line sticks out to me:

- Blinding 11.5

[ineffablyendless]

SMOCTOBER DAY 5: Mile High Club/I'd like that very much

Let's pretend I'm not awfully late to the party, shall we?

Monsterfucker bingo ticked: Claws, extra limbs, a lil bit of fangs

Rating: E

Ship:Hob Gadling/Morpheus|Dream of the Endless (Dreamling)

October 5th (Smoctober)

mile high club/golden/I'd like that very much

Monsterfucker Bingo

Fangs? Extra limb?

“You couldn't,” Hob pants, as he feels fingers and claws scrambling for the button of his jeans, pressed as his front is against the meagre strip of wall between the loo and the air-locked door. “Couldn't wait two more hours for us to get home?”

“Could you?” Morpheus purrs knowingly, whispered against his ear. There are no mirrors-nothing to indicate or show how hulked out Morpheus had become within the cramped confines of the airplane restroom (First class, but even that can only afford them so much)-but he feels fur in place of skin, and the chitter of too many teeth bitten into the stretched collar of his sweatshirt, digging for skin.

Another limb reaches past the band of his jeans, and Morpheus purrs once more to find no other hindrance to Hob's cock-rock hard, despite himself, Morpheus hadn't been wrong about either of their impatience, knows that his endearingly human partner has a libido to match his own, insatiable.

Hob moans softly as a single bone sharp tipped claw teases the slit of his leaking cock, before he brings up his arm to muffle his own noises, lest invite trouble for the poor, underpaid stewardesses. His palm, this palm, is rough with scars and callouses, almost as unforgiving as the inside of his own jeans, providing a satisying, delicious friction as the rest of the limbs Hob's awareness, two-no, three, entertain themselves by caressing the rest of Hob's lust-sensitive body; two hands pinching and flicking his peaked nipples, rucking up the hems of Hob's poor travel sweatshirt and another shoved down the seat of his jeans to tease the globes of his ass, dipping a teasing finger for the twitching hole in between: sore and open and wet from their earlier jaunt in the hotel room this morning, where Hob had laid Morpheus down and rode him screaming, full speed ahead, straight into the sunset.

The hand fisted around his dribbling cock pumps once, twice, thrice and pauses, and Hob is mortified to find himself keening desperately for the absence of friction, brought near to tears for the desperation. He is so, so close.

“Please,” he mutters, hips moving in circles for it's return, humping into slick channel of Morpheus' fist and the finger toying the rim of his gaping ass. He is near insensate with it. “Please please please please pleasepleaseplease,”

You do not seem to need anymore of my help to reach your peak, little one,“ Morpheus chuckles, and Hob only moans, feeling like an overeager puppy from his ministrations. ”Go on, chase it yourself.“

He feels feverish from lust, desperation, utter humiliation as he humps the unmoving fist, and the loving warm cup of his embrace on his ass. All the while he is pressed into the awkward slick plastic wall by what amounts to an upright, fanged weighted blanket, with a mouth void of breath and a slick, long tongue that dips, occasionally, to collect the sweat pooled in his collarbones like the rawest form of ambrosia.

Orgasm comes like the boom of thunder on a clear summer's day-startling-and relief like the invigorating storm. Morpheus purrs one last time, in approval, and Hob is released.

When he turns, the monster-in so many ways-has returned to it's fascimile of human skin, with his indigo starlight eyes and corpse-cold Ivory skin, licking the last of Hob's spends from between the webs of his hand, now returned to two.

”Better?�� Hob asks, teasingly, having gotten his breath back. The look Morpheus sends him is exasperated, humorous, as if he is the one who is meant to ask Hob that. He says instead, sighing: ”I cannot wait to come home.“

”I'll fuck you properly there.” Hob promises, reaching to wrap his arms around Morpheus' waist with a gentle peck to the tip of his nose, as if he had not just been brough to violent orgasm within the airplane bathroom. “Roses and candles, baby. We'll get to celebrate our anniversary properly.”

Morpheus sighs, melting happily into his embrace as he unlocks the restroom door. “I would like that very much.”

[undertheopensky]

Keep and Carry 1

Febuwhump Day 1: Helpless

Characters: Four, Twilight

Trigger warnings: Kidnapping, non-consensual drug use -----

Four is so small. And though his eyes are dark - the fall of his hair looks so much like Colin that Twilight’s heart lurches.

