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madimpossibledreamerARIARIARIARIARIARI! ARRIVIDERCI! (I look forward to Giorno, car thief, because those are my absolute favorite panels.)
~Dreamer~
Main Points:
Jojo's Bizarre Adventure/Buffy the Vampire Slayer AU
Chapter Summary: Johan|Xander finds there are dangers in Mirroring Your Stand.
Word Count: 1091
Rating: Gen
Note: HERE THERE PROBABLY BE BUFFY/JJBA SPOILERS
.
It’s when they’re halfway to the control room that Johan realizes he’s being thoughtless. It’s not entirely uncommon, particularly when he’s this wounded. He’s gotten better at working through the pain, but right now all he wants to do is sleep. He can’t, though. There are people counting on him.
He puts on a burst of speed, feels lightning-like hamon course through his veins. An interrupted current, maybe, due to his current wounds, but still flowing sporadically. It’s not just him in his head, anymore. He feels them all—Jonathan, Jorge, Giorno, Joseph, Jotaro, Josuke, Josephine. And with that comes a new strength.
He’s done enough watching. Time to do what the Xanman does best. Act as bait. The tastiest, nummiest treat this jerk of a Lovecraftian statue has ever set its eyes on. Power, a threat. Anything to get it to attack, to stay firmly anchored in this world to get rid of him. He’s bluffed before. And what he’s about to do, mirroring this Stand…well, it’s not the best idea he’s ever had, but they’re both wounded and long shots are all they have left. Ticking things off is, however, a talent of his, and he’s already made a start, probably, what with wounding it with a hamon elevator and a lucky rifle shot.
“What are you doing, Jojo?” the Captain asks as he makes a beeline to the periscope. She sounds frustrated. Probably had planned on putting him on the torpedoes, which while it sounds cool and all Star Trek of them, won’t keep it from phasing out.
“Staring into the abyss.” He’s not entirely sure where he’s heard the phrase, though his money’s on either the X-Files or the G-man. The thing is, while it can mess with their minds perfectly when it’s phased into the other dimension, it can't physically affect them. If he can get it to stare back… He’s already hurt it with hamon, and since it’s a type of energy, he’s hoping he can sense—no, wait, he can do one better. “I’m going to make sure you’ve got a target to hit,” he adds absentmindedly, already steadying his breathing. The pain is dull and distant, and he feels invincible, though there’s a hint of concern—wait, no, it’s gone. That wasn’t his.
He pretty quickly finds the tentacley mass on the horizon, approaching. If he’s not mistaken, it might be bigger than it had been, which is a problem. It’s gone seethrough, and he feels the prickle of an unfamiliar presence, unfamiliar thoughts in his head, only instead of willing the voices away, he welcomes them, world narrowing to the slow, steady beat of his heart and the vision before his one good eye.
He’s slipping away into a world of pure concentration, a world where thought and motion are one. There’s a second of panic of a part of him soon swallowed by the whole.
My world. Don’t touch what isn’t yours. Technically it’s insignificant. Technically he wouldn’t care, if not for the fact that it had caught his attention for reasons he can’t quite remember at the moment, but then, the reasons aren’t exactly significant now. He can look again later, and if it fails to amuse him he can end it easily. He raises his hand, slow and careful, and touches the periscope. It’s metal, conductive, and he fills it with every thought, every breath. I wounded you at not nearly the height of my power. You wounded my vessel, but I wounded yours. Tell me, which is the greater triumph?
A roar, the roar of the sea, strong and powerful and unknowable, and yet he knows it, knows its heart, and it has never known fear but oh it’s afraid and that’s delicious. The sea begins to roil and foam, a storm boiling up from the depths, the electric-sunlight-power clashing with the unseen tendrils of war-madness-blood and he bares his vessel’s teeth in fierce joy, because while the water is as much his element as sunlight, as the metal encasing his vessel and the insignificant animal directing the metal, the crawling chaos before him had been imprisoned, dreaming, and oh if there is another element that is his, it is the Dreamlands, and this is his Hunt. It is the work of a thought to have the power within the metal match the roar, match the beat of his dreaming sun.
The desire to run, to destroy, war within the beast—it cannot do both where it is, but he takes even that option away, because as a hunter there is nowhere it can go that he can’t follow. If it stays where it is, tries to destroy his vessel, he will meet it with fangs and the power of word and thought, and if it tries to run, well, other dimensions are not out of his reach.
He Sees the world as it truly is with his mind and his vessel’s missing eye, the monstrous eye that presides over the fragile world, only catching a glimpse of the miasma of combat, the venomous seething of the tentacles of madness and the burning touch of the rippling water. There is no up, no down—such quaint concepts, but they mean nothing to him and only a little to his vessel.
He feels a touch of desperate determination, a relentless anger, and knows it belongs to the insect in proximity to his vessel. It’s admirable in its own way—it has no chance, not alone, and yet it tries anyway, to postpone the death of its world, however futile a gesture.
There’s a bursting noise, a green cloud in both air and sea, sound and stench for a moment matching the shriek he can hear without his vessel’s ears, a psychic scream that hurts his vessel’s mind and that of every insignificant being in the vicinity (and he can feel all of them) before the presence disappears and in its place is left the dust of something insignificant, spreading through the water.
He feels a sudden loss and confusion. How had disposing of the interloper hurt him? Why is his hold slipping? And then, further, the speck speaks to his vessel, to a part of his being, and he feels the threat a second too late. How dare—
He is in both places, and he won’t let this be the end, won’t let the path end here, and with full intent and choice punches the vessel in the face, and he falls, being snuffed out as easily as his rival’s.
