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*pats LJ staff on the back*
Man, those people deserve some sort of award. The work they did was above and beyond.
Though it's really very sad how at a loose end I am without LJ. I moped around webcomics for a while and played a bit of Cow Maze 2 and did a heckalot of writing. Immortal Novel Of Doom has reached 50,106 words, which would be very nice if I hadn't started with it at 45,006. Still. I feel a milestone has been reached.
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villainny is a subversive distration. She threw mental images at me that were so pretty I had to stop writing my actual novel and write them instead, for about half an hour. Here.
The Concept
It was just him, lounging against a brick wall, a little way out from a pool of light. A single light, maybe over a bar door or something- it's dark, there aren't street lights.
And he's completely focused on his cigarette even though he knows there's someone watching him. And he's tempted to look over but this is part of the game, and he knows they both know it, so he just keeps flicking this lighter that won't catch, waiting.
And then another hand curls around his, and he looks sideways and sees Lucifer.
The Execution
God knows how long it had been going on; since the beginning, he supposed, since he had taken his first steps on the plane of reality again. Except they weren’t his first steps, fuck, he didn’t want to think of how many steps it had been…until. Until. But they were still a milestone, and although this was reality in name it was hard to reconcile with a window full of stars and a hallway full of small rooms and a bar full of everything he’d ever needed rolled up in one tight package and then rammed across his face hard enough to break his jaw.
Joe. The music. New loves. New fucks. A measure of peace, sometimes.
Funny how everything you ever wanted could leave you so damn empty.
So they’d started the game almost by default, because he wanted to be alone with his memories and Sam was bored and wanted someone to tease. And then he’d grown tired and almost scared by the dim light of humanity seem from the wrong side of death, and by that time Sam had been somewhere else entirely. Out of his reach.
He stretched upwards, the backs of his hands scraping against the bricks. Hell, he wasn’t even sure of the name of this place; a town, maybe a small city, he hadn’t seen that much of it except a few bars and the tiny park a block or so from where he was sleeping. It was somewhere in northern Italy, and it had a reputation for good Chianti.
Clue one. He felt the soft smooth glow of awareness in the back of his mind, and smiled.
He slipped a lighter and his cigarette pack from his jacket pocket – can’t get a fucking good smoke anywhere in fucking Europe, he liked to complain – and one cigarette between his lips. Familiar. Familiar like the tingling in his feet and the sense of presence off to his left.
How long had it been this time – fuck, five months? Six? He wasn’t going to flatter himself that he was the only game in this player’s repertoire. But death taught you patience, maybe, and he had an afterlife to drink in when the waiting got too much. It was the wildest of variables; he could run into his quarry five minutes after the switch happened, or it could be almost a year. He could be found in the strangest of places at the strangest of times. It never lost its charm. The game continued.
He flicked the lighter, staring at it in the dirty light, feeling the accustomed dull pain as the metal scraped across his thumb. It wouldn’t catch, and wasn’t it just his luck that he was stuck with a dud lighter at a time like this.
You’ve got the devil’s own luck, Billy Tallent, and much good may it do you.
There was amusement – fucking amusement – humming in his mind. He wanted to look to the side, to see the eyes that he knew would be holding that same emotion, the lips that would be smiling. Laughing at him, not with him, but he was used to that. But they were islands until the contact was made; those were the rules, that was the game. He kept his eyes on his lighter, click click click, metal against metal and occasionally the smallest of sparks that did nothing at all.
Distance judgment wasn’t part of the package, and so his heart did some bloody funny acrobatics in his chest when one warm hand curved itself around his own. The lighter he dropped, let it fall to the ground – it was fucked anyway, right? He pulled the cigarette from his lips and sighed. He put it in his pocket. He looked up; no stars, not with the light above them bleeding into the sky and rendering him blind. He looked down; nothing, really, grubby stones and his own feet. He looked straight ahead, at the graffiti on the wall. And then he looked to the side.
No matter how many months it had been, something always woke inside him when he saw that face; when he saw red eyes that glinted with victory and fond desire, when the shadows dipped and melted and became shapes that were just the suggestion of wings.
They smiled.
“Tag,” said Lucifer.
