#& grace

[iheartvelma]

“Oh, it’s very popular Ed. The sportos, the motorheads, geeks, sluts, bloods, wastoids, dweebies, dickheads - they all adore it. They think it’s a righteous view.”

GeoCities Wired - April 1997

[oliversrarebooks]

The Rare Bookseller Part 81: Alexander's Hope

Previous > Masterlist

tw: body control, mind control, solitary confinement, blood drinking, abuse, cutting, eye whump, ear whump, general torture, blood drinking

October 1905

Lex stirred from fitful, unsatisfying sleep. Down here in his sire's basement, laying on frigid concrete in pitch blackness, where racing thoughts blended into hallucinations and nightmares, it hardly even mattered if he was asleep or awake. Either way, there wasn't any rest.

Any rational thoughts that might have remained to him were slowly but surely being drowned out by yearning for blood, blood, blood. He touched the still painful and throbbing wound where his left eye should be, trying to gauge its healing. Without blood, the process was agonizingly slow, and his mangled body burned and ached with need. It filled his mind with unwanted visions of his fangs sinking deep into Fitz's neck, provided him with phantom smells so rich and convincing that he couldn't keep from drooling.

The most delicious blood on earth, belonging to the thrall he was willing to risk everything for. He might never drink that blood again, nor would he hear that laugh, or feel that warmth against his body. Fitz, his most precious treasure, was now his sire's, mind broken and body pressed into service. They'd both paid such a terrible price for Lex's obsession.

Where had he gone wrong? Over and over again he replayed the events of that night in his mind's eye, that fateful moment when the tide was turned and the hunters were made to slaughter each other. Even among the chaos and carnage, the best of the hunters, the one who'd managed to put an arrow through Lex, had nearly done the deed, her silver knife tearing a hole in the Maestro's suit-coat, just above his shriveled heart. So close. So painfully close. And yet she may have well missed by miles for all the good it did her.

He rolled over listlessly, cooling his wounds on a fresh patch of concrete, far beyond caring about his dignity. Heavy eyes slipped closed as rationality left him, and he could practically taste warm, rich blood filling his mouth, so much of it, enough to finally satisfy his thirst, more than he could ever need. Lex was covered in it, blood dripping down his face and soaking his clothes, and the smell was everywhere, the enticing aroma turning rotten. Before him, he could see empty-eyed thralls lined up, kneeling before him and tilting their heads to expose their veins, helpless and controlled, all for him.

He awoke with a gasp. No, he wasn't like that. He didn't want empty dolls at his beck and call like his sire did. It was this dark place that gave him these unwanted fantasies. But even as he rejected the vision, he could still smell the blood, so strong that he could swear it was real.

A footstep echoed through the basement, then another. Lex shook his head. That was just his mind playing tricks on him. It sounded nothing like his sire, those rhythmic and light steps that sent a bolt of dread through his heart. No, this was nothing, just another hallucination.

The weak light of a gas lamp came into view, and Lex squinted in confusion. If this was a hallucination, it was an especially convincing one. As the figure drew near, its identity became clear to Lex, and he saw that he wasn't imagining the smell of blood.

It was Fitz, and Lex could tell from the lack of additional footsteps that he was alone. The basement was so quiet that Lex could hear his every heartbeat thrumming in his ears, could sense the swirl of his sweet lifeblood through his arteries. It was too solid, too vivid, too realistic to be false.

As his beloved thrall stepped closer, Lex could see the flickering light reflected in empty, dead eyes. Fitz's gait was stiff and unnatural, his hair chopped short and neat, and his skin had a deathly pale pallor to it. If it hadn't been for the smell of his blood, Lex might have mistaken him for a corpse, a ghastly reanimation of his human lover, sent by the Maestro to send him to madness.

But a corpse would be too merciful for his sire. No, in that moment, Lex had a vision of something much worse -- Fitz turned into a vampire as he was, the life drained from him, eternally bound to his sire, cursed to a life where pleasure and respite were rare and fleeting.

"Fitz," said Lex, his voice weak and hoarse from disuse. He hoped his thrall would not answer him. He did not want to hear his hollowed-out voice.

Fitz said nothing, walking forward as though he didn't even see Lex, stopping a few feet in front of him. There were unmistakable twin wounds on his neck, slightly higher than Lex's, so fresh that blood was welling up. His sire had been feeding on his thrall.

Jealousy and anger took Lex, filling him with rage, as he strained fruitlessly against the burning silver shackles binding him to the wall. That blood was his. He needed it. The sound of Fitz's heartbeat pounded through his skull, and it took everything Lex had to hold onto reason and not snarl and snap like a wild dog.

