#writhing on the floor in agony/pos

[ianthewife]

what a fine evening to sit with eyes watering as i think about the ep 40 talk over the radio between paige and hayward— god they make me so unwell, making them unable to hear each other was such a great fucking choice it literally makes me feel insane, the absolute raw emotion of them reaching for each other despite and through everything oh im gonna be sick god

[horsemeatluvr23]

ETHO IS IN MCC ?!?!?!? IN GODS YEAR 2024 ?!?!?!?! with tango skizz and impulse too

[lotus-pear]

YOUR NEWEST SKK ART??????? SCREAMING AND THRWOING UP BLOOD AND MY GUTS VIOLENTLY ACROSS THE FLOOR AS I WRITHE IN AGONY /POS THEY LOOK LIKE FALLEN ANGELS AND THE HALF DARK HALF LIGHT CANVAS IS LIKE SYMBOLIC OF THEIR TWO SIDES OF THE SAME COIN DYNAMIC ACTUALLY KILLING MYSELF

WAAHHHH TYSM I HAD SM FUN DOING THE POSING AND COMPOSITION THEY R HONESTLY SO RENAISSANCE PAINTING CODED IMO IDK WHY PPL DONT DRAW THEM LIKE THAT MORE OFTEN😭😭

[docterzerocare]

Doc the Fnaf kids make me go AOHTUF4HJCHJ

because like. technically we know next to nothing about them canonically, just that Charlie was kind and willing to help others, that Afton apparently fucked up so bad in whatever he did to Cassidy that they're not just a vengeful spirit but that they Literally Created A Personalized Hell For Him That They're Tormenting Him In For, Likely, Eternity, and that Susie had a dog that she loved.

but i wanna talk about Cassidy.

so like. Cassidy's nonbinary to me. but they're forced to look feminine-ish because. 1980's.

the personality i gave to them is that they're a bit sarcastic, moody and a bit aggressive (They're A Queer Preteen In The Fucking 80's Who's Bullied Practically For That Alone I'd Say They Deserve To Be A Bit Pissed), but ultimately mean well and would literally kill for their loved ones. death only ramps that anger up to a twenty five, and they become much more aggressive and violent.

they used to babysit Adrian, William's youngest son (my version of the Crying Child), and are the one who made him his Fredbear Plush

they have a crush on Charlie, one of the first and only people who were kind to them after they came out (aside from the other Missing Kids, Afton Kids, Henry, and Sammy, of course). Charlie reciprocated the crush (as much as one could in, again, The Fucking 80's), and the two of them were close as could be.

and then Charlie died. Cassidy swore that day that they would find whoever did it and fucking kill them. (*Afton Sweats Nervously*)

as their friends got slowly picked off one by one, Cassidy got angrier and more protective over Mike, one of the few people they had left.

and they died protecting him, dying in one of the most painful ways possible, their body discarded in a lake like it was nothing but trash.

their friends, along with their crush, were murdered by a man the two of them trusted.

of course they're fucking angry.

and when they finally corner him, and he makes the fatal mistake of thinking that his old tricks will save him, they watch as the springlocks snap right back into place.

Fritz covers Susie's eyes and turns to look at the wall; she's only six, after all, she shouldn't be seeing this. Gabriel and Jeremy both look at the floor, not wanting to see it either. even out in the hall, Charlie has Adrian's ears covered. the kid might have complicated feelings on his dad, but...it's still his dad.

Cassidy, however, looks the man straight in his eyes. they know exactly what he's feeling right now.

it's the very same pain he put them through over a decade ago, after all.

even as the others start fading away, Cassidy lingers behind, watching as Afton writhes in agony on the ground. they just smirk at him, and fade away like the others.

but they aren't free yet. no, that's not for another couple of decades, at least.

(tl;dr Cassidy my beloved <3 they went through so much shit istg-)

Oughghhh omg /pos

them <3

[monamourbladie-mb]

19 Years Later... [Anakin Skywalker/Darth Vader x reader miniseries]

19 years have passed since Y/n’s husband Anakin’s death, and she has become the leading General of the newly founded Rebellion alongside her past Jedi friend Obi-Wan Kenobi, now known as Ben Kenobi. When her children Luke and Leia Skywalker gets kidnapped by Darth Vader, the man who killed her husband; her and Obi-Wan Kenobi must come rescue her. But when she finds out who’s behind Darth Vader’s mask, the truth is something she never thought she had to prepare herself for.

——————

i’m so freaking excited for this fanfic, holy shit. i’ve had this idea since April 2020 and i decided to say fuck it since you guys seemed interested. i hope you enjoy it!!! get ready for an angst and sex train, cause it’s coming in hot 🥵 😏

Index:

prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2 [Coming soon]

Warnings: None

WC: 1.3k

——————

People say love is a forever thing. But for Y/n and Anakin Skywalker, their time together was cut short the day Darth Vader murdered Anakin almost 20 years ago on Mustafar.

