open post 2025

[impractical]

leave a starter or prompt; happy to plot first via pm or plurk.
muselist here.
spoilers and nsfw possible, will mark in tls.


wip list of tropes and stuff i pretty much always want to play:

• lotus-eater situation, aka "you're living your perfect life and don't realize it's killing you!"
• pining! you know the hand flex gif from p&p? of course you do
• vampires...
• misunderstandings between people who have feelings for each other, i.e. thinking one of them is interested in someone else and it comes to a head in heated admissions of Feelings
• slow burn over a psl
• ALL the h/c, whether one or two-sided
• fwiw some of my favorite bstreet memes are morning after, train to the afterlife, drunk meme, find them dying, and insomnia
• text is always going to be a yes from me dawg
• classics: only one bed, huddle for warmth
• amnesia???

 

Comments

for blueshit

[songburdened]

[ The tears hold infinite possibilities. Infinite realities existing just within reach (or, perhaps, which are coaxed into existence by the whims of a particular young woman). In her years alone in the tower - in the time after she lost her pinky, but before the arrival of Booker DeWitt - Elizabeth has seen and heard some remarkable things. ...True, they've become less subject to her influence than they'd once been, after she reached a certain age and then only able to access pre-existing tears, but...even those are no less remarkable.

Today is really no different than any other day. She wakes, dresses, has her breakfast. Reads a bit, sings, paints. (In the past, she'd have been watched through it all, but with how unstable the tower had become, those days were over. Not that she knew any of that.) She moves through her routine with a well-practiced contentedness, for the most part.

It's when her attention wanders - when she starts letting the what-ifs breathe and grow - that she turns to the tears. ]

Hmm... [ Elizabeth identifies the seams of a tear on the upper level of the library: one she's accessed dozens of times. It usually takes different forms, but if she concentrates enough, she can sometimes identify what makes each slice unique and grasp them, pulling in a scene she's touched before (very helpful when, say, painting the Eiffel Tower). Today, though, she embraces more of a spontaneous feeling that bubbles up: giddy and thrilling, and one of the only novelties that remains to her. Elizabeth focuses her mind, nudging aside the familiar tears in favor of something completely new, and grasps it. With some effort and a furrowed brow, the young woman reaches out into empty air, straining to bring a door into this new world into her own.

It works, and the shimmering slit in space fades in and out of focus as she catches her breath, then stepping forward to examine it. The scene doesn't offer any clues as to the time and place, and even when Elizabeth circles it, there are no clues in sight. Nothing to be sussed out of the vantage point she'd conjured. There's a small, disappointed sigh, and she moves to close the tear again...when a figure crosses by.

Startled, Elizabeth takes a half step back...but only for a moment. Quickly recaptured by her burning curiosity, she moves in again to peer through into the other world, silently hoping the person - a man, from the looks of it - will stop while still in view so she can study them in more detail.

(Perhaps the tower's former guardians were not the only voyeurs around.) ]

for betenoir

[peindre]

[ When they first catch sight of the Continent, it feels like a dream. Her stomach is in knots from where she hangs over the edge of the ship, gripping the railing tight in anticipation, and Maelle only removes her eyes from the approaching beach when the others call for aid in preparing the ship to lay anchor and send the boats out to shore.

Even when they approach and the sun recedes in the middle of the day, she's filled with excitement more than anything. Even when the fog rolls in to obscur the horizon and seep purple haze out over their landing site, she marvels at the novelty of it all as she accomplishes her tasks. When Maelle joins Gustave in a boat and they begin the short row to properly land, she's nearly grinning with breathless excitement.

They disembark with an overall wariness as Alan calls out orders, his voice tight. The youngest Expeditioner heeds those directives, of course, but she's also glancing around with wide, bright eyes to try and make out the shape of-...well, anything in the shrouded environment.

She doesn't see the ruined ships not far off in the fog, or the piles of bodies that are heaped up not far off. None of them do, yet. And so they start to fan out on the beach, following landing protocol and assessing threads, of which there seem to be none.

Her guardian quietly suggests she stay close, and Maelle acquiesces (even though she's itching to wander and get a better sense of their surroundings, and to see if she can spot Lumiére back across the sea...). So far, so good.