That was the meaning of his sire sending Fitz to him: to punish him with the temptation of blood, to flaunt his power over Lex's cherished thrall. Lex had no doubt that giving into his primal need and taking even the smallest sip of blood for himself would result in a harsh correction.

But he was already locked in the basement, every part of his body covered with wounds made by the harsh weapons of vampire hunters. How much worse could it get? A dangerous thought, and one he'd regretted on more than one occasion. But his intellect was fighting a difficult battle with the insatiable howl for blood deep within him.

Even as he was about to cave, though, a single rational thought came to him just in time. Fitz had just been fed on, and he was very visibly pale and diminished. How much blood did his sire take? His sire usually drank sparingly -- not even indulging in the pleasures he denied to others -- but this time might be different. Lex had the sinking feeling that the Maestro had taken enough blood from Fitz such that feeding on him any more would be dangerous.

And that's how the punishment could be so much worse than now, if Lex were to give in to his bloodlust and kill his beloved. No, not again, not ever again.

Lex could just barely stop himself from reaching forward and grabbing Fitz, pulling him close, and drinking deep of his lifeblood. He couldn't stop himself from letting out a strangled wail of despair, even knowing his sire could hear it and judge him harshly for it. And as Lex sobbed brokenly, he noticed through his tears that Fitz's expression had changed ever so slightly. Was it concern…?

He realized with great shame that he'd been so focused on pitying himself that he'd neglected to consider Fitz's situation, in as much pain or more than he was. Lex knew all too well how harsh his sire's feedings were. Even worse, he must have been subjected to some torturous mental conditioning to keep him so still and silent and lifeless. His sire would stop at nothing to keep his thralls broken and under his thumb, and now he's managed to drain the warmth and spark from one of the liveliest humans Lex had ever known.

He must be in so much pain, underneath it all. Lex longed to reach out to him, to cradle him, to comfort him and be comforted in turn, nearly as much as he wanted to drink Fitz's blood. But he couldn't. If Fitz got any closer, if he felt the blood thrumming under his soft skin, he'd never keep control of himself, not starving as he was. Fitz was kneeling in front of him, several feet away, staring at him with those terrifying dead eyes. Even in the flickering gas light, Lex could see the deep bags under his eyes from his exhaustion. Lex had forgotten almost everything about being human, but that was one thing he would never forget, the bone-deep exhaustion from the Maestro's cruel so-called training, that feeling of having to drag himself far past his limits when his body was screaming at him to rest.

There was so little he could do for Fitz, but maybe he could give him one small gift, the gift of peaceful rest.

Lex's voice was hoarse, but the pain in his throat was nothing compared to the rest of his wounds. Even as weakened as he was, his voice could still carry his power. He did his best to concentrate and pour feelings of peace and safety into his song, lacing it with the compulsion to sleep.

Fitz didn't react at first, and Lex feared that either he had someone been rendered immune to all influence but his sire's, or that Lex's powers were too weak to reach him. But then his face relaxed and his eyelids drooped, the deadened stare subtly changing into a glassy-eyed daze. Lex kept singing his lullaby as his thrall swayed and slumped, curling up on the cold floor, his eyes barely open now. As Lex sang his thrall to sleep, he could imagine how much this would have meant to him when he was in his sire's grasp.

Comforted by having done something to help Fitz, and with nothing else to do, Lex lay down himself, watching Fitz's soft breathing as he drifted off into slumber. Even though his scent still wracked him with hunger, Lex found that he could drift off too, the two of them sharing a quiet moment in their misery.

Of course, that only lasted as long until the Maestro decided that the punishment was over.

"You didn't feed from him," he said, looking down at Fitz, who was still fast asleep and blissfully unaware of the impending danger.

"Of course not, sire," said Lex. He knew that the correct answer would be to acknowledge that Fitz was his sire's thrall and not his own, but that was one thing he couldn't bear to do.

His sire scowled, and Lex suspected that he didn't think Lex would successfully pass his test, as though he didn't have a surfeit of hard-earned self-control from his many years under his sire's thumb. Lex kept his face neutral, wondering what punishment his sire would inflict, and by what flimsy excuse. He hoped his little gambit wouldn't entice him to punish Fitz as well.

"I suppose you've earned a reward, then," he said, his scowl turning into the faintest hint of a smile -- the worst outcome of all.

Lex carefully kept his face neutral. "Thank you, sire."

The Maestro strode over and pulled a heavy key from his coat pocket, undoing Lex's chains. Lex stood up shakily, hoping that the puppeteering he was about to endure would not reopen his wounds too badly. His sire then leaned over near Fitz's sleeping form, snapping next to his ear.