Y/n remembered the day so vividly - it was the scariest, saddest, and all the same happiest day of her life. It was the day her twin children, Luke and Leia Skywalker, were born; and it was also the day the love of her life was killed.

Y/n didn’t remember much of that, between the two events. According to Obi-Wan Kenobi, he had said that Anakin was behind the attacks at the Jedi Temple, and the man behind the murder of countless Jedi. Y/n couldn’t bring herself that the man she was married to could do such a horrible, despicable act.

She didn’t believe it until she saw first hand his anger - the way his voice changed, how cold his gaze had become. He tried to sugarcoat his villainous words to her, speaking gently, “Obi-Wan is trying to turn you against me.”

But when he had noticed Obi-Wan was on the ship alongside Y/n, Anakin lost all sense of reality and tried killing her.

The last memory she had of seeing her future husband was tainted with fear - the sight of him angrily raising his fingers to choke his lover.

When she awoke, she felt her body give in and start to writhe from excruciating labor pains. The pain she felt throughout her back and belly, however, were nothing in comparison to the never-ending ache in her heart that started when Obi-Wan muttered the words, “Anakin is dead.”

Barely able to cling to life, Y/n was able to deliver two healthy children, whom she had named Luke and Leia. Obi held her hand gently, smiling testy eyed, “Anakin would be so happy to see his little family. I promise I’m here to support and protect the three of you.”

Tears from pain and sorrow streamed down her cheeks as she cradled Leia close to her breast, sobbing as her body shook.

He should be here. I should be squeezing his hand, not Obi’s. He should be holding his son, not Obi. I shouldn’t be a widow.

When she found out the truth about how Anakin died, she was even more torn apart. Anakin didn’t even get a chance to explain his actions at the Temple - he was murdered by a man named Darth Vader before he could repent. She lost her husband to a murderous sith lord.

Obi-Wan took it upon himself to take care of Y/n, Luke, and Leia and got them a home on Tattooine. He knew that Y/n was never good on her own - even though she was a Jedi, she hated being alone. So he stayed with them, helping her raise Luke and Leia with just the two of them.

Knowing they were a target from Darth Vader, Obi-Wan knew that they’d had to change their names. He changed his to Ben Kenobi, a nickname an old lover gave him; and Y/n changed her name to Cecelia Jonas, a drastic difference from Y/n Skywalker. When it was just them, they would refer to each other as their old names for old time’s sake.

Raising twins without their biological father was very, very hard. There were many nights Luke or Leia would ask about their beloved late father, causing her to get teary-eyed remembering.

Nights when Luke would play around with the droids, speaking with C3-PO and laughing reminded Obi and Y/n of Anakin.

Having a son who looked just like a young version of Anakin was no help to her healing heart. Yet, no matter what she swore to never remarry — her heart belonged to Anakin Skywalker, and Anakin Skywalker alone.

By now, it was 19 years since Anakin had died. The Galactic Empire was rising, and the Rebels rose in contradiction, hoping to defend the Galaxy.

Meanwhile, Darth Vader stormed around his Death Star ship in an angry stance, slicing anyone who dared to comment on his more-so than normal angry aura.

He crossed his arms, looking outside the Death Star, “What do you mean you lost the plans?” His breathing labored and heavy as usual. The mask wasn’t even needed for him — the cocky bastard just wanted to come off as more intimidating.

“Someone... someone had sold the plans. And now General Jonas-“

Vader grunted and raised his fist, beginning to force choke the man mercilessly, “Find me who sold the plans and bring them to me. I want their death slow and painful. And find me General Jonas, I want to have a chat with them.”

The man’s eye’s rolled back as his vision blackened, then he collapsed onto the floor, gasping for air.

Vader strutted off, his signature Skywalker strut all the more prominent and powerful enveloped in his robotic suit of armor.

Ever since his fall, Vader had one thing on his mind. Completing out his Master’s will so he would finally teach him how to bring people back from the dead.

Vader reached his quarters and shut the door, locking it using the force with a simple flick of his wrist. He begrudgingly walked to the bathroom, slamming the door shut and hunched over the sink, his breathing getting more rapid until the noise irritated him to let out a yell in anger.

He took off his black mask in frustration and slammed it down on the countertop, his hands gripping it’s sides so tightly he felt his flesh hand feel numb. He looked up in the mirror, his ear-length brown hair dampened down with sweat as he looked at himself in the mirror.

“Who the hell even are you,” he grumbled to himself, running his gloved fingers through his hair. He sighed heavily and shook his head, the memory of her gasping for air replaying in his mind as his anger grew, “It’s my fault. It’s my fucking fault you and our child are dead!” he yelled to no in but himself, tears beginning to prick his yellow eyes.