“Four?” he tries again. “Four, c’mon, can you hear me? Gimme a sign, bud, please?”

Four doesn’t so much as twitch. Sprawled on his side in the dingy cell, it’s hard to make him out - thank Ordona for a wolf’s night vision, or Twilight wouldn’t be able to see the slow and too-shallow movement of his chest. His eyes are no help, dull and hazy. He’s barely blinking.

There’s no blood, no bruises save the one blooming at Four’s throat where they’d tried to force him to swallow. Four had spat most of it out, fought them with everything he had, but the bandit leader just laughed.

(Don’ worry, he’d said, ‘e’s ‘ad enough. And Twilight had felt a chill because just what had they dosed him with?)

Worse, he was right. Mere minutes had passed before Four was slumping sideways, too weak to hold himself up, unable to respond to Twilight’s frantic questions. Hair falling in his face, arm caught awkwardly underneath him, he’s in no condition to fight back or escape. He’s helpless.

Twilight wants to pace. There’s an energy caught under his skin, hot and cold and itchy by turns. Sadly the cage is too small for him to even stand up in. Four might have managed, with his head ducked, if he hadn’t been drugged insensate before they shoved him in the next cage over.

…is it his imagination, or is Four’s breathing slowing down?

Twilight can’t reach far - the mesh is spaced too tight and the corded muscle of his forearm can’t squeeze all the way through. Still, he just barely manages to hook a couple of fingers into the edge of Four’s sleeve. Four doesn’t respond to the light tug. It’s not like he’d been expecting him to, but Twilight’s heart sinks.

How much time does he have?

…with how fast Four had gone under, he can’t rely on rescue. He’s gotta get them both out of here. That means looking for weak points - these cages look pretty new, but they also look like they’re supposed to hold things smaller and less crafty than Hylians.

He still hesitates to lose contact.

“I’ll be right back,” he says, in case some part of Four can still hear him.

The lock is shiny and new, and the hinges have been reinforced to prevent easily popping out the door that way. However, the original welds holding the cage together? Those are unobtrusive - and easily missed when looking for things to reinforce against escape.

Suddenly it’s a good thing the cages are too damn small, Twilight breathes. He risks another glance at Four - unmoving - before planting his shoulders against one side and his feet the opposite.

He heaves.

The muscles in his back and abdomen go tight, supporting. It’s his thighs doing the real work: slowly dragging his legs straight while the wire mesh squeaks and squeals, white-hot threads burning from his knees to his hips. There’s no sudden stop, of giving way all at once. Just the slow, stubborn work of bending steel, until the wall of the cage has peeled away from the floor far enough that he can wriggle free.

His legs ache. Even after the pressure is gone he can feel the strain all the way through his hip joints, the force needed to drag metal aside echoing through muscle and bone. He’ll be feeling the reminder for days.

Stupidly, the keys are in easy reach, once he staggers to his feet and can snatch them from their hook. There’s only a handful that will fit the cage locks so it’s a matter of seconds to get Four out.

Four feels just as small in his arms - too small, too light and fragile. His head lolls completely limp on his neck until Twilight gets an arm under it. He doesn’t so much as blink at the movement, at the contact, at Twilight carefully hauling him out of the cage so he can cradle him like something precious. His breathing is so faint Twilight can’t feel it through his tunic - he has to keep glancing down to be sure it’s still there, still making Four’s chest rise and fall with that one critical sign of life.

Four can’t move - can’t speak - can’t even blink. It has to be terrifying. Is he even aware Twilight’s here - that’s he’s not alone? Or have the drugs taken even that small comfort from him, too?

“I have you,” Twilight breathes, and prays it makes it through the haze.

[jazelock]

Patches of pure unblemished white against a brilliant sea of crimson. For the eyes that opened and saw as if for the first time, this was the vivid landscape laid out before them. The bearer of these eyes closed them and opened them again. And again. He did not move.

Presently, after an eternity of these slow deliberate blinks, he turned his head, just enough as to look up at the cold night sky. Neither moon nor stars shone in those fathomless depths. He took in this new view in much the same way as before and for an equally indeterminable amount of time.

