(no subject)

[nny]

Respond to this post with an icon and I'll write you a snippet of something based on it. I make no promises as to quality or coherence, but this'll save me from re-reading fanfic, which is what I've been doing all day so far.

Early responses have more chance of being answered, I confess, but I will do my very best to get through 'em. :D

Comments

[ricold.livejournal.com]

(See user icon) It's a funny icon, so you might have fun with it.

[villainny.livejournal.com]

Everything has to start somewhere.

He doesn't move much any more but it doesn't do to question the ways of nature. Herself is bigger than any man, and she'll have it as she will, and seeds are made for spreading. Somehow word always gets out, see. Circumstances right. Doesn't even needs mouths or words any more, seems like, just someone with the germ of a seed of an idea, some trick of the light or the moon or the winds that brings them up in their colours and their movements and their young fresh faces.

He had a name once, and it's that name that has them coming. They expect more from the name, but he was never the name. He wore it for a while, that was all, wore it like the cloak and the tall hat, like the traditions and legends that wove themselves around him.

(He didn't ask for this, but since when has what he wanted ever mattered? Herself'll have it as she will.)

Of all of it, he kept the staff. Not so impressive as the tales would have it, for there's nothing a fire-bright crystal can get you that can't be got with eight feet of gnarled oak wood. It holds him up, besides, when he gets around to moving - his legs don't work so well as they once did, wood-stiff.

They come to him every so often, always in packs, bright-eyed and bushy tailed, but he doesn't move much any more. That cuts out half of them, straight away. This is a place of stories and the darknesses that live at the edge of them, and as soon as night falls a half of them are gone, and another half again after a day or two of searching.

(That's the problem with youngsters today. Lack of ambition. Searching for things they ought to be finding.)

Half again fall to the first of the storm clouds, half again with the half of a tree, lightning struck and lightning killed. (They know he's here by then, or they think they do.) Soon enough there's only one left, leaf-green and nut-brown and sharp white teeth, and it's been forever and forever since he's felt anything like fear but his sap rises to this, sure enough.

He doesn't move much any more, but neither does the boy. Sits, quiet, still, long enough to have set down roots in this place of stories and darkness.

Sometimes seeds fall in fallow ground. Everything has to start somewhere.

(Herself'll have it as she will.)

[blueeyedtigress.livejournal.com]

Here's a nice, full-of-possibilities icon for you .... ;]

[villainny.livejournal.com]

It's not a religion, not so much a spirituality as a sort of self-deterministic horoscope. A contradiction in and of itself, himself, a holy man in a holey jumper, angelic face and devilish smirk.

You wouldn't look at him twice. You'd listen two times though, a third, follow him just to hear a little more. It's the stories where he excels, stories he tells as though they happened to him and to you and to someone you never met, someone you could never be. Stories that happen in distant worlds and just around the corner, stories that happen everywhere and everywhen all at once. His stories hum with the universe, see. They tap into something deep at the base and the back of your skull, words sliding in through the left ear and the right until it seems like the story's a part of you, coming from the place that sets your hair prickling when you hear him speak.

You'd follow him just to hear a little more, and it wouldn't even worry you that he holds out a hand to you and starts walking without looking to see if you follow, without looking to see where the road ends.

(If you don't know where you're going, any road will get you there.)

[innerbrat]

 

[villainny.livejournal.com]

This isn't the freak out I signed up for, she thinks.

She's standing in what she's always thought of as her bedroom. Nothing fundamental has changed, seriously - posters, ugly woodchip wallpaper, cheap ikea furniture, nothing's changed.

She'd expected it to, but it'd been easier than she'd been expecting; for the first time, pretty much, something had felt completely right, and the expected freak out hadn't materialised. Not even when they'd kissed. Not even when they'd - (she has two pairs of pants in her hands and she separates them, putting them in drawers she hadn't realised were designated. Possibly there's a small fizz of panic at the edges of her mind.) Not even when she'd told her parents, which was when she'd been waiting for it. She'd even set herself up in bed, kleenex at the bed side just in case, but she'd been distracted by Blackadder and the shoulder that fit just right under her cheek.

