[fic;dogs] rise with me;run away from your grave ; giovanni
Title: rise with me;run away from your grave
Fandom: DOGS: BULLETS & CARNAGE
Character(s)/Pairing: Giovanni-centric.
Rating: PG13
Disclaimer: not mine.
Feedback: yes please!
Notes: One drabble per duration of one song. Meme. *if possible, listen to the song while you read. youtube links in (*)
Summary: Series of drabbles. Giovanni-centric. Vague RP-verse in some parts. Mostly canon-verse.
1. Pick a character, pairing, or fandom you like.
2. Turn on your music player and put it on random/shuffle.
3. Write a drabble related to each song that plays.
You only have the time frame of the song to finish the drabble;
you start when the song starts, and stop when it's over. No lingering afterwards!
4. Do ten of these, then post them.
#1; MONSTER HOSPITAL (*)
giovanni sometimes(mosttimes) doesn't really feel like himself. he can't feel himself, his handsfingers are like rubber coated ceramic (ceramic coated bone) and when he walks when he talks there're times when he stumbletumbles down like a tower of babel. there are times when he has nothing when he finds himself staring down at his hands the prints worn smooth with gunfire and smoke and he can't remember. nothing of himself remains. nothing of what he was before is left except in pieces hidden away with seven locks and seven keys (seven and seven makes forty-nine rowan and oak and ash and bone), and it aches and itches deep inside his gut sometimes. these borrowed eyes and borrowed memories burning his blood dry down to the marrow of his bones the boy feels like he could break (brittlesharp teeth flashing in the halflight i am home) but this is not home
they all in pieces falling broken glass crunching like teeth and bones under his shoes and he calls i'm home
#2; SING ME SPANISH TECHNO (*)
the towel hangs around his shoulders awkwardly like it doesn't quite belong there but nor does the slightly apprehensive look on his face, the curl of his lips strangely hesitant. standing there like that, giovanni looks somehow younger than he is (younger than he's made). he cautiously takes a step into the water looking down at it lapping against his ankles and underneath the water his feet are thin and whiteblue. giovanni looks back up, eyebrows furrowing behind his sunglasses at the sunlight and he takes a step back but it's not because he's afraid, no, it's just that his feet are getting cold the toes are getting numb he doesn't like this one bit. but he's not nervous.
and then he looks across the stretch of water sparkling like so many broken glass (it looksfeelstastes like it too, cold and numb and biting and salty he can taste it when he bites his lip chapped from the sea-wind). and there she is she waits looking like she's made of sunlight warm on his back and sand soft under their feet because she doesn't seem to feel the cold standing waist-deep in the crystal-cut (finger-snapped) water.
and he steps in.
#3; KISSING THE LIPLESS (*)
lets the telephone hang there. is the ringing inside his head or outside the air he doesn't know. it jarrs his teeth ring ring ring the constant noise he has to grit his teeth tightly and lean back on the wall. the cubicle it's too small closing in caught in the jaws of a beast her six fingered hands wrapped around the phone twisting knots into the cord caught like a fish the phone jumps under into his hand and the thin faint voice echoing wheedling giovanni and one six four zero two zero three to the power of hello professor
#4; PAPARAZZI (*)
a wild goose chase around twisting maze of the city inside and out under and over snapping at your ankles if you're not careful; gonna tie up your shoestrings and watch you fall, pull the chair out from under and see you bruise fireworks over palewhite skin (have you never what did you find why did what was the point of being here when was the point i don't know). one time was outside the slaughterhouse hahahah reminds you of home doesn't it why won't you. second time nothing more than a disembodied hand pushing a scrap of paper towards him in the crowded train we're still waiting scrawled chicken-feet words crumpled distorting third time is downtown (downtime) you were sitting kicking a heap of rubbish a can rattletattleratatatatata gunsmoke and fire burnt feathers in the air (i'll bite watch the bones crackle watch my eyes you changed so quickly this time let's play a game)
(let's play a game)
(winners first)
#5; LOVE RHYMES WITH HIDEOUS CAR WRECK (*)
mirror images white gold red green black and red splashing on yellow and blue and orange (the difference is marrow-deep beauty matters not when teeth drags against your heartbeat would dig my fingers in to hear you better)
my dearly hated brother how are you? we are all worried about you we wonder how you're doing are you
he is skeletal ghost of a forgotten past dead and buried. all that remains is bloated bluewhite corpse-skin and eyes like dead fish shiny and glazed you killed me again you kill me again always (forever and never only in your dreams but who knows what's real and what isn't). love borne of hot molten iron and frantic heartbeats it's not you i'm shooting at we both i never meant to fire, you know. but i could tell you always did.