"Awaken, Fitzwilliam."

His eyelids fluttered, as he stirred but did not fully wake. With how badly he needed the rest, it had been too easy for Lex to sink him into a deep sleep. Fitz would suffer for his moment of reprieve.

"Do you see, Alexander, that thralls become indolent when you indulge them even slightly?"

"Yes, sire."

The Maestro grabbed the front of Fitz's shirt, hauling him to his feet and delivering a sharp slap to his face. The peace and relaxation in Fitz's expression dissolved immediately into terror, followed by a poor attempt to hide that terror, as he woke.

"You will awaken when I order you."

"Yes, sir," said Fitz, the first thing Lex had heard him say since he'd been taken, his voice so uncharacteristically meek.

"I trust that since you had your rest, that you won't need any tonight, and can devote yourself to extra practice."

"Yes, sir."

"Alexander, follow. I want for you to witness what I've been making out of this raw material."

Lex had no choice, of course, pulled along by his sire's power as Fitz was, his unhealed wounds burning as he walked up the stairs. He didn't dare try to catch Fitz's eye, although he wondered if Fitz thought the relatively mild punishment was worth the sleep that Lex had granted him. Lex would have thought it was worth it, in his shoes. He'd had to make similar calculations often, and had come to the conclusion that since the Maestro would punish him at a moment's notice for any excuse, there was no harm in taking those rare small pleasures when he could. When everything brought pain, pain became meaningless.

They arrived in the all too familiar music room, and even the dim light of the gas lamps was harsh on his eyes after having been confined in the basement for some unknown stretch of time. There was a tall and well muscled woman at the piano, wearing one of his sire's drab uniforms, her hair pulled back in a severe braid. She was picking through what seemed to be a basic piano lesson with great determination. Most importantly, Lex had seen her somewhere before.

"Grace, stand," said the Maestro. "You will be practicing your dancing with Fitzwilliam."

Grace -- Lex knew who she was now. She was one of the hunters he'd sent to kill his sire, the most skilled of them all, the one who had managed to resist Lex's song long enough to wound him. In fact, the plan Lex had made with the ensorcelled hunters was primarily using most of them as distractions so that Grace would be able to get close enough to have a shot. Of course the Maestro had taken the best of the hunters to be his prize, as a show of power, a warning.

"Alexander, you will play, so that I may more closely observe their practice. I advise you to observe as well."

Lex knew this well. He would then be expected to point out their mistakes and perhaps dole out whatever punishment his sire thought was appropriate. Lex was a bit surprised at so mundane a torment after what he'd been put through, but perhaps his sire was tired, or more likely, gearing up for something crueler.

Then again, he could just be trying to drive a wedge between the two by forcing one to punish the other. For all Lex knew, Fitz already hated him for dragging him into this mess. That would, unfortunately, be reasonable.

All Lex could do now was what he was told, so he sat down at the piano. Behind Grace's piano lesson was the piece he was expected to play. It wasn't a new one. It was a song which conjured up blurred together memories of all the long nights in this room, at this piano, playing and playing until his fingers and wrists were so inflamed he could barely move them. In fact, it was the first piece he had ever played to the Maestro's nearly impossible standard of perfection, the one that made his sire decide to condemn Lex to his eternal fate. Familiar, in an awful way.

That familiarity did allow Lex to observe Fitz and Grace while keeping his mistakes to a minimum. Lex could so easily recall the way Fitz had danced with him at the vampire ball, cocky and confident and surprisingly graceful. He was no less graceful now, but his eyes had gone back to being distant and glassy, like a beautiful porcelain doll. The personality that had charmed and attracted Lex was nowhere in sight. He wondered if any of it remained, buried deep inside, or if Fitz were already lost forever.

Grace, despite her name, was a clumsier and less experienced dancer. For some reason, his sire had Grace leading the dance. Lex remembered that Fitz had led when they'd danced together, flouting the strict social hierarchies of vampire society by being a thrall who led. Among two thralls, however, it didn't matter who led. The Maestro must have been trying to make sure Fitz was put in his place.

Even with punishment and misery imminent, even in this joyless place, playing the piano and watching his thrall dance was so much more pleasant than his solitude in the basement that Lex could almost enjoy himself. His mind wandered enough that he could imagine Fitz dancing with him instead of the hunter, a glowing smile replacing his blank expression.

That was, until a hand slammed down on the piano keys.

"In case it wasn't clear, I requested that you play the piano with your fingers, not your elbows," said the Maestro. "I can only assume you were using your elbows, given the quality of your performance."