She turns towards the doorway, helpless look on her face.

"You have a drawer."

"...yes?"

"Why didn't I realise?"

A smirk, but not an unkind one.

"You were never the brightest bulb in the box."

She takes a step forward, and the world hasn't moved from beneath her.

"The thing is, I think I love you. The thing is, I think I always did."

"I know." Gentle hand cupping her face, a forehead leaning against hers, tilting forward so they're surrounded by a dark curtain of hair. "So what's the problem? Nothing's changed."

[soupytwist.livejournal.com]

*BEAMS*

[soupytwist.livejournal.com]

(OK, I will quit being mean. I pick this one, cause I love reading about music.)

[florahart]

:D

Meet Grant from Traders.

[villainny.livejournal.com]

(This may make more sense if you watch a bit of this (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LzdmyfV5wkA). :D)


The thing is, the thing is that he likes - he likes the park. Trees especially but the whole park is good, friendly, uncomplicated. He knows the pigeons have missed him because of the way they flock around as soon as he starts scattering breadcrumbs.

This is important. He's - he knows he's not quite right, he knows, he knows that he sees things a little differently but that doesn't make him crazy. The pigeons don't talk back and he's only pretending that they're listening and they'd come and flock around anyone with breadcrumbs but that's good. Simple, simple exchange. Goods, service. One of the - the oldest patterns there is going, easily recognised, material and tangible and infallible. Solid, like the tree he's sitting in, like the way things used to be all the time.

Not like, not like derivatives. Trading in the potential and the intangible and he's good at patterns and he - he - he wins, and he loses, and it's complicated and it's invisible and it's still not so complicated as friendship.

He fought with Donald today. He's still not sure - it, it started with pizza crusts and vacuum cleaners and it ended with Grant talking to pigeons and he doesn't even know how. With friendship sometimes the patterns aren't just hard to see they're not even there. There are reactions that, that cannot be predicted by any model for analysis, that don't fit into any sort of pattern he's ever seen and, and major cosmic catastrophe because if he can't predict it how can he win?

Except the strange thing is that he does. Keeps winning. Looks down from his tree and thinks (Donald: God of Friendship) he must be doing okay at this somehow because he's winning more than he's ever had before.

"Hey Grant," and Donald sounds a little tired and a little sad but not angry any more. "How about we go home?"

No patterns he can predict but he's starting to think, to think maybe not thinking too hard will work better and right now Donald looks like maybe he needs a hug.

"Hey, Donald," he says, and starts climbing down.

[agonistes]

:)

[villainny.livejournal.com]

Okay, you TOTALLY have to forgive me for this because I really haven't seen enough to get any voices and I don't think I could see enough to get the voices because OMG this canon is complex and fantastic and gorgeous to watch and your icon totally intimidates me, okay?

meep!



*

7

Clean and precise stroke of an eraser, not touching any of the other figures even though the number is burned into her brain; pen carefully uncapped - to be carefully capped again, who knows where more will come from? - her hand shaking barely at all as the black line squeaks into a graceful curl.

(They've called her Wu Bao, and both are doing well, and this is a part of how she keeps living.)

8

*

He watches the screen. He watches the screen, doesn't let it hypnotise him into inattention, and he doesn't have them wake his replacement yet. (Today has not been a day to observe shifts, or meals, or anything other than this screen). He has an hour or two left in him, an hour or two of steady breathing and the gentle murmur of voices gone scratchy with overuse. An hour or two of keeping watch, of letting them sleep a little longer.

(This is a part of how he pays them back.)

*

She curls her mouth around the cigar, smile complete in a way it never will be elsewhere than here, cards in hand and bottle on the table. Flying and fighting was a prelude to this and this is a prelude to a baseless accusation that will mean nothing and everything and lead to her or him or them leaning back against cool walls and tasting salt blood.