By the time he lifted first his head and then the rest of his body from the blanket of snow that had so gently cradled his form, the sky had lightened into a sullen grey, as if the sun itself were reluctant to clear the horizon and cast its rays upon the scene that sprawled before it. By the time the man took his first stumbling steps, leaving a trail of uneven footprints in his wake, the sun had crept from its hiding place and now peeked piteously out from behind the clouds.

He passed many shapes that had been softly covered by the shroud of snowfall. Some bone-deep urge beckoned him towards each still mound, to brush the snow away and study each pale visage.

The snow began to give way the further he walked, revealing first patches and then fields of brown grass and barren dirt. So too did the remains that decided his path, growing fewer and farther between, though never quite drawing to a complete end. As he rose from each unmoving form and cast his gaze about his silent surroundings, always another lay within sight, marking another leg of his journey.

Eventually, he reached another site that bore clear signs of an intense though short-lived skirmish rather than outright slaughter. Two dirt paths diverged here, beneath a worn signpost that creaked with the every gust of biting wind. The soil was dark and sodden still with the life's blood it had greedily swallowed.

He knelt before each mangled form, looked steadily into the rictuses of agony, and waited for revelation.

-

He did not recoil or even blink when the eyes in the face now revealed to him opened, rolled in their sockets until they focused on him. He stared back, frozen.

Bloodless lips moved and he leaned in, entire being now bent towards making out the gasped words.

"—mercy, Scale-Bearer, lead me to the Singing City, Kelemvor, I beseech you, grant me mercy—"

Faintly, as if from a very great distance, he heard the sound of singing and shrieked laughter. Why do you cry, O mother mine? asked the brave boy Jack. The words came to him with familiar ease, though he knew not from whence they came.

He stood. The soldier's eyes followed him, remained locked on his face as he continued his plea, his prayer. "Kelemvor, be my guide—"

The sensation coursing through his veins was not precisely that of clarity, but it was inspiriting. Powerful. Divine. For could there be any clearer portent, he, an empty vessel, to have been led by his god step by step to a supplicant that he might behold his purpose? I cry, my son, for it's your time.

He gazed down at his charge and felt his master's pity fill his hollow chest and stir his motionless heart in what could only be but a mere echo of his god's boundless compassion. And for his own circumstances, no longer was he unmoored and insensate: his god had guided him to where he needed to be.

He reached out his hand and his god provided, one last time. He tested the weapon's heft and found it well-suited (of course it would be), and he held it aloft with both hands, the blade gleaming with the promise of a merciful passing.

To go with the knights in black.

"Kelemvor hears thy praye̶̥̍r̸̫͒," he said gently, and swung.

[caparrucia]

Aaaa! Prompt request: from the sun is out verse: tredd falls asleep cuddling Luche on their couch. Luche continues to do paperwork until Tredd starts talking in his sleep. About him. How luche is strong and capable, and will make a great captain. And about how tredd loves him. Luche cant escape it, because tredd is sprawled on top of him, cant shove him off without waking him up. (Life is lil chaotic rn. Ive got a hankering for some soft love. Thank you so much!)

Luche knows when he's being setup. He's not an idiot. He's Commander of the Kingsglaive, for fuck's sake. He knows.

He also knows better than to try and weasel out of it, when it's either of his idiots that are doing the setup. Aranea's have that sharp edge to them, where he's fucked either way, and choosing to go with or against her is just a matter of choosing the flavor of fucked he's going to end up with. He prides himself in knowing better - being better - than to go in without a clue and it's worked pretty well for him so far. Besides, every time she pulls shit on him, Luche makes sure to teach the kids a new way to set shit on fire. Granted, he usually has to put out that fire, himself, but the look on Aranea's face is worth it.

Tredd's setups he falls into because Tredd doesn't realize they're setups half the time. And that's being charitable. Tredd is the sort of bullheaded idiot that runs his mouth without thinking and wears his stupid, wounded, needy heart in his sleeve and every dumb, stupid thought of his, right on his face. Luche indulges Tredd the same reason he doesn't go out of his way to antagonize children under the age of twelve: because it's hard to justify it in a way that doesn't end up with him feeling like he's a fucking idiot for the effort.

