has_a_horn: (suit)
[personal profile] has_a_horn
It's early in the morning, and Gabriel is debating with himself about whether Johnny will be up yet.

He's probably not up. )
johnny_truant: (jacked up)
[personal profile] johnny_truant
[follow-up from here]

Tim's last kick to his stomach did him no favors. He staggers home, weak, sore, and shaking - scared as all hell by what he's done, what he had to do. Tim might be bleeding out in the park and it's his fault. He's not doing too well himself, he feels like that kick may have broken something, but at least he's heading home to a an angel. Not scrambling around the park halfway out of his head.

He gets to the building after what seems like an interminable struggle southward, and climbs the stairs automatically, no sense going into his own apartment at this hour, where Lilly's (hopefully) sleeping. As much as he needs this, he's dreading it, too. Gabe can put him back together, but at what cost? What questions is he going to have to field, what lies will he tell, and will Gabe believe any of them. He can't give up Tim, not until he knows more about - everything, all of this. Like he can actually make a difference. Such bullshit.

He might know it's bullshit but he's resolute all the same. He gets to Gabe's door and lets himself in. "Gabe," he murmurs weakly, unable to focus on Scout as the dog comes running to greet him.
postictal: (not all there | masked)
[personal profile] postictal
[tw: weird formatting, dissociation]

When did they last - ?

They cannot remember. This body has not been theirs in so long.

w     e  w  i ll wait for you no more                              

It is theirs again. They have slid the familiar pale disc of their face to shroud the one belonging to the skin they wear, wrapped in their old, familiar mantle. There was a window, and they climbed out of it. They are awake for the first time in -

control is being ta  ke n away from y  o   u                                                                      

No matter.

They do not exist in that limbo of chemical suppression, not any longer. They could not have been muzzled by that chemical impulse forever. He should have known that. Their skin. The liar. Scared little boy. He is quiet now, and they are awake in his head. They flex fingers. They move silently but for the scrape of their leg dragging behind them in dead weight. They pull in breath, crisp and cold. The mechanics of existence are difficult. Half-remembered. Familiar again.

f   ro  m the sta rt it's been a game for us                                    

Quiet. Ahead, the woods. It is to them they creep. Tall things, slender trees, trunks stark and reaching to a sky fuzzy with stars. Wind stirs leaves, sending the curled husks of those dead things whispering over carpeted grass and sticks. They trace the skeleton claws of branches scratching the sky, and wonder if it is waiting for them. It always is.

Always watches. No eyes.

not anym o r  e                                                  
I'm coming for you                                   

Noise. Snap-twigs and rustled underbrush. They still, fall silent, scanning the place to which they've come. Something nearer? Something close? Something moving. Something here. Something they can find. Something they will find.

There's a trickle of code in their head.

and you will l e  ad me                

They remember. It is where they go. It is where everyone goes.

to t h   e      a    r           k

[ooc: so just after the fallout of the Rebel Base debacle, Tim ran out of medication and has masked out. The masked man is an alternate persona entirely - they don't have any of Tim's memories and are a very underdeveloped, generally aggressive consciousness. They don't talk, and basically look like this. Their instinct upon coming across anyone is mostly going to fall in the 'tackle and abduct' category, though reactions can and will vary. If you want to read more about their deal I've put info here and here. They'll be roaming Central Park all evening/night until the sun comes up again, at which point Tim will wake up and proceed to remember nothing of it.]
johnny_truant: (emo kid)
[personal profile] johnny_truant
This is a shit reason to be seeing Eliot again, and Johnny knows it. They haven't seen each other since Eliot's nightmare, and that was a good while ago now. And it's not like he didn't want the company. He's been miserable, he's been lonely. Now Tim's moved out of the hotel, leaving him with no one to talk to, even if their conversation had just been passing and awkward. He could have contacted Eliot or Charley at any time, but he didn't. Wouldn't have felt right.

Now, though, Gabe's forced his hand by dragging Eliot into it. Which is not ideal.

He texts Eliot to let him know he's there, fidgeting. He doesn't want to see whatever it is Gabe intended for him and he doesn't want to have to explain any of this to anyone. He wants to pretend this isn't happening to him. He was doing an all right job for a while there.

So much for that.
applesaucemod: (Default)
[personal profile] applesaucemod
 photo beauty and the beast stained glass rose-NZWR_sm_zpsadnbeqxz.png


The twenty-seventh of August dawns bright and clear, but when your characters wake up, they will immediately notice something wrong. They've woken up the wrong size, or species, or age. Or perhaps everything seems normal until they take a bite of their apple-flavored toaster strudel, or attempt to speak, or wander into the woods, or bump into that old crone in the subway and fail to adequately apologize. However it happens, there's no getting around it: your characters are cursed, like an unfortunate out of a fairy tale.

