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May. 6th, 2010 11:24 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
twistdfateangel Jay-Z vs Frankie Valli and the 4 Seasons--December 4th, Oh, What A Night (Kohaku/"Naomi", CC [As The World Falls Down AU])
There is less of her to dance now, on the inside. She's leaving after this one, sick of dancing alone and sick of being reminded of him. She's wearing the pearl set tonight and hates herself for it. Because, now? She's doing this to herself.
"Hey, Devilicious!"
She turns and the bespectacled, pompadour-topped girl behind her has her around the waist. "Shut up. Play along."
Her first instinct is to sock the new girl with the funny, almost gauche, accent in the midsection. Then she freezes as the girl flashes a distinctive disk and palms it away.
"Mitsu-hime?" she whispers, afraid to know the answer.
"Safe. My princess is with her. The Others have no power where they are. You're 'Nemetona'?"
She nods. "And you?"
"Zorya. Dr. LoneStar, Etoile Cell." She twirls Kohaku around and pulls her close. Just two lesbians dancing on a slow night in a nightclub. Nothing to draw attention.
"I'm really Kohaku."
"I know," says her dance partner, "I'm really Naomi." Kohaku spins again and feels light enough to spin forever.
My Chemical Romance--Cancer (Jane, Kingdom, Just Before "Burning Water")
Jane turned from the blaze, staring at her hands with wild-eyed confusion. The fire had been white. It was cooling now, but it had been white hot.
Someone called her name. A hand touched her shoulder. She screamed and ran. It was less the timid tics of a little mouse and more the horror of what she'd done powering her legs. As she ran, her legs and lungs began to burn. She didn't care. She couldn't bring herself to care. Fire. It was always fire. She hated fire now. Hated it more than anything. And the fire was in her, it would never, ever leave. She considered, briefly, setting her clothes alight and letting that handle it. But, she couldn't do that to the others.
She finally fell to her hands and knees. She couldn't leave them. She had to. She just couldn't.
Heather Alexander--Advice to Young Magicians (Teddy Vega, Changeling: the Lost)
"It's a $50 donation for the first time," said Teddy, lighting the candles on the table, "An extra ten because you didn't call ahead. You have the right not to pay, but the spirits don't like it when people starve their heralds."
The client didn't look at her, gazing instead at the battered, thrift-store tapestries and statuary, given a depth and malevolence, thanks to the dim, flickering flames. But, he passed her the three wrinkled twenties and let her shake the dice into his hands. The beautiful thing about the dice was that nobody knew what the symbols meant, not even Teddy. She could rely on her own head and instincts and the clients and, best of all, make shit up.
He shook the dice, suddenly unable to see anything but her face. She let her true self bleed through for him. The stars burned sullenly in her hair and eyes and skin. Let him spread the word. Lady Z, let him say, she's got a gift. She's got the night sky on her shoulders.
It was the truth, when she let her hair down.
The dice clattered on the table, their unnatural runes glowing golden up at them.
"What does it say?" he demanded, cringing.
She smiled. This was almost too damned easy. The fear dripped off of him like water off of a soggy washcloth. She let that fear steep as she gazed at his face and hands, then the dice. Back and forth, back and forth, getting the feel for his troubles. He was like a book, the simple kind, with very short, very few words and many, brightly-colored pictures.
"The first thing I can tell you, my dear," she said, voice dropping into the reedy, spiritualist tones she'd practiced, "is..."
"Yeah? Yeah, what?"
"Know thyself."
Agnes Mellon--Tristes Apprets, Pales Flambeaux (Rowen Blackrose, Vampire: the Requiem, Reset-Free AU)
It was times like these, she feared she'd never wear red again.
She'd gone to the opera alone, knowing that he was, like Snow White, asleep as though dead. She wanted to rush from the box to him, yank out the stake, whisk him away from the Brood and the Invictus and everything else. Somewhere, far away, there was a place where he could play his violin and she could dance. But, that was far away. This was here.