(This is a part of how she stays human.)



(He watches her. This is a part of him.)

*

He is still standing. They are still flying.

(It's not much, but it's enough.)

[silveraspen]

Icon from Gen. But I like it.

[villainny.livejournal.com]

So he's not sure which of them gets the bad luck.

He picks up another book, checks it quickly for damage (and he's glad she's stormed out to the back porch, now, 'cos that would've probably prompted another inarticulate scream of rage - she never got the book thing), places it in one of the cardboard boxes. He treads carefully, setting his feet down really precisely because if the bad luck's not his already there's no use compounding the tragedy, right?

She threw the mirror but it bounced off his shoulder, and he's not quite sure where he stands with rebounds, not sure whether they count. (He has this problem a lot. Apparently his standards as to what does and doesn't count are a little looser than hers, which is kind of how they ended up in this situation in the first place.)

So he sets his feet down carefully between the fragments of glass that star the ground, reflect the sky in a spray of fragmentary blue across the lawn - like the little flowers they planted when they first moved here, the ones that never made it past the first winter.

(Like springtime, he thinks, like new beginnings. It's comforting.)

[djcati.livejournal.com]

♥

[villainny.livejournal.com]

The thing is, if someone were writing the story of this, there'd probably be all sorts of flowery whatnots. That's the way stories work, isn't it? She'd be likening the slight five o'clock shadow just on that precise section of his skin to sandpaper or possibly even something even more romantic and unlikely. He'd be pondering the racing of his heart; which he is, as a matter of fact, but with the faintly detached panic of the hypochondriac. He suspects - astrophysicist, and all - that there would be some deplorable metaphor involving stars or planetary bodies.

(He suppresses a snigger at that, even now. He blames his inner adolescent.)

The truth of the matter is he's holding himself still and holding his breath, because a steady diet of bad coffee and powerbars isn't the most appealing of odours. He's clenching his hands into tight fists, skin sliding against clammy skin; he suspects the back of his neck is sweating too, right next to her mouth, and what could possibly be more romantic than that?

He's not really thinking about the way stories work, nor is he thinking about mathematical metaphors, or the precise equation of the pressure of her lips against his cheek.

He's thinking about how he has to remember this; every detail must be lovingly embroidered and gloated upon, loudly and at length, in the hearing of anyone who's met Major Carter at any point ever.

He's thinking about how he has to remember this; how the scenario will play itself out behind closed eyelids, how her mouth will migrate to the corner of his and perhaps she'll have changed into something a little more revealing, more feminine, more pink, but how she'll smell just exactly the same.

He's thinking about how he has to remember this; the world doesn't like him nearly enough that it'll happen again.

[kleenexwoman.livejournal.com]

*hopeful grin*

[villainny.livejournal.com]

"This is important, Crowley. I won't have you ruining this for me, not after that whole debacle at the Vatican. You have to - "

The angel's voice trails off, the smirk on Crowley's face doing absolutely nothing to reassure him. He frowns and pinches the bridge of his nose; desperate times, and so on, and so forth.

Crowley's tie hangs loose about his neck, the demon not having quite got around to smartening himself up, just yet. He well appreciates the distraction of an unbuttoned collar, and Aziraphale does too, most times. But there are other ways of getting what you want.

His plump fingers take hold of the silk (naturally) tie, folding and looping and precisely knotting it into a perfect double windsor, settling it so that it's just a shade too tight. Just on the wrong side of uncomfortable, and as he strokes it down against Crowley's chest he lifts his eyes to meet a yellow gaze, slit-pupils widened until there's more black than gold. He tightens the tie just a fraction more, letting his lips shape a smile that's only innocent until you get to know him.

"You're to behave yourself, Crowley. Is that understood?"

A pause, and the slightest flush spreading along sharp cheekbones.

"Yesss."

"And you will keep this tie on all day." He runs his finger inside Crowley's collar, ostensibly checking to see if it's too tight but taking his time about it, scraping the edge of a perfectly manicured fingernail against the demon's throat. "No one's to touch it but me."

