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goshdarnspam2013-06-26 04:10 pm
amoray) wrote in goshdarnspam2013-06-26 04:10 pm
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the picture prompt meme
1. comment with your character.
2. others will leave a picture (or two, or three...)
( 2a. if you like, link a visualosities post in your top level comment to give people material to work with! )
3. reply to them with a setting based on the picture.
4. for an idea of how this works, see bakerstreet, which is where i stole this meme from!
5. THIS IS A SLOW BURNING MEME IF YOU SAY YOU'RE LATE I'LL SLOW BURN YOUR HOUSE DOWN
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I DON'T EVEN KNOW. DON'T LOOK AT ME
rain is coming down harder than she can ever remember being caught under, like someone had lifted an ocean and dumped it through sand and smoke. it runs in streams across the pavement, and in rivers down the back of her neck and across her arms, and her toes are so cold she's never quite sure when her feet hit the ground.
his rings are warmer than his hand around hers, and she's holding on so tight her fingers are numb. if she lets go, his grip will tighten, and she might not ever be able to paint again. it's hard to see in the downpour; neon and traffic and safety and warning reflects off of every wet surface, intensified, and she forgot how often water plays mirror to light.
how hard it is to run in high heels.
how blood sticks to the skin and dries, grows hard, pulling at skin and invisible hairs in tense reminder. how the rain dilutes it, falling like flower petals from her fingers and her jaw. how much it digs under her skin, and mingles with her own. ]
HOLDS OUR FACES
hell, they may as well not even be the same person. they certainly never exist in concurrence.
but the eridan who found himself shot in the back (by his victim's brother, fuck, the one time he didn't bother with recon, of course), the eridan who lost it, got stupid, got reckless, the one who called ruka from an alleyway dripping in mindless gore? that's one eridan, one whole. this entirely and thoroughly fucked evening has crushed both caring boyfriend and calculating killer together and now he's going to have to deal with it, they're going to have to deal with it. the rain keeps running into his eyes, ruining his hair, but that's alright — it dilutes the sludgy arterial purple from the hand gripping hers, the red from his cheeks and chin (had he bitten? stupid question. had he swallowed?), and makes her clothes heavy and easy to hold onto with his other hand. he appreciates it, for whatever it's worth.
was she ever supposed to see him like this? disheveled, biting back gutteral noise with ever jarring step, with a mouth like a gunshot wound?
his chest is tight, fear and guilty excitement mingling in his gut. maybe. maybe he's always wanted to get caught. maybe they all do, a little. ]
HOLDS UR HANDS HOLDING OUR FACES
they slip from one alley to another, front to back, and every door is closed, is locked, is dark with absence. but she pulls them to one, and there are no cobwebs on the handle to prove its disuse, there's no rust, no decay, for buildings are better about hiding abandonment, if nothing thinks to hurt them. the knob is slick, keys are hard to hold, but it yields to her, and she pulls them into its darkness.
the sound of rain follows them through the open door, and runs down covered windows, against the roof, against the walls. no lights come on to greet them, no people, no sound. it's no house of hers, no apartment or secret penthouse. it smells like a library, and a cellar. books, older than the building, older than the street, or the neighborhood; some carried over oceans, and older than states and nations. here is dust, here is cobweb, here is a den for the smallest lives to find refuge.
her shoes click-clack on the heel and squiiiish on the soles, and she pulls him away from the storm, under thresholds into some back room, past desk and table and glasses stained with drinks never finished. beyond that, a couch, old leather, a blanket in disarray on one end, half to the wooden floor.
her hand squeezes his, trying to get blood pumping (into her hand? into his?), pulling him that way, and no amount of whiskey or marlowe was going to mask this copper. her lips move to speak command—here, sit, easy, careful—but how is she meant to get words out, with her heart lodged up so high in her throat? ]
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the purple won't attract much attention. paint, maybe. it's the red he's worried about. ]
Where are we?
[ when he speaks, the words grind against his palate on the way out. he can't really help it. ]
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she can't help him if she can't see the damage. ]
Sandust. [ her voice is low, working around the tightness of her throat. if words could show their age, the letters would have the tinge of rust, of metal well used but never cleaned, left without shelter from the passing of time. ] It was my dad's bookstore, before he and everyone else left. I never had the heart to sell it.
[ it was easier to talk about the dead past, at least, than it was the now.
a flick of a lighter, the emergence of flame; light emerged, reflecting bright on the wet streaks on her hands. torchbearer she, the light in the room never became bright, but it did chase away the bulk of the darkness as she moved around the small back room, lighting hidden half-melted candles all around. even if she paid the rent, she'd had most of the other amenities turned off.
who paid for cable in a tomb? ]
No one's going to look for us, here.
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