So really, it's no one's doing but his own, whenever he finds himself pinned in place by the bulk of Tredd's insensate body, staring at the ceiling and trying to tune out the soft litany of murmurs pressed against his throat. Because Tredd talks in his sleep, of course he does, and he can't even manage to talk sense.

"Shut your entire mouth," Luche snarls quietly, almost hissing without a sound, as Aranea looms from the stairs, smirk firmly in place at the sight of Tredd sprawled on Luche, effectively dead to the world.

She doesn't say anything, before turning around and heading upstairs, and Luche knows that's worse, guaranteed. He's proven right about ten minutes later, when she throws one of the thick duvets onto them, effectively dooming Luche to the crick in his neck because the couch is old and Tredd is unmovable and fuck him, generally, if he had two grams of sense he'd be long gone.

Maybe tomorrow.

Maybe.

[achtung-attitude]

Her mother, bleeding. All-Kill’s apparent resurrection. The Stand floating at his side, an ugly parody of her friend’s Stand. Her friend who is now gone forever. Feeling more fear than ever before, these images race through Shizuka’s mind, her panic making her insensible.

After everything they had gone through, it wasn’t enough to defeat All-Kill. She falls suddenly, tripping over rubble and collapsing into the wreckage. With that impact, something slips.

“Oh no…! No…!” she thinks, but she can’t stop ACHTUNG BABY’s malfunction. The rubble and ground around her turn invisible, as if a sphere of matter has disappeared. “ No no no…! He’ll find me like this…! Oh no no no no…!”

She tries to rein her ability in, but fails. Her failure exacerbates her stress, expanding the invisibility bubble. She scrambles to run through the wreckage. The bubble follows her through, leaving a trail right to her.

Shizuka trips again and falls face first on the driveway. To any observer, there is only the sound of loose gravel being displaced. Softly groaning, she looks up to see…

“Kilo…” she whispers.

He lies on his stomach, face turned to the side. Still invisible, she crawls over to kneel at his side. Slowly, the invisibility recedes and she reappears, silent beside his unmoving form. 

“I’m sorry…” Shizuka whispers. “I’m sorry for dragging you into this… If you’d never met me…” She falls quiet, and stays that way for a while. 

Run… says a familiar voice. Shizuka raises her head sharply. “Who said that?” she says.

The voice answers, Run. You don’t stand a chance…

“J… Jotaro…? Where are you…?”

You heard him, a different, but equally familiar, voice cries. You’re in no condition to fight! Just run!

“Big bro… H-how am I hearing you-?!”

Jotaro’s voice speaks again. Good grief. You’ll never beat him like this…

Her shoulders slump, bowing her head so deep that her chin touches her collar. “You’re right… What am I supposed to do…? There’s no hope… Do I just give up…?”

That isn’t what we meant, sweetheart.

Shizuka shivers. “Daddy…” she whispers.

You can’t give up, but you have to run for now! I didn’t raise you to be weak, but in your condition, you can’t win! You have to retreat and calm… Calm your mind! 

The voice, which calls out from inside her head, begins to change. Joseph’s warm tones sharpen, becoming more harsh, yet more feminine. Just like before, it’s unmistakably familiar. “Mom…?” Shizuka mutters.

Only with a clear mind can you put an end to this bastard! Run now, then win later!

The technicolor girl is motionless, until finally, she pulls a smile. The voice, which at first seemed to be T’onga’s, is in fact, her own. “Oh, I see… It’s not really you guys… It’s just me, talking to myself…”

You heard ‘em, girl… Just run.  

Shizuka blinks, gazing at her friend’s body. Hearing his voice in her head. She rubs her eyes roughly. “Yeah… Yeah! That’s it! I can do it! I already… Have everything I need!”

A clattering of debris comes from the destroyed mansion. All-Kill approaches. Shizuka snaps out of her daze and stands, sparing a final look at Kilo’s body before she sprints down the driveway. “This is it…” she declares, “The strength of the Joestar family… the strength of my mother… and the strength of my friends! This is my foundation!”

A moment later, All-Kill emerges from the wreckage. As casually as he’s able, he makes his way down the driveway. Spotting the deceased Kilo, he pauses by the body and looks down at it. “Thanks for the Stand.”

BANG!!!

A bullet flies at All-Kill from behind. LONELY BOY thrashes the air surrounding its user, freezing it in mid-air. All-Kill regards it with mild surprise.