Crowley dips his head, submitting, and Aziraphale waits until he's turned his back before he allows his smile to reform itself into something of a smirk.

(He's just enough of a bastard to be worth liking.)

[ms-ntropy.livejournal.com]

Here is my contribution!

[villainny.livejournal.com]

Always in the tallest fucking tower.

Third son of a third fucking son, and it's like - it's like magic, only not. With sevens you get magic, you get glamour, you get excitement. Threes is just the expectation that you're going to outwit everyone, think faster, work harder, and never mind the fact that your two brothers before you have failed, died, been eaten, been turned into radishes. Never mind the fact that you used to play knights with them, that they're the ones you trained with, grew up with. You have to be better because you're third. Fucking tradition.

The thing is this: sevens are rarer. Seventh son of a seventh son when the death rate's higher than the birth rate, that's an achievement. Hence the magic, hence the glamour, hence the coloured fucking lights. Threes? Every third bloke is a third fucking son, and there's only so many tallest towers in the world, these days.

Rapunzel? Rescued. Sleeping Beauty? Raging insomniac. Cinderella's looking for a divorce, Snow White's moved back in with the dwarf orgy, and nine out of ten tallest towers have nothing but cobwebs and the occasional lingering magical booby trap. But what can you do? No one will employ a third son, any more. Scared they'll go off to seek their fortune, stumble across a quest, rescue a fair maiden and demand a better wage packet.

So there's nothing for it but the towers. Deep breath and start climbing.

[dopplegl.livejournal.com]

Uh....

[villainny.livejournal.com]

This was one of Neil's ideas. He can tell it was one of Neil's ideas because no one else's ideas end up with a little man singing to him from within the lava lamp. He keeps getting smaller and smaller as the wax melts, but that's okay 'cos he's called Bernard and nothing with a name'll ever disappear completely. That's magic, that is, and he's pretty sure that something'll distract him before Bernard melts away completely. (Ugly '50's ceilings are smiling at him. The world is happy because he's in love, only he's not sure with what. Could be the ceiling.)

Thing is he knows. Um. He remembers mushrooms. It's not like he's freaked out, 'cos he remembers mushrooms, so it's not like this is entirely out of left field. Except it's entirely out of left field, or left and found. Unfound. Doors. That's the thing - that book. Huxley, Huxtable, doors of perception. He's never read it but he knows what is meant. It's like - it's like he knows that this is the real world, and he knows what's real, but everything's a little more so and connected. Like, how his hair curls over his forehead has a direct bearing on the harmony of the universe, and he has to get a wide-toothed comb so he doesn't disrupt the coherency of the wave.

Everything's pretty harmonious right now. Bernard's stopped singing but it's okay. It's okay 'cos he knows, he has the concepts in his head of 'fancy dress' and 'party' so he gets that the boy arched over him - he gets 'boy' and not 'angel' but the wings that're strapped to his back fit so well it's as though they were cut off his own back first.

"Beautiful," he says, and the smile he gets in response is even more so. He lets his eyes drift to the side, watches the ceiling smile down at them. The world is happy because he's in love.

[gypsyjr.livejournal.com]

:D?

WTF? I don't know.

[villainny.livejournal.com]

He pulls a piece of glass out of his foot, stomach roiling, and he can't think. His gun's in his hand and he should be doing something only he's not sure what it is because he can't think.

Die Hard's the one with the glass, he knows that. And Die Hard has Bruce Willis, and Alan Rickman, and ex-wives (which don't apply) and broken glass (which does). But what's really nagging at him right now is that (he heard a gunshot, see) he's pretty sure that Bruce Willis was the lone wolf type. He's frantically (thinking at that range they could have missed) scanning his memory and coming up blank, and the roiling in his stomach just gets worse.

(Things aren't how they used to be. He's not who he used to be, and he's learned to switch his mind off the job, sometimes. Thinks about other things, like the pub, like films, like how this is not an omen he fucking needs.)