On the bright side, many curses can be broken. Unfortunately, none of them come with user manuals, so how they might be broken isn't clear. Perhaps true love's kiss will do it, or a heroically sacrificial act, or some serious reflection followed by revelatory insight into your own soul. Or, y'know, whatever. But it's far more likely that your character will just be stuck with whatever it is until sunset, when any and all remaining curses will be broken.

[OOC: Feel free to use this post for initial reactions to whatever curse your character has found themselves suffering. Any additional posts for more specified shenanigans can go up under the 'events: curses' tag. Sunset is a little after 7:30 PM. Backdating and backtagging are the best and you should do both of those things if necessary.]
eliotwaugh: (pensive | sad)
[personal profile] eliotwaugh
[[ooc: tw in this one for trauma and dissociation, various anxiety attack symptoms, also vomiting. Yeah it's real fun.]]

He doesn't know how long it goes on, only that the sound of his phone's chime cuts through him like a knife and he feels like falling, jerking awake in bed. Sleep paralysis, he thinks. Funny how part of his brain can put a name to the sensation when the rest of him is just shaking and can only barely register that he's awake, and alive, somehow.

Eliot kicks his way out of the sheets, clinging and cold and damp with sweat. It's dark, too dark, he needs to turn a light on but he feels fragile and too weak to reach the lamp. His hands are shaking too much to start an illumination spell and all he manages is a faint glow about his fingertips. He tries to get out of bed and slides slowly to the floor, boneless and shuddering.

Phone. The phone woke him. He fumbles on the bedside table and it takes him a moment to parse words and try to get his hands to work enough to reply to Johnny. He wants to explain, to apologize but how can he? How can he even begin to make sense of that, how can Johnny be okay when Eliot saw, the Beast made him watch--

The roiling wave of nausea hits him as soon as he thinks about it, the afterimage burned in his mind, and he scrambles to the bathroom. Afterwards he turns the faucet on the sink all the way and leaves it running. It's a nice sound, a normal sound, safe white noise to drown the memory of the dream. Eliot curls up on the floor, resting his head on mercifully cold tile, and tries to breathe.

His pulse is still fluttering and he feels very distant from himself as he finds the phone again, tries to apologize but it's insufficient. Eliot does manage to turn the light on before he pulls the comforter off the bed and huddles on the floor with the weight of it wrapped around him like armor.
eliotwaugh: (oh shiiiii | scared)
[personal profile] eliotwaugh
The sun is getting low, and it's causing infuriating little beams of light to filter through the branches of the trees outside and the curtains in his bedroom and dance a merry jig on Eliot's face. He is not prepared for this kind of happy sappy tomfoolery about the wonder of nature, because his head feels like someone has stuffed it full of knives.

Oh fuck, what even happened? How horrific (or successful) did the brunch get?

He tries to move, and that sets off a round of throbbing in his temples and he screws his eyes shut tight and exhales a sigh. Ugh, he smells like death, death and eggs. What time even is it? This is why he doesn't take naps. At least he's in his own bed this time, and not passed out on the floor.

He makes a second attempt at moving, at least to get his face out of the light, and this alerts him to the presence of someone else in the bed. Someone skinny and cute flopped half underneath him with a perfectly peaceful expression. That kind of dreamy contentment does not belong on the face of someone who showed up to brunch thinking it was a sexy date and oh god, who called Eliot his boyfriend oh no, it's starting to come back in a horrible flood of remembered images.

Eliot lurches upright, fighting against the pain and the dizziness, and frowns down at the sleeper.

"Wake the fuck up, Johnny."
johnny_truant: (happy just to be with you)
[personal profile] johnny_truant
[mildly, post-coitally nsfw]



"Okay, so," says Johnny once he can talk again. "I don't know about you, but I'm fucking hungry. I'm also pretty sure I can't move. So if I'm gonna make it, you're gonna have to get up."

He rolls onto his stomach and grins at Eliot, who is naked, sweaty, and hot as hell. Johnny is feeling really good right now about having figured out this whole liking-dudes thing. "You wanna cook for me?" he says playfully, running a hand down Eliot's side to settle on his hip. "We could, uh. Well, I don't have a TV, but apparently you can watch movies on computers."

He only barely has a computer. Gabe gave it to him ages ago but he almost never uses it. It's too small and weird and he hates being on the internet. It's all so aggressively fast-paced and weird. It would be better, he thinks, to watch something in Gabe's apartment. That would involve introducing Gabriel to Eliot. An idea he's been toying with for a while now, but he's not sure how to broach it.