With shaky hands, he dipped into his pocket and took out the necklace he crafted for her all those years ago, smiling sadly down at it as he rubbed it with his thumb.

“This is all for you, my love bird. All of it, so I can bring you home to me.” His voice trailed as he kissed the necklace, putting it back in his pocket gently as he let out a heavy sigh, wiping his tears quickly.

Vader thrived on pain now. Once he found out his wife was killed by his own hand, he lost all sense of himself. Anakin died when he knelt and took Darth Vader’s name, but Anakin truly died the moment Palpatine uttered those words.

“It seems, in your anger, you killed her.”

“Shit husband I was,” he growled, putting his glove back up on his flesh hand after he glared at his wedding band.

It gave him a mixed feeling - he missed his wife dearly, but yet it was also a deadly reminder how much of a horrible man he was.

The separated couple went to bed in tears that night, wishing and praying that somehow, someway they could be reunited.

But the both of them knew the only way that would happen is if they died, which was out of the question.

So they laid there awake in agony, their heart crying out to be reunited with their lover once more.

[teen-heart-throb-mr-hyde]

Why Didn’t You Stop Me - Chapter One

bro i can’t believe i actually wrote this anyways im pretty proud. if you wanna read it on ao3 it’s right here

The rain was strange that night. It came infrequently, in short tapping sounds upon the bedroom window. Despite the rain’s strange quietness, it woke Emma.

She stared at the darkened ceiling of her room, feeling her stomach rise and fall with her slow, even breathing. She sighed. Drowsily, Emma pushed herself to sit upon the edge of her bed. Her bare feet touched the cold floor as she stood and hiked up her nightgown ever so slightly with slow fingers. Each step towards her bedroom’s window was passive and delicate in an attempt to stop the floorboards from creaking, which she achieved with some success. With her other hand, she reached to open the window. The whistle of the wind and the hum of a dreaming London always helped her sleep. Moonlight made her thin fingers turn white as she reached for the window’s latch when she paused. There was no rain.

Then a small rock bounced against her window.

Having been knocked out of her tired stupor, Emma rushes to the window and threw it open. She looked down. Standing just a few feet below, rearing back to throw another pebble, was her fiancé, and love of her life, Henry Jekyll.

“Henry!” She called, trying not to laugh. “What on earth are you doing down there?”

He jumped, clearly not expecting her to appear at that particular moment.

“I needed to speak with you!” He called back up.

Emma leaned on her windowsill, her head tilted in amusement. She felt like Juliet.

“Why didn’t you just come in?”

“I needed to speak with you privately.” Henry amended his last statement. “Just…get dressed and come down.”

A sigh escaped her lips. Not of frustration or distress, one of longing. The type of sigh you can only give when the one you care about above all does something incredibly ridiculous. The kind of sigh that can only lead to the utterance of one phrase.

“I love you.”

Emma only caught a glimpse of Henry’s face lighting up in pink and red before she pulled back inside. She dressed as quickly as she could manage, throwing on a pale blouse and simple blue skirt that swept across her feet. She barely put her hair up and rather scandalously, in her mind, didn’t bother with a corset. Besides, she was just meeting Henry. She was getting married to the man in six weeks. Only after a few minutes later, she appeared outside.

When Henry saw Emma, like a beautiful apparition in the moonlight, he rushed to her and caught her in an embrace. She ran a hand across his cheek, coaxing his lips to hers. His kiss felt like the first breath of autumn. Henry pulled away, unable to pull his mouth out of a smile.

“Emma,” He said. “I need your help with my experiment.”

She giggled, slightly perplexed.

“What do you mean?” She asked. “Your proposal was rejected, you don’t have a subject.”

“I know that.” Henry took a few steps from her. “But, I do have a subject.”

Emma placed her hands together. Her stomach knotted with dread.

“Henry, you’re frightening me. What do you mean you have a subject.”

“I’m going to use myself, Emma.” He looked back at her.

That’s what she was afraid he was going to say. She padded forward, clinging onto his arm.

“You can’t be serious…” She said. She rested her head on his shoulder in a fruitless pleading gesture.

“What else am I to do?” Henry pressed his hand over hers reassuringly. He kissed her gently on the cheek. “But I can’t do it myself, I need a witness. I need you.”

It took her a long time to speak again. Emma clung to Henry’s arm, letting the cold wind of the night pass over her skin. She held his arm a little tighter and took in a sharp breath like she was ready to plunge off a cliff into a raging ocean.

“I’ll do it, Henry,” Emma said. “But why come all this way to get me? Why not just get John or Poole to do it?”

Henry turned to look at her, gently taking her hands in his.

“Emma, I’m going to be spending the rest of my life with you.” He said. “If I am to become altered in some way by this, I need you to be there.”

“Oh, my darling, I doubt you’ll change that much. You’re already perfect in my eyes.”