Though it's really very sad how at a loose end I am without LJ. I moped around webcomics for a while and played a bit of Cow Maze 2 and did a heckalot of writing. Immortal Novel Of Doom has reached 50,106 words, which would be very nice if I hadn't started with it at 45,006. Still. I feel a milestone has been reached.
villainny is a subversive distration. She threw mental images at me that were so pretty I had to stop writing my actual novel and write them instead, for about half an hour. Here.The Concept
It was just him, lounging against a brick wall, a little way out from a pool of light. A single light, maybe over a bar door or something- it's dark, there aren't street lights.
And he's completely focused on his cigarette even though he knows there's someone watching him. And he's tempted to look over but this is part of the game, and he knows they both know it, so he just keeps flicking this lighter that won't catch, waiting.
And then another hand curls around his, and he looks sideways and sees Lucifer.
The Execution
God knows how long it had been going on; since the beginning, he supposed, since he had taken his first steps on the plane of reality again. Except they weren’t his first steps, fuck, he didn’t want to think of how many steps it had been…until. Until. But they were still a milestone, and although this was reality in name it was hard to reconcile with a window full of stars and a hallway full of small rooms and a bar full of everything he’d ever needed rolled up in one tight package and then rammed across his face hard enough to break his jaw.
Joe. The music. New loves. New fucks. A measure of peace, sometimes.
Funny how everything you ever wanted could leave you so damn empty.
So they’d started the game almost by default, because he wanted to be alone with his memories and Sam was bored and wanted someone to tease. And then he’d grown tired and almost scared by the dim light of humanity seem from the wrong side of death, and by that time Sam had been somewhere else entirely. Out of his reach.
He stretched upwards, the backs of his hands scraping against the bricks. Hell, he wasn’t even sure of the name of this place; a town, maybe a small city, he hadn’t seen that much of it except a few bars and the tiny park a block or so from where he was sleeping. It was somewhere in northern Italy, and it had a reputation for good Chianti.
Clue one. He felt the soft smooth glow of awareness in the back of his mind, and smiled.
He slipped a lighter and his cigarette pack from his jacket pocket – can’t get a fucking good smoke anywhere in fucking Europe, he liked to complain – and one cigarette between his lips. Familiar. Familiar like the tingling in his feet and the sense of presence off to his left.
How long had it been this time – fuck, five months? Six? He wasn’t going to flatter himself that he was the only game in this player’s repertoire. But death taught you patience, maybe, and he had an afterlife to drink in when the waiting got too much. It was the wildest of variables; he could run into his quarry five minutes after the switch happened, or it could be almost a year. He could be found in the strangest of places at the strangest of times. It never lost its charm. The game continued.
He flicked the lighter, staring at it in the dirty light, feeling the accustomed dull pain as the metal scraped across his thumb. It wouldn’t catch, and wasn’t it just his luck that he was stuck with a dud lighter at a time like this.
You’ve got the devil’s own luck, Billy Tallent, and much good may it do you.
There was amusement – fucking amusement – humming in his mind. He wanted to look to the side, to see the eyes that he knew would be holding that same emotion, the lips that would be smiling. Laughing at him, not with him, but he was used to that. But they were islands until the contact was made; those were the rules, that was the game. He kept his eyes on his lighter, click click click, metal against metal and occasionally the smallest of sparks that did nothing at all.
Distance judgment wasn’t part of the package, and so his heart did some bloody funny acrobatics in his chest when one warm hand curved itself around his own. The lighter he dropped, let it fall to the ground – it was fucked anyway, right? He pulled the cigarette from his lips and sighed. He put it in his pocket. He looked up; no stars, not with the light above them bleeding into the sky and rendering him blind. He looked down; nothing, really, grubby stones and his own feet. He looked straight ahead, at the graffiti on the wall. And then he looked to the side.
No matter how many months it had been, something always woke inside him when he saw that face; when he saw red eyes that glinted with victory and fond desire, when the shadows dipped and melted and became shapes that were just the suggestion of wings.
They smiled.
“Tag,” said Lucifer.
no subject
Pretty.
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You write awesomely! ^.^
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And thank you :)