#6; READY, WILLING, CAIN AND ABLE (*)
sometimes all he wants is just a little conversation (not inasmuch as a joining of hearts but to a brief respite in between hellfire and poisonous smoke). sometimes the words bleed black and blue and the burnt out coals of heine's eyes burn redcold, and sometimes giovanni smiles like he can't choose between tearing heine's heart out and eat it or let it trample in the funeral dust of his room (one or the other or maybe he'd string his intestines up on the walls welcome home brother).
the words come in fits and starts much like their actions (an abrupt thrust of a hand knocks a lamp over clatterclangshatter and silence) and sometimes there's a long silence where neither of them speak but stare red into orange into red again and their shortsharp breaths they could have been words stuck like flies to a trap in the back of their throats and then it's time for the next game (clickclick)
#7; I MISS YOU (*)
the sky is bluegrey heavy with clouds and almost even before he opens his eyes he can hear the barelythere drops of rain falling like they've fallen in love with the ground, no matter that they will die a pitiful death as a puddle on badly-paved sidewalk and the hard cold embrace of concrete. how stupid, he thinks, staring outside the window and eyes following a trail of watery fingermarks left on the windowpane (screeching creek of wooden frame bent out of shape with age). breathes in. it smells like damp paper and wet grass and the hint of salt from the sea-wind blowing in and the cold drops spatter on the back of his hand as his fingers curl around the windowsill.
how perfectly pointless this all is. how stupid.
nevertheless, he goes out. tells himself that this is for a hot cup of coffee (yet hesitating at the sight of the umbrella propped in the hallway by the door). the rain forms a fine down on his jacket shoulders, his arms, his hair, fogs up the orange lenses of his sunglasses until he has to step into an awning to wipe the water off them.
the light filtering in through the clouds, it's nothing like heaven; can never be, because he can't imagine ever having (but if he could).
(maybe he can).
#8; HANDS OPEN (*)
one two three four fivesixseveneight the clock keeps ticking and he cannot sit still. days pass with every breath growing shallower and tighter sometimes he wonders (how long have i been sitting here?) his fingers still remember the bite of the cold steel, the strangely alive warmth of skin and there are times when he just sits for hours staring at his hands every whorls and grooves etched into his fingers (they cannot scar but they can bleed) and he thinks he just might be going it's
day-- whatever (nineteneleven thirteen) it's getting easier. there are times when he can go for a whole minute without thinking of (one or the other, he cannot decide). should he consider that an improvement? maybe. there are times when he can't tell if he should be awake or he should be asleep but what is asleep when the instant he closes his eyes it's (redblueorangeyellowpale glitter of water but he doesn't dream there is nothing to)
it rains a lot now.
#9; HAPPY & BLEEDING (*)
sometimes i wonder how you're doing, you know. only sometimes (but always it's a sometime somewhere).
sitting here under fluorescent lights that burn and crackle like how your eyes used to, i still remember, you know. i remember everything, dear brother. my dearly hated grievously beloved brother did you crawl up there to burn under the sun like a bug i wonder sometimes when the light gets too much how is your collar? hurting like the usual i hope it hurts like hell, brother.
last time i saw you coloured in red and black and white outlined against the sea of torn pieces of faceless nameless they want you back, brother. they are all of me all of you of us all the same (can't you hear them calling?) i wonder when you'll come back i wonder if your eyes are (because they changed so quickly last time the last time we) there is always
why did you do it
it's a sometime somewhere always.
#10; EULOGY (*)
sometimes he can't sleep. what was the point of sleeping? it's a time for reflection it's for imagination it's for what could be and what could have been but there is no what if, there's no such thing as a possibility. they live in the future but time machine still hasn't been invented and anyway, he is a man who believes in fate more than anything. no freaky coincidences, no luck no chances all that happens (who is killed who gets to walk away) depends on how fast how strong how better you are (and he is nothing but).
you killed me again, heine
the broken glass shards sting his eye with acrid smoke (one dark one white the blood looks brighter when he squints his eyes just so) and the trail of blood drying on his face sticky and heavy reminds him of that time just like this when with onetwothree taptapping of beautiful slender polydactyl fingers on reinforced glass you stopped feeling less and less it's so loud (blood pumping poison it won't stop).
face to face again, you've always been better (but that's not the end of it, tearing my fingers breaking my claws dragging the bricks chipping the marble to pull you down) don't you fucking lie. would you die for her but not for us what is so special about
because it's not okay
it still hurts.
