Call me Cat (she/her) and I follow from @catsafari25 :D
Occasionally I write (vsmp) fic! Find me at my AO3!
Ongoing:
The Work-Afterlife Balance - Legs & Owen survive VSMP and are employed by Abolish's organisation. Nobody is remotely normal about this. Regular updates.
Remains to be Seen - After surviving an attack on his life, Louis follows after Owen, only to find Oakhurst empty. Very much an AU, with an epistolary-styled, found media narrative. Slow updates due to the style of the fic.
Oneshots:
Bloodlines - an "almost au" where Morcant takes Abolish in, with plans to raise him for the slaughter - only to come to care for him.
i've grown a mouth so sharp and cruel - an AU where newly-turned Legs catches up with Owen and Abolish on their way to the beacon.
make a mercy out of me - fake vampire Legs gets shot, and help comes from an unexpected corner.
Reapercussions - post ep 5, multiple people have Opinions on Legs' recently announced 'vampirism'.
Tabula rasa - Owen turns Legs, in an AU where being turned erases all human memories, and gets more than he bargains for.
we're not getting out of this dead - the humans of Oakhurst discuss their inability to die. The implications are not reassuring.
I also accept fic prompts/ask box is open, although I can never promise I will go in the direction you expect :D
send me a 🎁 and I’ll write five sentences of what I’m working on and share one
You can send multiple presents in an ask but I will only pay attention to the first three unless you give me a sufficient bribe.
Making a different one because I maaaaaaaaaaay have been a menace and kicked some hornet's nests a couple of weeks ago and. certain individuals might drop one hundred of these into my inbox if I don't put limits. In revenge.
hiya cool artist!! i just remembered that your requests are open!!! could i perhaps get a little bloodletting? for the soul?
(also i feel weird asking this but we used to be moots before my account was nuked can we perhaps be mutuals again you’re so cool and talented and i would be honored 👀)
Viva la bloodletting!!!
ALSO
Hi! Hello, Mixi! Omg yess ofc?!!?! I swear I followed ur new account like immediately after your other went down, dunno how I wasn’t but that has very much been fixed!
And thank you for the kind words, your art is so mega epic, I’m honored to be moots as well ^^
Which Districts I think each VSMP character would belong to if they were in the Hunger Games universe. Inspired by a HG au post made by @lightblueglazedterracotta. Sorry I have brainworms now. If I'm so inclined I might write a fic...
Explanations below the cut. Warning it's EXTREMELY LONG! Also, sorry if anything is inconsistent, I wrote this over the course of several days. (Also, going in the order of the Tierlist):
Scott - Obviously I feel he'd be a Capitol citizen. Probably in the upper echelon of even the richest people in Panem. The Goldsmiths are probably a name with a lot of history there - lots of politicians and celebrities and stuff. Maybe a Gamemaker or two. Scott I think wouldn't be anything to important, weirdly enough. Despite being ambigously noble in VSMP, I get the feeling he's more into the "doing whatever you want" part of being a powerful vampire elder and way less into like... the political intrigue. Even if he indulges in that on occasion. So translating that to living in the Capitol, I think he'd grow dissatisfied with any job that was too serious. Which is why I have him listed as a District Escort instead. That's about the quarter of the work of a standard Games employee with then times more of the accolades than anyone other than the Gamemaker themself is going to get. Aside from the Tributes and Mentors, but they're not really employed in the traditional sense. I think he'd be the Escort for more wealthy Districts, and he wouldn't mind if a few of his Tributes died - so long as it didn't reflect poorly on his end. Also, I think he'd have specifically been the Escort for Shelby and Pyro when they were in the games, which I'll get to in a second.
Sausage (Mr. M) - District One. Luxury Goods. While books themselves probably fall under Seven due to paper being made with trees, I feel like District One would be the center of the arts outside of the Capitol itself. And since Sausage is an artsy dude, he goes here. I think he is specifically a past Victor, and he's been publishing books post-Games when he isn't mentoring. How did he win.... Uhhhhhhhhhhhhh-
Martyn - District One! Tribute. Being mentored by Sausage. Wish him luck cause he's gonna fucking need it. As much as I associate D1 with the arts, I also associate it with opulence. And with Martyn faking nobility, I think it would make sense for him to be in the highest numbered District, while not being a Capitol citizen. Obviously this is a little flawed, since no one would mistake a District Tribute for a Capitol citizen. So, maybe during his time in the Games, he attempts to appeal to the Capitol watchers by insisting he's not so different from them at all.
Drift - District Two. Masonry and Military. As much as I hate to say it. Drift is technically a cop... And the Panem equivalent of cops... Are. Peacekeepers... So. Like.... I mean I guess, she could also be a P.I. but I don't know if that sort of career is particularly legal in Panem???? IDK. Whatever she is, I don't think she'd be a Tribute. Feel free to add your input here fellow HG fans.
