I don't understand why I keep posting except that I do.

[evocates]

I haven't written any fic for quite some time. The most recent as for sons_of_gondor, and that's all I'm going to say about that. ANYWAY.

GIVE ME PROMPTS and I will write you something. In the post. In the comments. I don't even know how many words it would be, but just give me prompts because I need to write something non-academic before I go completely mad. The prompts can be anything, as long as it has Sean or Viggo (or their characters) in it. You can even ask for VigOrli, though I don't know why you would want to.

Also, seriously, I want prompts from you guys. 8D Links to comms are appreciated, but they never really work for me.

Comments

[j-flattermann.livejournal.com]

Ruby has another swap going, why not wander over to her Ruby_Swap journal and sign up. We still are in need of some players there.

[evocates.livejournal.com]

Already did. I need to write something now and the requests aren't open. Plus if the requests open, I'll end up writing massive, over 10k words epic again because that's what happens with me almost all the time. I just need distractions from endless work work work work essays work work work.

[j-flattermann.livejournal.com]

Hmm, how about "headache". Mine is feeling like my head is pumpkin size today and that is no good really.
But maybe you can make something form it.
*winks*

[bluegerl.livejournal.com]

How about Vigs being a leetle concerned that Bean might consider removing to Russia?? (God I hope not but... a move to another country for peace from paperazzi?) Doing a Depp.. buy his house?

Or Vigs going to sell up in Idaho cos of the drought and the hosses haven't done well, and are getting old now. (The NZ ones probably are)

NZ... The trip to South Island.... arguments. Viggo being VIGGO... and road kill etc. and Bean getting possessive or wanting civilisation?

Can you stand wiimen getting involved.. cos He did have a couple nice girl friends to do with art galleries. Amy Ell something was one.. pretty lass. Art Galleries and Vigs?

HOpe you can find something ... I know about not having a bunny to grab ... I want to write and there's a famine of hairy longeared hoppity things.! (Actually it is the OverDosing I'm doing on pics of the Bean six times daily... he's so...oh sod the man...) I love him with fag in mouth, specs, grotty and perving... just a very very normal man having a morning beer. Isn't it just the most WARMING HAPPY thing ever????? Wish he was with Vigs there - can't you fix that one??? the two of them morning beering?

Hope you can find something... and please don't go mad!!! omg... semiotics and signal-pauses...oh god!!!

HUGS and HUGS.... Write me a lovematch.. Begs - erm. pts to icon as well?

[evocates.livejournal.com]

THIS IS HALF A NOTE TO MYSELF, but tomorrow after class/before class/sometime I will write you a fic about Sean, his new Russian girlfriend, art, and Viggo. I am not ignoring you, but it seems longer and more complex than I can handle right now at nearly 1am.

[bluegerl.livejournal.com]

Honey, I can wait... I CAN.... it was just I couldn;t bear the idea you hadn't a 'bunny' and wanted to write The Boys. Oh I think the Russian girl and VIgs will be LOVELY - but I can hang on, just enjoy doing it... I ain't going no place!!! Oh and didn't he look bloody gorgeous in yellow...OH BEEEEEEEEN... oh yes, I WILL WAIT.... just enjoy writing it... and I will enjoy reading - more than enjoy, flip my lid likely!!! Sleep well little one.

[questofdreams.livejournal.com]

Hm... what about a scene that includes the White Tree of Gondor?

[evocates.livejournal.com]

QUESTY you commented just before I slept and now I can't sleep until I wrote this.

***

Aragorn looked at the White Tree everyday, engraved as it was on Boromir's vembraces that he wore on his wrists. He had traced the strong white thread that refused to fade despite the dirt that Aragorn had accumulated on his skin, his hair, his clothes; every inch of him was darkened by the dust of the road, yet the White Tree still remained bright. The old magic of Middle Earth was fading with the Elves, but this was the magic of Men - of sheer strength and indomitable will. Men who could look out to the darkness and fire of Mordor and still keep their faith in the White Tree that flew above them, a symbol embroidered with plain thread.

Boromir had told him once, his voice low but angry, that there was strength and honour in Men. Aragorn knew the truth of his words now, but he was already too late, for Boromir's life had slipped between his fingers, his King's hands - healer's hands - useless and clumsy when faced with orc poisons. Now he stood in front of the true White Tree, Boromir's vembraces cradled in those selfsame hands. The King of Gondor wondered, briefly, idly, without any hopes for the answer he already knew in his heart, if there was any possible forgiveness for him; for he had let Boromir die, and only through his death that he accepted his destiny. If he had not been running away, perhaps he would have been able to reach Boromir in time. Perhaps the call of the Horn of Gondor would have been sharper in his blood if he had accepted his pledge earlier.

