(no subject)

[chelicerae]

Okay:

Give me a pairing and a prompt

and I'll produce a fic.

Help me squeeze out some creativity.

Comments

[cold_dry_pieces]

Saya/Brian, any song on here that tickles your fancy

[chelicerae]

She's black and cold, the blood against her skin repelling. You skirt back, you try not to touch it, but the blood is spilling from the wound on her head and the room is small, and you should have thought this through. The hammer is on the floor, the silver head marred with dark red.

It's the only color in the room. She's wearing black, and the skin he can see is too dark, too muddled for you to be sure what precise color it is. Appropriate, you think. You had to do it fast, so she wouldn't do whatever it is she could do to you.

You wanted to kill her the first time you saw her. You wanted to cut her apart, to tear her into pieces, to keep her body in your freezer. Then she got interesting and you didn't, but nobody is interesting forever. She couldn't stay that way forever.

You miss her a little already. You had to do it this way. She was too strong - you've seen her lift a car, you know she could take your table apart without any thought at all. If she was angry (you've never seen her angry but you imagine someone trying to kill her might do the trick) she would do it, too.

You sit as far from the blood for a minute, taking a breath. You're trying to figure out how you're going to get her body out when you see a giant spider on your knee. It's tremendous, brown and squat, not at all elegant.

The bite is fast, and you stare down at it, and you think you should have killed it, but there is suddenly more than one. Two. Three. Seven. More spiders than you can count, all staring at you from the place her body was.

"Bang, bang."

The last think you see is the red of her blood, and the precision of the hammer. The last thing you think is that you should have known. She's a mechanic. Tools are her life.

[cold_dry_pieces]

Not the song I would have expected but uh.

Is it weird that this is kind of hot?

It's kind of hot.

[to_live_deep]

Kenny + Poets:

[eiremagic]

Todd Anderson's grown up, since the last time that Kenny saw him. He's no longer the shy, quivering boy, the hesitant young man whose words were stumbled and blurred and lost in whispers and behind closed doors. He smokes his cigarette, Neil watching nearby, and blows smoke out his nose. It's not cynical, it's confident, easy, smooth.

"Things have changed."

Even his voice is deeper, and he doesn't have to raise it above a whisper for Kenny to hear it. Kenny can't help but smile, softly, easily, and Todd returns the smile with grace. Neil nudges a little closer, clearly remembering words that Kenny said once. "I can see that," Kenny says in reply.

Todd leans over and blows smoke into the rim of his wine glass, and the smoke hazes off the liquid, curling up and out of the glass. It smells sharply of tobacco and something else, something that Kenny can't precisely identify. "here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows
higher than soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart"

Kenny hears the words, and opens his mouth, but it's Neil's voice that replies, "I carry your heart."

"I carry it in my heart," Kenny adds, softly, and leans in over the table, and breathes in the smoke as if the taste of Todd's mouth is there, overlain with Neil's.

[lone_must_stand]

The Lovers AU - Prince Irrylath of Avaric and Erryl, Princess of Pirs.

[and_warrior_arise]

When she sees him she thinks that she will never breathe again, never, the air has bled off into the void and vanished in a haze of dark curling cloud.

He is not trying to be beautiful, and maybe that is the problem. He sits so sure of himself, even when he thinks no one watches, barefoot, his trousers dirty from the hunt, his hair clinging wetly to his scalp, black as midnight against his starshine skin, and Erryl wonders how she could see him so casual. Her cousin, older, wiser, unmarried. His mother despairs of it; he has no interest in courtships or games, she says to Erryl, he is only interested in the workings of Avaric, on keeping the country hale and whole when the rest of the world falls around them.

Except Piirs, Erryl thinks with a burst of pride, there is no vampyre in Piirs, no darkangel nesting there. They are two countries holding fast against darkness, only oh, if darkness is Irrylath's hair then Erryl thinks the whole world could fall to it.

Roshka calls her silly and stupid, and Erryl musters all her dignity, of which there is much to muster, and tells her brother to keep to his studies and leave her be at the same time she clasps him to her heart and says no, do not go, for if I speak to Irrylath I will die of love and I have no wish to die.

They are watching him come up from the plains, the barefoot prince with dripping hair, his movement sure and straight. Erryl can hear the Lady Syllva call to him - my son, your bride- and the laugh of a young man who-

His laugh makes Erryl gasp, and Roshka pushes her. "He is no boy, sister, so you must be no mere girl."

Erryl knows this. She is the heir to Piirs. She is the girl who makes her uncle quiver afright when she is in a mood, the girl who can hunt astride the Pirsalon, the great stag, the girl who fears no darkangel.

But that girl has been undone by this, and when the door opens, she turns, thinking there will be an escort, and announcement, but no, it is merely the Prince of Avaric, his blue eyes the exact color of Oceanus (how, how can they be so blue, they near glow) staring at her. Her cousin.

She does not look away.

"Lady," he says. There is age on his face where there is none on hers, he is near thirty, a man grown, but a man who will not settle, who will not choose a wife, so one was chosen for him and Erryl cannot imagine the contours of the country of his body mapped under her fingers. She knows her skin is during a strange, odd red beneath the green hue of it. Her Piirs skin. "You look a sorceress," he jests, and his smile could wipe away sorrow, it is so bright. "You are my bride?"

She nods dumbly, all her elegance gone in one fell moment.

It is later, after the wedding, after he carves his name on her heart in ink so deep none could erase it, after the pomp, after his fingers have known her and his mouth has known her mouth, she tells him in the dark of that first morning, of the way she could not breathe deeply with him in the room, as though he had taken away all her air and dignity.

He draws her to him, and his voice is like a balm in the dark. "You need not air, I will breathe for you, if you vow to have your heart beat for me, for you've taken that from me."

She lays her hand upon his chest and feels the tug of his heart, like there is no other future but this, one moment.

[tamerlane]

my heartsong
take your pick: home, mornings will be kind, just a spark, & my head is my only house unless it rains

as always, i have flawless taste in music and you should listen to these!!!