They almost hadn't recognized her at the counter, swathed in black like a widow. But, Mrs. Rowen Black was a well-known eccentric, so a few feet of silk veiling and a black diamond parure from Tiffany's was nothing to them. "The Duchess", they called her, and some even likened her to an opera house ghost from Europe. The tragic queen, shrouded in ebony, fluttering tearfully to her seat to hear one last aria. Oh, Gerard would laugh when he heard that. Then he'd probably take the tiara away from her, on the grounds that she had far too much fun swanning around as an aristocratic widow and might get ideas.
She envied Télaïre, who had a chance at least. Even if the man she loved was forever out of reach, a handful of stars flung into the heavens, at least she knew where he was and that no-one could harm him there.
Fall Out Boy--Sugar, We're Going Down (Luna, Geist: the Sin-Eaters)
Luna heard the whispers of papery soprano in her ear. Faster, faster, they urged, faster, still! How can you catch death if you're so slow?
And what could she do, but obey?
Luna hurled herself from the roof, catching a railing of a balcony and swinging like a monkey to the next rooftop. Her bun was coming loose and probably her shoelaces. But there was nothing else to slow her down, so she ran on. The wind on her face was like a drug, and every second she slowed down, she crept closer to withdrawal. Sooner or later, she knew she'd run out of air. But, for now...
For now, she had to catch death by the coattails. And she was closing in.
Regina Spektor--Samson (Vanessa, Kingdom, Long December)
Vanessa looked at the black curls in her hands, still in shock. But, the cops were looking for a girl with long curly hair. She'd asked Jane to do it. Tomorrow, they'd dye it, blood red or chestnut brown, perhaps. Something that would look somewhat natural. It made her smile with a half mad amusement. She'd just dyed it last week, to hide the multiplying threads of strangely prismatic silver. Now, she'd changed it completely.
Her hair had been beautiful and thick. She'd been so proud of it, tending to it with the care and love most gardeners gave orchids. Now, it was gone.
She twisted them into a neat coil and tucked them into a ziploc. Even now, with nothing left to lose, she was too proud to let it go away.
There is less of her to dance now, on the inside. She's leaving after this one, sick of dancing alone and sick of being reminded of him. She's wearing the pearl set tonight and hates herself for it. Because, now? She's doing this to herself.
"Hey, Devilicious!"
She turns and the bespectacled, pompadour-topped girl behind her has her around the waist. "Shut up. Play along."
Her first instinct is to sock the new girl with the funny, almost gauche, accent in the midsection. Then she freezes as the girl flashes a distinctive disk and palms it away.
"Mitsu-hime?" she whispers, afraid to know the answer.
"Safe. My princess is with her. The Others have no power where they are. You're 'Nemetona'?"
She nods. "And you?"
"Zorya. Dr. LoneStar, Etoile Cell." She twirls Kohaku around and pulls her close. Just two lesbians dancing on a slow night in a nightclub. Nothing to draw attention.
"I'm really Kohaku."
"I know," says her dance partner, "I'm really Naomi." Kohaku spins again and feels light enough to spin forever.
My Chemical Romance--Cancer (Jane, Kingdom, Just Before "Burning Water")
Jane turned from the blaze, staring at her hands with wild-eyed confusion. The fire had been white. It was cooling now, but it had been white hot.
Someone called her name. A hand touched her shoulder. She screamed and ran. It was less the timid tics of a little mouse and more the horror of what she'd done powering her legs. As she ran, her legs and lungs began to burn. She didn't care. She couldn't bring herself to care. Fire. It was always fire. She hated fire now. Hated it more than anything. And the fire was in her, it would never, ever leave. She considered, briefly, setting her clothes alight and letting that handle it. But, she couldn't do that to the others.
She finally fell to her hands and knees. She couldn't leave them. She had to. She just couldn't.