Nobody sees, yet, the figure hidden in the distance. ]

[betenoir]

[There is a routine that has become a ritual. Every single year, his journey transports him from the manor towards the southern landmass close to the island. People research the same records and that together with their mission makes them predictable. But what makes them simple to track is watching from his vantage point - from where he can intercept the direction their ship is heading.

He arrives at the beach and diverts his gaze from the ruined hulls and sails littering the shore. His infiltration of the landing site avoids the shadowed creatures, which do not intimidate him when he rounds a destroyed ship and veils himself in the darkness. But soon those he is awaiting are here and the sound of his cane echoes on stone. He emerges from the shadows and assesses the assembling crowd in a single glance, showing neither anxiety nor fear as he immediately secures their attention.

Their commander is the man on point. His second is the one behind who stands closer than the others. The former has his arm extended across the others, holding them back until the beach is secure. But his gaze wanders past him towards the young girl hidden behind her guardian. What makes these people different enough that he has decided to approach them?

The question is not what makes this expedition different. The question is who.]

[peindre]

[ A man emerges from the shadows and the group stills in surprise. After all, no one had expected a human, and certainly not-

Maelle sucks in a sharp inhale. He's old? The sight is shocking, of course, and though Alan remembers himself quickly and begins conversing with (or at) the man, everyone else stares blatantly at the impossible sight before them. ]

How is he... [ The young Expeditioner breathes, eyes wide. When she turns them on Gustave, though, she realizes that her guardian is just as stunned as everyone else. The engineer seems to notice something that she doesn't, though, and shifts slightly to obscure her further.

Frowning, Maelle looks past him to the distant figure and notices his gaze...is cast their way.

A chill runs up her spine.

Their commander steps forward, all questions and suspicion as he tries to interrogate the stranger. Some of the others regain their composure and stand at the ready, hands poised to summon weapons if need be, with so many questions pressing in from all sides.

Maelle holds her position near the back, unable to look away from the first aged face she's ever seen in her lifetime. ]

[betenoir]

[The commander harangues him with observations and questions; his inquiry fishing about surviving the continent and the Gommage in a single line. But the old man answers nothing and levels his gaze on the same members of the expedition. The engineer puts himself between that isolating stare and the young girl he safeguards, his natural curiosity fleeing in the face of his fear of danger.

Those questions are soon reversed. Instead of the issue being his age, it becomes a reason for his survival. His appearance is less peculiar than the girl travelling with them. She cannot be a day older than sixteen, seventeen at a push. But his daughter had been her age when her world had changed.

His gaze leaves her and focuses on their leader.]

These shores are dangerous. You should have landed anywhere else.

[Their snippets of conversation barely reach the expedition. Either he is isolating the commander - he doesn't care to learn his name - or keeping them from panicing. Or perhaps he simply doesn't view them as important.]

[peindre]

[ They don't catch much of the conversation at this distance, but it becomes clear in short order that the old man is looking at her. Talking about her, too, because whatever he says causes Alan to half-turn, his eyes now also in her direction.

Her pulse quickens with uncertainty, and it only speeds further when their commander comes back, leaving some of the others to watch the stranger's every move. Without a word, but with a sharp and serious look, he takes Gustave by the arm and a few steps away, in spite of her guardian's protests, to confer in hushed tones.

Maelle watches them go, meeting Gustave's eyes for a moment before returning her attention to the man in the distance.

Why? What's happening?

Gustave returns quickly, expression clouded, and Alan nods in their direction once before moving back to the old man. ]

He was talking about you. Interrogating Alan on why we'd brought you along. [ Gustave speaks low, sounding more irritated than his usual. Maelle knows these are questions he's asked himself -- asked her -- but to have them weaponized by someone they'd just met? ] ...I don't understand.

[ That makes two of them, at least. The young Expeditioner chews on this information as she stares, watching the interaction continue between Alan and the man. ]

Where, exactly, are you suggesting we go? [ Alan asks, his tone dry and still laden with warning. ] What about this area is more dangerous than any other part of the Continent?

[betenoir]

[Alan and Gustave confer. Renoir listens to every word, showing no expression while his emotions darken to match the shores that bear the same name. This place is no place at all for a single one of them.