***

The laboratory was never a place Emma was fond of. She would never tell Henry, of course. It was frigid and not particularly well lit and the surgical tools, strange apparatuses and now-empty animal cages that decorated the relatively small room gave her the creeps. Her least favorite aspect of the room, however, was how much time Henry spent toiling away inside. It wasn’t healthy, spending hours, sometimes entire days at a time locked within its confines. Emma supported Henry’s work, no matter what anyone said about it, it was the extreme lengths he went to complete it which worried her.

Emma watched, holding Henry’s journal and a pen at the ready, as he mixed his formula. The process involved several different liquids and powders, none of which Emma knew the name of, much less how to pronounce, all to produce five centiliters of blood-red fluid. Henry raised the hypodermic syringe the formula resided in aloft. He looked back at Emma.

“It’s a thing of beauty, isn’t it?” He asked.

“It’s a bit strange to me.” She said.

“No matter,” He said as he rolled up his left sleeve. There was something frantic in his voice. “This is the moment.”

Despite his visibly shaking fingers, in one swift movement, Henry plunged the straight iron of the syringe’s needle into the vein right in between the end of his forearm and the beginning of his bicep.

“Our moment.”

He injected the formula.

A pause. The air felt so cold that it burned. A single point of black ink bled into the white paper as Emma held the pen to its surface in anticipation.

“So,” She began. “How do you feel.”

Henry stood still. Very still. More still than Emma had ever seen him in fact. His eyes searched the room as his mind searched for the right words.

“Warm. Very warm.” He finally said. “Like there’s this heat spreading through my veins.”

Emma quickly wrote his statement down. Just as she finished, Henry stumbled back, catching himself on the table.

“Henry!”

“No, no, I’m fine.” He waved his hand, smiling a very strange smile. “Just a bit lightheaded.”

Emma watched with bemusement as Henry began to laugh. He placed his head his hand, his whole body shaking ever so slightly from this sudden onslaught of glee.

“A slight feeling of euphoria.” He could barely speak the words.

Delirious laughter echoed through the laboratory. Emma quickly stepped over to the table, putting the journal and pen aside, and grabbing her fiancé by the shoulders.

“Henry? Are you alright?”

As slowly as he lifted his head, his laughter died down. Yet Henry could not remove the grin from his face.

“No noticeable behavioral differences.” He barely managed to keep the laughter down once more.

Emma smiled and sighed, removing her hands from his shoulders and retrieving the journal again. She quickly wrote down the few coherent things he had mentioned.

“Now, the die is cast.” She said, flicking out one last letter.

“I suppose it is,” Henry said, placing his hands on his waist. “We just have to wait. But I’m right.”

Emma covered her hand with her mouth and smiled. She’d got him on one of his little monologues.

“I know I am.” He continued. “But only time can prove my theory now. Prove it to all those fools who didn’t believe me.”

His breathing was ragged.

“I’ll prove it to them. I’ll show them.” He thrust his hand forward as if gesturing to some unseen audience. His smile was full of pride. “I’ll show the world I—“

Henry’s hand dropped. His whole body seemed to go limp from some shock. He stumbled again, and again caught himself against the table. But worst of all, the pride was gone, he looked terrified.

“Henry?” Emma asked, somewhere between horror and good spirits. She felt her own feet stumbling backward. “Is something wrong?”

“Oh, God... What’s this?” He barely choked out. A question to the air. His chest rose and fell at an alarming speed with each hyperventilated breath.

Emma was shaking. She clutched the journal so tightly her knuckles turned white and her nails dug into the black leather of the cover.

“Emma,” He barely stammered. “Some-Something is happening, I can’t explain it!”

Henry’s head suddenly whipped downward. He clutched his face in his hand and desperately gripped to the table with the other. Before his face disappeared, Emma could’ve sworn there was a change in it. Some horrible, near undetectable change.

She couldn’t speak. She couldn’t move. She couldn’t look away.

“There’s something inside me!” He cried out. His voice was strangled. Each word was pushed from his throat with painful effort, and each word was louder and more frantic than the last.

“Emma, it’s driving me insane—“

Henry could barely finish that last word before his voice twisted from barely coherent words to loudest, most agonized scream Emma had ever heard. Both Henry and the journal clattered to the floor. He writhed, his whole body contorting in agony with each cry of anguish. Henry’s voice itself was contorted as well. It began to rasp, seeming to drop deeper as he cried out. Emma wanted to help him. More than anything she wanted to cover her ears and scream, loud enough to drown him out. But she couldn’t. She was paralyzed. Suddenly, Emma felt her eyes playing tricks on her.

Was Henry’s body changing?

She couldn’t bear it. She couldn’t bear to look at that horrible prodigy. Tears came bursting forth from Emma’s eyes as she shielded them with her shaking arms. Her mind was completely submerged in terror.