Legundo - District Two. Former Victor. Wanted to join the Peacekeepers before he ended up volunteering for the Games. Afterward he couldn't bring himself to do it. Even if he's still pretty intertwined with them due to being in D2. Definitely won by poisoning the water supply in the arena. I think he was probably a favored Victor for a while, until he got more and more disillusioned with everything. He's probably a mentor a lot, both as a way to keep ratings up, but also as some form of fucked up punishment for any odd statements he's made against the Games in the past...
Apo - District Two. Tribute. Much like Legs was planning to join the Peacekeepers, though that plan was messed up when they were reaped. District Two usually has volunteers, so I imagine this was some kind of mistake; one that wouldn't be rescinded by the Capitol lest it embarrass them at such a tumultuous time. Obviously their biggest goal is to win so they can get back to Cherri, whose back in D2 waiting for her. Legs is definitely her mentor. And she's definitely not popular in the Capitol. Imagine the incident with Martyn but televised to an entire nation. Oof.
Shelby - District Three. Victor. I've talked about this in my reblog before, but to summarize; I picked D3 because of their relation to Pyro in this theoretical AU and also because of their association with specifically fanfic - which is more "online focused" and thus more tech-based then standard non-digital writing. Also I think in order to run a blog or a fan page you'd need readily available internet, both the for the pages themselves but also to access the media they'd be talking about. Which is what I feel Shelby does in their free time for this futuristic setting. Also I wanted them to be in the upper four Districts so that Scott could be their Escort during the games. The OOP of the post this is inspired by also posited the idea that Shelby could be a stylist, which is also very cool! Though, I am going for the District angle so we have a Capitol minority and Districts majority here.
Pyro - District Three. Former Tribute. Suuuper dead. Rest in pieces my guy. Whatever District Shelby is in, Pyro has to be in, since they were District partners in this AU I'm cooking up spontaneously here. Pyro growing up wealthy puts them in the upper five (more likely upper four) DIstricts, and out of all of these, I feel D3 makes the most sense (though I would also settle for D5, which would mean Shelby is also there). Pyro's very scholarly and all of the D3 citizens in the books are very intelligence-first overall. Granted, Pyro's not a tech major, they're a sociology, history kind of person. But hey, more access to the internet means more access to stuff on those topics. Not that it matters, since he's super dead I mean. There's only meant to be one Victor after all. And it's not like anyone was rooting for them...
Owen - District Seven. Lumber. Victor. This is kind of a given. Bro is a Lumberjack, guess where all those guys are in this country where material gathering is focused in sectors. It's also in the lower half of the Districts, meaning less wealth, but it's also higher up in that latter half meaning Owen could still reasonably be disconnected from the greater community of D7 due to being poor, as well as due to his illness. Just gonna steal this directly from the original post I keep referencing. Owen had his name pulled twice. The first time, Louis volunteered in his place. The second, he had no one but himself, and his fury. He's probably hated by the Capitol, but they don't do much about him because he largely keeps to himself unless bothered. Probably doesn't even live in Victor's Village most of the time. Just fucks off into the woods and grieves all day long. The few times they do bring him in, he's treated like a public spectacle, which gives him all the more reason to show them why he shouldn't be brought back the next year.
Ren - District Nine. Grain. Victor. Ngl, this is just because of "cookies" and "wheat beer". Which isn't interesting. BUT!!! In this AU he'd also be an Avox. Instead of having a cursed tongue, he just doesn't get to talk at all. RIP! Despite that, I think he still gets pulled to mentor a lot. Mostly to show the other Victors what happens if you speak out against the Capitol too much (which how Mr. Dogmourne got his tongue cut out in the first place.)
Cleo - District Eleven. Agriculture. Victor. Probably lived in the wealthier part of the District, whatever their equivalent of the Merchant's Square is in D12. I think their mom was a rebel who got snitched on by one of her allies in exchange for a higher status. One that probably wasn't up to snuff but oh well. There's no going back. Especially not for Cleo. Maybe this all happened the week Cleo got back from the Games. Extra angst, y'know. Also I imagine they got trackerjacked in place of being enthralled here. It's wearing off as they age, but it's taken a toll on them. They mentored a lot over the years, since they were easy to control. But even nowadays they know well enough to keep their mouth shut, so they're probably a "favored" Victor amongst the Capitol elite.
