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Entry tags:
open post | 3 | general
◉ drop a comment with one or more of your muses.
◉ Give me a prompt
◉ you can specify any of my muses whom you might like to play with, or I can pick.
◉ Everything goes, even the retired ones, but I can't guarantee good tags from them.
◉ profit!
◉ Give me a prompt
◉ you can specify any of my muses whom you might like to play with, or I can pick.
◉ Everything goes, even the retired ones, but I can't guarantee good tags from them.
◉ profit!
Peeta
no subject
And for their credit, they let the districts respect their fallen heroes their own way, without the pomp and flash the Capitol was used to, because it wasn't for the Capitol.
He notices that Annie is gone half-way through the ceremony, when Milo starts shrieking and is silenced not by his frantic, unsteady mother but by an elderly woman who reminds him of Mags. He tells Katniss that he's going to go find her, and that he needs to be away from all of this for just a moment, and his feet take him to the water's edge. He sees her in the distance, sitting in the surf, and takes his time to get to her. He needs to breathe himself, knows better than to rush on her. ]
You know, this beach is actually really nice.
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Peeta
Gurl this is the widest prompt ever.
Katniss told him that once upon a time he had taken care of her when she needed it. He can remember it now, how ever distant and dreamlike it may feel. He can't touch it, the memory always slips from his grasp, but the memory exists in his nerve endings despite the present reality of it all: that she takes better care of him now than he does her, for as hard as he tries.
He wakes in a panicked state, the first in a week of easier sleep, sweat dripping down his back and soaking his shirt. He wants to kick and run, untangle himself from his sheets but he can't. He's trapped, in his sheets, in his skin, in his nightmares. He can't even scream, only whimper horsely at the dream which, like all the rest, felt so real, and remains stronger than the world around him for that endless instant.
Eleven
no subject
He feels bad. Deeply bad for how he left things with Jack, and yet he's not sure he actually wants to see him at all. Jack unsettles him the way River unsettled him, the way Jenny unsettled him, the way Donna when she knew too much or Rose when she pushed too hard settled him. Time wasn't to be messed with and it twisted his stomach into knots.
He'll wait five minutes in the rain, he says to himself. If it's meant to be, Jack will be there. ]
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for Liam
[Alan comes back to the flat just as Liam's putting Chronos down for a nap, bearing groceries. This is always a hard time of year, just after January first, because one of them has got to be with Chronos at all times. He can't feed, dress, or bathe himself, so they become like more than just minders. They become sort of fathers.
Liam has always been better about dealing with Chronos this time of year. Alan tends to just be awkward and clumsy and prone to make the poor boy start crying, so he lets Liam handle all the delicate chores and defaults to, say, cooking or running errands.
He stomps his boots on the mat just inside the door, and drops the bags of groceries to take of his coat.]
Christ, it's bloody freezing out there!
no subject
That had been the first year, and the second. That had been forty years ago now, and somehow January had become one of the better months. It was less complicated, with a cycle that could be monitored. He didn't have to do anything but take care of him, hold the only person dear to him to his body and rock him to sleep. It was nice, being needed, without any catch or any lip thrown his way. It was comfortable.
They had a bath while Alan was out, and it had been a trial and a half to get Chronos to go down to sleep. He managed, he always did, and when that was done he headed to the kitchen to pop open a beer. Maybe some quiet was in order.
Nope, definitely not quiet. He winced and glared, that tired glare he always had as if he were on his last straw ( his ungodly patience, of course, being the irony ). ]
Yeah, wake him why don't you. Shout to the whole bloody building.
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hello
oh hey
Re: oh hey
Seduction of Mairon
no subject
Melkor was dangerous, they all knew that. The Valar might have been deaf to the whispers concerning their brother but together the Maiar spoke, murmured of foul intentions. He was not to be trusted, and yet he was so beautiful, so radiant, and spoke truths Mairon hadn't wanted to admit.
This peaceful tranquility was becoming boring, and the tasks he achieved for his lord Aule too simple for his talent and ambition. He could do so much greater than the menial task of compressing stone until it glittered.