And then it all stopped.

No more crying out, no more desperate gasps, just silence. Silence and this ever so quiet ragged, rasping breathing.

Slowly, Emma lowered her arms, only to see Henry, no, someone like Henry, standing with his back turned to her. His back was near bent, hunched over the table, as the stared into the mirror just on the opposite side. Emma gasped, tripping backward. He suddenly straightened his posture. He heard her.

With a slow, sweeping movement, his claw-like hand pointed to the journal and pen on the floor. He flicked his wrist upward, wordlessly indicating for her to pick it up. She did, frantically flipping through the pages. The pen rattled in her hand.

“Midnight…” He said. His voice was too low, too deep, too gruff to be Henry’s. He rolled back shoulders. His shoulders were broader than Henry’s, too. “And all’s well.” He added a sing-song tone to his voice.

This creature that stood before Emma and his hands through his undone hair, laughing breathlessly. Calmly, he turned to face Emma, leering and looming over her like some abominable shadow. And finally, when she saw his face, another dagger of fear was driven through her heart.

His face was some gruesome parody of her beloved’s features. Limp strands of hair cast a shadow across his sunken cheekbones, pale lips and dark, merciless eyes. He looked down at his hands, stretching his fingers and savoring the sensation before finally, to her dismay, casting his gaze upon Emma again. His eyes searched for words again, a leering smile pulled his lips.

“Free.”

And once more, laughter echoed throughout the room.

[ythmir-writes]

Hey hey! Is it still okay to send in an ask for the 182 prompts? If it is, I'd really love it if you could write reincarnation with Ieyasu Tokugawa from Ikemen Sengoku (which... MC is from the modern world but like... I just really like the reincarnation trope so if it it's still okay... >...

A/N: hello! Thank you for requesting! I would just like to apologize for taking too long (youknowwhatimean) but i am here and i have written something! please refer to this post for the full explanation and some insight and just me uhhh generally rambling again so~

here it is, that reincarnation AU that turned into multichaptersevenifno one literally no one asked for this except my brain\

edit! i can’t believe it wasn’t included (again,damnyoutumblr) but hey i would just like to give my sincerest thank you for saying you love what i do! i try my best is always and i hope you continue to enjoy what i write as much as i enjoy writing them :> thankyouthankyou i really LOVE my midcin gods piece i think the suitors would all be badass gods

REINCARNATION

fandom: Ikemen Sengokucharacter: Ieyasu Tokugawa

Prologue / ??

Ieyasu Tokugawa never knows when it will happen.

He had been standing by the sink debating with Masamune about the practicality of growing their own garden on the roofdeck of their building. Masamune had reasoned for fresh produce for spells and cooking. Ieyasu had countered that it was exactly a chore none of them needed, what with the restaurant already enough work for three pairs of hands. When all of a sudden the morning light was too bright for Ieyasu’s eyes, the air too hot for his lungs to take.

He felt his knees buckle under him as he tried to stay upright; one hand gripping the ledge of the sink, the other gripping (extra tightly) the plate, and precariously placing it down so it would not shatter and cause more problems like his brain was causing problems like how he couldn’t hold it all together and Masamune was looking at him funny and he needed he needed –

I will find you!

“Ieyasu…?” Masamune sounded like he was ten feet away.

“I just need… a moment.”

Washing heavy futons and bringing them out to the veranda to dry. A wide backyard filled with nothing but clothing lines and kimonos swaying in the wind. A hat. A balloon. A blade. A burning plane crashing towards them.

Breathe.

Laughter and guffaws as people raced through abandoned castles. Fireworks by the lake. A huge birthday party like none of them had ever seen. A needle thrust into his arm. Fifteen needles. Screams.

Breathe.

I will find you I will find you I will find you.

Breathe.

First through his teeth. Then through his nose. Ieyasu may not know when his episodes will happen but he knew what he needed to do when they did: keep breathing, keep breathing. Take in gulps of air as the pain that gripped him ever so slowly began to let go.

All of a sudden, he felt weightless and realized that Masamune was carrying him, saying some gibberish Ieyasu could neither hear nor understand. He tried to make him stop, tried to tell the idiot that he was just fine, he did not need any special treatment, that this – him falling to the floor with no apparent cause or reason – was just his usual.

Ieyasu was just remembering a bit of his past lives, after all.

+

The first time he had experienced it, Ieyasu thought he had gone mad.

It had been lifetimes past, during a minor scuffle; adolescent teasing turned into a semi-serious contest of who could knock the other one out faster before the adults could intervene. He could remember the half-circle that formed around him. The jeers. The taunting. His own labored breathing and the way his nose was dribbling blood.

The way the other child spat at him and made indecent gestures towards where he should place his head and for how long. He had taken it all in stride. But the other child had spat again, this time on the names of his friends who lost and were nursing their bruises behind the line. That had not gone down so well.