Pearl - I couldn't figure out where to put Pearl. Canonically she's from the same town as Shelby, I think? But I don't really see her as either D3 or the alternative D5. If I had to pick between the two, probably the latter. However, I'm slotting her into D13, since they're the heart of the rebellion, and Pearl has this whole thing about "killing those who kill". I doubt she'd be chill with the whole Hunger Games thing. Maybe she was originally from a different District and her family got experimented on and turned into Mutts (instead of being werewolves, they'd be wolf-mutants), and Pearl managed to escape to District Thirteen.
Abolish - District Thirteen. Operative. He was definitely born and raised there, and was trained from birth to work for the same thing basically everyone else in D13 is working for; the destruction of the Capitol. I think he goes undercover just like he did in the original VSMP, acting as waitstaff or even posing as an Avox to gather intel on important figures in the Capitol. He probably does so a lot during the Games time of year, since there's probably a lot of important people in the same place during that time.
Thinking about the whole "there is no platonic explanation for this" thing and how it doesn't account for intense platonic situationships and anyways I think we should start saying "there is no casual explanation for this" bc really what we're talking about is the way the characters in question are Obsessed with each other
I am trying to graduate and find a job, so that's why I've not been able to update or interact in here. However, I went to see Obsession with my boyfriend, and dare I say, I was inspired, especially in the aspect of autopilot au (by the lovely @vampostingtime) :3
I wanted to share this little snippet I wrote for it that I might be working on after Nobody Has To Understand finished (I know I promised a sweet story, but I swear these psychotic shits find me themselves!! I'm entirely innocent)
This post/snippet doesn't really have any spoilers regarding the movie Obsession; however, it is inspired by it
There had once been coins at the bottom of the wishing well. People had come from villages long gone, carrying hopes in trembling hands. Wishes for healthy children. Wishes for good harvests. Wishes for lovers to return from war.
Now, the well stood forgotten beneath the moonlight. The stones were cracked with age. Moss grew between them in dark green patches. Beside it stood an ancient willow tree, its silver branches hanging low enough to brush against the earth like a grieving widow's veil.
Owen knelt before it. The night air was cold against his skin. He stared down into the darkness of the well, unable to see the bottom.
"You know," he muttered bitterly, "this is ridiculous."
Shelby had insisted.
"Just try it," she'd said.
"It's a wishing well."
"You literally drink blood and turn into a bat. Why is a wishing well where you draw the line?"
At the time, Owen had glared at her. Now here he was. Kneeling. At a stupid well. Hands clasped together so tightly his knuckles had gone white.
He felt ridiculous.
He closed his eyes anyway.
Louis.
The name echoed through him like a wound that had never healed correctly. He remembered soft laughter spoken in a language Owen had never fully understood. The warmth of fingers brushing against his own.
Crimson eyes.
Pet names spoken against his ear.
He remembered the way Louis had looked at him.
As though Owen had been worth choosing.
As though Owen had been easy to love.
The ache in his chest sharpened.
"I don't care how," Owen whispered. The willow branches swayed overhead. "I don't care if it's impossible." His voice cracked. "I don't care if it's cruel." His clasped hands trembled. "Somehow." He swallowed. "Someway." His eyes squeezed shut tighter. "Please." Silence answered. Even the wind seemed to still. "I just…" His breath hitched.
"I want Louis back."
Nothing happened. No magic. No voice from the well. No miracle. Only the creaking whisper of willow branches.
Owen remained there for several moments. Then several more. Until the awful truth settled heavily in his stomach.
"...Right." His voice came out hollow. "Of course."
Slowly, he pushed himself to his feet. He brushed dirt from his knees. His face burned with humiliation.
God.
He had actually done it.
He'd knelt at a wishing well and begged the universe to give him back someone dead.
Someone gone.
He rubbed a hand over his face. "Shelby is never hearing the end of this." He looked once more into the dark water below. "You owe me dignity," he informed the well. The well remained unhelpfully silent. "...Should've never listened to Shelby."
His laugh sounded thin. Then Owen stepped away. Moonlight stretched across the grass. Without another glance behind him, his form shifted. Bones shrank. Skin pulled taut. Dark wings unfurled. The familiar transformation overtook him until a bat launched itself into the night sky.
He flew toward Oakhurst. Toward stone walls and familiar corridors. Toward reality. Toward acceptance.
Or at least something close enough to survive.
The next time Owen visited Oakhurst, wishing wells were the furthest thing from his mind. Miracles even more so.
He arrived in a foul mood.
The hunt had gone terribly. He'd spent half the night chasing prey that proved faster than expected, and the other half cursing every branch that had snagged his wings while flying through the forest. By the time the familiar silhouette of Oakhurst emerged against the darkening sky, all Owen wanted was to get inside, complain to whoever would tolerate him, and forget the evening had ever happened.