"Danny?"

There's a retort, a crash way too near his head as another window shatters.

"Shit!" He tucks himself in a little tighter behind the table. "DANNY!"

More gunshots.

Silence.

(Nicholas wipes a sleeve across his eyes.)

Then the crunch of standard issue footwear on glass, and he tilts his head back against the table and can't help the laughter that stutters out of him in breathless gasps.

"Shit," he says quietly, "Powell, yes."

And Danny's big face, streaked with sweat and grime and plastered with a familiar smile.

"You couldn't have made it without me."

"We've got to watch that one again, Danny." He stretches his hand up, wrapping it tightly around his partner's and not letting go even when he's steady(ish) on his own two feet. "Don't know it nearly well enough."

[apiphile.livejournal.com]

Like I'd comment with anything but this.

Also, BOO discriminating against people who have no internet at work!

[villainny.livejournal.com]

Rockstar no fuckin' more, he thinks. As far as thinking works. There's pain in his head and his gut and his legs and he wants to sleep, one of Joe's songs like a fucked up lullaby running through his head and spilling out the sides like the blood he can't seem to keep in.

(He just stepped out in front of me, I swear, it's not my - )

Someone pulls cool glass away from his fingers and his hand curls to guitar strings instead only they won't let him, picking holes in his hand with cold metal (heh) instruments, and he turns his head away from the spotlight.

(Sir, have you taken anything? Sir, I need to know what you've - )

Joe's voice is rasping in the back of his head 'cos the covers album some fuck put out never felt real to him, felt like someone else's words 'cos the songs aren't the songs if Joe's not - they were the music and the music was them and fuckin' rockstar no more like a voice in his head 'cos he can't be, on his own. And he's on his own.

(Sir, can you tell me your name?)

He manages to answer, through blood and bruises, through a mouth that doesn't remember any of the other ways to say it.

"Billiam."

[flyakate]

I was torn; but this one. XD

[villainny.livejournal.com]

I have so already done this one. I'm not complainin', I'm just sayin'...

[midnight-violet.livejournal.com]

actually, any of mine.. you found 'em after all:)

[villainny.livejournal.com]

It's stranger on this end.

The laces are wrapped around hands chapped from work and weather, chafing her skin as she tugs them tighter still; she'd have concern for breathing and such things but there are really far more important things on the table.

And she's lost track on where they stand as regards revenge.

"Tight enough?"

Her voice is a little harsher, too; it's difficult to find the time to convalesce satisfactorily, and although they're in far warmer climes now her chest still bothers her on occasion. (Her husband is most attentive. Sometimes she wants to scream from it.)

"Little tighter, love, little tighter. Not sure it'll hold them." Breathless voice, and she smirks with some satisfaction as she places her knee in the small of Jack's back and pulls the corset tighter again.

"And this is the only option, is it?"

(She has her suspicions about Jack's pleasures.)

The captain shrugs.

"Singapore."

Which is no sort of explanation at all.

[gramarye1971]

I decided not to use one of my many, many political icons. ^^;;

[villainny.livejournal.com]

Thank you. XD

[batyatoon]

Here.

[villainny.livejournal.com]

Kodama forest place spirit, freaky little butt people, not welcome here. Him speak picture-talk, him speak slow and green and f'real space time. F'real space not welcome here. This dream time, dream space, unreal city have life her own self.

Unreal city built on tenyears. Unreal city sing fastquickwhitenow, sing song of tenyears, of gonnalive gonnawork gonnabe. Dream space shifting forward, dream space shifting back, dream space weaving through hereandnow 'til hereandnow the dream you living.

Unreal city want. Unreal city dream dreams. Unreal city thereandthen.

Forest place hereandnow. Forest place dream f'real. Forest place have.

[maggiebloome.livejournal.com]

Ooh I can't decide! I guess zombies over-ride all, although I'd have loved to see what you'd do with my cowsicle icon.