But Alan returns (he doesn't care to hold his name to heart) and interrogates him as though his presence is a threat. He holds his stare once and does not blink once, bored more than anything else.]

Do you not see the shadows move?

[His words reach beyond the commander, carried by the silence to the expedition behind him. Behind his own position, across the shores, shadows move between the boats and along the shore, seeming to have lives of their own.]

[peindre]

[ Alan scowls, casting his sharp gaze across the sands. Indeed, as the man indicates, there is something lurking just out of sight. The kind of thing that only shifts once you look away slightly, catching your attention, but only just. ]

Come with us, then. We can speak on the ship.

[ If there really is a threat to be wary of, then they'll (hopefully) evade it back on their vessel. If there isn't, then...maybe it's best to continue the interrogation somewhere this stranger will be more confined.

Maelle watches this conversation continue, but when their commander looks off in the distance, she follows his gaze. A chill pricks at the back of her neck at the sight of...whatever it is that's creeping through the fog, possibly closing in on their group.

She reaches out, laying a hand on her guardian's arm. ]

Gustave... [ It seems the warning is unnecessary, though, because he's looking in the same direction with an expression of unease. ]

I know. I see it. [ Nobody dares move until they're directed, but every expeditioner has a hand at the ready, poised to summon their weapons...whether against an unseen threat, or the one before them. ]

for magike

[ofletters]

[ It's just another day in the bunker. They're not even working a case yet (though as always, it's only a matter of time before something comes up), but Sam is still in the library with a wrinkled brow and a stack of books. The last case had had some oddities, some...lingering threads that had nagged at him. Dean had shrugged it off, saying they'd finished the job and he should just relax a little, Sammy. He'd said that before announcing he was going to the closest dive bar for some "Dean time," slipping out the front door with an off-tune song in the air. Leaving Sam and his books, and -- assumedly -- Rowena, though the younger Winchester hasn't laid eyes on the redhead in a few hours.

Sam glances idly his watch now and does a double-take: it's been way longer, and it's way later, than he'd have guessed. So he rises with a stretch and the groan that comes with a satisfying stretch, cracking his back.

...It'd probably be good to get some dinner together, though it was way past when you could reasonably call it dinner. Maybe in Spain. They eat late in Spain, I think. ]

Rowena? [ As part of his journey to the kitchen, Sam calls out into the quiet bunker. ] You're...probably asleep, but uh, if you want food...

[ Is he going to make something? Probably not. But he can grab a snack for the woman should she make a request. ]

[magike]

Samuel?

( the sound of his name is like honey when she replies, wrapping around the corner from the room she'd been holed up in.

and then she's there-- for a woman who wore heels, she'd moved quietly in that moment, leaning against the doorframe, her fingers lazily twirling a strand of hair )

What were you thinking of?

( the sound of food has her senses on edge, and not the right ones. she'd felt the urge clawing at her over the past few days, the need to feed growing, but in the middle of a case, she didn't have an opportunity to get away. she'd been considering it then, finding a bar to have a small drink at, even with how close to them it was.

rowena didn't need to feed often; her magic helped stave away most of the effects of being a vampire, and she could still eat human food. usually, she was on top of her needs. this time she'd left it slightly too long, where the colour of her eyes was a little darker, and every sensation started to prickle at her.

she could make it through a meal with him, and then, when he'd gone to bed, she'd find someone to drink from. that was her plan )

[ofletters]

[ She does that. ...Move with an unexpected and silent swiftness, that is. Sam still finds himself getting used to it, though it doesn't exactly bother him, so when she appears this time, he relaxes quickly. ]

I, uh - wasn't. Yet. [ There's a chuckle and an awkward rub of the back of his head as he casts his gaze around the kitchen. He's just a dude who could get by with a granola bar, honestly, but she...has a bit more of a particular appetite.

He swallows. ]

...I could, ah...see what we've got in the fridge that'd work. [ What he always means by this is something akin to "a rare steak," given her situation. ] For you.

[ Which he does immediately, closing the distance to the appliance and yanking it open. There's a moment where he peers into the icy depths, chewing on his lip, but he withdraws before long, looking mildly sheepish. ]

Must be time to hit the store. [ It was probably Dean's turn to grab groceries, to restock, but the fact of the matter is that they're without anything suitable for a hungry vampire.