"Yes, sire, I'll try again," said Lex. How had he forgotten himself so easily? It seemed to be the effect Fitz had on him, ensorcelled or not. His sire had certainly noticed.

If he had to guess, he'd probably end up with his fingers chopped off by the end of the night, forced to endure the painful regrowing without any scrap of blood to heal him.

He did his best to play and not allow himself to lose focus, even if he was resigned to a gruesome punishment. There was no point in trying to save himself. He'd already been broken in the ultimate way, when he was turned into a vampire spawn permanently under the Maestro's thumb. No, the only thing he could do now was to help Fitz preserve himself, in the hopes that he might one day be free.

Lex played the piece over and over while the dancers twirled. Fitz was making more mistakes than he had initially, possibly rattled by the Maestro's admonishment to Lex. Or perhaps it was simply exhaustion, as the sleep that Lex gave him couldn't fully undo the blood loss. Lex did his best to count the ones he noticed, knowing that his sire would ask, and that proposing too light of a punishment would only make things worse for them both.

Finally, the Maestro called for an end to the music, and the tired dancers froze and stood at attention. "Alexander, what did you think of my Fitzwilliam's performance?"

"He has a natural talent," said Lex, choosing his words with care. "He has improved since the last time I saw him dance, but I suspect he will need many more strict sessions to even begin to meet your standards."

"An understatement. You're still too soft on him." The Maestro approached Fitz, grasping him by the shoulder and looking him over as though he were a mannequin. "His posture, his timing, the positions of his hands -- all are far from where they need to be. Fitzwilliam, remove your shirt."

"Yes, sir."

Lex didn't miss the fear in Fitz's eyes as he complied. Under his shirt, his torso carried bruises of every conceivable shade, so that there was barely a patch of unmarred skin. Even with the bruises, the distinctive scars of Lex and his sire's twin brands stood out. The Maestro turned him so that his back was facing Lex, and he saw the scars of carved words there, red among the black and blue. "Worthless." "Futile." "Pathetic."

"I have been carving my reviews of his work into his back, in the hopes that he will remember them better and adjust accordingly," said his sire.

Lex tried to keep his voice steady, thinking of the pain Fitz must have endured. "I see, sire."

"I thought that you should add your review as well. I expect you to keep it short, lest you waste more of his blood than is necessary." The Maestro produced his silver knife, and held it out to Lex.

Lex wanted nothing more than to plunge the knife deep into his sire's dead chest, but he knew he'd be frozen in place before he could even try. No, he would be forced to carry out his sire's cruel whims, as usual, carving marks that would sting and burn as Fitz were forced to practice his dancing long into the night.

He stared at the yellowing patch on Fitz's back, below the word "futile" in eerily perfect handwriting. There was no saving himself, he reminded himself. What could he do to help preserve Fitz?

He took the knife and began to carve his message, the shortest one he could think of. Tears ran down Fitz's face, then a sob, then a wail. He hadn't learned to stifle it yet. As Lex did his terrible work, Fitz's mouth snapped shut mid-wail, the Maestro tiring of his display.

And even as Lex carried out his work, he barely had the self-control to stop himself from licking up the blood that dripped down Fitz's back, so rich and sweet.

"If I find your review satisfactory, I may allow you to drink," said the Maestro.

Lex already knew he wouldn't be drinking that night.

His sire turned Fitz towards him, looked at Lex's handiwork, the word "hope" carved in small and shaky letters. He looked at Lex, calculating. Lex waited for his fate.

"If that's what you think Fitzwilliam should remember, you must not be using either your eyes or your ears," he said. He took the knife from Lex's unresisting hand, giving it to Fitz. "Fitzwilliam, relieve him of the burdens of sight and hearing, since he clearly doesn't know how to use them."

Lex didn't bother to resist as Fitz was made to plunge the knife into his eye. If his sire thought that having his thrall carry out Lex's torture would turn him against Fitz, he was sorely mistaken. Lex knew every inch of Fitz's helplessness, tangled in the Maestro's puppet strings. The Maestro had been so adept at worming under Lex's skin in the past, but he had underestimated the feelings Lex had for Fitz, not able to understand how a vampire could truly love a thrall.

Of course, all coherent thoughts fled Lex's mind as the knife plunged in, and there was only pain.

"I'll have you take his fangs too, for good measure. He won't be needing them for some time." That was the last thing Lex heard before he was plunged into complete darkness and silence.

Previous > Masterlist

Next week, Vivian battles a dreaded foe.

Thanks for reading.