There was no answer for him. Amongst the Dead Boromir did not walk; Aragorn hoped that the son of Gondor would be at peace. Would he be, he wondered. Was a then-false king's word enough for the Steward's son, ever so dutiful, to entrust his beloved kingdom to him? Aragorn did not know if he had fulfilled his promise to Boromir; he suspected that he would never know, not in this lifetime.

(The Elves had Valinor. What did Men have? Did great Men arrive at tall halls with bards who sang their stories and their honours, such that they would always be remembered? Boromir's name was already beginning to fade; the last Walker who was lost during the Quest; the hero of Men who died before his triumphant return. The silver trumpets would never announce his return again.

Aragorn reminded himself to tell the stories of Boromir's great deeds to the scribes.)

Even a King would die some day. Aragorn plucked a bud from the blooming tree and felt the silk of its petals in his hands. The life of Men were as short and fleeting as these flowers in the eyes of the Elves, but Aragorn did not fear the encroaching darkness. Many Men had raced headlong with him against the orc hordes despite death that waited, its scythe gleaming in the sun; many Elves had given their lives for Rohan in Helm's Deep. In these times of peace, Aragorn would be able to choose his time of death. He knew his own fortune.

The King heard the chatter of his people below. The sun was rising; the counsel would gather soon. Aragorn opened his hand and watched the bud fall down the seven levels, the newborn light casting it in soft golds and pinks. For the briefest of moments, he heard the sound of Boromir's voice, slipping away from him like the petal had.

He would keep these vembraces well, Aragorn decided. The thread would not fade; he hoped the leather would hold another hundred years or more. They were all that remained of Boromir. If Aragorn was to meet him again in that strange, unknown afterlife of men, he would be buried with them, the White Tree next to his heart.

He would ask, then. He would ask for Boromir's judgment, and for his forgiveness.

As the King he never was, to the Steward who should have been.

[questofdreams.livejournal.com]

*eee* That was lovely! Aww, oh Aragorn, YOU DONE GOOD <3 What an awesome king+steward they would have made.

[helena-s-renn.livejournal.com]

Ok, you made me tear up. Aragorn's death scene in RotK is no different, where he's still wearing the vambrances. Dammit, I can't even talk about it.

The image of the flower from the white tree floating down the 7 levels was also very meaningful and 'visual". Aragron is now the hope and head of all, but he never forgets the 'might have-beens'.

[noalinnea.livejournal.com]

Now my heart aches :( Although I actually prefer the Tolkien verse (with dead Boromir) it's always so very painful to face. There are so many beautiful pictures in this little piece, Aragorn tracing the white thread with his fingers, the silver trumpets that never are going to announce Boromir's return to the city again, his eyes following the bud falling down all seven levels of Minas Tirith, the hands of the experienced healer rendered completely useless in the blink of an eye. Lovely, all of it!

[afra_schatz]

Orlando and Bean (obviously) - "It was as if he didn't understand the concept of 'shut up'." (Extra points if it's Orlando saying that :) (Which I stole from one of my fav prompt generator sites that also hosts gems such as this one: Stuck in a glass elevator with a mime. Again. - I love that site.)

or, if you're not in the mood for humour/crack, how about this one: Sean/Orlando - "it's the worst thing you could've done"

(btw I got a collection of rather nice prompt generators here. ALSO btw, I WILL get to read your essay, life has been CRAZY this week but I am so looking forward to it. So sorry I'm so horribly slow)

[evocates.livejournal.com]

2 seconds reply because I really have to sleep, but I'll get to the second Sean/Orlando prompt tomorrow 8D. (God, eventually I'd have written enough tiny fics for you to fill the 'seven wonders of everyday life' thing I STILL have open without any real inspiration to write.)

TAKE YOUR TIME WITH THE ESSAY. I just need it back by this... Friday, I think. Don't worry about being slow, you're doing me a huge favour. /SNUGS TIGHT

Also holy fuckballs a car just misfired and it made me jump. I live really high up and it's so goddamn loud and arrrgh.)

[evocates.livejournal.com]

holy fuck I took your first, funny prompt and it turned out to be this. Warnings for VERY, VERY DEPRESSING. I'm not spoiling the rest because it would ruin the whole thing.