"How's that sound?" He leans up and to give Eliot a kiss and misses his mouth somewhat, landing on the slightly scratchy line of his jaw. Which is nice too.
eliotwaugh: (in his comfort zone)
[personal profile] eliotwaugh
Well, his magic is still a little iffy sometimes, and he still doesn't know how/if he'll get home, and he really only has two friends so far, but god damn it, his apartment is an overdone neo-victorian salon set up, and he can have a fucking party again. This is so important.

Eliot's on his second Bellini when Sunshine arrives, early as agreed, with muffins as promised. He gives her a kiss on each cheek with a flamboyance usually reserved for Janet (Sunshine is sort of his replacement Janet, he guesses, and so far she doesn't want to sleep with him, which is kind of a step up), takes the bag and trades her a cocktail. She has catching up to do.

Sunshine is great in the kitchen, no surprises there, and she gets tipsy really quick, and she is adorable tipsy. This is gonna be great. Eliot feels good. For the first time in... kind of a while.

He's just checking the time on his phone when the buzzer goes, so he gives Sunshine reign of the omelettes for a moment while he goes to buzz Johnny in, then waits at the door, feeling maybe a little nervous. But only a little.
eliotwaugh: (pensive | sad)
[personal profile] eliotwaugh
Eliot has been homeless before, and as much as he's adapted to a life of glamour and ease and fine wines, he remembers how to get by, now that he has to.

His first order of business is to figure out why his magic isn't working, but in order to do that he needs a base of operations, someplace to live in the meantime. The first few days are weird, off-kilter culture shock making him wander neighborhoods he thought he knew. You look at things differently when you can't just float through life without worrying about anything, when magic solves all your problems. Eliot learned that lesson long before Brakebills, in a way he supposes most of his friends never did. But he took to his magical privilege like a duck to water, and now that it's gone there's a bitter edge to his days.

He begins squatting in a basement in the East Village. The building houses a lovely Japanese restaurant which is apparently closed in this universe. He'll miss the chicken croquettes but the location is a good base of operations, and before long he has a reasonable setup for sleeping and research. He tries to keep himself and his clothes clean, because charisma is a type of magic all its own, and if he can't pass for reasonably affluent he's going to have a lot more trouble just getting by day to day before he gets on top of this problem.

Eliot had some cash on him when he came through the Rift, but he's had to supplement it with pickpocketing. Which, okay, he's not proud of, but times are tough. Plus it's good exercise for his hands; his spell-casting depends on precise gestures, and all his early attempts in this universe feel like fumbling, clumsy baby motions.

So he spends most of his days at various library branches, and his nights in the basement, scribbling long equations on the exposed brick until he can barely see straight. It doesn't take Eliot long to suspect that physics is the problem here. There's something different about this dimension, some probably unnoticeable but fundamental aspect that makes things not the same enough that his own skill set and efforts aren't producing any results.

What Eliot hopes is that if he does enough digging, if he can ground himself in this world's physics, he can figure out the magical equivalent of a travel adapter so that he doesn't need to re-learn how to do spells from the ground up, or god forbid be just completely powerless forever. He tries not to think about that worst-case scenario, but the fear keeps him from really sleeping well. All the more time to work on the math.

After that dream, with the woods and the mythological shenanigans, Eliot thinks about contacting Johnny but doesn't. They'd had a great time together but it was supposed to be a one-night thing, and Eliot never expected to see him again. And when he learned he'd stumbled like a jackass into a whole different universe, well, he was a little sad that his last fling was with a guy he'd probably never see again and could never talk about this Rift bullshit with even if he did, but lo and behold.

And now? Well, Eliot doesn't want Johnny to see him like this. He needs to take control of his circumstances, and this universe's capital-C Circumstances, before he picks up a social life again.

So on this particular afternoon he's in the Central Library, staring bleary-eyed at some outdated doorstop of a physics textbook from probably the 1960s. Even wrong science might give him some fucking clues at this rate. He's a little distracted by hunger, though, and begrudgingly starts looking around for a likely mark so he can get some quick cash and something palatable for lunch.
eliotwaugh: (oh shiiiii | scared)
[personal profile] eliotwaugh
Eliot does not do the walk of shame, he takes a promenade of reminiscing on a night well spent. It's early enough in the morning that the heat hasn't gotten overpowering, so he saunters back down to SoHo, getting coffee and a crêpe along the way. He feels better, so much better, having had that little vacation from his life. And his life is already so much of a vacation, isn't it? But he knows, of course, that his usual pace of frenetic idleness couldn't be sustained forever, and when he was stuck with his usual crowd (and Janet, always Janet, waiting for him and still wanting him after all this time, sometimes it made his skin itch to look at her), he hated those moments of self-awareness and chased them away with all the intoxicants he could get his hands on.

