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@vitalphenomena
HIATUS MAY 11 — JULY 29.
NOBODY EXISTS ON PURPOSE. Nobody belongs anywhere. We're all going to die. Come watch TV?
VITALPHENOMENA. by lye, 26, they/them. EST. 2011.
— rules&roster. roster wheel. prompts. open posts. credits. —
TRIGGERS APPLY. 21+ only.
For OOC info, content warnings, and rules, see below.
For a moment, he just stares. The ease of it all, the way Phil sidesteps every point and turns it into a game, needles at something deep and old inside him. There are days he can almost convince himself that they are a team. Then he opens his mouth.
"No," he says flatly. His jaw shifts. Irritation pulses behind his eyes, familiar as a heartbeat.
"You are missing the part where I'm trying to get rid of you." A beat passes. "Preferably several miles away." His gaze narrows. "And preferably without me… But I'll visit, of course."
HARRISON ASKED FOR THIS. He didn't bargain for this, not exactly, but isn't this what he's always been working towards? Doesn't Phil's power now serve to comfort him?
"I'm your son."
Doesn't that means something? Duty, obligation—these are things that allegedly matter.
"Stop lying."
new religion: have a good time
gojo’s smile is just as shiny slippery nice as the rest of him. presumably. pash likes to see the kink of a smirk knocked out, the corners of his mouth softened up for person-to-person conversation and not just excitable quips.
honest to god, for a sec? she’d prematurely written him off as an excitable quip kind of guy. for one, easy way to integrate into a second language. for two, easy to block the harsh light with. she would know. tally that up, if you’re keeping score.
anyway. it’s nice to be asked a question.
her blood and brain recalibrating itself or whatever it does when she gets shook around like this, it turns her to the tender side of thinking. the answer is many-branched; i missed them sabretts, too much cold to get lost in, their milk comes in a bag, i fucked up some handiwork real bad, all this to say go knicks… fuck all that.
“the land, all that quiet, i could feel it tellin me i had overstayed my welcome. i had to go do somethin with myself again."
pash showed up in dawson city flayed, parts of her that she was so proud of chipped off in a mad and heated tear away from the east coast of america. her time in the yukon territory was wasted on her, she's remiss to remember; it was beautiful, and she was too ridden through with holes to enjoy it. the things that nourished her, bad as they were, didn't exist there and so, no healing. just festering. odd work kept her in booze and class As to cut the daylight. too much daylight. she started to seek out basements, but none of them felt safe or dangerous enough. she started to retrace her steps through the provinces, through BC onto alberta, sasketchewan through manitoba and then ontario. she tried to pick up the pieces of herself she had lost along the way and took a couple of jobs. she gained a trunkful of ill-gotten, maliciously-charged gains that needed a home in the process.
"i had no real intent of cutting the gas anywhere in particular. but then, i made a friend in montreal,” and at this she smiles, any coyness dusting off her face. and the bartender sets down another chartreuse and sprite in front of her (she does not want it), “and he got into some trouble not long after i met him. so i, i got him back to full charge, just about… that kind of welded us together. he needed a safe place to go. and there are good people here, better than me, who could help him."
that's a half truth. pash had planned to cut and run with an apology burger left in the squat they occupied in st henri. she locked the door behind her to find giddy sitting, expectant, in the passenger seat of the capri. these are things she doesn't explicitly tell gojo, yet, because she doesn't take easy to trusting people with her memories.
"so i came back for that." she rub-rubs the condensation on her glass. let's brutally undercut this for her lovely listener's benefit, shall we? "plus, ehh, it's new york! center of the fuckin universe."
SHE HAD TO GO DO SOMETHING WITH HERSELF AGAIN.
This resonates with Gojo in that he often reckons with the same basic necessity, but it also means he respects the hell out of her. People like them—The Strongest—often shirk their duties 'cause they're lazy or ultimately cowardly or, if you can believe it, hellbent on exterminating the very same human race they're meant to protect for no justifiable reason whatsoever.
It's one thing to be enlightened by the sobering recognition of what you owe a planet that's never given you anything soft, anything comforting. It's another thing to own up to it, to do what you ought to without a gun to your head.
Gojo does not interject, as he's not egregiously rude, truly, but his eyebrows wriggle to say A friend—oh yeah? As she's come close to acknowledging, he'll quip about anything and flirt with a rock. It's not his business what kind of friends Pasha's got in Canada or anywhere else—but, man, he'll laugh his ass off when he realizes how wrong he is to even tease about Ontario's own Giddy Rosenstock like this.
"People better than you, huh? Yeah, right. I'm not interested in meeting them. But, hey—aren't they supposed to be polite? Canadians—they're supposed to be polite. You've found the only Canadian criminal at large? Very cool!" Because the only trouble worth getting into and worth being defended by the likes of Pasha Novak is the kind that makes law enforcement scratch their heads and stomp their boots—the kind that has snobby elites fearing for their precariously-maintained power over society.
Gojo takes another hearty swig of his beer, which he really does not need to be doing.
"Have you been to Times Square? I love Times Square."
@vitalphenomena harris said, “ungrateful little yuppie larvae.”
