That which does not kill me...

...has made a grievous tactical error.

For inwhichwar, the AU of the Volchok 'verse.
Kati is very tolerant of Ben's penchant for wolfing when the moon's not full. She comes along, usually, although she can't keep up, not with the crutch. Ben gallops through the woods and the fields and checks in with her every few minutes, making sure she's okay, keeping tabs.

It's a glorious evening to run.

Until a shotgun roars, twice, and sends him ass over teakettle to fetch up against a tree.

He knows right away it's bad. The silver pellets burn, and the rowan shavings immediately start the hemorrhaging and fever. He tries to get up, fails, and collapses back to the ground with a moan. One shell hit him in the right side of the chest, the other in the flank. Whining, he goes back to human.


For inwhichwar, the AU of the Volchok 'verse.
Ben's recovered from his ordeal at the brothel, at least for the most part. He hates being undressed in front of people, including Kati--although he knows he's safe with her and trusts her utterly. But his modesty issues have taken a giant hit with this, and he's still twitchy around people not his Mistress.

He's gradually getting over it, though, coming out of his shell a little at a time. He's running small errands on his own, and today Kati has sent him to the liquor store for Ketel One vodka and Captain Morgan spiced rum. He's on his way home with a paper bag in his hand, looking around warily at the people he shares the sidewalk with.

Furious footsteps sound behind him, and he stiffens when a hand grabs his shoulder and spins him around. He drops into a defensive crouch, fangs out, snarling, because he hates being touched by unexpected strangers nearly as much as he hates being naked in front of them. "You little shit," the man says. "I thought that was you." A hulking werewolf stands in the accepted stance behind him, nearly three times Ben's size and built like a damn bear even as a human.

Ben straightens, somewhat, still bristling aggressively. He's got a panic button in his pocket, and he slaps it almost automatically. "Who the fuck are you?"

"I'm the guy you cost a shitload of money in the ring, you bastard. Don't think I don't know you threw that last fight. Do you know how much I bet on you?"

"Not sure I care. This is what happens when you put a wager on something you've no control over." Idiot, he carefully doesn't say. "That's why they call it gambling." Come on, Mistress, where are you...

TW: Slavery and rape.
tied up
Ben thought it couldn't get any worse than the fighting pits. He was wrong.

After he accidentally killed Ian, his trainer noticed that he was damn near useless in the ring anymore and started looking for places to unload him. A husband-and-wife team who owned a brothel in the city answered the ad, money changed hands, and his trainer passed him off without so much as a "good luck." For someone like Ben, with modesty issues who mated for life, the brothel was a fresh Hell loaded with scents, sounds, and sights that filled his nightmares -- he couldn't even escape in sleep.

Mostly, they kept him drugged. They had to, because docility in a situation like this was out of the question even with the shock collar and cuffs. And because he was, as the husband called him, "a recalcitrant little shit," they also shot him up with aphrodisiacs when he had a client.

Many of his clients were on the brutal end. They liked him trussed up or tied down; they got off on floggers and paddles and vampire gloves. He was a werewolf and a slave, and he healed fast. His owners didn't particularly care what sort of marks were left on him because they were gone by the time the next client came around. They took a premium once or twice for people who liked to snap bones, but that was a fortunate rarity.

When someone asked for him, his Masters would aphro and sedate him, spreadeagled with wrists and ankles velcroed to the corners of the red sports sheets with black restraints on the king-sized bed. Sometimes on his back, sometimes on his front, sometimes posed artfully, depending on the client's preference and how much they paid. The madam tied a blindfold around his eyes, and strapped a red ball gag in place. Ben didn't get a pillow, or a blanket, although a blanket was folded on a chair off to one side with a couple of pillows on top if the client wanted them.

The shock controller for the collar and wrist cuffs lay on the bedside table, along with an assortment of other restraints and toys, some of which were silver. An overhead fan whirled above him, and his skin pebbled with goosebumps in the cool air of the room. He hated being cold. His many scars, old and new, along with the elaborate blue "tattoo" over his heart, stood out stark on his pale skin, which hadn't seen the sun since he was sold to this place.

All he could do was wait. And pray that somehow, sometime, a client would go too far and accidentally kill him.

They never did.

(no subject)
Three weeks. It ain't seven months, but twelve insurgents ain't eighty-seven demons, and the insurgents couldn't get into his head, not like this. Guri rescues him over, and over, and over. And over.

And it ain't never, ever him. And, gradually, Ben stops believing it's him, or that he'll ever come at all, and he prays for death instead.