[villainny.livejournal.com]

"And the Englishman, Walters, has gone for the traditional full outfit of cagoule and waterproof trousers, adding his trademark jaunty yellow hat; Narciewiscz, the plucky little Pole, has gone for the far less restricting but much riskier jacket and speedos combination, famously favoured by last year's champion Marx."

"Ah, yes, Marx. Such style that man had. Don't think we'll be seeing his like again for a while, Terry."

"Not sure I agree with you there, Peter. Walters is nearing the end of his game and I doubt we'll see anything spectacular from him, but some of the younger ones coming up show definite promise. Mwgabe, for instance - her technique is still coming along, but the power in that serve of hers. Not a head intact, I believe."

"You've a point there, Terry, but it's not all about the heads. I don't think Prendergast got coated in brains once in a long and impressive career; style and stamina are just as important, and I think that gets overlooked in the high-speed, high-powered games of today."

"So you're thinking a return to cricket bats and shovels, as opposed to the more technologically advanced equipment we see here on the field today?"

"You can go to local groups if you're looking for that sort of action. I'm just suggesting that maybe there should be a shift in priorities amongst the players that're rising through the ranks."

"Well much as I'd like to discuss this further with you, Peter, I'm afraid we're going to have to cut it short because Narciewiscz is stepping up to the line to serve.

And here he goes. Simple preparation here, no elongated stretches and - yes, he's inserted the zombie into the trebuchet...

I don't believe it! First serve of the game and he's got an arm off! Unbelievable!"

"Now that is badminton how it should be played."

[bethan-b-bad.livejournal.com]

Meeeeeee!

[villainny.livejournal.com]

HOW IT REALLY HAPPENED:

"...and a delightful series of adverts for those computer things which should help to chip gently away at the ridiculous tradition of homophobia in that country." A cup of tea is sipped. Possibly it's something about the water, but even English Breakfast, over here, seems to have a slight twang to it. "And you, my dear? Any plans?"

"Not particularly." Long fingers are curled around a glass of ridiculously expensive red wine. Not that he has any intention of actually paying for it, of course.

"No?" A pale eyebrow is raised. "Isn't this supposed to be the land of opportunity, and such? You've no plans at all?"

"Oh, well, one or two. Nothing major. Some restricting government bills, war on terror, you know the sort of thing."

"Now wait just one - "

"Cookie?"

The hand hesitates, but not for long. This place really does have the most indulgent treats.

For a time there's silence. (Contented munching.)

Eventually:

"What was it we were talking about, my dear?"

"I think you were going to tempt me to lunch, angel."

"...that doesn't sound quite like me."




"We all have our off days."

[tropes.livejournal.com]

You had to ask.

[villainny.livejournal.com]

Sheppard was before him in the queue, Sheppard was the one who pointed out the deadly green jello - as though he hadn’t been paying attention - and then pulled him away when he started berating the marines on kitchen duty; it was a wonder the man managed to whine so much about being Military Commander, considering how much he seemed to enjoy being in charge. Rodney rolled his eyes and followed him across to one of the tables, already occupied by one of the science team. One of the nameless legions he hadn’t had cause to yell at, just yet.

He was never good with names but was pretty sure this one was something memorable, just on the tip of his brain - Zolinsky? Something like that. They way he’d gone after Kusanagi when the conduits in the control room doors had fried, though, Rodney wasn’t going to risk getting his name wrong yet. It was entirely possible he was rabid.

To be on the safe side he let Sheppard take charge of the conversation; it’d been long enough since his last meal - what with the small issue with the power levels on the south pier which had pointed toward the slightly larger problem involving an unstable generator, a dangerous build up and, oh yes, the potential to kill them all - that he was perfectly happy to ignore social niceties and concentrate on dinner.

Some things, though, it takes a lot of ignoring.

“Oh, please. You can’t tell me you seriously enjoyed that film.”