A long while had passed under the light of the trees, before Mairon put down the bright new diamond created from pressure in his palm, before he let down the halo of heat in the shape of flowing locks. The chill of Melkor was like the crackle of lightning in the sky, electric and burning.
He says nothing when he enters Melkor's abode. He's not sure why he came, when there had been no invitation. It was as if he needed to be struck again, to be cold for a fraction of time before the atoms cracked forward again and set him into a raging heat. He wanted to hear what else Melkor had to say. ]
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arthurrrr
It must be at least his fourth time through college; he's starting to lose count, honestly. He likes to learn and keep busy, so going to school seems a good choice. And it helps him keep an eye out for Arthur. The Once and Future king is bound to return soon, after all. It's been centuries of waiting.
Merlin finds a seat a few rows back in the lecture hall and settles himself down, pulling out his notebook and tucking his pencil back behind his ear. He's curious as to this teacher's perception on Arthurian "myth", after all. It's with a sense of both excitement and foreboding that he waits for class to start.]
grantaire!
no subject
The whole thing has Courfeyrac's name written all over it, from the music to the locale, a clearing in the woods known to be public property and large enough for a bonfire. It's not like Grantaire minds a kegger, of course. A kegger means plenty of free alcohol and more than enough idiots to mock to the nearest willing or unwilling listener. He wonders, though, how long it will take Enjolras to figure out.
He watches Enjolras' face the whole time, as he flits from small group of drinkers to small group of drinkers to preach about the cause. They all seem to agree, why else would they be here? Except for the free beer and good company of course. Will Enjolras get mad? Will he even really figure it out, or perhaps his idealism is so strong that he'll believe that everyone here will show up to sacrifice their spotless criminal records for his grand, worthy and worthless cause. He wonders, as he watches and barely listens to Joly prattle on about a potential infection from a splinter, what he'll do when he sees that change come over Enjolras. If, if he sees it. He might pull him into the wood, maybe he'll even be a good friend about it.
Maybe he'll just take the opportunity to get Enjolras alone. There's nothing truly honorable about any of it, even if he can pretend for the object of his unwanted affections sake. ]
grantaire yep yep
no subject
Apparently, the answer to that was meticulously clean Grantaire's filthy apartment.
His apartment, before Joly decided to break out the Lysol, was a strange middle ground between lived in and unlived in. He barely spent must time in the place, preferring to be out with friends or drowning his sorrows at a bar, but when he does come home he's usually drunkly dropping his things and passing out on his futon or, on more rare occasions, painting. His whole living space reflects his mind--unappreciated, cluttered, overwhelming and unloved. It's the same attention paid to his prose when he's otherwise occupied; stilted and messy with gems hidden under the surface fluff.
Anyway, he didn't volunteer to clean this mess, Joly did. So, with a bag of chips, a 40 and a cigarette he sits perched upon his counter, watching Joly in a state of focused panic. He snickers, comments, taps the ashes from his cigarette right onto the floor. ]
You alright there, buddy?
female!hannibal
hannibal
hannibal
Nuriko~
No demon...I think.
no subject
Wrapped in her silks and with face painted she pours them both tea, a steady hand trained for demure actions and a strong wrist ready to dole judgement should she need to. He would need to go through her first, if he wanted an audience with anyone else.
It's a good thing that she just finished pouring the tea when he spoke, or else it would have spilled everywhere. She just stares, boring into him with surprised suspicion.
"What. Being abrupt like that is no way to speak to a lady of the court."
Rude.
for sam.
Nora
Hannibal
dadibal, stockholme edition
no subject
you were right.
you were always right, Erik.
they come after us. not now but they're going to wipe us out if we don't do something first.
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He hoped for it, that one day Charles would come around and realize the hopelessness of his cause, but he never expected it. He didn't expect the echo in his skull one evening in Lithuania, asking him to not put the helmet on, telling him that he was outside.
So began the honeymoon period, before the dawning ache of effort.
Start the car.