Death, however, is hidin' its face. The wolfsbane netting sprouts flowers, but right before it goes to seed and dies, takin' him with it, Shaitan removes it and replaces it with a fresh one to start the process all over. Laughin', and askin' him if he really thought it would be this easy. Ben is silent; he'd stopped talkin' about a week in. Savin' his strength for silent prayer instead. Prayer aloud brings a choke-down from the collar, and he learned early on not to do it.

He can't move. Can't sleep. All he can do is endure whatever fresh torture Shai and his demons devise. Day, after day, after day. And they don't have to sleep. The only relief he gets is from the heroin. He knows, deep down, how very bad that is, that they can and will take it away from him at any time and leave him beggin' for the needle like the addict he's become, but it feels so. Gorram. Good. To just lose himself in the numbness for awhile.

Three weeks. Eighty-seven demons. And he prays for death.

Continuation of Captivity Meme
For adversarially and rebelle_elle.

Start of adversarially's thread: here.

Start of rebelle_elle: here

App for redemptionsroad
Writer Info
Name: Julie
Age: 40mumble
Contact: werewolfhacker on AIM

Character Info
Name: Ben Lockwood
Age: (barely) 20, but looks about 35 or 40, due to genetic burning.
Status: Shapeshifter
Occupation: Private investigator
Personality: Sarcastic White Knight in Tarnished Armor. Ben was designed for speed and agility rather than brute strength, so his height is less-than-impressive and he's built more like a runner than a wrestler. He's a pretty mild-mannered guy on the surface, which he kind of has to be if he wants to keep his (human) cover intact. He is generally polite, especially to women and people older than he is. However, he despises people who think their money makes them special and other pompous jerks, and has a tendency to mutter sarcastic remarks under his breath around them. Doing it aloud has gotten him in trouble, more than once, and he's been conditioned hard to keep his disrespectful thoughts to himself.

He won't start a fight, but he will by-God finish one if you push him hard enough. Threatening a woman in his presence is right out. Don't even go there. This has been known to backfire when the woman in question didn't care for his interference, but he can no more not step in than he can stop breathing. In keeping with the lycanthropy, he has a hell of a temper and tries to keep a tight rein on it at all times, because if he lets go of the bridle, then people end up bleeding -- or dead. Under stress, he starts chopping his sentences and emphasizing words. If he's under a lot of stress, he completely loses his comma function and talks in long run-on sentences instead.

All he really wants in life right now is to live it in peace and keep his head down. He fears, more than anything, being caught and dragged back to that place to face whatever punishment fucking demons would dole out -- and he's seen some doozies, back before he knew demons were involved. In fact, he'd rather die than be caught. However. . . if he can find a way to take down the demon organization that created him? He'll grab that opportunity with both hands.

History: Ben Lockwood, deserter.

Not how he likes to think of himself. He showed early aptitude for the military, and he's been groomed for this his whole life. It is his life, has been since puberty hit.

His unit commander called him his "pet hacker," and Ben can crack most systems with a little effort and sometimes does so just for the hell of it. What he didn't count on was finding out that the Lycanthrope Division was funded and run by demons, which will teach him to poke around servers he's got no business sticking his nose in. He covered his tracks, shit his pants, and hoped like hell he wouldn't get caught.

Military installations are legitimate targets for his unique talents. But he doesn't remember signing up for taking out a busload of civilian kids, even if they're the kids of politicians and other powerful people. And then there was the sixteen-year-old girl, hiding her younger sister behind her with their backs to the overturned chassis, who lifted her chin and actually took a swing at him before he tore her throat out.

So Ben, at the tender age of 20, helped neutralize the objective. He said nothing, drank the celebratory toasts after it was done with the other (older) members of his unit, and seemed to go on like it hadn't affected him. But that girl's defiant face haunted his dreams, and he couldn't meet his own eyes in the mirror anymore when he shaved. The next time they sent him out, he rabbited. Picked up and went with the clothes on his back and the money in his wallet and not much else. Now he's on the run with a new identity in a new city.

Part of his MOS was forging documents -- and he's good enough at it that he's got a PI license and is making a fair living. These days, he mainly uses his skills to check on the financials of cheating spouses, and hides in plain sight among the humans, who have no idea there's a predator lurking among them. He just hopes he can keep it that way.

Skills, Talents, Abilities: As a trained soldier, he's proficient with most firearms, as well as bladed weapons and hand-to-hand combat. His favorite gun is a Micro Desert Eagle .380, which he's hardly ever without. He's also got quite a bit of skill with computers and is able to hack into servers, mess around, and cover his tracks effectively.


(no subject)
Computer  Tiems
Hey, everyone. My little netbook gave me the dreaded Blue Screen Of Death the other day, with an "Unmountable boot log" error, and we are, right now, a one-computer household. Thus my tags will be thin on the ground until the problem is resolved. Which sucks. I have an avenue or two I'm pursuing, but I may have to get a new computer when all is said and done. Unfortunately, I am not actually Ben, and I don't have Computer Whisperer skilz.


