concierge: (Default)
[personal profile] concierge
Any entries earlier than this were pre-reboot.

Jul. 28th, 2014 08:59 pm
centrally: ((awkwardly approaches))
[personal profile] centrally
Scott hasn't actually been to his own prom, mostly because it's still first semester of junior year and while gatecrashing is the kind of thing Stiles would totally go for, they had the winter formal to tide them over and werewolf problems to keep them busy last year. He didn't mean to go to this prom either, but he's kinda getting used to opening doors and finding himself in weird places. Okay, he's not, but someone's high school prom is the most innocuous thing he's found yet. The normalcy of it all is probably why he steps through before remembering that he's just stepped into another world or something; but the door stays put, weirdly unnoticed by everyone else. A look down shows him that he's dressed appropriately too, something that would freak him out more if he weren't starting to get used to all this. Besides, the tux is the kind of thing that someone like Jackson could buy, but that Scott could never afford under regular circumstances — it was hard enough to get something workable together in time for the winter formal in Beacon Hills.

So he lingers, and if you happen to walk through his door he might approach you first; or you may find him hovering around the edges or food and punch tables, looking like he expects to get caught any minute, which he kind of does.

Jul. 16th, 2014 08:29 pm
freezedout: (!girl)
[personal profile] freezedout
"Motherfff..."

Isaac figures this has to be some kind of retribution or revenge or something that the universe is conspiring against him because he's been avoiding Beacon Hills to try not to cope with the weird shit and instead, it happens to him here, again. After the last time he'd spent a few weeks as a girl, he's pretty sure it's the one thing that makes him distrust the hotel and maybe the one thing that makes him think that hiding out here isn't as safe as he wants to think it is and yeah, maybe he should go home.

Right now, though, he's coping with the fact that he'd jogged inside from his run, walked through the front door, of all places, and suddenly his clothes are too big again and the hair is all over his face and one quick glance down shows him yup, he's got a rack again.

Isaac tips his head to the ceiling, frustration singing through him as he wonders why the hell he can't just get a normal sign from the universe, like a signed note or something. Hell, even a voicemail would've been nice, but instead he's got to deal with this.

Letting out a frustrated breath, Isaac hikes his way to the nearest sofa and sits down so he can bend over to retie the sneakers that are suddenly way too big for his feet. He'd wandered in and out of the front door, but nothing. At this point, he's wondering if maybe the only thing that will let him go back to normal is going back to Beacon Hills.

He needs to find the door first and right now, he needs to fix his shoes and get a ridiculous amount of hair out of his face. He blows strands of it out of his eyes with the force of sheer frustration, blinking rapidly when his vision clears and he finds that he's so not alone.

"Uh, hey?" Isaac offers, peering down and slapping a hand to his chest when his tank top is way more revealing than it was when he left for his run. Cheeks flushed red, he lets out another vivid curse under his breath and slumps back against the padded couch. "I'm not trying to flash you, I swear."
shifting_skin: (02)
[personal profile] shifting_skin
The taste of ozone lay at the edge of her tongue, the faint pull of muscle and skin knitting too slowly back together at her calf keeping the rush of days just past firmly in mind.

Having found herself from one step to the next transported from the beginnings of a chase she had come to find familiar through the halls of one lush hotel and into an entirely different setting of one, Mystique had thought little of the consequences of her actions and pulled the door closed after her. One shape had melted smoothly into another at the sound of voices approaching, the skin she had worn as her only for so long one she pulled over herself then out of habit and without thought. Gone were the blue skin and red hair, the yellow-gold eyes lacking the human whites that people so preferred. Gone too was the shape of a lobbyist she had borrowed for the sake of a key and a room charged to an account that was not her own.

When a pair of strangers had rounded the corner, swept up in their own conversation and too busy to notice her as they passed, she stood the same blue-eyed blonde young woman she had lived as so long before.

The hotel had made little less a mystery after two days within its walls, an ear kept ever open for anything she might learn in overhearing the conversations of others. The others spoke easily of strange worlds beyond the doors studding the walls of the hallway. Those that served behind the desk had handed her a key to a room of her own with no question of how or why she had come to be there. She had moved through those days with little more than skimming the surface of everything around her, unsure of what to make of the collection of people who walked and lingered through the many bright-lit rooms, less sure of what to make of herself.

She had been drawn in her uncertainty to the massive library, the shelves heavy with books and comfortingly familiar in that same feel all libraries held within their walls of words and of knowledge and of quiet. She stood then fingering the edge of a book's cover on a shelf before her, a smile pulling at her lips as she considered the twisted sense of humor chance had had in her fingers catching over the gold lettering of its title.

The Metamorphosis, indeed.
bequethen: (play with me)
[personal profile] bequethen
She's dead on her feet.

As time passes, that fact is becoming harder and harder to ignore. Running on pure adrenaline can only carry one as far as running on fumes; eventually, there's a limit, and then there's a crash. The not-even-two-hours of sleep she'd managed on the bus, wedged between Lydia and the window, aren't even close to what she'd need to recover from the whirlwind of the past twenty-four. There'd been the battle against the alpha pack, trying not to lose the bus, the race against time to stitch up Scott before he'd let himself bleed out completely, the entire night at the Glen Capri -

She's starving.