BANG!!! BANG BANG BANG!!!

More shots ring out, but each bullet is frozen without coming near their target. The man in black turns, sauntering over Kilo’s body, to the source of the shots: the bushes near the mansion’s side passage.

LONELY BOY pulls the foliage aside to allow All-Kill to peer inside. He is met by Jerome’s shaking hands, the barrel of the pistol pointed at him. But the man in black simply turns his back on him. “Get off my property,” he commands, “You’re not worth dealing with.” With that, he walks away. Jerome's hands continue to shake as he grips the pistol.

[just-horrible-things]

‘Verse: Resistance Story: Chewtoy AU, co-author @whump-sprite Timeline: The Resistance have rescued Connor from the feds

Reunion [Prev | Next]

Taryn knocks before letting herself in. Milonas is on her feet and halfway to the door by the time Taryn has it open. 

She's dressed in the jeans she traveled in, plus a borrowed sweater that's a little too large for her frame. It conspires with the hollows under her eyes to make her look very thin and fragile.

Behind her the bed is made with military precision, a slight dent in the covers giving away where she was sitting. Her backpack leans against the foot of the bed, still packed, zip closed. 

"We have him," Taryn says, grim despite the success. "He's… it's bad. He's… not stable, yet. I'm not sure if he'll survive. I'm hoping he will." The first hints of wide-eyed hope dissolve into bitter understanding. Milonas nods once, mouth pressed into a flat line.  "I understand," she says. "Thank you. Thank you for getting him out."

She was a prisoner once. She might know what to expect. … but it's so bad. Can she really be prepared?

The silence is a few seconds too long. Milonas expects more from her, but Taryn doesn't know what more she can say. There's no way to make this better. 

"Come with me," she says, trying to make the instruction gentle. "Bring your bag – and any clothes you want from here. You'll stay with him now."

Milonas picks up her bag, glances once at the dresser, then steps forward.

"Anything from the bathroom?" Taryn prompts, but Milonas shakes her head. 

She's a mute shadow on Taryn's heels all the way to the car, then a silent passenger, hands folded in her lap. Taryn wishes she could say something to make the situation better, but she's right to be worried and upset.

At every threshold, Milonas hesitates, waiting for Taryn to nod her forwards. Maybe she's expecting some magical barrier to block her way if she doesn't have Taryn's express permission. Or maybe she's just overwhelmed and out of her depth. 

Even at the final door to the bedroom, where no force in the world would hold Taryn back if it was one of her friends lying broken and half-conscious behind that door – Milonas falters and looks to Taryn and Taryn has to usher her through. 

Cora is sitting with Connor again, holding his head in her lap. Watching to make sure he's breathing. He's quiet and unmoving, still drugged most of the way out of his mind. 

He looks a little better, with the covers hiding most of the horror. The bandages go up to his neck. A dressing covers the mark where the whip licked up over the line of his jaw. While Taryn was gone, Cora has even used a little magic to clean the blood from his hair. 

But there's no hiding the bruising, or the cracked lips, or the hollows of his cheeks. He looks about as close to death as he is. 

Taryn's ready to handle a sobbing breakdown or panic attack. She's ready for anger and accusations – Why didn't you get to him sooner? Why haven't you done more to help him? 

She's angry. Her blood boils every time she looks at what those fucking monsters did to this man – one of their own no less. 

Milonas freezes up a few steps into the room, eyes locked onto Connor. After a few seconds her gaze flicks to Taryn, inscrutably blank, searching for – something. 

"Come here," Cora urges, and Milonas obeys. "Sit with him, here." Very carefully she shifts out from under Thompson's head. She pats the bed where she was sitting, and takes Milonas' arm to guide her to sit down before lifting Thompson gently into her lap.  "He's on a lot of drugs, so he's sleeping right now. But he'll want to see you when he wakes up."

Milonas looks down at Thompson. She brings a hand to his face, hesitates, then carefully lays it against his cheek. He's insensible. 

Milonas' gaze moves to Cora, to Taryn, to the IV by the bed, then down the length of Connor's body. 

"Can I see?" she asks. Her voice is level, almost unnervingly so.

Taryn lifts the covers with magic. 