He dropped into the castle courtyard in a flurry of black wings. The transformation back into himself came as naturally as breathing now; bones shifting, wings retreating, until boots met stone once more. The courtyard was strangely quiet. No raised voices. No distant arguments echoing through the halls. Only the soft rustle of wind brushing through the ivy-covered walls.
Owen tugged at one of his sleeves, dusting off dirt that wasn't even there. Then stopped. "...Doctor?"
Legundo had noticed him. Normally, the doctor's reactions were subtle things. A small nod of greeting. A measured smile. Thoughtful eyes assessing injuries before offering quiet advice. Even exhausted, there was restraint in everything Legundo did.
Today, that restraint shattered. The moment their eyes met, Legundo's entire expression transformed. Relief flooded his face so suddenly and completely that Owen almost glanced behind himself to see who the doctor had actually been looking at.
"Owen." His voice broke around the name. Then Legundo crossed the courtyard. Not briskly. Not politely. Immediately. "Owen," he repeated, softer this time. "Mon Dieu..."
Before Owen could process what was happening, warm hands had already found his own. Long fingers wrapped around them with desperate familiarity. As though checking Owen was real. As though reassuring himself that he hadn't imagined this.
"Owen," Legundo whispered again.
Then the French began. Rapid. Fluid. Beautiful. The words tumbled from him effortlessly, one after another, spoken with the ease of long practice. Owen caught fragments but couldn't assemble them quickly enough to understand.
"...What?" Owen blinked. "Doctor?"
Legundo didn't seem to hear him. Or perhaps he simply couldn't stop. His green eyes had gone impossibly soft. His thumb brushed over Owen's knuckles. He spoke like someone overcome with relief. Like someone who had been holding their breath for years and had only just remembered how to exhale.
The cadence of it settled somewhere deep beneath Owen's ribs. Familiar. Terrifyingly familiar. Owen knew Legundo was intelligent. A doctor. Educated. It wasn't exactly shocking that he spoke French.
Probably.
Maybe.
Except—
No.
Because this wasn't Legundo showing off another language he knew.
He wasn't speaking French at Owen.
He was speaking French to him.
Intimately.
Naturally.
As if this conversation had begun years ago and Owen had simply stepped away in the middle of it.
"...Doctor?" Owen said again, uncertainty creeping into his voice.
Legundo looked at him then. Really looked at him. The smile that spread across his face was small. Tender. Disbelieving. As if Owen was something precious returned after being lost.
He said something else in French. Slowly this time. Carefully.
"Mon trésor."
My treasure.
Owen forgot how to breathe. Louis used to call him that. Never dramatically. Never for show. Half-asleep against Owen's shoulder. Murmured into the curve of his neck. Spoken absentmindedly while patching torn sleeves or brushing fingers through Owen's hair.
Mon trésor.
Like breathing. Like a habit formed through love.
The courtyard vanished. The castle disappeared. The world narrowed into the warmth of unfamiliar hands wrapped around his and the impossible familiarity of those two words.
Owen stared. His fingers tightened around Legundo's without permission. His gaze drifted upward. Past the doctor's face. Past features he knew. Until all he could see were green eyes.
Green eyes he'd searched for in crowded rooms.
Crimson eyes that haunted dreams cruel enough to let Owen have him back before forcing him awake.
Crimson eyes he'd wished for beneath a willow tree beside a forgotten well.
The sound that escaped him barely qualified as a voice.
Small.
Fragile.
"...Louis?"
Legundo went still. Then his expression softened. Recognition. Affection. Relief so profound it looked painful. The smile that followed was heartbreakingly familiar. The same smile Owen had spent nights trying and failing to remember correctly.
"Oui," he whispered.
Yes.
The world tilted. "No." Owen shook his head immediately. Then again. Too fast. His vision blurred. "No," he repeated, the word cracking apart. "No, that's not—"
Possible.
Louis Legundo lifted one of Owen's hands carefully between both of his own.
"Owen."
He said his name exactly the same way. Softly. Deliberately.
As though it mattered. As though Owen mattered. A memory surfaced unbidden.
"You speak about yourself so cruelly," Louis had once said, pressing a kiss against Owen's knuckles. "As if you matter less than everyone else."
He'd smiled then. "As if I would ever allow that."
Owen's chest caved in around the memory.
"You died," he whispered.
Louis's eyes filled with sorrow. "I know."
"You died."
The words came harsher this time. Angrier.
Because if Louis was here, then where had he been? Because if this wasn't Louis, Owen didn't think he could survive losing him twice.
"I know," Louis in Legundo's body said again.
The wishing well flashed through Owen's mind. Moon's red light crimson against old stone. Willow branches swaying overhead. His clasped hands trembling.
I don't care how.
I don't care if it's impossible.
Somehow.
Someway.
Please.