“that’s what you get for gettin born on the bridge end of the bridge and tunnel, i suppose.”
around the broke teeth and whimpering on the ground in front of them - she is employing a city blind not her circus mentality, harris harris can beat the fuck out of whoever he wants - she pipes up, not unfriendly, “say. what’s your workload lookin like these days?”
EXASPERATED, AGGRESSIVE: "I don't know what you're talkin' about."
Harris flicks hair out of his line of sight. Pash's question has him achier than the task at hand, which he continues by ramming the sturdy toe of his boots into his victim's abdomen.
"What, you want my fuckin' schedule? I'm supposed to work a double tomorrow, and I open the day after that. I'm busy."
@vitalphenomena burns said, “it’s a river of slime!”
enthused, “ohya fer sure!”
“the fish’re fine but whatever they got goin on in there makes em wicked slow. can’t deke outta the way of nothin, so usin a pole feels, like, unusually cruel. just teasin, no need to be mean to em. you can basically just pick em up in yer hands.”
"You took me to shit river to touch fish with my bare fuckin' hands?"
"I'll kill you."
“so this isn’t a shooting lesson at all.”
she breaks the action, removes the spent shell, then turns it once between her fingers before tucking it into her pocket. it's ritualistic. appealing, in times of such uncertainty and change.
“it’s some kind of personality assessment?”
she shifts her footing, searching for firmer ground. a grouse emerges from the brush a few yards away. instinctively, she raises the barrel, but her grip falters, the weight of it suddenly unsteady in her hands.
DOLOKHOV SMILES THE PLACID SMILE OF A MAN WHO HAS NOTHING TO WORRY ABOUT BECAUSE HE IS ALWAYS RIGHT.
There's an undeniable smugness to it that borders on impolite.
"I have no clue what you are talking about. I couldn't think to test a good woman like you." Because he is a good man. Looks like one, maybe, at the very least.
He goes quiet. She might be able to do something if he—righteous, snide, the act of firing a gun too ingrained in his bones for him to be any good at teaching someone else how to feel the way he does—stops intervening.
He grimaces in disappointment.
"What are you afraid of?"
Lee Pace as Brother Day FOUNDATION Season One
what they don't want you to know about stella romano is that she has an addiction. and that addiction is to treating her men like her little girlfriends
fight between gojo and phil. who are you putting your money on
@huntedvideo said: " some people are born to be heroes. i'm not one of them. "
"Stop."
Spirit frowns—profoundly disappointed and a little bit scared.
Paralyzed by cocaine-fueled indecision and paranoia, Spirit often lays in bed, heart hammering, wondering why she was born at all. Whatever the point of her was then, before she had any control over her fate—it surely can't be the same anymore.
She's made something better of herself. Fin, too. And it should be as obvious to him as it is to her that he is, at his baseline, so fucking good, so fucking kind, and most importantly, he's been her hero for years.
"I hate when you're, like—when you talk about yourself like you're bad. You're my favorite."
He is a nebula leak … his glow extends off of him, she sees these little sprays of light bleed towards her. The singed scent gets to her second. It’s comforting, for a moment. Her entire hotel room is broken bulb pieces and a wet spot on the carpet.
❛ … I’m awake. ❜
Her tone suggests, half and barely yet. Her lost-faith keeps her lids partially upright breaking her long steamed habit of falling asleep the moment she wants to. Easily, effortlessly.
She swifts to her back and then slowly props herself by her elbows. He looks the most beautiful like this ⸺ Glowy ⸺ and that’s even ahead of how good he looks when he just came or when he thinks he’s done something really, really good.
SHE'S AWAKE!
He's usually not so alert at this hour. He's not meant to be, but he wills himself to be there for her.
It very much could be too little, too late, and the increasingly-prominent (brutal) realist inside of him knows this, but the remaining optimist shines through, telling him that he has to try.
"I missed you," he whispers. It's true—not mere flattery.
He steps close to the bed, but he has not been invited into it yet.
"Did you sleep a little?"
this amazing as fuck artist
woe @bruisedpenny
me, me, bp, bp.
The scalpel sheathed in a smile. She seems to think herself immune, and maybe she is. There is almost admiration in that, but his flesh recoils nonetheless. Khan debates shattering it with a word, but the prospect of sparring with her— verbally or otherwise— no longer amuses him.
The overhead halogens create a migraine aura in his periphery, so he blinks, expecting the lightshow to recede. It does not. Another deficit of artificial selection: heightened visual acuity renders him useless in suboptimal lighting, and he suspects that Jacky deliberately keeps the illumination just shy of comfortable.
“I will learn the rules. But I will not degrade myself pretending they are anything other than ornamental.”
JACKY HASN'T BROKEN A SWEAT OVER KHAN'S CURRENT CIRCUMSTANCES, BUT, YES—SHE WENT OUT OF HER WAY TO MAKE EXISTENCE DISTINCTLY UNPLEASANT FOR HIM. Either sadistic or indulging in curiosity, she wants him sleep-deprived. Agitation doesn't look good on him, by any stretch of the imagination, but that's not the point, is it? She's never been wooed by mere aesthetics.
Or anything of ornamental value.
"That's not true," she informs him, smug but pedantic.
"I can only imagine what you'd be reduced to without structure. You need this, unfortunately. You're only as good as you are useful. I'm sure this has crossed your mind. Good! It's one of the first rules. Are you listening?"