The dressings cover the open wounds. But blood is already spotting through the gauze in places. And nothing hides the grotesque ruin of his hands and feet.

Taryn's still waiting for the tears, the tremor, the breakdown. But there's nothing. Milonas just… looks. And when she's done looking, she looks back to Taryn, impassive, expectant.

Maybe this is just what her coping looks like. Maybe she's just pushing it down.

But Taryn wouldn't be coping, if it was someone she cared about – someone she really cared about – lying there in this condition. She'd be losing her mind. 

She’s trying not to judge too harshly. But this total lack of reaction makes her uneasy. Were these two ever really friends? Milonas was a federal agent once, by her own admission. 

Taryn would hate to leave Thompson in this state with someone who doesn't have his best interests at heart. 

“We’re giving him blood,” she explains, indicating the line in his arm, “along with painkillers and antibiotics. He’ll need more of the medicines at regular intervals. I’d like you to be the one to stay with him, look after him, give him the drugs. If you think you can handle that.”

It’s a lot to ask of someone in Ariadne’s position. Taryn feels a little guilty that she’s based her decision on convenience. This way no one else has to babysit them day and night. 

“Yes,” Milonas agrees, nodding. “Show me what to do.”

So Taryn does. 

“I’m not a nurse or a doctor, but I’ve picked a few things up.”

She writes everything down – not just the times and dosages but detailed instructions. She shows Milonas how to work the IV – and watches a little incredulously as she repeats what she was shown without faltering.

Taryn wouldn’t be capable of taking in new information, under the circumstances. Her hands would not be steady.

Has Milonas seen this before when she was a prisoner, or did she used to be the one holding the whip?

She came to them promising anything, but all she really sold was Connor’s information.

“For now, just sit with him,” she concludes. “Be with him, talk to him. When he starts to come round, let him know that he’s safe. He needs to see a friendly face.”

And Taryn will be watching, just in case Milonas isn’t friendly at all.

[Next]

[stankycowboy]

“ severen , there are some things you will never understand.” from grandma

Dark brows draw toward one another, an almost childish display of frustration at this gentle chiding. He of course knows the truth of what she says, even his human knowledge is limited; anything beyond an even deeper mystery. But that does not stop his wanting to understand. That which alludes him in this place seems to be ever increasing and it irritates him. So close to the borderlands of the supernatural world and yet never crossing into them properly. He wants to be like them, of this place, instead of an extraneous inclusion due to fortuitous happenstance. A stranger to these parts. The desire to have this same innate belonging is as painful a gnawing as the never closing chasm of his lost family. A near desperate need to be a part of something now that all other connection is severed.

With a heavy, nearly exasperated sigh hissing through his teeth-- though he is sure to keep his manner respectful around the ancient woman -- Severen sits back from the fire they are gathered around, casting his eyes around the open forest as if it held the secrets he so hungered for. Were that anything so well guarded be so readily disclosed. "Why", is all he can come up with in response. It isn't a question, more demanding, whether he has any right to be so forward. His upturned palms lifted in placation toward his elder, expression miserable, despondent. "Why can' I unnerstan', why's it gotta be difficult?" He seeks a bridge, either to the past or to the future, feeling lost in the present. Where is he supposed to be? Where does he belong in this world of light and dark? Evermore in twisting shadows. There is nothing given freely in this world. Her face remains implacable, an impenetrably placid smile-- he wonders if this trait is genetic. "Granny..." he sighs again, finding it hard to maintain his indignant frustration, not toward her, the one who has been warm, welcoming-- perhaps beyond reason with how insensible the savage brute could be. The crone seems unmoved by his moodiness, even charmed at his earnestness, but she is as outwardly unknowable as the surrounding trees. Even understanding this he strides forth into the depths anyway, risking sanity for the sake of discovery. "What c'n I know?" It is a better question, in response all he receives is a soft, snorted laugh. There is a show of uneven teeth in her well meaning smile, gnarled hands working along the walking stick Severen has never quite determined the necessity for. "You'll know it, when you do". Comes the answer like every fable he has ever heard since boyhood. His head and shoulders sink with the weight of his disappointment. It renews her mirth. Like all old mothers the world over, she turns the conversation to one of appetite, finding him underfed-- if possible with his over eager ways-- encouraging him to go out and find a group of hunters she knows that have been skirting the edges of the more habitable sections of the endless wood. It might make for good sport. The suggestion feels mildly dismissive, but he has good sense not to press. If she has seen fit to be done with him, it is time to move on. There will always be another time around the fire. Another time, until they pass; like all else, into memory.