Owen had meant every word. He just hadn't expected the universe to listen. Tears spilled down his cheeks before he realized he was crying.
A disbelieving laugh escaped him. Broken around the edges. "You've got to be kidding me."
Louis Legundo squeezed his hands.
Warm. Solid. Real.
"Owen." No one had ever said his name like that. Like a prayer answered. Like something cherished.
Owen looked at him. At Legundo's face. At Louis's eyes. At the impossible miracle standing before him.
Then, with a voice so small it threatened to disappear entirely, he asked, "...You came back to me?"
Louis's smile trembled. Tears gathered in his own eyes in Legundo's eyes. "I tried," he whispered.
Carefully, he guided Owen's trembling hand against his chest. Beneath his palm, a heartbeat answered. Steady.
Alive.
Louis leaned forward until their foreheads nearly touched. "I've been trying," he confessed softly, "to find my way back to you."
Legundo's fingers tightened around Owen's hand. Then, he froze. The softness left his expression. His smile faltered. The hand pressed over Owen's trembled.
"..."
The doctor blinked. Once. Twice. "Owen?"
His voice changed. The French accent softened into something familiar and uncertain. His brows furrowed.
Slowly, Legundo looked down. At the hand Owen had pressed against his chest. At their intertwined fingers. At how close they were standing.
"...What am I doing?" The question was quiet. Genuine. He looked back up at Owen, confusion spreading openly across his face. "What..." His voice caught. "What am I doing?"
Owen felt the blood drain from his face. The courtyard returned all at once. Stone beneath his boots. Cold night air.
The distant sound of wind moving through Oakhurst's towers. "Doctor?"
Legundo took an unconscious step backward. His eyes widened. He stared down at himself as though he'd just woken from a dream. "I..." His hand lifted halfway before falling uselessly to his side. "Why am I holding your hand?" His gaze snapped back to Owen's. "Owen?"
Fear had begun creeping into his expression. The sort of fear reserved for discovering something wrong inside yourself. "I don't understand."
Owen couldn't breathe. Just moments ago...
Louis.
Louis had been here.
He'd said mon trésor.
He'd looked at Owen as though he'd crossed death itself just to find him again.
And now, Legundo stood before him instead. Confused. Scared. Unaware.
"...Louis," Owen said softly. The name escaped before he could stop it.
Legundo went very still. His expression shifted. Not into recognition. Not completely. Just sadness. Profound and inexplicable. His eyes lowered. "...Louis," he repeated.
As though testing the name. There was grief in the way he said it. A grief he couldn't possibly understand. "...I don't know why that hurts," Legundo admitted quietly. "But it does."
Owen stared at him.
Say something.
Explain.
Tell him what happened.
Tell him that for a few precious moments, someone else had been looking through those green eyes.
Tell him that Owen had gotten exactly what he'd wished for.
Tell him that he'd lost it all over again.
Instead...
Selfishly.
Horribly.
Owen said nothing. Because some terrible part of him was thinking:
Come back.
Please.
Just once more.
Legundo noticed the look on his face. "Owen?" Slowly, cautiously, he stepped closer again. "You look..." His voice softened. "You look heartbroken." His hand lifted. Hesitated. Then cupped Owen's face. Warm. Gentle. "Owen, are you—"
The sentence never finished. Legundo's eyes widened. His breath caught. The fear vanished. Recognition rushed in so suddenly it stole the air from Owen's lungs.
"...Mon trésor."
The words were barely more than a whisper.
Louis.
Owen made a broken sound.
"L-Louis?"
Tears filled Louis's Legundo's eyes instantly. His thumb brushed across Owen's cheek as though memorizing the shape of him. "Tu as pleuré" (You've been crying), Louis murmured in French. "Mon Dieu..."
Before Owen could answer, Louis kissed him. It wasn't desperate. It wasn't frantic. It was devastatingly familiar. Gentle lips against his own. Careful. Reverent. Like something precious returned.
Owen grabbed the front of Legundo's coat with shaking hands. He kissed Louis Legundo back immediately.
The world narrowed to warmth and grief and impossible hope. Louis's Legundo's hand found the side of his neck.
Owen thought—
I don't care.
I don't care whose body this is.
I don't care if this is wrong.
Please.
Please don't leave me again.
Then suddenly—
Louis Legundo shoved him away.
"What the fuck?!"
Legundo stumbled backward so quickly he nearly lost his footing. His hand flew to his mouth. Wide green eyes stared at Owen in horror. "Owen!" Panic flooded his voice. "What—"
He touched his lips. Then looked at Owen. Then back at his own trembling hands. "What's going on?" The question cracked apart. "Owen..." Fear made his voice small. "What's happening to me?"
Owen stood frozen. His own lips still tingled from Louis's kiss.