Ieyasu, even when he had temporarily forgotten himself, always did have a particular kind of temper.

He had shouted something equally indecent, taking two thunderous steps to approach his opponent close enough for a punch. But just as he was about to connect his vision blurred.

The kid before him was no longer just a kid but had somehow grown into an adult. No, two adults. Three. A dozen. A hundred. A mass of bodies before him suddenly, impossibly so. And he was no longer just a child but a grown man. And he was no longer just holding out his fists but a sword that he gripped like it was his lifeline and which he swung and twirled and used like an extension of his arm.

The soldiers before him swarmed him but he fended them off, his body moving almost on its own, his steps measured and exacting to keep him upright. For how long he was fighting, he did not know, could not tell. Only that he needed to ward them off, only that he needed to buy time until –

“Ieyasu! Here!!”

Who?

“I’m coming!!”

A hand grabbing his shoulder and pulling him backwards tore him from his vision; one moment he was valiantly defending his keep, the next he was being shoved down on the ground, the screams of dying men fading to give way to the delighted screams of children having seen their first real fight.

“Get a grip, Ieyasu!” someone shouted at someone else but the slap was all his and his cheek burned for it; for a moment, he felt the same warm sensation in his chest rising up, felt the hilt of a katana in his hands where there was nothing but air and –

Another slap. Harder this time, and his vision focused on his playmate – no, a man now – holding him. A very familiar face with raven hair and red eyes. A friend. A comrade. An almost brother.

Not a soldier trying to betray him. Not a spy sneaking into his chambers and trying to kill him.

“Kotaro!” the man shouted at him, and the children around them were fleeing now and some were crying. What was he thinking making a scene surrounded by children? “No, Ieyasu!”

The name felt like a hard blow to his chest, pushing him down. Ieyasu’s vision blurred again. And he had gripped the arm holding him as memories he had never experienced flooded into his mind – memories no fifteen year old boy should have any right remembering.

Too much scenarios. Too much experience. Too much life. He writhed in agony and the hand on his shoulder both kept him down and held him up as he struggled.

It was as if someone had flipped a switch. One moment he was a boy, ignorant and innocent and powerless, wanting to prove his own worth against a world that spat on commoners, and then the next moment he was a conqueror, a ruler of clans. And he knew things; he remembered things so different and stark against his own – truer? more recent? – memories.

He felt his jaw hurt. He felt his arms and legs hurt. He felt like his entire body was being crushed under the weight and the gaze of something judging him from heavens and something else scratching the back of his skull. And all of these caused by the two differing visions he could see at the same time.

Two sets of memories that seemed to blend and mix together. Two sets of memories that fought inside his brain to be recognized as reality. Two sets of memories that hurt. Two sets of memories that made him feel hurt.

“Stay awake.” The friend he could not yet quite remember urged him. “Stay with me. It’ll pass. I’ve seen you do this before.”

Ieyasu struggled and could only barely bite down on his agony, hoping through tears that the man was right. And as he screamed through phantom pain, as he shouted and struggled and tried his damndest to make sense of things as quickly as a fifteen year old boy could, an unsettling and frightening sense of certainty slowly overcame him and told him that the set of polar opposite memories both undeniably belonged to him.

+

Ieyasu does not know if he will ever stop having these visions.

But to be honest, vision was not the proper term. It was more a recollection, a remembering of things gone by.  But if he was already being exacting, it was also not just a simple matter of recollecting either.

It was more a sensation in his skull that his brain was somehow (impossibly and impractically) shifting to accommodate unearthed memories. And more often than not, it was as if his entire body was remembering what it had gone through all at once at the same time.

Pain. Joy. Sickness. Lethargy. Uneasiness. Nausea. Fear. Elation. All his wounds and all his triumphs. All his births and all his deaths. Dreams, and nightmares. A gallimaufry of emotions and sensations. He felt them all, felt himself drowning in them; the moments in which he lost his grip on reality stretching into hours and days as he re-lived whatever it was the he had somehow remembered.

No one had any explanation as to why his body decided to remember everything else that came with his memories. Timeshifters were rare but his case even rarer. It was probably his own little curse. Or an equivalent price. A way to balance his talent.

Ieyasu did not want to look too closely for fear of what might look back. Some people might find the idea of not forgetting things to be of comfort. Ieyasu knows for certain those people have never really experienced what it was like to remember it all.

By the time he regained consciousness, Ieyasu was already on his bed. The room was quiet and dark. A cooling pack was on his forehead, his body weighed comfortably down by a thick blanket, and all his closest friends in the room, asleep and keeping vigil.

No, not all.

One was still missing. The one dearest to him. The one he would never stop looking for.

I will find you! I will find you!

We will meet again!

