concierge: (Default)
[personal profile] concierge
Any entries earlier than this were pre-reboot.
morethanhuman: you're the only thing i ever want anymore (wanna believe in everything you believe)
[personal profile] morethanhuman
Mid-July 2014 | The Smoking Room

He was startled to remember how new this still was to Charles. The genuine curiosity in Charles's thoughts had hooked him like a fish, the sudden bright flash of his interest bursting in Erik's mind, irresistible. Charles forgetting to be distant made him forget for a brief instant as well, and he was halfway to asking if Charles wanted company before he remembered that even if he did, he wasn't going to want theirs.

But he hadn't asked Erik to leave yet either.

Erik and a powered-up, genderswapped Jordan find Charles drinking alone, and Jordan uses her new empathy powers to nudge them toward civility.

Nearly complete.
shifting_skin: (b01)
[personal profile] shifting_skin
She could not breathe.

She could not breathe.

The smell of ozone lingered in her nose as she tried, gasping against the taste of rust in her mouth. Mystique had, in her panic, bitten the inside of her cheek and while she could not remember when, could not think of anything but of the betrayal of her body, the taste of blood only served to keep her in that frantic state.

She had been walking down the hallway in the guise of a sharp-lined man, generic enough in coloring to go unnoticed in a crowd even where months and months within the hotel had offering nothing of evidence to a danger within its walls. She had stumbled, she was sure of it, and thrown out a hand to brace herself against the nearest wall as her body shifted, one shape trading for another without the least bit of her will behind it. That loss of control had been frightening enough, but to discover that no matter how she tried, she remained in the shape into which she'd been thrown.

It was very much like her own. That blonde form she had worn as her default for so much of her life. Yet it was different, just shades of it then as she was aware. Nothing of its shape, but her hair was darker and river straight, her skin lacking the warmth of the that golden tan.

Only after recognizing that she had lost her clothes along with that borrowed shape had she managed to get to her feet, fleeing directionless until she had found the laundry and stolen something to cover herself. She sat huddled at the bottom of a stairwell then, in a too large shirt and shorts that were inexplicably lettered with the word 'juicy.' She could not breathe. She could not stop shaking.

What had been done to her?

Feb. 19th, 2015 08:30 pm
notgivingyourmoneyback: Harvey Specter smiling and wearing a tux ([pos] tux)
[personal profile] notgivingyourmoneyback
September 9, 2014 | Starting in room Human/Non-Human then moving on to Prom Night

Dawn stumbles into a room that's supposed to give one superpowers and Harvey manages to find her there. They get bored in that room, so Dawn cajoles Harvey into taking her to the prom since she never got to go in high school.

PG-13 | Snark and Harvey's language.
armedagainstlove: (steady)
[personal profile] armedagainstlove
At times, Athos does wonder whether this odd inn has a sense of malice in its humour or whether it simply can see into his heart to know precisely how to strike him. There have been blessings in Porthos and d'Artagnan's presence to reassure him that he has not gone mad, but there is the continued presence of the doors. If it is not bright lights or screaming children, it is giving d'Artagnan false memories or it is wreaking havoc on him and has for hours.

If he didn't know better, he'd say that this suits him terribly. He'd met a woman in a similar situation to Athos' current predicament, but she seemed to have endured them longer.

This morning, Athos had awoken from his brief respite from home (needing the time after nearly causing a coup in France given a new heir, found) and upon leaving his room to have breakfast, something had changed. It had been as if the ice covering his heart had infected all other parts of him, sending a strange frisson of fear through him. And, more worryingly, since that moment, everything he's touched has turned to ice.

Currently, staring at red wine that's frozen over, he's beginning to see the trouble.

Anne might laugh at him, if she could see him now. That coy, sharp, steady laughter that he had found charming once, but now saw it for what it was -- vindictive and cutting. She might say that it's about time his body caught up with his cold heart, able to put his wife to death so easily, but it had been unavoidable. How could Athos have done anything else? Perhaps this is his punishment, then.

"Sangdieu," he spits out a frustrated curse when he reaches for a grape and freezes that over, too. Chewing it stubbornly, he abandons his table in a hurry and hopes that no one has seen the fuss he's made, for Athos needs to find himself somewhere warm to counteract the continuous ice his hands seem keen to produce.
thefinalsolution: (thoughtful)
[personal profile] thefinalsolution
In a looming and grand hotel filled with a myriad of doors that lead to disastrous worlds, to human ones with ordinary people with extraordinary things, and some even leading back to home, Moriarty has kept himself busy. His web has grown, slowly and surely, and he begins to trust that whether he finds himself in ancient Rome or on a ship, there will be someone there who requires a man of his skillset.

What he doesn't expect is to one day walk through a door and find himself in the very same place, but something different is charged in his fingertips.

It's power.

Of course, it's apparently the most minor power he could ever conceive because all he's been able to do is ripen apples and bananas, freshen the taste of fruit salad, and twist and turn designs into various peels of various fruits. There's a mystery for you, Sherlock Holmes. What exactly can give the man the power to compel fruits of all types and varieties and what good could it possibly be?

Maybe it's because he's hiding in plain sight. Maybe this is something more befitting blogger John Holmes instead of Jim Moriarty, who is a spider in a dozen worlds, whose criminal industry has began to leap past one simple world in one simple galaxy and he has become so very much more.

Not that you could tell.

Not when his great and grand power is manifesting now at the gift shop while the apple in his hand spins without a flick of his fingers, a carved image of a goldfish in the peel. "This is, frankly, very disappointing," he informs the apple in his palm, vindictively imagining little dead x's on the eyes of the fish which quickly carve themselves into being.

Wonderful. He can manipulate fruit. If only he had that ability a decade and a half ago. Imagine all the damage a banana peel could do, if applied in the correct pressure point.


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