(Or, they're without nearly anything suitable.)

He swallows again. ]

[magike]

Samuel--

( rowena shakes her head softly, stepping closer towards him. the closer she is, the easier her struggle will be to notice; she's careful about her movements, but he knows her well enough to spot the differences. her irises are darker, her teeth a little more pointed, even if her fangs are still withdrawn, and he'll be able to tell how tightly she's trying to keep her impulses pressed down )

I was more concerned about you.

( even if the thump of his heartbeat presses against her, she doesn't intend to drink from him, or to ever ask him that. it's a very intimate thing, and she doesn't want to alter their friendship in a way they couldn't come back from.

as hungry as she is, she's the fool who'll ignore her needs to care for him. she knows she'll find something later )

We could order something, or go out for dinner.

( though it's probably too late for the second option )

[ofletters]

...Oh.

[ She moves closer and the situation is immediately obvious: they are on a timer, and she is being polite. Maybe there's a twinge of red in the tips of his ears as all this dawns on him, and he glances away from her as if it's considered impolite to stare at a hungry vampire.

(Jesus. When had things gotten to the point where they had not only a witch, but a witch who was a vampire staying with them in their bunker?) ]

Uh. [ He's finding himself again at a loss for words, but Sam quickly clears his throat, glancing around again as if a suitable alternative might...just appear. Stranger things have happened, right? But he has no such luck, and it's still just the pair of them in the silence of this place.

Sam's aware of the thud of his own heart. It must be like a drum, to her. ]

What would you...want to order? [ He finally asks. The list of alternatives is shrinking by the second, and one in particular is-... It's gotta be out of the question, right?

The younger Winchester tries to maintain an air of nonchalance as they continue the conversation, but it's not carried out especially well. ]

[magike]

( rowena smiles. absently, her fingers brush against his hand as she looks up at him )

The Italian place we ordered from last month springs to mind.

( samuel's right that there is once particular item that cannot be ordered, and she's not desperate enough to consider the delivery person part of the order. she's classier; a bar, or a vampire club, somewhere where the necks are willing.

it's the problem when she doesn't need to drink blood as regularly as another vampire might-- the timing gets awkward )

I was thinking of pairing it with some scotch over wine.

( a stronger drink to try and dull her senses )

for lendemains

[searingbond]

[ These are the things that Sciel knows: there is a powerful family of immortals that holds in their hands the safety and security of Lumiére. These people (if you can call them that) are the difference between most of the populace getting to live their lives normally...and being slaughtered by nightmarish creatures of a different sort. Because the barrier that arcs over their city is one that had long ago been constructed by this family, and -- as they are reminded regularly -- is one that could just as easily be done away with, should the balance be upset in some way.

That "balance" basically amounts to the happiness of their pseudo-overlords, though. And apparently the key to it is in the people who live in the city whose very lives are like nourishment and wine both for the fanged few who hold those lives in their hands.

What Sciel does not know is that there is a war on above this world, one that has reduced the human population so dramatically that the vampires who live there had needed to make their own, to have on reserve. What she does know is that, every so often, the Council receives word that they are to provide one of their number to be taken and not returned, for the good of them all. And though their own numbers aren't exactly impressive, nobody dares argue, because...well. The alternative is total annihilation, they assume.

It's usually a volunteer who is spirited away, but there have been the odd times where one of the pale, powerful figures -- one of the Dessendres -- appears without warning and takes their pick. This is what had happened five years ago when she'd returned from work to find her husband simply gone, with only a few eyewitness reports to confirm that Pierre would not be coming back.

This is why she volunteers herself, when the time comes again. It's not a problem that she wouldn't be returning because she hadn't planned to go on living much longer anyway. As an added bonus, she plans to exact some manner of revenge on those monsters before the end, if the opportunity presents itself.

So: Sciel stands at the harbor one night, flanked by the obnoxious statues of one of the members of the Dessendre family who'd built the Dome, face a mask. As instructed, there's no one else around; she waits alone, arms crossed, breathing in the air of her city one last time.