[sorrows-of-young-werther-daily]

November 3

Witness, Heaven, how often I lie down in my bed with a wish, and even a hope, that I may never awaken again. And in the morning, when I open my eyes, I behold the sun once more, and am wretched. If I were whimsical, I might blame the weather, or an acquaintance, or some personal disappointment, for my discontented mind; and then this insupportable load of trouble would not rest entirely upon myself. But, alas! I feel it too sadly. I am alone the cause of my own woe, am I not? Truly, my own bosom contains the source of all my sorrow, as it previously contained the source of all my pleasure. Am I not the same being who once enjoyed an excess of happiness, who, at every step, saw paradise open before him, and whose heart was ever expanded toward the whole world? And this heart is now dead, no sentiment can revive it; my eyes are dry; and my senses, no more refreshed by the influence of soft tears, wither and consume my brain. I suffer much, for I have lost the only charm of life: that active, sacred power which created worlds around me,—it is no more. When I look from my window at the distant hills, and behold the morning sun breaking through the mists, and illuminating the country around, which is still wrapped in silence, whilst the soft stream winds gently through the willows, which have shed their leaves; when glorious nature displays all her beauties before me, and her wondrous prospects are ineffectual to extract one tear of joy from my withered heart, I feel that in such a moment I stand like a reprobate before heaven, hardened, insensible, and unmoved. Oftentimes do I then bend my knee to the earth, and implore God for the blessing of tears, as the desponding labourer in some scorching climate prays for the dews of heaven to moisten his parched corn.

But I feel that God does not grant sunshine or rain to our importunate entreaties. And oh, those bygone days, whose memory now torments me! why were they so fortunate? Because I then waited with patience for the blessings of the Eternal, and received his gifts with the grateful feelings of a thankful heart.

[wisdomfish]

Creation is sensible, humanity, not so...

Even the winds and storms, which no earthly power can control, obeyed him... He did not walk upon tapestry; but, when he walked on the sea, the waters supported him: all parts of the creation, excepting sinful men, honored him as their Creator… The frame of nature solemnized the death of its Author; heaven and earth were mourners; the sun was clad in black; and, if the inhabitants of the earth were unmoved, the earth itself trembled under the awful load; there were few to pay the Jewish complement of rending their garments, but the rocks were not so insensible; they rent their bowels. ~ John MacLaurin

[lennart11412]

in·do·lent

[ˈindələnt]

ADJECTIVE

1.       wanting to avoid activity or exertion; lazy:

"they were indolent and addicted to a life of pleasure"

SIMILAR: lazy idle  slothful loafing   work-shy shiftless apathetic lackadaisical inactive  inert lifeless  sluggish lethargic listless languid torpid slow slow-moving dull plodding slack lax remiss negligent good-for-nothing fainéant otiose

lo·tus eat·er

[ˈlōdəs ˌēdər]

NOUN

1. greek mythology

a member of a people represented by Homer as living in a state of dreamy forgetfulness and idleness as a result of eating the fruit of the lotus plant:

"on arrival at the land of the lotus eaters, Odysseus sends out a reconnaissance party"

·         a person who spends their time indulging in pleasure and luxury rather than dealing with practical concerns:

"life as a lotus eater in sunny climes appears to be well and truly over"

 fai·né·ant

[ˈfānēənt]

NOUN

archaic

1.      an idle or ineffective person.

synonyms:

unmoving · motionless · immobile · still · stock-still · stationary · static · dormant · sleeping · unconscious · comatose · lifeless · inanimate · insensible · senseless · insensate · insentient · inactive · idle · indolent · slack · lazy · loafing · slothful · dull · sluggish · lethargic · stagnant · languid · listless · torpid · unconcerned · apathetic · indifferent · otiose · out cold · soporose · soporous

[honorhearted]

Rising from the ground on unsteady limbs, Ben brushed the dirt and leaves from off his coat and backside, then looked toward Levi with a firm jut of his chin.