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[eyesforgrace]

Natalie Roser

[thepersonalwords]

In spite of the circumstance, a person who abides in dignity and grace will use the lessons learned as ballast for their ship as they sail through stormy waters—taking the wisdom gained from life and using it to anchor their confidence.

Susan C. Young, The Art of Being: 8 Ways to Optimize Your Presence & Essence for Positive Impact

[stargatesg-1obsessed]

Thinking about Sam’s hallucination Jack saying, “I will always be there for you. No matter what. Believe me.” In grace, and then she thanks him in threads, and he asks for what, and she says, “for being here for me.” And he just goes, “Always.”

And you can see the look on her face when he says it. Like he literally just confirmed that he’ll always be there for her no matter what goes on between then, who’s she’s with, anything. He’ll be there.

I think about that a lot.

[myuniverseinabox]

Grace as a pony! Specifically a pony from my universe, Arcardia. The 'ponies' in that world all have magic horns, because no hands. Lmao.

[apenitentialprayer]

For God's grace changes lives: He takes us as we are, but He never leaves us as we are.

Pope Francis (Catechesis on Prayer: The Blessing)

[mechakingghidorah100-blog]

Oh god do you have the ‘Grace is Crane’s student’ post on hand because that sounds like a neat as hell headcanon and I’d adore to see a fic based off that. Grace is one of those underused chars I really wish we saw in Ward esp w the way cluster stuff came up, and Crane is so fucked up as a sort of looming presence in a characters background. Wish she got more use in fics.

Anyways these all sound super neat but unamed Grace fic is prob my fav, then Guts and Grace because Amy/Grace would be so entertaining.

Quick dump of Chicago Ward centric fic ideas I have that I’ll maybe write eventually (if I have time / motivation):

Something Something Meet Your Heroes! - A mostly canon compliant fic set during the timeskip with the main deviation being the main POV character, Cuff, having been a fan of / was inspired by Skitter based on the stories on PHO. Because a cape with a “weak” but versatile power punching way above her weight class to protect people sounds like a great idol for a meek girl who also really wants to fight Behemoth (if you ignore all the war crimes). Would also put some focus on some other overlooked stuff like Annex’s death and the Tohu and Bohu fight (much as I’m not that big a fan of them, it really was a missed opportunity to see the heroes’ reaction to the duo Endbringer). Most likely one I’ll write since it’s the most fleshed out.

Cut Ties - A fic where Arc 8 Skitter, not finding out about Sophia during Leviathan, ends up taking Legend’s offer to become a Ward, being transferred to Chicago much earlier due to the notoriety she’d already built up with the public of Brockton Bay (plus a recommendation from one Mr Calvert to keep her far from her former teammates). Essentially exploring the question of if Taylor could’ve been friends with the Chicago Wards if she didn’t have the end of the world to worry about (that she knew of anyway). Skitter’s absence would also have rippling effects for what happens to the Undersiders and Brockton Bay as a whole, which might end up with a less experienced Weaver having to fight an S9 Rachel (Toxic Wolfspider?)

Currently Unnamed Grace Fic - A fic set before or during Ward, centered around Grace and some of the other remaining Chicago Wards having to deal with her cluster. Also borrowing a headcanon / theory from the subreddit about Grace being a former Crane the Harmonious student, with her clustermates trying to follow in their former master’s footsteps after her death in Gold Morning. Have some decent ideas (like their mixed feelings on Khepri) but mostly on the backburner until I get a better idea of Ward’s worldbuilding

Guts and Grace - When a mysterious plague is seemingly unleashed by The Folk on Chicago, Panacea is called in to help stop its spread. What was supposed to be a short visit becomes a longer struggle where her assigned bodyguard Grace must protect her from hired mercenaries, as the miracle healer fights against a threat even she can’t cure so easily. Probably one of the shorter fics on this list but also the least developed beyond the crackship and some vague ideas for a plague tinker

[sexwithstilinskiandhale]

you're laughing. The umbrella academy's final season destroyed every character's personal growth and semi-healed traumas, left huge plot-holes, completely abandoned some of it's most beloved side characters that were crucial in previous seasons and you're laugh-oh. You're crying. My bad. Go ahead. Let it out. Understandable.

[life-spire]

[mashmerlow]

Simple-hearted

[nesperus]

girls

[vanillayoteart]

Caught Barking

It sounded like this: "BARK BARKarrf aaAARRUUOF BARRRK.... rff. "  Can anybody translate? Something for gracewolfingfrom my weekly streams!

[photozoi]

The Nestling

Sculpture by one of my favourite artists, Arlin Robins

[violetscardigan]