Heather Alexander--Advice to Young Magicians (Teddy Vega, Changeling: the Lost)
"It's a $50 donation for the first time," said Teddy, lighting the candles on the table, "An extra ten because you didn't call ahead. You have the right not to pay, but the spirits don't like it when people starve their heralds."
The client didn't look at her, gazing instead at the battered, thrift-store tapestries and statuary, given a depth and malevolence, thanks to the dim, flickering flames. But, he passed her the three wrinkled twenties and let her shake the dice into his hands. The beautiful thing about the dice was that nobody knew what the symbols meant, not even Teddy. She could rely on her own head and instincts and the clients and, best of all, make shit up.
He shook the dice, suddenly unable to see anything but her face. She let her true self bleed through for him. The stars burned sullenly in her hair and eyes and skin. Let him spread the word. Lady Z, let him say, she's got a gift. She's got the night sky on her shoulders.
It was the truth, when she let her hair down.
The dice clattered on the table, their unnatural runes glowing golden up at them.
"What does it say?" he demanded, cringing.
She smiled. This was almost too damned easy. The fear dripped off of him like water off of a soggy washcloth. She let that fear steep as she gazed at his face and hands, then the dice. Back and forth, back and forth, getting the feel for his troubles. He was like a book, the simple kind, with very short, very few words and many, brightly-colored pictures.
"The first thing I can tell you, my dear," she said, voice dropping into the reedy, spiritualist tones she'd practiced, "is..."
"Yeah? Yeah, what?"
"Know thyself."
Agnes Mellon--Tristes Apprets, Pales Flambeaux (Rowen Blackrose, Vampire: the Requiem, Reset-Free AU)
It was times like these, she feared she'd never wear red again.
She'd gone to the opera alone, knowing that he was, like Snow White, asleep as though dead. She wanted to rush from the box to him, yank out the stake, whisk him away from the Brood and the Invictus and everything else. Somewhere, far away, there was a place where he could play his violin and she could dance. But, that was far away. This was here.
They almost hadn't recognized her at the counter, swathed in black like a widow. But, Mrs. Rowen Black was a well-known eccentric, so a few feet of silk veiling and a black diamond parure from Tiffany's was nothing to them. "The Duchess", they called her, and some even likened her to an opera house ghost from Europe. The tragic queen, shrouded in ebony, fluttering tearfully to her seat to hear one last aria. Oh, Gerard would laugh when he heard that. Then he'd probably take the tiara away from her, on the grounds that she had far too much fun swanning around as an aristocratic widow and might get ideas.
She envied Télaïre, who had a chance at least. Even if the man she loved was forever out of reach, a handful of stars flung into the heavens, at least she knew where he was and that no-one could harm him there.
Fall Out Boy--Sugar, We're Going Down (Luna, Geist: the Sin-Eaters)
Luna heard the whispers of papery soprano in her ear. Faster, faster, they urged, faster, still! How can you catch death if you're so slow?
And what could she do, but obey?
Luna hurled herself from the roof, catching a railing of a balcony and swinging like a monkey to the next rooftop. Her bun was coming loose and probably her shoelaces. But there was nothing else to slow her down, so she ran on. The wind on her face was like a drug, and every second she slowed down, she crept closer to withdrawal. Sooner or later, she knew she'd run out of air. But, for now...
For now, she had to catch death by the coattails. And she was closing in.
Regina Spektor--Samson (Vanessa, Kingdom, Long December)
Vanessa looked at the black curls in her hands, still in shock. But, the cops were looking for a girl with long curly hair. She'd asked Jane to do it. Tomorrow, they'd dye it, blood red or chestnut brown, perhaps. Something that would look somewhat natural. It made her smile with a half mad amusement. She'd just dyed it last week, to hide the multiplying threads of strangely prismatic silver. Now, she'd changed it completely.
Her hair had been beautiful and thick. She'd been so proud of it, tending to it with the care and love most gardeners gave orchids. Now, it was gone.
She twisted them into a neat coil and tucked them into a ziploc. Even now, with nothing left to lose, she was too proud to let it go away.