For the first time in my life
I have a significant backload of things I should be posting here for archival-completeness purposes.
But I'd rather do a meme.
1. I write down a list of 10 characters.
2. You choose however many of those you like and ask me a question about them. Examples: "What happens when 5 and 9 are forced to take care of a baby?" or "1, 4, and 8 walk into a bar. ( Read more... )
But I'd rather do a meme.
1. I write down a list of 10 characters.
2. You choose however many of those you like and ask me a question about them. Examples: "What happens when 5 and 9 are forced to take care of a baby?" or "1, 4, and 8 walk into a bar. ( Read more... )
4 and 8 go on a trip together?
9 and 5 are locked in a cell together?
2 becomes 10's boss?
1 and 7 have dinner together?
3 and 6 fall in love?
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Chris, curled around her, nods, his nose tilting back and forth in her hair. "Absolutely. How about next Tuesday?"
"You," she tells him, "are ridiculous."
"Practical," he says. "It's all about reasonable goals. Like, tomorrow, we could try getting off the bed."
"With that aggressive schedule, by Sunday we might go for bipedal ambulation."
"That's the spirit," he says. She kicks him, or at least nudges him with her heel, which is close enough in her studied opinion. In the ensuing half-hearted tussle, the sheets slide off her shoulder, and he snatches the opportunity to kiss suntoasted skin.
"Bureaucrats," she groans. "Cheaters, all of you."
"It's a public service," he replies, pulling her closer, until their skins are sealed surface to surface with sweet sweat.
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AMEN, AND AMEN.
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I WILL BE WORKING ON THE REST OF YOUR PROMPTS SHORTLY, btw, and I feel I should mention that you have amazing random-number-picking skills. You really, really do.
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"Eat with me," Gaila says. "I want-- I might not see you again. For a while."
VERY WELL, he says, and sits, across from her.
She fills his drinking glass with yellow tea. He regards it with interest.
YOU ESCAPE TONIGHT.
"Oh, yes," Gaila breathes. She offers him bread, dipped in oil, which he chews dutifully. It falls through his ribcage to settle on the space between his thighbones. Dampness, he thinks, and wonders why he can feel it, like a change in the air, and he does not know. "Yes."
Her lips are parted. Death believes her to be beautiful. If he is not careful, here, now, at this present time with the smell of something like olives permeating his robe, he will see her as she is. In all her possible dimensions. A complexity of dust.
I WILL MISS OUR CONVERSATIONS, he says, wistfully.
She says:
"Yes."
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This is shiversomely magnificent.
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Iskierka wings through it lazily, leaving a trail of warmer air in her wake. She likes the silence, and the unfamiliar stars, and the knowledge that she is the most impressive thing in the sky. It would be nicer with Granby aboard, but Iskierka is coming to accept that humans do need sleep, sometimes. It's been a painful process, but she is.
When she sees something small and pale, low over the sea, she dives.
The thing doesn't notice her until she pinches it up between two talons, but then it squeaks gratifyingly. To her surprise it looks like a human, except for the wings. Which are something of a large exception to make. A softish man, with pale hair and a very boring sort of waistcoat, no jewels whatsoever, not even on the buttons.
"Hallo," he says, breathlessly*. "Goodness. I didn't expect dragons over these waters. Well, well. You're a firebreather, aren't you?"
He begins to glow. Blue.
"Oh, you're lovely," he says, beaming up at her ( ... )
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