Come and get me, you bastards. ]

[lendemains]

[Clea watches from the shadows. Let the woman stew in whatever emotions she's feeling, let fear curdle into terror or anger flare into rage; the anticipation of knowing what's coming but not knowing when will get woman's heart pumping faster, her blood running hotter. Clea's tired of the weak, wan specimens who tend to offer themselves up to her family, the people who are nearing the end of their lives anyway. She wants someone with some fight in them, and this woman does look like a fighter. Fit. Strong. Just what she's been hoping for.

She gives it ten minutes. Fifteen. She doesn't need to breathe, but she takes a slow, deep breath as she listens to the water lap against the dock, letting the salt air sting her nostrils, anticipating the night that's to come.

Finally, nearing the limit of her own patience, Clea slips into the light. Her bare feet barely make a sound as she circles the woman.]

You're here for me.

[searingbond]

[ She's scared. Of course she is. It'd be inhuman to not have that base instinct coursing through her veins at the thought of something-...well, inhuman coming to take her away to her eventual death. But Sciel embraces that fear, lets it keep her sharp and feeling particularly alive in a way that has honestly eluded her for most of the years since they'd taken Pierre.

Her blood sings with adrenaline, pumping the drums of war. And then...one of them appears. The woman is nearly silent, appearing from the shadows as if she'd materialized from them herself, and Sciel's shoulders tense slightly in an automatic response.

It's not the first time she's caught any sight of one of the Dessendres, but it's the first time she's seen one up close. The vampire is...undeniably beautiful, as if she'd been sculpted from marble and brought to life with some dark magic. But when she looks longer, as the woman moves into the light, Sciel can also see the unnatural sharpness to the features. The cold eyes, the unmasked hunger.

It's disarming, having someone (something) look at you as if you're a meal. But this is her new reality. ]

I am. [ She should curtsy, or something. Pissing off the Dessendres in any way might make all they'd sacrificed be for nothing, but everything within her is screaming to rush the vamp and attack, or at least spit in her face.

What Sciel settles on is a short, stiff bow during which her eyes never leave the other woman's. ]

So, [ She says next, straightening up quickly, her posture still guarded. ] where are we going?

[lendemains]

[That stiff little bow earns only a twitch of Clea's eyebrows, the slightest glance towards the sky before her gaze reaffixes itself to the woman. Her parents seem to enjoy the fawning that some of the Lumièrians get up to, treating their livestock like honoured guests in a self-aggrandising show of noblesse oblige while their meals bow and curtsey and grovel and pretend to be oh-so-grateful for the benevolence of the Dessendres; Clea finds it tiresome. They both know why they're here, and dressing it up in silly formalities will change nothing.

She raises a hand, pale green light trailing behind her fingertips, and a door shimmers into being, solid dark wood set in a dark marble arch. Some of the light solidifies into pale green flower petals that catch on the wind, a few landing on the stones of the harbour while others drift out to sea.

Over the whisper of the waves, Clea can hear the rush of this woman's blood through her veins, singing hot and loud. It's been too long since she's had someone like this, too long since she's sunk her teeth into someone whose blood was capable of setting her own cold body ablaze, and so it's with a certain amount of terse impatience that she opens the door and holds her hand out to the woman.]

Through here.

[Beyond the door lies Clea's personal chambers, littered with hints of the person she once was before the war: unfinished paintings stacked against the walls, stone or clay sculptures, mostly hidden under sheets, few of which could meet the exacting standards to which she holds herself, a harp gathering dust in a corner. Against one wall, an unlit fireplace. Against another, a four poster bed for those vanishingly rare moments she can afford to spend off her feet. These days, she really only uses it when she wants to relieve some stress with someone else; she never uses it for mere rest anymore, not daring to be alone with her thoughts. Against another wall, a wardrobe with the door open just enough to offer a glimpse of the simple, practical working clothes that Clea prefers.

She nods towards the door, urging the woman to walk through.]

Come along.

[searingbond]

[ For the next to nothing that it's worth, this woman doesn't kill her immediately for some perceived slight. Sciel isn't exactly grateful for that, but she is glad that it seems they won't be playing games as part of this process.

The door is summoned out of the air, and Sciel's heart beats a little faster with the raw power she assumes comes with that ability. What else can they do? Can anyone from Lumiére ever find some way to match them in strength, to put an end to this endless debt, or at least enough that they might defend themselves if they instead defy the Dessendres and allow the Dome to fall?