It was a bitter memory amongst sweet ones, a parting too abrupt. Like a cloth cut haphazardly into a thousand torn seams. Ieyasu knew as long as they were not complete, nothing would ever be the same. Not just their ultimate aim, which was altruistic, but also their everyday life, which was closer. More his.

How long has it been since he had seen her? How long since he had been able to trace the stars on her back? How many lifetimes had passed since she had last held him in her arms as he bewailed the inescapable fact that his fate had no clear end?

Too many to count. Too many to really forget.

And as he sank back down into sleep’s embrace, Ieyasu misses her all the more. He wonders to himself yet again where she could be now, and if they could find her soon. And with his last wisps of consciousness, he wishes not for the last time, that she was there with him, in the dark, with their friends, to help blunt all the pain.

24/182

[toa-ahkmou]

Ahkmou: Changes

Silently, Ahkmou walked through the ruins of the Great Temple. Glancing at his surroundings, his lip curled in disgust. The once-hallowed structure, that he and his fellow Po-Matoran had apparently built in honour of their Toa protectors, specifically the Mangai was all but lost under the ghastly reconstruction as Teridax's 'Re-Education Centre.'

Last time he had been here, he'd stood in front of the Av-Matoran resistance and their allies, brokenly stuttering out a speech that the Makuta provided him with. He never looked any of them in the eye, especially not the one of them who had been his friend.

Ahkmou shook his head, forcing the memories down. That was gone now, thankfully. Gali and Macku's own resistance cell had stormed the temple, destroyed the Makuta's perversions, and saved their allies, leaving him rather wet, and the false god's plans temporarily foiled.

Holding up his lightstone, he continued to trek inwards. He wasn't entirely certain as to why he had come here. It was really the last place he wanted to revisit, or at least one of them. But yet, as he had walked along the empty streets with the glowing crystal in his hand, he felt drawn to the Temple. And as he breached the now-useless gatehouse, he let instinct lead him on. And now, even being surrounded by his fallen master's monstrous brainwashing 'school', he wasn't deterred. He kept trudging toward the sanctum at the very heart of the Great Temple itself.

The Suva Chamber.

The domed structure rested at the centre of the room, and, almost on autopilot, he approached it. Stopping within touching distance, he paused, pondering why he'd come here, and what exactly he wanted to do now that he had.

Shrugging, Ahkmou turned and slumped to the ground, resting his back against the Suva itself. Reaching into his pack, he took out the partially-carved lump of rock and his chisel, and began to work, chipping and sculpting the granite into shape.

He continued for hours, as the rock gradually began to take on the shape of an athletic, armoured figure, a spear in one hand and a shield in the other, as he began to chip out the fine details of his new creation's Kanohi.

The sound of something large moving into the building snapped him from his engrossed carving. On instinct, he dumped his tools back into his pack, then drew out his staff with one hand while shoving the lightstone into the nearest gap he could find for it.

He almost jumped out of his metal skin when the dome behind him began to rumble loudly, as the long-dormant nexus of energy within it roared into life. The Suva gradually began to lift up, as he jumped back from it, clutching his weapon tightly as his wide eyes focused on the rising structure.

Then a beam of orange exploded out of one of the six slots in Suva, the same one that he realised now had his lightstone lodged in it. His... abnormally large lightstone that always seemed to brighten up when he picked it up...

Oh... damn.

The beam lanced into his torso, fire rippling through his muscles as they spasmed, hurling him to the floor. Ahkmou screamed, partially from terror, mostly from the sheer weirdness of the sensations he was experiencing. His body filled with a level of power he had never known, his muscles growing more powerful than they were even at their peak, as his whole form bulked out and grew taller. For a moment, Teridax's armour felt tight around his chest and shoulders, before it shattered, torn apart as new, bronze-coloured plating took its place.

As the bizarre feeling died down, Ahkmou carefully planted his hands on the stone floor, and forced himself upright, staring down at his altered form. Powerful, muscular arms, incased in burnished armour plating, faintly glowing rocks set into it. His fingers were tipped in small claws, ideal for climbing, while his hands were heavily-armoured gauntlets. His legs, meanwhile, were more lithe and streamlined, which, with his massive shoulders, powerful chest, and brawny arms, gave him a top-heavy appearance.

He breathed heavily, staring at the now-spent Toa Stone, his own body, and the staff, which he had dropped when he had been struck, and now had become a massive scythe, with only one blade at the top, as opposed to the twin blades of old, sized perfectly for his new stature.

Then he screamed.

Unfortunately, the rumbling of the Suva, the violent energy discharge, and the newly-minted Toa's panic had managed to attract the attention of whatever creature had caused him to attempt to hide the lightstone in the first place, the sound of claws scratching against the ground growing closer and closer, until the opposite wall exploded, the head of a massive Pota-Nui leaning in, yellow eyes shining from the gloom as it let out a shriek of hunger.