Legundo looked terrified. "Why am I acting this way?" the doctor asked. "I don't understand."
His breathing had quickened. "I held your hand." His fingers curled against his palms. "I called you..." He swallowed. "I kissed you."
His eyes searched Owen's desperately. "Why did I do that?"
Owen opened his mouth. Then closed it again. What was he supposed to say?
Because the dead don't come back.
Because sometimes Legundo stopped being Legundo.
Because Owen had wished beside an old well for the man he loved to return.
Because somehow,
Someway,
The universe had listened.
"I don't know," Owen whispered. It sounded pathetic. Insufficient. Legundo stared at him. The panic eased from his expression. His shoulders relaxed. The confusion softened. A small smile touched his lips.
Without hesitation, he reached for Owen's hand once more. His fingers threaded through Owen's carefully. Familiar. Loving. He squeezed. And this time, when he looked at Owen, there was recognition in his eyes.
The soldier has always known it was a danger. Whatever the mortal is, human or otherwise, a threat like him doesn't just vanish. Yet another reason they should have disposed of him when they were blood-sated and at the height of their powers. Instead, both soldier and superior smell his arrival while ill-fed on wild beasts and fowl.
"No subtlety this time" the officer mutters. It's dawn, the sunrise cresting red across the forest. "I'll see what he wants. Alone," he pointedly adds, when the soldier falls in step alongside him.
"You said he could be dangerous."
"Are you questioning my judgement?"
"No. Just stating fact, sir."
The officer watches him with unblinking crimson eyes. There is the sense of being weighed and found wanting, although in what way, the soldier doesn't deign to guess. Sometimes, he doubts even the officer knows.
"Just... stay here," the officer says. "That's an order."
"Understood."
Here is along the shore of a forested river, wide and swollen from recent rains, stone dropping away abruptly to water. It's good hunting grounds.
Everything needs to drink, after all.
The soldier stays, as instructed, even long after the officer has gone from his hearing. He waits. And he listens. So he hears the approach of feet too light for human tread. He smells the stagnent stench of vampire blood – gorged on human blood, not animal – and marks the arrival of the stranger. He waits.
His orders were to stay, after all.
The vampire who approaches is as tall as him, her hair white with power, and her attire is that of a noble, not a warrior. They step into the clearing afforded by the river's edge, as if her mere presence isn't an open invitation for violence. She steps – then falters.
The soldier is familiar with his presence being marked with horror. To be exact, the only ones not to recoil have been the officer and the mortal, and so he knows horror. He's comfortable with horror.
The grief is new.
"Hi, doc."
Doc, again.
"You must be a friend of Abolish's," he says.
"You remember him?"
"We've crossed paths."
A shadow flits across their face. "Right. Alderby."
The soldier supposes, by context clues alone, Alderby to be the name of the last enemy's settlement they emptied. He also supposes, by other context clues, this vampire to be an acquaintance, at the very least, of the mortal and that doesn't feel like a coincidence.
It feels like a trap.
"I don't know what you want," he says, "but you should leave." He doesn't know if the mortal's strange immunity extends to this vampire, and there's no need to expend his energy on a unnecessary fight.
"I'm not leaving. Do you have any idea what we – what I–" She growls and steps down from the rise of the bank. "I thought you'd died, you idiot."
The soldier has the irrational urge to apologise.
The impulse passes.
"We built a memorial for you!" she snaps. "We mourned you. I mourned, and all this time you've been playing happy murderers with Owen."
His superior's name thrown with such cavalier disdain rankles; he may have doubts, but they go unspoken. "The war–"
"What war?" she demands. "Doc, the war you think you're fighting ended two decades ago."
The soldier curls a lip at the pitiful lie. "Is that really the best you can do?"
"You've been killing civilians. Think back to the towns you've destroyed – were any of them built for battle?"
"There are no innocents in war."
"Then think further back!" the vampire snarls. She steps closer, near enough for him to strike, but he witholds. If all she has to throw are words, he can weather that. "Look at the memories from when you were human – I know you have some, Abolish says you do – and tell me if any from the war are from the last twenty years."
It's odd. The vampire seems to almost believe their own lies. "I don't know what game you're playing–"
"I'm not playing a fucking game!" She catches herself and withdraws the fangs. They make a visible effort to soften their tone, voice gentle as though he is a deer about to bolt. "I'm trying to help you, doc. Please, let me help."
And from the skirts of her dress, she draws out a bottle of blood.
From a piece I'm working on inspired by Autopilot AU!
Nevermind the feeling of contamination that the whole affair has planted deep in the core of Legundo’s being—Louis is more deserving of a body anyway. He uses it to love and take care of those he loves, and he does so effortlessly, when Legundo has needed to try so hard to keep from slipping back into destruction.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Chapters: 12/?