“I won’t fail you again, Major. We’ll see Samuel home…”

"Don't you promise me that," he hissed. "Have you learned nothing from the past five minutes? War isn't a time of promises and certainty -- we can never guarantee anything. Not even for the ones we love." Chin wobbling, he cursed and turned away from the boy, staggering back up the hill as though drunk. His knees felt weak and useless, and there was hurt -- so, so much hurt -- dragging across his heartstrings akin to a sharpened blade.

Ben could hear Levi following after, but didn't turn to acknowledge the boy's pursuit. Tensing his hands at his sides, he instead returned to the forest's edge with grim determination, his heart in his throat at the sight that awaited him.

Sammy...

Although Samuel was lying there, cold and wide-eyed and unmoving, all Ben could see was his little brother as a mere infant, so helpless and in need of protection...

Trying not to appear too eager, Ben held out his hands and brightened when Nathaniel set the small, squirming bundle down into his arms. Samuel’s face wrinkled with displeasure for a moment, but he soon relaxed and turned in toward his big brother's chest.

Pleased, Ben lowered his voice into a whisper and promised, “I’ve got you, Sammy. I won’t let anything happen to you. Not ever.”

Feeling sick to his stomach, Ben slowly sank to his knees and took Samuel's hand in his. I won't let anything happen to you... How could he have broken his most important vow? Quivering, he squeezed his brother's cold fingers and swallowed, nauseous as Levi finally joined him.

"Help me lift him up," Ben rasped, his voice raw. "I don't want him getting hurt." Even as he said these words, he knew they were insensible -- he knew it, he knew it -- and yet a part of him still refused to accept the inevitable.

Waiting for Levi to follow his lead, Ben gently cradled Samuel's head beneath his palm, then supported his torso with the other while Levi tended to Samuel's feet. Together, they lifted the emaciated young man and carried him over to Ben's horse, where they carefully draped him over the snorting mare.

"I'm not coming back with you," he softly informed the boy. "Caleb knows of my plans -- the ones that are necessary to the army -- so find him and tell him I'm going home." Eyes dark and devoid of their usual warmth, Ben brushed the hair from Samuel's eyes and murmured, "I'm not sure when I'll be back."

She could feel the tension thinning the air, anger radiating from Ben’s body. He wanted something from her. To fight maybe? Hell, if she weren’t a coward, she would oblige him, give him the chance to take out his anger, even if it meant he decided to run her through with a blade. Perhaps she’d have the chance to confess her sins before drawing her last breath. 

I lied to you. I’m not Levi Abbott. I’m Rebekah Abbott. I took his place upon his death. You’ve trained me as a soldier but the law dictates that I have no right to fight as a man does. I’m responsible for all this sorrow. 

"I need you to help me put Sammy on my horse. Come hell or high water, I'm taking my brother home. He doesn't deserve to be dumped in some nameless grave -- a fate that's befallen far too many in this army."

The faint remnants of tremors still rattling her bones, Rebekah forced herself to slowly sit up, back sore and neck stiff, head throbbing with stinging pain. 

She hadn’t the time to be selfish, to reveal herself for the sake of clearing her conscience. Ben needed her to keep a level head and be a soldier. He needed her to be Levi, not Rebekah. 

Quit your whining and repulsive self-loathing and stand up, damn you. 

Her lungs still burned and her muscles ached, but she shoved the thought of pain away as she pushed herself up onto her feet, legs wobbling a bit before she found her footing. No more tears, no more worrying about Rebekah Abbott.

“I won’t fail you again, Major. We’ll see Samuel home…”

[loudsouldisease]

Awake

Satisfied mind trained brain controlling desires frozen feelings Live in a shell cold inside Watching steps care with fire Lost in a paradise Alone in a crowd insensible in heaven Unmoved asleep faint feeble nothing to look nothing to expect nothing to yearn Live is a road winding and long there’s no end in the end trip is the sense Crossroads to find escapes to discover hope for…

[krakair]

stolid (adj.)

c. 1600, back-formation from stolidity, or else from French stolide (16c.), from Latin stolidus "insensible, dull, slow, brutish, rude, stupid," properly "unmovable," related to stultus "foolish," from PIE *stol-ido-, suffixed form of root *stel- "to put, stand, put in order," with derivatives referring to a standing object or place.