EDIT: Apparently an update from AVG is the culprit. I am downloading something that (hopefully) will fix it. Wish me luck.

Fixed with the aid of my neighbor, who is an IT guy. [wipes brow]

over my head
So, yeah, the mun has this thing called a "family," and is hieing off to Colorado for a few days. And the mun's mother-in-law has no internets. How she survives, I will never know. We'll be out from tomorrow through... Tuesday, I think, back to regular posting and adventure-having on Wednesday if all goes well.

Try not to let anything earth-shattering happen without me. And if it does, then leave me linkage

EDIT: Back!

Oh, for fu--
kisses 2
So, yeah, Hannibal (hes_onthe_jazz) found some quiz thing or other about love lives, and I clearly have too much time on my hands, because I took it.

Other than the fact that "Titanic" was one horrible movie, the results are... frighteningly accurate.

Your Love Life is Like Titanic

"Promise me you'll survive. That you won't give up, no matter what happens, no matter how hopeless."

You think that you only really have one true love in your life. And that you better do anything and everything to be with that person.

You tend to be very nostalgic about past loves that didn't work out. There are many secret feelings that you keep to yourself.

Your love style: Deep and emotional

Your Hollywood Ending Will Be: Bittersweet


Meme ganked from hes_onthe_jazz
define normal
No one who knows me will be surprised by this.

My Personality
Openness to Experience
You are not generally self conscious about yourself, however you feel strong cravings and urges that you have difficulty resisting. You tend to prefer short-term pleasures and rewards over long-term consequences. People generally perceive you as distant and reserved, and you do not usually reach out to others. You prefer the security and stability brought by conformity to tradition. You find helping other people genuinely rewarding and are generally willing to assist those who are in need. You find that doing things for others is a form of self-fulfillment rather than self-sacrifice, however you generally see others as selfish, devious, and sometimes potentially dangerous. You have a strong sense of duty and obligation, and feel a moral obligation to do the right thing.

Free Poll


The neuroticism thing broke down like this:
Anxiety: 88
Anger: 93
Depression: 64
Self-Consciousness: 49
Immoderation: 99
Vulnerability: 99

"You feel tense, jittery, and nervous and often feel like something dangerous is about to happen. You may be afraid of specific situations or be just generally fearful. You feel enraged when things do not go your way. You are sensitive about being treated fairly and feel resentful and bitter if you think you are being cheated. Mostly your emotions are on an even keel and you do not get depressed easily. You are not generally self conscious about yourself. You feel strong cravings and urges that you have difficulty resisting. You tend to prefer short-term pleasures and rewards over long-term consequences. You experience panic, confusion, and helplessness when under pressure or stress."

Well, yes. *eyeroll*

And we're home.
Regular posting will now commence. As regular as I get, anyway...

Ben's mun here...
I'm going to be pretty much AFK for the next couple of days, starting tomorrow. Short vacation. Which, ARGH, because I'm in the middle of several really fun, plotty things with several really fun people (guriel and fearthefool, I'm looking at you, and don't try to hide, defiant_bielski and hermastersstar.)

I might be able to pop in and post once or twice...sometime. I'm not counting on it, however.

We should be back sometime on Saturday, I think. So! I have not abandoned our RPs! I am having way too much fun to do that. *smishes you all*

Holyyyyy shit.
That...could have been a whole lot worse than it was.

I had a nightmare last night that I didn't stop when Guriel told me to. Woke Janni up muttering "I'm sorry" over and over again. Then had to tell her I was sorry for, you know, waking her up after what she'd been through. She just wrapped around me and kissed my hair and told me to quit being silly. Like she does.

I so do not deserve either of them.

Lord, thank You, so very much, for sending the people into my life that You have. Help me be a better person...

Oh, and letting Guriel talk again would be ace.

Thank You and amen.

I envision pie in Guriel's future. Janni's baking, and she sent me out for ice cream.

(no subject)
Dear mun:

You are a raging bitch, you know that, right? Please stop smacking me around like a friggin' pinata.

No love,

Dear Guriel and Guriel's mun:

You guys, on the other hand, rock. Just puttin' that out there.


DAMMIT. I hate when my friends are hurting. Even a new one. Especially when there's not a damn thing I can do about it...

I'm not mad at him. But helpless rage is not a good feeling for someone like me.

First post...
*mouth quirk* So, yeah. Life's been crazy, what can I say. And that's not a question, therefore my punctuation is not incorrect.

Good thing I have an understanding boss and a woman who loves me. They think this'll be good for me or something.


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