Fandom: Vampires SMP
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Relationships: Mayor Louis (Vampires SMP)/Owen | OwengeJuiceTV (Video Blogging RPF), Mayor Louis (Vampires SMP) & Owen | OwengeJuiceTV (Video Blogging RPF), Scott Major | Smajor1995 & Owen | OwengeJuiceTV, Legundo & Owen | OwengeJuiceTV (Video Blogging RPF), Legundo (Video Blogging RPF)/Mayor Louis (Vampires SMP)/Owen | OwengeJuiceTV (Video Blogging RPF), Legundo/Owen | OwengeJuiceTV (Video Blogging RPF), Shelby Grace | Shubble & Jack | Pyroscythe, Jack | Pyroscythe & Scott Major | Smajor1995, Shelby Grace | Shubble & Scott Major | Smajor1995, AbolishRegret & Legundo (Video Blogging RPF)
Characters: Owen | OwengeJuiceTV (Video Blogging RPF), Mayor Louis (Vampires SMP), Other Character Tags to Be Added, Scott Major | Smajor1995, Legundo (Video Blogging RPF), Jack | Pyroscythe, Pearl | PearlescentMoon, AvidMC (Video Blogging RPF), Shelby Grace | Shubble, AbolishRegret (Video Blogging RPF)
Additional Tags: Blood and Gore, Blood Drinking, Wingfic, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Scott and Louis staring at each other across Oakhurst like cats, owen is still batshit insane and feral, Alternate Universe - Louis Lives, vampire biology, Vampire Politics, Burn injuries, Vampires, vampire bats feed each other blood w their mouths isn't that interesting :), Other tags to be added, Vampire Turning, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Canon Trans Character, Competent Avid, Surgery, Medical Procedures, Vampires Have Echolocation, Disabled Character, Platonic Cuddling, Scenting, Past Sexual Assault, Vomiting, Cannibalism, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Bats, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Non-Sexual Nudity, Internalized Homophobia, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Autistic AbolishRegret (Video Blogging RPF), Magical Realism, Hypnotism
Summary:
He had scars— the most prominent being across his face, cut between the two grassy green eyes, pulling the nose askew and adding prominence to what would have otherwise almost been a handsome face. His hair was cut short, although it was longer now than the first time Owen had seen him, accompanying Pearl and Pyro through the woods. It was peppered with occasional silver and steely gray, matching the dusting of thick hair across his forearms, visible only by the rolled up sleeves of his surgeon robes.
'Does Louis like that?' Owen thought, and became so incensed by the idea that he stood straight instead, startling the Doctor with the abruptness of the movement.
"I am bored actually," Owen drawled, prowling closer to the Doctor, who looked suddenly discomfited. "You know what I do when I'm bored, Doctor?"
"Jump out of bushes at people?" Legundo asked dryly, and Owen bared his teeth at him in a snarl.
"No. I eat."
[Plus, a bonus chapter where I address the AvidMC/Marma1ade situation, and how it effects Grim Purpose going forward.]
"You don't get it," Drift quavers, her fangs poking out of her mouth. "I'm not afraid anymore. Because of what Scott did, I can't be afraid anymore. I- I need this."
Legundo stares at her with undisguised betrayal, with contempt. A memory swirls in his pained eyes. "You do terrible things when you think you're no longer afraid. When you think nothing can hurt you anymore."
"No, no, that's not-" Drift breaks off, stepping back. But he can't do anything to her. She's the one with the power here. She repeats, like it will make it true, "I'm not afraid."
(I didn't have anything to attach this to but I thought this exchange is fun and it wouldn't leave me alone. something about drift and legs and fear)
A/N: Following up from my previous tabula rasa ch2 piece, I have now figured out the shape of this fic, so more should be on its way :)
[Original Oneshot] // [First] // [Next]
.
The officer has always been prone to mawkishness.
True, on the battlefield he plays his part, becoming a thing of teeth and fury, a blindly-swung axe to the soldier's own killing precision... but they haven't returned to the battlefield.
Not since the human.
In absence of decimating the enemy's lines, they have retreated to the forests, reduced to hunting beasts. "Keeping a low profile," the officer says later, answering the question the soldier hasn't raised, but is thinking all the same.
They have no need of shelter, but they have taken refuge in an abandoned cabin, while rain hammers on the cracked roof above.
"From who? The mortal?"
"Abolish."
"We should have killed him when we had the chance," the soldier says; a rare moment where he voices disagreement with his superior's choices – but, then again, the officer has been so strange since the human. Melancholic and dissatisfied in quick alternating succession, distracted in a way which would be dangerous if faced with foes.
"It wasn't worth the risk."