Fandom: DOGS: BULLETS & CARNAGE
Character(s)/Pairing: Giovanni-centric.
Rating: PG13
Disclaimer: not mine.
Feedback: yes please!
Notes: One drabble per duration of one song. Meme. *if possible, listen to the song while you read. youtube links in (*)
Summary: Series of drabbles. Giovanni-centric. Vague RP-verse in some parts. Mostly canon-verse.
2. Turn on your music player and put it on random/shuffle.
3. Write a drabble related to each song that plays.
You only have the time frame of the song to finish the drabble;
you start when the song starts, and stop when it's over. No lingering afterwards!
4. Do ten of these, then post them.
#1; MONSTER HOSPITAL (*)
giovanni sometimes(mosttimes) doesn't really feel like himself. he can't feel himself, his handsfingers are like rubber coated ceramic (ceramic coated bone) and when he walks when he talks there're times when he stumbletumbles down like a tower of babel. there are times when he has nothing when he finds himself staring down at his hands the prints worn smooth with gunfire and smoke and he can't remember. nothing of himself remains. nothing of what he was before is left except in pieces hidden away with seven locks and seven keys (seven and seven makes forty-nine rowan and oak and ash and bone), and it aches and itches deep inside his gut sometimes. these borrowed eyes and borrowed memories burning his blood dry down to the marrow of his bones the boy feels like he could break (brittlesharp teeth flashing in the halflight i am home) but this is not home
they all in pieces falling broken glass crunching like teeth and bones under his shoes and he calls i'm home
#2; SING ME SPANISH TECHNO (*)
the towel hangs around his shoulders awkwardly like it doesn't quite belong there but nor does the slightly apprehensive look on his face, the curl of his lips strangely hesitant. standing there like that, giovanni looks somehow younger than he is (younger than he's made). he cautiously takes a step into the water looking down at it lapping against his ankles and underneath the water his feet are thin and whiteblue. giovanni looks back up, eyebrows furrowing behind his sunglasses at the sunlight and he takes a step back but it's not because he's afraid, no, it's just that his feet are getting cold the toes are getting numb he doesn't like this one bit. but he's not nervous.
and then he looks across the stretch of water sparkling like so many broken glass (it looksfeelstastes like it too, cold and numb and biting and salty he can taste it when he bites his lip chapped from the sea-wind). and there she is she waits looking like she's made of sunlight warm on his back and sand soft under their feet because she doesn't seem to feel the cold standing waist-deep in the crystal-cut (finger-snapped) water.
and he steps in.
#3; KISSING THE LIPLESS (*)
lets the telephone hang there. is the ringing inside his head or outside the air he doesn't know. it jarrs his teeth ring ring ring the constant noise he has to grit his teeth tightly and lean back on the wall. the cubicle it's too small closing in caught in the jaws of a beast her six fingered hands wrapped around the phone twisting knots into the cord caught like a fish the phone jumps under into his hand and the thin faint voice echoing wheedling giovanni and one six four zero two zero three to the power of hello professor
#4; PAPARAZZI (*)
a wild goose chase around twisting maze of the city inside and out under and over snapping at your ankles if you're not careful; gonna tie up your shoestrings and watch you fall, pull the chair out from under and see you bruise fireworks over palewhite skin (have you never what did you find why did what was the point of being here when was the point i don't know). one time was outside the slaughterhouse hahahah reminds you of home doesn't it why won't you. second time nothing more than a disembodied hand pushing a scrap of paper towards him in the crowded train we're still waiting scrawled chicken-feet words crumpled distorting third time is downtown (downtime) you were sitting kicking a heap of rubbish a can rattletattleratatatatata gunsmoke and fire burnt feathers in the air (i'll bite watch the bones crackle watch my eyes you changed so quickly this time let's play a game)
(let's play a game)
(winners first)
#5; LOVE RHYMES WITH HIDEOUS CAR WRECK (*)
mirror images white gold red green black and red splashing on yellow and blue and orange (the difference is marrow-deep beauty matters not when teeth drags against your heartbeat would dig my fingers in to hear you better)
my dearly hated brother how are you? we are all worried about you we wonder how you're doing are you
he is skeletal ghost of a forgotten past dead and buried. all that remains is bloated bluewhite corpse-skin and eyes like dead fish shiny and glazed you killed me again you kill me again always (forever and never only in your dreams but who knows what's real and what isn't). love borne of hot molten iron and frantic heartbeats it's not you i'm shooting at we both i never meant to fire, you know. but i could tell you always did.