***

"He just doesn't know how to shut up, you know what I mean? It's like, mate, I know you love poetry, I know you love having the chance to show that you love poetry on TV to people who think you're a Northern Neanderthal - which you aren't, because you're a Northern bastard - but do you have to quote Keats to me all day?"

*

"Darkling I listen," Sean's voice caressed Orlando's skin, skittering against the top of his spine, then stroking downwards. Orlando tipped his head back, exhaling a soft breath even as his brows creased in irritation. Again?

"Old man, if you're going to quote Keats at me again, can't you choose another poem? Or even another stanza? Seriously, I'm getting sick of this one."

Sean only chuckled. His hand was cold against Orlando's back, but Orlando's body temperature had always been higher than most. Sean had told him once that he was a living hot water bottle, and ruined the sweet sentiment by telling him that he could sell himself as that, if the acting gig didn't work out. Orlando had roared, leaping upon him and showing just how good at heating skin up he was.

"And, for many a time," Sean continued, his breath against Orlando's ear. His hair was short for the mohawk again, a call back to ten years ago. But ten years ago he didn't have Sean; didn't have an old man complaining to him that such short-cropped hair was difficult to grip on his arthritic fingers. "I have been half in love with easeful Death."

"Why don't you try being one-and-a-half in love with me instead?"

*

"He'd just go on and on. The same poem, the same damn stanza every single time. I don't mind; fuck, his voice is hella sexy, everyone knows that. I just wish that he'd say something else. Teasing him about being a sod gets really, really old after the fifth or so time."

*

"Now more than ever," Sean's fingers danced on his skin, right below the waistband of his pants. Orlando, impatient, pulled his jeans down, exposing himself. Sean laughed in his ear again, a cold waft of air, but his recitation didn't cease. "Seems it rich to die,

"To cease upon midnight with no pain," Orlando whispered, the words familiar to him now. His voice melded with Sean's, turning eerie in the room as it bounced off the white, white walls. He didn't mind; not when he could feel Sean's lips against the back of his neck. Not when Sean's body was plastered against his, the broad chest against his back, its very weight chasing away the small, nagging pain at the base of his spine. If Orlando was Sean's hot water bottle, then Sean was Orlando's all-natural painkiller.

There was never any pain when Sean was here.

(He knew that wasn't true; knew that the two of them fought and argued and more often than not things had nearly ended with screaming and slammed doors. But he also knew that Sean always came back, or always took him back when he went to him crawling with tail between his legs. Orlando wasn't much of a believer of forever - he had defied expectations and expectations had defied him too many times for that - but Sean... Sean, he could believe was forever.

He was forever.)

*

[evocates.livejournal.com]

"I know the whole poem, you know. I've memorised all of Keat's poetry by now, because he won't bloody shut up about it, so I might as well read, right? I'm a good boyfriend like that. God knows why I even try, though. He always repeats the same stanza."

*

"While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad," Orlando's breath hitched. His hand was wrapped around his own cock, and Sean's hand - colder than his skin, as always - was wrapped around his own. He moved slowly, to the rhythm of the words as Sean said them, slurring, each consonant lingering on his tongue before he released them into the air. Each vowel was blended into the next, and there were no beginning or ends to every word. It was just sound; voice- Sean's voice, and Orlando swallowed a sob as his hand moved a little harder.

He squeezed his eyes shut, his head leaning back. Sean's shoulder was so solid beneath him, his arm wrapping around Orlando's waist. Safe. Orlando had never needed to feel safe, but Sean made him feel it anyway. Safe as if he was a damsel in distress in an ivory tower.

(Maybe the image was too apt. The walls were white, so goddamn white.)

"In... such... " Sean's breath hitched, and his hips jerked forward, pressing hard against Orlando's ass. His hand squeezed harder around Orlando's own, forcing the rhythm to quicken even as Orlando felt Sean's cock sliding up and down his cleft, the head brushing - barely - against his hole.

"An ecstasy!"

Orlando's lips parted as he came, hard, Sean's voice surrounding him, bouncing off the walls, filling him inside even as he felt the heat of his own come, of Sean's come, covering his skin.

*

"He visits me every day," Orlando said.

He was thin. The eyebags underneath his eyes were dark and his cheekbones were so gaunt that they seemed drawn on. His hands were barely more than bones, and Dom fought not to wince as he took them into his own.