Erik only thinks the instruction as he draws the date and time of the secret UN meeting out of the choking breaths of the French PM's secretary. He knows Charles is listening. He thanks the boy, saves him from his own coming misery for the information by snapping his neck. It's quick--quicker than anything else that might come for him otherwise. It won't be long now at all until the cavalry arrives, and he makes his way to the front door. With every hall another security camera crushes under it's own weight. ]
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☂☁ ☂☁ ☂☁ ☂☁ ☂☁ ☂☁ ☂☁ ☂
It is over breakfast that Joly makes the decision. He's been in Grantaire's home for three days now, and it seems like the right thing to do. The honourable thing. (The OCD thing?, Bossuet had supplied over text. But Joly had always found the term somewhat complimentary, anyway.)
It began, indeed, three days prior, after the pair of them had hefted Grantaire home in the soft dawn that presented itself after a spectacular all-nighter playing Drunk Dominos. The object, so far as Joly had been aware, was to win at the game, to exempt oneself from taking a shot. However, as they quickly realized they had no idea (vague, at best) how to actually play dominos, the resultant ties led to everyone taking shots at a merry rate. When Joly had amassed too many to be fit for this world, Grantaire had helped himself, and so it went.
Joly had stayed, on the ample pretext that he did indeed have a homework assignment due by eleven, and that he wasn't taking a taxi at 4am, least it be littered with the barely-kleenex'd remains of someone's upchucked stomach fluids. So, he helped himself to Grantaire's laptop, and Grantaire's coffee (in a cup he'd made Bossuet fetch from Dunkin Dounuts, as he found the dishes piled in their bosom-friend's sink far too suspect, and 24-hour doughnut shops similarly too suspicious in their hygiene to order coffee from) and had gotten to work.
The next days were a blur of smoke and dust, wine and whining. He'd had fun, certainly. The laughter was robust all around. But when he'd awoken from the general haze of the festivities, he felt relatively sure of one thing, and one thing alone: he'd slept over in this apartment for two night. He most certainly had lice.
He'd felt the first itch about two hours ago, and had unceremoniously woken Grantaire up. Breakfast was ordered in, and Joly had been removing a chocolate chip from the fluffy expanse of a pancake, muddling his way through a fresh orange juice when the deal had been struck.
As he was relatively sure Grantaire must also have lice (necessarily, and based on the indisputable evidence of a single itch!), he would forgo making him get a haircut on the promise that he would offer one in return. Joly wanted it all off, gone. The contaminant removed.
"Besides..." He went on, stealing another chocolate chip. "Then my eagle and I will match! A fine featherless pair, eh?"
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His showers take a total of five minutes when he does bother, but they happen frequently enough.
That said, after three days of pointedly avoiding doing so (a decision made with Joly's squirming hypochondria entirely in mind) he had developed a sort of degenerate film, one that had him scratching the dead skin on his arm and the back of his neck. Enough of a cue, it seemed, to set his tightly wound top of a best friend. He supposes, in retrospect, that he asked for it, with his intentional tugging at the top to wind it even tighter, waiting for it to spin wildly and lose absolutely all tension. Waiting for the winding to begin again, a slow tug on the road of repetitively comfortable entertainment. He supposed, in a sense, he asks for everything that comes his way, and this is one of the more bearable outcomes of daring fate to pull the other one.
"Sure,"
With a shrug, Grantaire polished off the last of his beer before standing up with a series of pops to his back and wrists. He cracks his knuckles for good measure, letting his voice trail behind him on his way to the bathroom.
"You're the one who's going to look like an idiot, not me."
no subject
® © ® © ® © ® © ® ©
Leaning on his arms a little, squinting across the table, past the gentle steam coming up off the mugs of coffee he's ordered for them; black; Combeferre squints.
"Are you listening?"
He doubts it. It's the sort of doubt one learns over time, when dealing with a man like this. Incredibly sharp, absurdly intelligent, and highly selective. He's heard Enjolras call it laziness before, malaise. Combeferre has always thought of it as something far less insidious, and far more childish. His older sister had children, now, they were all getting to be that age, he supposed. Her eldest, at two, would grab a yellow crayon and paint an expanse of notebook paper in lines. It didn't matter that the lines intersected and where previously there was art, now there was just... a blob. Offering her the pink crayon, or the blue one, yielded only an annoyed noise and a more fervent hand with the yellow.