That is also becoming harder and harder to ignore, especially when the smells coming from the Bistro are so tempting. With the all-consuming anxiety that had been tearing away at her, food had been about the last thing on her mind, and now, it's hard to remember the last time she'd even eaten anything. Yesterday morning? Had it really been that long? It's a wonder she's still moving at all.

Unease is something that continues to linger somewhere in the background, behind fatigue and lightheadedness. It isn't surprising, given that, after everything that's just happened, she's found herself in a hotel, of all places. One that's strange in every way, even if it doesn't feel half as dingy or creepy as where she's just come from. There's still an impetus to move, to find people, to not waste time grabbing a bite. But she knows that, realistically, she can't be useful for much of anything without food, at least.

So, that's what leads her here: standing outside the restaurant, rummaging through her purse for some cash.

(Looks like nobody's told her the buffet is free yet.)
chuisle: (pic#7813559)
[personal profile] chuisle
One would think that after three and a half weeks, Angel's mind would've been put at ease, but it hasn't. He's still worried, still afraid that if he looks away — even for a second — she'll be gone again. Vanished, just like she did in his office. He's gotten into the habit of opening doors they haven't been through yet first, peeking through them to ensure he isn't going to lose her to another world, before he lets her pass through them.

The man has something of an obsessive personality, whether he feels like admitting it or not, and keeping a constant watch on Cordelia has become his latest obsession.

It's not that Cordelia isn't sympathetic to his worries -- she is. She gets it. Considering what happened she gets why he needs to keep an eye on her. But there's keeping an eye on her and there's following her constantly like a little puppy. Kind of adorable at first but at some point? After a few weeks? It looses some of the shine.

So after what has to be the 100th time he's paranoidly watched her go through a door Cordelia whirls around to face him, her lips pressing in annoyance.

"You don't have to keep doing that, you know? The whole following me around, making sure I don't go poof into thin air thing."


He comes to an awkward, abrupt halt, bracing his hands on the wall by the door frame to avoid crashing into her.

"I'm not doing that," he tells her, but they both know that he's doing exactly that. It's like their initial training sessions all over again; Angel trying really hard to be chivalrous without coming off as insulting or suffocating, but doing so in spite of his best attempt not to. (His Old World upbringing clashes sometimes with his New World existence — and his paranoia.)

Only this time, he won't quit following her instead of teaching her to do nothing but stave.

She gives him a look at first. One of her patented 'I don't believe a word you're saying, who are you trying to kid?' looks. "That's exactly what you're doing." It's not the first time he's been a little overbearing for the sake of trying to keep her safe. And again, it's not like she doesn't appreciate the sentiment.

But it's still frustrating. )

ooc | Cut for length. BLACK = Angel, PINK = Cordelia ([personal profile] visiongirl). Open for run-ins with either one of them!

Jun. 25th, 2014 07:14 pm
bonetown: (brain hurt)
[personal profile] bonetown
Every month, Alex usually came to the same conclusion.

Sure, she could stick it out at home and pay her rent in pennies or in showing off her ankles to her landlord or trying to barter away Jane's organizing (which, while it had worked, is one of those go-tos that kind of get exhausted after a while). Or, she could head back to the Nexus and pick up a couple of shifts at the shop where she got to people watch and they paid her. Not only that, but she actually got to serve customers and she'll tell you this, sometimes she kind of forgets what that's like.

Still, there's enough lulls that she doesn't get super stressed and this is one of them. She's leaning her elbows forward, people-watching with a dazed expression on her face as she tries to make up stories about them, wondering where they came from and what cool histories they have. "Spy," she says when a brown-haired man passes. "Gay porn," she adds, when a blond one heads the other way.

Every once in a while, she has to help people, but she always gets back to that same people-gazing position from the shop counter, kind of missing Max and Penny because they would totally be good at this game. They were way better at these sorts of things than Alex was because she always hit a wall when her brain tries to go a little more than ten miles per hour.

Whatever, she thinks. It's not like she needs to be smart to watch cute guys. That only takes your eyeballs and she's got two of those, thank you very much.
centrally: ((stiles your hale problem is alarming))
[personal profile] centrally
A hotel.

It's a lot nicer than the motel Scott was just at not long ago — and how recent is evidenced in the gasoline reek still coming off his hair and clothes, since the other shirt he packed for the field trip is probably ruined with blood — but it still raises his hackles (metaphorically) and makes him feel on edge. He actually pinched himself when he first found himself here, figuring it for a weird dream; last he knew, he was drifting off to sleep on the bus, head leaning against the window, headed for home. It'd been a relief to know that Derek's probably alive, despite the ramifications for the future with the alpha pack, and it'd been a relief to leave the Glen Capri and Coach's wolfsbane-filled whistle behind. Thank God for Lydia figuring that one out, and giving all of them — Scott included — an explanation for what was going on that night.

Scott keeps to the hallways, leaving the doors alone for now. He assumes they only lead to rooms where other people, who probably have nothing to do with supernatural weirdness and shouldn't be bothered, are staying, and he's more interested in finding any of his friends. Or management, who's bound to have answers. Hell, he'd even take Ethan or the mysterious darach, since the former might be willing to help and the latter would explain why he's stuck in a fancy hotel.

He finds himself outside of the hotel gift shop, peering through the glass with a frown. Maybe someone inside could tell him the fastest way back to Beacon Hills...? And maybe he could buy a chocolate bar or something at least while he's at it, because now that he thinks about it he's pretty hungry.

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