"'Course he does, Lando," he said, and he felt his heart break, the most minute of cracks splitting open, spilling his heart's blood onto the floor at Orlando's feet.

"Of course he does."

*

"Still wouldst thou sing," Sean whispered, his voice wavering.

Orlando kept his eyes closed. He raised his hand and licked at the sticky come, tasting salt and bitterness. Like tears, but he had no reason to cry, not when Sean was here. "And I have ears in vain—"

He reached behind him and smeared his hand over his own back. There was warmth there, Sean's heat, and he followed Sean to the ground, leaning his head against the white, white walls, closing his eyes and waiting for the very last time.

"To thy high requiem become a sod."

"You silly Northern bastard," Orlando said.

Sean's laughter echoed around him.

*

British actor Sean Bean died in his London home on ---- 20--. Autopsy confirmed the cause of death to be a brain aneurysm. He was found by his longtime boyfriend, Orlando Bloom. Bloom cannot be reached for a comment.

*

IF YOU REALLY WANT SPOILERS, HAVE SOME: .

Don't ask me where this came from. Just. I have no fucking idea.

[rubyelf.livejournal.com]

STORY SWAP IS COMING! The requests will hopefully go up at the end of this week! Your story last time was great... and you can always pick up more than one if you see more than one you like! There's lots of Sean and Viggo requests to keep you happy!

[evocates.livejournal.com]

FFF I am very impatient, and when it comes to official exchanges/requests, I always end up spending forever on one fic. I just want like a quick adrenaline shot this time. 8D

[helena-s-renn.livejournal.com]

I'm going to circumvent and demand more Teresa/Sharpe/Harper, and I would like some small piece even if only a sentence or paragraph to include a skirmish or battle.

If that's not doing it for you, then Walker Jerome/Sean-of-your-choice and the prompt is "sea salt".

Tell me later if you want more.

[evocates.livejournal.com]

I will get to T/S/H later. But holy God, sea salt and Walker. This is set in the same universe as that clothed the world and meet the sky.

***

The Lake District carried bad memories, but Tracie had never be one to let little things affect what she wanted to do, much less her own personal fears. But it was cold in the North, and Walker's knees disliked the rain. It was not the memories that halted the trip up to where Wordsworth and so many other poets had written their best work; it was the lack of the sun, and warmth, and Tracie's gentle, niggling thought that Walker should always be warm. Not merely for the sake of his health, no, but- whenever she looked at him she still saw Gorgeous who bought her a Multiple Orgasm, his blond hair shining in the sun, a vision of hope for the boy Simon was and the girl she had never really been.

They left for Holkham, Norfolk in the end, walking along the miles of sand. Tracie had tried to keep her shoes on, but Walker laughed at her with every step she took, his own bare toes wiggling amongst the grains of gold. She tossed the shoes away in a huff then, tossing them into the boot of the car, and her red nails fought to gleam under the gentle sunlight that filtered through the trees. The water was blue, bluer than Walker's eyes. Tracie hadn't thought that possible.

Sitting there in the sand, with the sea breeze teasing his hair and sea salt on his lips, a sharp tang that lingered on Tracie's lips with every kiss- Walker told her stories.

"I went to France after I left England," he said, his voice soft. He traced his fingers over the thin, nude stockings covering her feet. "I went to Paris and lived with the gypsies for a while. They tried to teach me how to dance, but I have two left feet and I kept tripping over myself." He laughed, and Tracie reached out a hand, trying to trace the lines at the side of Walker's mouth; the lines of living that she never lived with him. "In the end, they taught me how to be charmingly clumsy. Though, I don't think that was deliberate."

"Well," Tracie said, her voice deep enough to rumble in her chest. It was Simon's voice, but Simon was part of Tracie and Tracie was part of Simon, and she was fine with that. "You've always been charming."

Walker took her hand, turning it over and pressing a soft kiss to the white, plush underside. He kept his eyes on her as his lips moved upwards, stubble scraping against her skin, and Tracie shivered at the desire that she saw in his eyes. She had been looking for the like for decades; for someone who could see her as she was and want her as she was- but there was only Walker, in the end. Only Walker, who came back to her and who looked at her as if she was everything that he had ever wanted; as if she was enough, just enough, for him to love for the rest of his life.

"You make it worth it to be charming," Walker murmured, and it just proved Tracie's thoughts right. She closed her eyes, smiling, and when they kissed again she could not tell the difference between the salt on the wind and the salt in her eyes.