It wasn't that Grantaire didn't know how to focus, or even how to put focus into motion. It was that he only wanted the yellow crayon.
If that was the case, then Combeferre understood he was much more akin to a black marker than anything in Grantaire's little box of colours he'd occasionally fathom outside of yellow. Unfortunately, that black marker had leaked onto his plans about a week ago, when Enjolras had finally asked him to move out, after catching onto the fact (finally, blissfully, maddeningly too-slow) that he was the embodiment of the yellow crayon, and the artist had been sleeping on his couch (or wherever else) for three months. Because Combeferre had told him, in stark, sharpie-outlined terms and inky bullet points.
"All I'm trying to say is that, while Enjolras perhaps doesn't understand fully why you were staying with him, that alone ought to have been enough to make you stop."
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It doesn't take a genius to understand that coffee, while satisfying on it's own, did nothing to help a hangover. Instead, everyone's favorite caffeine addiction was more likely to dehydrate and land you in the damn hospital if you weren't careful. Now Grantaire, with his penchant for irresponsible behavior and the remarkable ability to just barely skirt past self-harm, knows better than to drink straight coffee first thing in the morning. After waking up on his own couch, neck stiff from pressing crookedly against the cushions to avoid a spring pressing urgently up against the thinning upholstery, only a glass of water will do before he's chased it down with a beer.
Because the thing that it does take a genius to understand is that the pain won't fade when the hangover dissipates. The pain will simmer until reduced to it's essence, that overwhelming disappointment called life. The best cure for a hangover, as far as he's concerned, is more drugs and alcohol. That is, after all, the best cure for life.
He glances at Combeferre when asked if he's listening, a visual acknowledgement that he was. Listening, yes, hearing, hardly. Hearing would require that he ever gave a damn about the words that droned out of Combeferre's mouth. He's a wet napkin in a social situation if there ever was one, and Grantaire has learned to read Combeferre as one reads a try philosophical text: First sentence, last sentence, next paragraph, rinse repeat. The rest would, more often than not, prove to be unnecessarily detailed footnotes to whatever point he was trying to make. With his glance he also took out his flask, pouring a decent amount of whiskey into his coffee. It's always five o'clock somewhere, particularly somewhere he would rather be than here, at this hour, with this particular person after this particular mess had begun to unravel.
There is a girl he knows, in passing, who follows Marius around like a lost puppy. Her hair is tangled into the sort of dreadlocks that are only caused in fair hair as hers by unwash and meticulously anxious finger twirling. The state of her delusion is so grand that she believes herself important in the grand scheme of Marius Pontmercy's life. Grantaire has no such delusion. He knows his place in Enjolras' life. Three months ago, when he started sleeping on Enjolras' couch, it wasn't for lack of his own place to sleep, nor was it for some fanciful idea that Enjolras wanted him there. It was merely a circumstance of the situation; late nights making signage for a rally had been, in his case, late nights of drinking that had him waking up with Enjolras nearby, otherwise ignoring him and typing furiously into his laptop. He stayed a few days, found himself comfortable and found, what's more, that Enjolras didn't seem to mind. One month in and they would spend hours of a day when neither of them had to be anywhere on Enjolras' couch on their respective computers, in various sprawling positions of comfort. Two months in, he was making dinner for Enjolras regularly, forcing him to actually eat something, and sleeping in Enjolras' bed when their righteous leader would pull all-nighters for the cause. Sometimes, Grantaire would even wake up to see him curled up next to him, not touching, in his own space, fast asleep.
He looked, in those moments, peaceful, each soft release of breath felt sad in the air between them.
So they were dating. They didn't need to be having sex to be dating, particularly given Enjolras' blatant asexuality. The sex would just be disappointing, anyway.
Stirring his now-Irish coffee, Grantaire stares at Combeferre with darker circles under his eyes than he's had in months, and a sore crick in his neck.
"I really don't think you know what you're talking about, nor is it really any of your business."
bill
Fuck.