...It's a nice idea. One she knows some of her fellows have discussed, though there's no definitive movement yet. After all, the only ones who know the full extent of the vampires' power are those who never return.

When the woman opens the door, extending a hand to lead Sciel inside, her blood pumps even harder. It looks like her captor's personal chambers: the kind of tucked-away space that she'll need if she ever wants to have a chance to draw her scythe against this monster's throat. ...But, that's getting too far ahead of herself. At best, she'll have one opportunity, and it has to count. She'll need to be patient in order to suss out the best time to make her move. To see if there are any weaknesses to exploit. And, besides, she'd ideally be making the attempt against whichever member of the family had been the one to end Pierre's life, so she'd need to figure that out first, too...

For now, Sciel extends her own hand, allowing herself to be led through to certain doom with a warning of a smile on her face. ]

[lendemains]

[The woman's hand is hot, hotter for how deathly cold Clea's own hand is. But though there's no heat in her body, there is strength, a more than human strength, and her fingers close like a vice as she digs them into the woman's wrist and tugs.

The door closes behind them. The moment it clicks shut, it vanishes, leaving no trace that they were ever at the harbour save for a handful of scattered petals.

Once inside, Clea wastes no time in spinning the woman around so her back is pressed to Clea's chest, Clea's arm around her waist, their hands still locked together. Her free hand reaches up to brush a few stray wisps of hair from the woman's neck as she savours the visible pulse hammering in her throat, the sound and scent of blood, burning and blazing and thick and sweet, roaring just beneath the skin.

Her siblings would say that Clea the most vicious of them. Clea considers herself efficient. She has no interest in playing with her food, no interest in pretense. This woman will not survive the night. And yet...

Before she bites down on that inviting neck, she pauses, wondering.]

Why is it that someone like you would volunteer for this? You're young. Healthy.

[Not that it always matters who volunteers. Vampires hunger just as humans do and, just as humans, they can't go too long without food. If they can't catch sufficient prey in the outside world, and if there aren't enough volunteers here in Lumière, they have to take what they need to survive. But of those who do volunteer, this woman is a rare prize indeed.]

moves it over here... very late.....

[twains]

[From here]

I wish I could say it would help.
Do you have any flares?

yes good

[peindre]

No. But Lune can wield fire, so...that's at least a little more of a threat?

[twains]

Wield fire how?
In any case, a sudden, large burst of light is what you're looking for. If she can do anything like that, you'll be okay.

[peindre]

Make it?
I'm not an expert in the kind of pictos she uses, but we should be able to manage that.

for amourperdu

[peindre]

[ Another person might have asked if this is either wanted or needed. Asked Verso if it was tolerable, even. But Maelle hadn't done that, when she'd made the decision to bring back the woman from her brother's past, and she doesn't give it a second thought now. ]

Okay... [ It'd been one thing to restore Sciel and Lune, whose chroma had been fresh, and who she knows so well. It'd been another to Paint the citizens of Lumière back into existence en masse (difficult, draining her immensely).

This is...a different kind of puzzle. Because she has to piece together the form of a woman she's never met, and who hasn't been alive in decades. Her understanding of the Search and Rescue member is almost completely based on secondhand accounts, whether the odd journal they'd found scattered across the Continent or other records still held in the city of the team that had gone and never come back.

Her intentions are good, as they always are. Surely, if anyone can help shake Verso from his...well, depression, then this woman can. After all, Maelle knows they'd been close (romantic), and even with the betrayal at the end...well, the whole world is different now. Surely Julie could forgive Verso, with so much changed.

(And maybe, eventually, he could forgive Maelle in turn.)

So she begins on an unused pier at the break of dawn one day, concentrating. It takes a long time: this isn't where Julie died, of course, and the time and distance make it incredibly difficult to pinpoint and stitch together those ounces of the dead woman's being. The sun is high in the sky by the time Maelle really manages it, and a bead of sweat trails down the side of her freckled face as, finally, it all clicks into place. ]

Come back to us. [ The Paintress coaxes softly, bringing Julie into existence again with a swirl of chroma and petals. After, she half-collapses with the exhaustion, falling to one knee and drawing deep, laboured breaths. ]