“He did not quite express liking, Dr McKay. There was mention of appreciation for Drew Barrymore in stockings, I think…”

“See?” Sheppard was sprawled in the rigid chair, doing his usual trick of making the furniture look as though it could, in some universe, be considered comfortable or somehow appealing. “Zelenka was listening.”

Zelenka, yes. Rodney made a mental post-it note, somewhere in the back of his brain.

“Drew Barrymore or no, Major, there’s no way that replacing Michael Keaton with that so-called Kilmer could ever be considered a positive command decision.”

“But you have to allow that the next one was worse.” Sheppard straightened up a little and leaned forward across the table, something for which Rodney was distantly grateful. The boneless sprawl he tended to gravitate towards would wreak havoc on his lower back in years to come and, considering his seemingly self-appointed task of St. Bernard (sans flask), that could prove problematic in the future. Rodney had no particular desire to lose his life to slow reflexes caused by a surfeit of attractive posing.

“It’s not done to mention that film in polite company, Major,” he answered primly, focusing all his attention back onto his food and not on the fact that from this angle the Major’s eyes were the same green as the odd potato things. Shoving another forkful into his mouth, he pondered the practicalities of breaking into Sheppard’s quarters to replace his furniture with more ergonomically acceptable models.

[unravels.livejournal.com]

I don't know if you're still doing these, but if you wanna. :D?

Take care in London this week. ♥

[villainny.livejournal.com]

"...neuvěritelnýho."

Colonel Sheppard looks over, eyebrow out of place again.

"See, that's just what I said."

Only there is moment there of adjustment. Not many perhaps would notice; Lieutenant Colonel John Sheppard is a private man, man of few facial expressions (except with McKay, and Rodney could annoy facial expressions from a statue), but Radek has time to watch. Student of human nature. (Also, sometimes in the commissary Colonel will sit with Dr Weir.) There is moment of adjustment, and Radek sees it, and knows that Sheppard was expecting perhaps the physics behind the whirlpool they are watching, or panicking about relative safety of jumper or... something else.

(This something else is not - Radek has no proof. Sometimes he can find conclusions without simulations and tests, though.)

"Dr McKay would enjoy this, I think."

"Yeah." Sheppard faces forward again, and fiddles with dials that Radek believes control temperature as though he is doing something important. "Couldn't convince him that this thing is safe."

Conclusions: Sheppard had asked. McKay had refused. Sheppard had cared enough to pursue issue, which is rare.

Secondary evidence: whirlpool is extraordinary. Beautiful.

Radek smiles a little, looks at readings so his face is turned away.

"I will have to tell Rodney of the anomaly in readings."

"Anomaly?"

"No." He looks back at Sheppard, who is giving him a stare he likes to think is somehow worrying. Radek grins mischievously back. "He will be forced to come here to check, though. And it will drive him insane attempting to work out what I had seen that he has not."

Sheppard smiles, and for once it appears almost honest.

[liz666.livejournal.com]

If you're still doing these then do this one please!!!!

[villainny.livejournal.com]

This is not fandom specific because I haven't watched enough yet. So it's just random, sorry.


4x4x4

The world presses against his head and his feet. There is comfort in this; nowhere to hide and nothing to hide from and safety in clinical colours, delousing, blue lights and sprayed from above. Other people are plastic. He remembers a time when people where pink and grey and brown and yellow and ivory and faun and red and bluewhite and dripping. Now orange and plastic and they rustle when they move.

(It's nice to know he will hear them coming.)

48x48x48

He can hear them coming. By the pricking of his thumbs (and fingers and toes and the skin on his eyelids) something wicked is watching him from the walls. The world behind walls behind doors (he remembers a door there was a door) is fizzing, gentle sussuration like the wind in the trees (he remembers trees there were trees).

1 inch = approx. 2.5 centimeters

By the pricking of his lungs. Something. Sitting on his chest. World contracting smaller. Smaller. Time exists only. Breath to breath. Space exists only. Air outside his chest. (Silence exists only. One heartbeat to the next.)

120x120x120=cm3

Waits.