This couldn't end well. It wouldn't end well. Bill would be furious, take it out on her, and she'd be, where? Left on the street. Maybe she should just go to Fagin, see what he could do about it- the old man had to have something, didn't he? Know someone, have someone owe him a favor. Maybe he had the money laying around. Nancy certainly didn't. Even if she did-
Maybe he'd let her keep it. Incentive to go out and get nice and properly married. Then they could get out of this life, start a family. Nancy and Bill Sikes. Didn't it just sound wonderful? She had to hope. It would soften him, just a bit.
Before she lost her nerve, Nancy handed Bill a beer and spoke quickly:] I'm pregnant.
baby grandson uwu!!
Thranduil
option two
option three
no subject
Autumn, with its crisp foliage and warm colors, made prime hunting practice for the more advanced younglings. A young buck could hide with greater ease, allowing for only the crisp crackle of leaves to give away their location.
Thranduil can't boast of his own skill with a bow. That was Legolas' mother's expertise, where he excelled within the realm of closer contact. Where he could twist a blade with perfect balance between two fingers she could hit a moving target from such a distance that he found her remarkable. Still he is learned in the bow as well and to no negligible degree; with her gone he can do what he can to teach his son who has already begun to surpass him.
A doe stands, unawares, hidden well by orange and brown that matched the barest spotting of its pelt. To his own son he stands close, the boy now so grown up indeed, with an arrow in hand. ]
I have a bitty account
u kno who this is for
no subject
Fucking Gods, taking their responsibilities to damn literally.
He hangs up on her without so much as a proper goodbye, another inevitability, and taps off the ash from his cigarette as he pencils it in. The 15th. A day where everyone within 200 miles of them will feel the weight of the inevitable passing of time sitting on their shoulders morosely while two relatively chipper old souls have crepes.
He gets back to his other paper work, bills to pretend to pay for their flat and notices from other gods. Requests for more time, reminders of punishments with less. A prayer on paper begging for more time to repay a debt, forwarded from Zeus with a note from his minder to cut the time in half. Bills, junk mail, a post-card from that zoo in Taiwan who, out of the goodness of his heart Chronos has gifted with a temporarily unaging tiger for their rehabilitation program.
And then a text from Ananke herself, reminding him that he would need to find Chronos a proper apprentice minder soon, he couldn't remain as he was forever. Fuck off.
He sighs, putting out his cigarette and standing from his creaking chair to get a beer from the fridge. If he's learned anything in the last 40 years it's that it's always 5 o'clock somewhere. He pops open the top of the bottle and looks around the sparse kitchen, through the doorway to the unnecessarily modernist living room. Where the hell was Chronos, anyway?
hannibooboo
you sure now how to please me <3
The sentiment had been genuine, a barb meant to stab right where it hurt, to burn before Hannibal's knife sliced into Will Graham's gut. The palpable irony soured in Hannibal's mouth and dripped off of his tongue, saying in less words what was truly meant: You could have had everything you wanted, and it lays to waste at your hands. It's your fault.
Alana had surely called for the police before going head first into the lions den--she had never been bright, but always had been smart none the less. Dropping Will to the ground to let him bleed out had been far too easy in his anguish, and he could have watched him die in that moment. Will's betrayal would have solidified, and his sins would have soaked into the floorboards like his heartbeat could continue beneath them. He considered starting new, letting the tea cup he had built shatter back into a million pieces as it had started. He considered the wet knife in-hand, he considered Abigail.
He hadn't been able to kill her before, and Will was right, for now. He wouldn't allow it, wouldn't settle for being changed with no sense of that completion he now longed for.
The ambulance would come, the ambulance would save Will Graham, who had watched Hannibal leave that soiled space with Abigail in tow.
To create a new identity for himself was simple enough by means of experience, but to build a new life for a girl who by all records was dead? It was too simple. They could start over in Amsterdam, the two of them, and wait for their missing piece to bite the hook. It had been Will's fault after all, and he would have to suffer the knowledge of his failure in order to have what he had wanted. He would have to repent on bended knees. ]