But something about today is different. He had taken a much-needed break from the usual scene, and had a lovely time with lovely Johnny, and somehow the city doesn't seem so much like the usual desert of mundane dirty boring everything, like it usually did. Maybe Eliot's looking at it with fresh eyes, but it seems a little bit more magical.

When he gets to the apartment, he starts to realize that he might have a problem. The key doesn't work, but that's not he first time it's happened, the building is so old and the lock gets sticky in the humidity, so he does the usual thing and starts banging on the wood with his fist.

"Janet!" he yells, and oh no his throat hurts from all that drinking, he hopes he's not getting a summer cold, those are the worst. He's about to yell again when he hears something from inside the apartment that chills his blood.

There's a dog barking.

They don't have a dog. Janet doesn't even like dogs, and as much as they joke about their little Ozzie and Harriet setup here she would not go out and get a dog as a gag for them to laugh about and neglect and foist off to Quentin and Alice in a week. So why the fuck is there a dog in his apartment?

He stops banging on the door, because the dog is scrabbling and whining at it and then there's footsteps and it opens and it's some strange bearded hipster douche staring at him like he's crazy.

"What the hell, man?" hipster douche accuses, and Eliot narrows his eyes and looks down at the dog, poking its fluffy white face out from the sliver of doorway. It looks like one of those hypoallergenic designer hybrids people have, with the stupid names. Shitcock. Snickerdoodle. One of those things. It's wrong, the whole thing is wrong, this guy and his dog shouldn't be here.

"What the hell are you doing in my apartment?" Eliot counters, angry and confused and too hungover to try and reason this. They shouldn't be here. This is so wrong, why is there a dog? For whatever reason that's the thing he focuses on, as he backs away from the yelling faux lumberjack, hearing a high-pitched ringing in his ears. His stomach turns, and he gets off the stoop and leans into the bushes to catch his breath or throw up (which mercifully doesn't happen).

The feeling of sickness triggers a sense-memory; he remembers the nausea yesterday, in the evening in the park. There's definitely something wrong, all right, and maybe Eliot was just too drunk to see it before. Something is fucked up, something happened to him, maybe someone's gaslighting him, but it started in the park.

He storms off down the block, out of sight of the hipster who's now closed the door, grumbling. Eliot starts to warm up a teleportation spell but it feels off-balance somehow, his hands don't feel right even though he's gone all over the city like this and it should be as natural as breathing. He feels sick, sick and wrong. Maybe until he figures out what or who's behind this mindfuck he should cool it on the magic. He'll be fine. He digs in his pockets for a wad of cash and sets off to hail a cab.

Eliot's mood darkens as they crawl up Fifth, and when the cab drops him at the southeast corner of the park, the wrongness hits him palpably, like coming out of air conditioning into sweltering summer heat.

There's magic here, powerful and unfamiliar, and it's so absolutely out of place. And Eliot's going to get to the bottom of it.

[[ooc: so off he wanders, hungover and confused and in a hell of a mood! Let's make Eliot's day even worse, friends!]]
eliotwaugh: (say what now | fuck off)
[personal profile] eliotwaugh
[[cw: casual, casual alcoholism]]

Par for the course, Eliot is drunk. No soirees tonight, none planned tomorrow, no Janet and no one to seduce, which leaves him with pub crawl, party of one. He's conquered a nice portion of the east side and is now staggering making his graceful way westward, cutting through the park. There's always someone to seduce in the park, but none of tonight's options meet with Eliot's exacting standards, and he breezes on by and makes a dutiful show of not feeling sorry for himself.

It's right around when he passes Bethesda Fountain that he feels it, something—wrong. Air and pressure changes, a shift in the whole je ne sais quois of the place. He comes perilously close to stumbling, halts abruptly and looks around, absurdly, like a prairie dog.

Nothing's different. Everything's as it was. Central Park, humid nighttime, the stars all accounted for, presumably, not that anyone can tell. And he's suddenly not sure, was there anything, or did he just have one of those odd, drunken little chills?

Good grief. He must be worse off than he thought. Tsk, tsk, Eliot Waugh, could it be you're losing your edge? This will have to be dealt with immediately. He needs to find a place to sober up.

He maneuvers himself to the west side, navigating the streets like the goddamn pro he is, until he finds what he wants, a desperately average little dive called, adorably, Jake's Dilemma. Cheap and gross and just what the doctor ordered. He slips inside, takes in the early half-crowd with a disaffected glance, and sits himself down.

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