[noalinnea.livejournal.com]

Ooooooohhhhhh--- here, here, over here, pick my prompt! ;) I would love to read about their first fight, major one, major problem. Make them hurt each other! (I'm in a weird mood today...)

[evocates.livejournal.com]

Request a 'verse, bb. By 'verse I mean, the ABO one (signal fire) or the one you prompted (grazed knees). I'm taking cartographies out because I have the 7 domestic fights thing for that 'verse to write eventually, and assassins' tango is all about fighting. >_>

EDITED: or would you like a completely new 'verse entirely?

(What is it with your prompts, me, and my utter inability to write short fic for your prompts?)

[noalinnea.livejournal.com]

You brought this on yourself by saying the post was still open for requests: fatherhood. I don't really care which verse (not the mpreg one though *cold shivers*), but Aragorn/Boromir or Sean/Viggo or just Tracie reflecting on something she has never had (or has she?)... That would be uber-awesome. Hope this doesn't want to make you hit me ;)

[caras-galadhon.livejournal.com]

*sneaks in* Am I allowed to prompt even if I've been terrible about fb lately and have a lot to catch up on? *scuffs toe* If not, that's totally ok.

If I am, however, I would love to see something of either a VigBean or Aragorn/Boromir bent, and, ummm... how about either drowning in deadlines (because I am), or something to do with Wargs? Your choice. ^_^

*mwah* ♥ *sneaks back out*

[evocates.livejournal.com]

YOU'RE ALLOWED TO PROMPT, YES. 8D And I will get to it once I have some free time. /snugs And take your time with the feedback, fff.

This is a useless comment just to tell you I got your comment. 8D

[evocates.livejournal.com]

"I swear," Sean stirred his tea. "I don't know why ya do this ta yerself."

Viggo didn't even look at him. It wasn't as if he could anyway, not as buried as he was under folders of paper samples, endless mountains of photographs, opened files filled with pieces of poetry barely kept in the their rings, colour swatches every possible corner, and a small, rather precarious hill of chosen photographs, poetry, and God knew what else. He sat in the midst of the hurricane, glaring furiously at his laptop screen.

"Mm?"

"I mean," Sean walked over to the couch. It was the only empty space in the entire office, because he had made it his own and refused to let Viggo drop anything onto it. "You're the boss. You can set the deadlines. Push them back. In fact, that's a great idea, why don't ya do it now?"

"Mm."

"Ya haven't even annouced yer publishin' the new book, fer Christ's sake. There ain't any hurry."

"Don't hang on me, Photoshop you bastard," Viggo half-growled in reply.

Sean sipped his head and lounged against the couch. He put his feet up on the arms and opened his book, licking his finger before he found the bookmarked page.

"Ya should just admit ya like makin' things 'ard fer yerself," he continued. "An artistic vision is all great and everything, but ya literally came up with it just three days before yer deadline."

"Why did I take so many fucking blurry pictures?"

"Yer self-imposed deadline," Sean declared pointedly.

"Photoshop..."

Sean turned another page. Viggo thought Wuthering Heights was terrible and he, like always, preferred the most obscure Bronte sister. It was why Sean loved reading this book in his office. He took a sip of his tea.

"If yer a Yorkshire man, I would've thought yer publisher 'ad decided ta print yer books fer ya fer free if ya finished it within the next three days. But yer ain't."

"Yorkshire shouldn't be this grey. But everything is greyscale. Hm..."

"And yer shite with money anyway."

"Oh for fuck's sake!" Viggo threw his hands up. The corner of his thumb nudged against the mountain of paper samples, sending it toppling from the desk. Papers of every size, colour, weight and gloss index flew every which way, but Viggo only side-stormed them and walked over to Sean. He grabbed Sean's mug of tea and drained it, setting it on the side table with a heavy thump.

"I fucking give up on today. It's taking forever to save." He dragged a hand through his hair. Somehow he had managed to get pen ink on the tip of his fingers, and they left green streaks on his hair roots. Sean fought not to smile. "I'll just have to postpone the publishing."

Sean raised an eyebrow, "Ya sure 'bout that."

Viggo shrugged, "For today anyway. Besides, I promised to have dinner with you."

Chuckling, Sean stood. He buried his hand into Viggo's green-streaked hair, staining his own fingers before he pulled the mildly insane poet-painter-photographer-publisher-singer-musician - otherwise known as the love of his damn life - closer. He tilted his head.

"Been waitin' fer ya ta say that," he murmured, and kissed him.