#6; READY, WILLING, CAIN AND ABLE (*)
sometimes all he wants is just a little conversation (not inasmuch as a joining of hearts but to a brief respite in between hellfire and poisonous smoke). sometimes the words bleed black and blue and the burnt out coals of heine's eyes burn redcold, and sometimes giovanni smiles like he can't choose between tearing heine's heart out and eat it or let it trample in the funeral dust of his room (one or the other or maybe he'd string his intestines up on the walls welcome home brother).
the words come in fits and starts much like their actions (an abrupt thrust of a hand knocks a lamp over clatterclangshatter and silence) and sometimes there's a long silence where neither of them speak but stare red into orange into red again and their shortsharp breaths they could have been words stuck like flies to a trap in the back of their throats and then it's time for the next game (clickclick)
#7; I MISS YOU (*)
the sky is bluegrey heavy with clouds and almost even before he opens his eyes he can hear the barelythere drops of rain falling like they've fallen in love with the ground, no matter that they will die a pitiful death as a puddle on badly-paved sidewalk and the hard cold embrace of concrete. how stupid, he thinks, staring outside the window and eyes following a trail of watery fingermarks left on the windowpane (screeching creek of wooden frame bent out of shape with age). breathes in. it smells like damp paper and wet grass and the hint of salt from the sea-wind blowing in and the cold drops spatter on the back of his hand as his fingers curl around the windowsill.
how perfectly pointless this all is. how stupid.
nevertheless, he goes out. tells himself that this is for a hot cup of coffee (yet hesitating at the sight of the umbrella propped in the hallway by the door). the rain forms a fine down on his jacket shoulders, his arms, his hair, fogs up the orange lenses of his sunglasses until he has to step into an awning to wipe the water off them.
the light filtering in through the clouds, it's nothing like heaven; can never be, because he can't imagine ever having (but if he could).
(maybe he can).
#8; HANDS OPEN (*)
one two three four fivesixseveneight the clock keeps ticking and he cannot sit still. days pass with every breath growing shallower and tighter sometimes he wonders (how long have i been sitting here?) his fingers still remember the bite of the cold steel, the strangely alive warmth of skin and there are times when he just sits for hours staring at his hands every whorls and grooves etched into his fingers (they cannot scar but they can bleed) and he thinks he just might be going it's
day-- whatever (nineteneleven thirteen) it's getting easier. there are times when he can go for a whole minute without thinking of (one or the other, he cannot decide). should he consider that an improvement? maybe. there are times when he can't tell if he should be awake or he should be asleep but what is asleep when the instant he closes his eyes it's (redblueorangeyellowpale glitter of water but he doesn't dream there is nothing to)
it rains a lot now.
#9; HAPPY & BLEEDING (*)
sometimes i wonder how you're doing, you know. only sometimes (but always it's a sometime somewhere).
sitting here under fluorescent lights that burn and crackle like how your eyes used to, i still remember, you know. i remember everything, dear brother. my dearly hated grievously beloved brother did you crawl up there to burn under the sun like a bug i wonder sometimes when the light gets too much how is your collar? hurting like the usual i hope it hurts like hell, brother.
last time i saw you coloured in red and black and white outlined against the sea of torn pieces of faceless nameless they want you back, brother. they are all of me all of you of us all the same (can't you hear them calling?) i wonder when you'll come back i wonder if your eyes are (because they changed so quickly last time the last time we) there is always
why did you do it
it's a sometime somewhere always.
#10; EULOGY (*)
sometimes he can't sleep. what was the point of sleeping? it's a time for reflection it's for imagination it's for what could be and what could have been but there is no what if, there's no such thing as a possibility. they live in the future but time machine still hasn't been invented and anyway, he is a man who believes in fate more than anything. no freaky coincidences, no luck no chances all that happens (who is killed who gets to walk away) depends on how fast how strong how better you are (and he is nothing but).
you killed me again, heine
the broken glass shards sting his eye with acrid smoke (one dark one white the blood looks brighter when he squints his eyes just so) and the trail of blood drying on his face sticky and heavy reminds him of that time just like this when with onetwothree taptapping of beautiful slender polydactyl fingers on reinforced glass you stopped feeling less and less it's so loud (blood pumping poison it won't stop).
face to face again, you've always been better (but that's not the end of it, tearing my fingers breaking my claws dragging the bricks chipping the marble to pull you down) don't you fucking lie. would you die for her but not for us what is so special about
because it's not okay
it still hurts.