"What risk does a single human pose?"
"I said, it wasn't worth the risk," the officer repeats, and the soldier drops it.
Silence settles in the cabin around them. Somewhere distant, an owl calls. There has always been a divide between them – that befitting soldier and superior – but since the mortal's appearance, the officer has drawn yet further back. He perches now on the remains of a stool, feet drawn up as if he's the owl about to take flight.
"Do you have anything else to say?" the officer demands. His voice has turned senselessly petty, as if the soldier's silence is somehow mocking.
"No."
"Don't lie. I can hear your doubt."
The soldier doubts that, but he does not call it out. It's not his place. "You seem so sure he cannot be harmed. But we have killed thousands of his kind."
"He is different."
"How?"
The officer rolls his head in a way that offers no answer, that leaves the soldier doubting there even is an answer. But, after the moment passes, "There's something rotten in his blood."
"Then we kill him without spilling it," says the soldier simply.
"He's not easy to kill."
"You keep saying that, but he's only mortal."
"Sometimes, I doubt that."
"Then a distraction," the soldier offers once more. He's slaughtered enough hostiles to know even the most stalwart foe will falter, if given the right motivation. "We find something he cares about. Someone."
The officer looks to him, and there is an expression the soldier cannot parse. It is only when the officer breaks the gaze, brow furrowing in some complicated, unnamed emotion, that he says, "He knew you from before, Legs."
The words are spoken as if a revelation, a secret closely hoarded, but the soldier has long since assumed. To be greeted by doc instead of soldier implied their paths had previously crossed at a very different stage of life.
"And?"
"He thinks that if you remember your time as a human, you would change."
The soldier doubts once more. Whatever memories may lie, interred from his transient passing, they do not change the facts. There is a war. He is a soldier.
He has a duty.
"You think that if I played the part of doctor, he might lose focus," he says instead. "If only for a moment." It would be enough.
"You couldn't do it."
"You knew me from before. I could learn." Against all logic, he does still possess the doctor's coat.
His superior doesn't answer immediately. Another strange expression rolls across his face, something torn between disgust and the echo of longing. When he speaks, his voice is taut. "It would be a bad idea."
Yet later, when the soldier would ask and the officer was in another of his roaming sentimental moods, he would glean fragments of the man he had once been.
"Weak."
"Hypocrite."
"Stubborn."
"Trusting."
"Gone."
It doesn't really matter, in the end.
The human returns before the soldier can learn anything usable.
We mostly agree that Legundo is a victor in Apo's district, but what if he wasn't the only option, what if there was another.
Enter Owen. Owen is the complete opposite of Legs when it comes to his victory. Instead of winning for survival/ perceived method of mercy killing, he won cause of his down right anger.
Why? Cause he was reaped twice. The first time he was so sickly everyone knew he wouldn't survive, he was written off almost immediately. He was barely 13 , wire frame and recked by disease. Victors in their district was rare enough, wood was not a luxury for the capital so no one was paid as such, there was no money for training careers so reaping was often a death sentence, even if you weren't ill.
So it was a shock when the mayor's son raised his hand.
Louis loved Owen the way any teenager loves their first love, wholly and undeniably. It was the right thing to do in his eyes.
The capital was enraptured by this story of love and sacrifice. After all, romance makes for a good story, especially when it bridges divides of poverty and power. A prince and the pauper. Louis becomes a popular tribute within the capital, painted as a bleeding heart lover boy.
But love isn't enough, Louis is killed towards the end of his games. It causes a great disappointment in the capital viewers. Flowers are sent to his home, and somehow, someone funds Owen health care that he recovers. He becomes stronger than he ever has, turning his grief into rage which he funnels in his lumberjacking, as it is all he has left.
The months pass by and Owen finds himself once again in the district square/plaza and now 14 he hears his name called again.
He thinks it must be a cruel trick of fate. He screams and thrashes until he is restrained and pulled away. No one meets him to give him a memento.
While in the capital it becomes clear to the viewers who this is, this is the mayor's son's lover. And he is angry. He gets very few sponsors much to the annoyance of his mentor. At one point his mentor has to pull him aside to tell him if he keeps going the way he is that the capital will have him silenced.
Owen can't have that. He has to win. For Louis, to prove to everyone the mistake they made.
It was one of the shortest games in history.
With the use of his trapping and tracking knowledge from hunting, his brute strength from labour and a wicked sharp axe he finds, Owen carves a bloody path through the arena. He is not merciful as there was no mercy for Louis. The capital wants a monster so they are going to get one.
Of all the victors, Owen is seen the least. He is never chosen to mentor for fear of the ideals he will instil. At age 16 he watches Legs poison the water.
He views legs as naive at best and a cowardly monster at worse.