Ahkmou jumped to his now-much larger feet, scooping up his scythe as he stared at the Rahi. It focused on him, and began to scramble toward him, shrieking again. He froze, still struggling to process the sudden change to his body, let alone attack from a large and probably starving predator.

Instinct took over, and whether it was the new form, or the knowledge that he wouldn't be able to outrun this creature if it took flight, for the first time in his entire life, his instict told him to fight.

Lunging forward, Ahkmou drew the scythe across his body as he bodily swung it at the creature's side. He missed by a mile, the weight of the weapon spinning him, as he stumbled. One of the bat's wings lashed out, punching him square in the gut. He bounced as he hit the floor, rolling over and digging his weapon into the ground to slow himself. The Pota-Nui reared up, spreading both of its wings as the glowing purple membrane filled it, and it launched into the sky, screeching as it dove toward him. Rolling to the side, he just evaded it as it slammed into the dirt, dodging under its wing as he pivoted, raising the scythe over his head, before slamming it down onto the creature's back.

The blade sank into the armour, and the Rahi screamed, writhing in agony. The new Toa attempted to pull his weapon free, only for the bat to take off again, hurtling into the sky with Ahkmou's weapon- and Ahkmou- in tow.

Screaming, Ahkmou clung to the haft of his weapon as his unwitting steed rocketed upwards, aiming itself straight for the ceiling. Its back arced, slamming its panicked rider against the ceiling.

He let out a grunt of pain, as the bat dove down to try again. Gritting his teeth, Ahkmou hauled himself forward, and slammed his fist into the joint of its left-hand wing. The bat shrieked, writhing in pain, as he punched it again, and again. Arcing back up, it accelerated again, then stopped suddenly, hurling Ahkmou free as his scythe slid out of its back.

Suddenly without a means of flight, he began to fall toward the ground, as the bat arced its head down, and opened its jaws, a deafening scream erupting from its throat. The shockwave from the shriek hurled him into the wall of the temple, crunching him into the masonry.

The Pota-Nui circled away, aiming for another attack, as Ahkmou peeled away from the wall and began to plummet toward the floor. Grunting, he turned and slammed his scythe into the stone, braking his fall. Flipping around, free hand gripping the wall as he focused his thoughts into the rocky wall around him, willing it to obey him. He kicked his heel into it, the stonework molding into a platform beneath his feet. Freeing his weapon from the wall, he crouched, preparing to lunge forward.

The Pota-Nui wheeled around, flying back toward him, screeching all the while. The moment it drew close enough, Ahkmou sprang from the ledge, launching himself in a wide arc that carried him  toward the bat once more. Raising his scythe, he swung it bodily into the shoulder he had damaged earlier, and sliced clean through it. The purple membrane flickered and died, as the wing itself split away from the Pota-Nui's body, leaving the giant predator to spiral to a painful impact with the ground.

Ahkmou himself wasn't in a great spot himself falling from the air and crashing roughly into the floor, forming a small crater. His whole body ached after the the brawl, particularly after the repeated slams into the walls, ceiling, and ground. Clambering to his feet, he stowed the scythe, and  dusted himself off with his hands, waiting for his breathing to return to normal levels. Sparing a glance for his fallen opponent, he noticed that it seemed to have passed out, more than likely due to shock.

Satisfied with his safety, Ahkmou trudged back to the Suva, opening its cache of Toa Tools. The scythe was a fine weapon, but it was also huge, ungainly, and heavy, and it would be difficult to use in combat with anything other than a Rahi. Clearly, something different would be needed. A supplement, to grant him versatility.

The first thing he pulled out was a pair of daggers. Probably more like shortswords to some, but he got the sense that he was rather tall for a Toa. It made a certain amount of sense, considering that his  body had already been made taller before he transformed...

Testing the weight of the knives, he reached up and mounted them on his back, sticking up over his shoulders. They were good, but not strong enough for most of the opponents he wanted a more elegant weapon for, so he resumed his rummaging.

Finally, he spotted something that fit the bill. He took what looked like a long pair of weapon hilts without a blade of any kind, and strapped them to his forearms. Focusing his new power into them, a pair of long, jagged blades formed from dark grey, glass-like rock, solidifying as he inspected them, then took a tentative swing. The obsidian swords whistled as they sliced through the air, and Ahkmou grinned behind his Rau.

The blades shattered as he dismissed them, and began to walk for the exit. He wasn't certain as to how he'd make a living now. He'd grown to appreciate his ability to hide away and fade into the crowd after his second spell as Makuta's unfortunate pawn, but now that wasn't going to happen. Still... perhaps this was the second chance he needed. Not the Turaga letting him run a shop again, but the opportunity to actually atone for his past actions...

Taking a deep breath, Ahkmou strode toward the light.