~Dreamer~
Main Points:
Jojo's Bizarre Adventure/Buffy the Vampire Slayer AU
Chapter Summary: Johan|Xander finds there are dangers in Mirroring Your Stand.
Word Count: 1091
Rating: Gen
Note: HERE THERE PROBABLY BE BUFFY/JJBA SPOILERS
.
It’s when they’re halfway to the control room that Johan realizes he’s being thoughtless. It’s not entirely uncommon, particularly when he’s this wounded. He’s gotten better at working through the pain, but right now all he wants to do is sleep. He can’t, though. There are people counting on him.
He puts on a burst of speed, feels lightning-like hamon course through his veins. An interrupted current, maybe, due to his current wounds, but still flowing sporadically. It’s not just him in his head, anymore. He feels them all—Jonathan, Jorge, Giorno, Joseph, Jotaro, Josuke, Josephine. And with that comes a new strength.
He’s done enough watching. Time to do what the Xanman does best. Act as bait. The tastiest, nummiest treat this jerk of a Lovecraftian statue has ever set its eyes on. Power, a threat. Anything to get it to attack, to stay firmly anchored in this world to get rid of him. He’s bluffed before. And what he’s about to do, mirroring this Stand…well, it’s not the best idea he’s ever had, but they’re both wounded and long shots are all they have left. Ticking things off is, however, a talent of his, and he’s already made a start, probably, what with wounding it with a hamon elevator and a lucky rifle shot.
“What are you doing, Jojo?” the Captain asks as he makes a beeline to the periscope. She sounds frustrated. Probably had planned on putting him on the torpedoes, which while it sounds cool and all Star Trek of them, won’t keep it from phasing out.
“Staring into the abyss.” He’s not entirely sure where he’s heard the phrase, though his money’s on either the X-Files or the G-man. The thing is, while it can mess with their minds perfectly when it’s phased into the other dimension, it can't physically affect them. If he can get it to stare back… He’s already hurt it with hamon, and since it’s a type of energy, he’s hoping he can sense—no, wait, he can do one better. “I’m going to make sure you’ve got a target to hit,” he adds absentmindedly, already steadying his breathing. The pain is dull and distant, and he feels invincible, though there’s a hint of concern—wait, no, it’s gone. That wasn’t his.
He pretty quickly finds the tentacley mass on the horizon, approaching. If he’s not mistaken, it might be bigger than it had been, which is a problem. It’s gone seethrough, and he feels the prickle of an unfamiliar presence, unfamiliar thoughts in his head, only instead of willing the voices away, he welcomes them, world narrowing to the slow, steady beat of his heart and the vision before his one good eye.
He’s slipping away into a world of pure concentration, a world where thought and motion are one. There’s a second of panic of a part of him soon swallowed by the whole.
My world. Don’t touch what isn’t yours. Technically it’s insignificant. Technically he wouldn’t care, if not for the fact that it had caught his attention for reasons he can’t quite remember at the moment, but then, the reasons aren’t exactly significant now. He can look again later, and if it fails to amuse him he can end it easily. He raises his hand, slow and careful, and touches the periscope. It’s metal, conductive, and he fills it with every thought, every breath. I wounded you at not nearly the height of my power. You wounded my vessel, but I wounded yours. Tell me, which is the greater triumph?
A roar, the roar of the sea, strong and powerful and unknowable, and yet he knows it, knows its heart, and it has never known fear but oh it’s afraid and that’s delicious. The sea begins to roil and foam, a storm boiling up from the depths, the electric-sunlight-power clashing with the unseen tendrils of war-madness-blood and he bares his vessel’s teeth in fierce joy, because while the water is as much his element as sunlight, as the metal encasing his vessel and the insignificant animal directing the metal, the crawling chaos before him had been imprisoned, dreaming, and oh if there is another element that is his, it is the Dreamlands, and this is his Hunt. It is the work of a thought to have the power within the metal match the roar, match the beat of his dreaming sun.
The desire to run, to destroy, war within the beast—it cannot do both where it is, but he takes even that option away, because as a hunter there is nowhere it can go that he can’t follow. If it stays where it is, tries to destroy his vessel, he will meet it with fangs and the power of word and thought, and if it tries to run, well, other dimensions are not out of his reach.
He Sees the world as it truly is with his mind and his vessel’s missing eye, the monstrous eye that presides over the fragile world, only catching a glimpse of the miasma of combat, the venomous seething of the tentacles of madness and the burning touch of the rippling water. There is no up, no down—such quaint concepts, but they mean nothing to him and only a little to his vessel.
He feels a touch of desperate determination, a relentless anger, and knows it belongs to the insect in proximity to his vessel. It’s admirable in its own way—it has no chance, not alone, and yet it tries anyway, to postpone the death of its world, however futile a gesture.
There’s a bursting noise, a green cloud in both air and sea, sound and stench for a moment matching the shriek he can hear without his vessel’s ears, a psychic scream that hurts his vessel’s mind and that of every insignificant being in the vicinity (and he can feel all of them) before the presence disappears and in its place is left the dust of something insignificant, spreading through the water.
He feels a sudden loss and confusion. How had disposing of the interloper hurt him? Why is his hold slipping? And then, further, the speck speaks to his vessel, to a part of his being, and he feels the threat a second too late. How dare—
He is in both places, and he won’t let this be the end, won’t let the path end here, and with full intent and choice punches the vessel in the face, and he falls, being snuffed out as easily as his rival’s.
