Dust settles in the corners of their eyes and the branches of their lungs, white staining their vision, breaths heavy with sand. The emptiness can be beautiful, can serve as a metaphor for their organs or their personal horizons, lets them blot out the sun with the curve of a thumb and wonder if that's all it really takes. They are warriors, but their boots are weighed with politics and they are marching a fragile line, ears straining for commands that come from tin cans, voices thick with static and numbers. But on they drive, and march, to ancient beats pulsing in the hot sand and the hot sky, waiting for the fire of danger to spark within them at any moment, fingers steady on their weapons. Acoustic guitars swell with their tempo, electricity zips up the strings to give them excitement, but static filters in and slows their footsteps as night washes the light from the world, letting their destruction become a celebration in the sky.



( Marines make do. )

There is something… different about Sookie Stackhouse, though he can't quite put his finger on it. He can see the fire in her, burning underneath her skin, lighting up her insides with anger and compassion and pride alike. It is curious. In all the years that have been swept up in his wake, steadying his hands and his mind and his indifference, there have been precious few times where he has become so intrigued by something. By someone. And while our blond barmaid senses his interest in her, and her abilities, she finds that trying to ignore the sparks he sets off in her is becoming increasingly difficult. And so the beginning of their journey is set to faltering, uncertain static, filtering between the hum of guitars and smooth voices weaving in out, letting their story unfold. But then— the synths. Sweeping electronic beats and orchestral crescendos slip in to represent the foreign territory they unwittingly begin to explore simply by catching the others' gaze— and soon they are well on their way, letting emotion dictate what their actions should be, with no room for logic and little for peace. Sookie's corner of Louisiana will never be the same again.



( Trust me. )

Major Children of Earth spoilers.



( In a thousand years' time— )

The future is clean, guitar as hot and sloping in his hand as a girl's electric back. Lightning steals loved ones and fire takes him places. What's a boy to do with one foot in timelessness and the other in detention? After all, clocks are fragile things, and plutonium is hard to come by. His tongue rings like thunder over telephone wires, voice stretched, the day, the year, the earth knows no bounds sloping into his throat. Infinity will strike across aviator eyes, dangling thin and cracking strings: hands he should not clasp, lips he (really) shouldn't kiss, dirt over graves that should not be trampled by restless feet - but still, he'll have a damn fine time cutting it close. Put the pedal down, Doc, and crank it up to 88. These are songs for Marty McFly. It's gonna get heavy.



( NOBODY CALLS ME CHICKEN )

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There is something lurking in the heart of Dr. Jackman; a shadow swirling inside him, waiting, waiting, waiting for the moment it can be free. Maybe there's a potion. Maybe there's just a girl. But somehow blood and lust and violence and glee surge up and overtake his soul, and suddenly the good Doctor's conscience blackens and chars; becomes something delightfully dark and twisted. Something which has been hiding. Say what you might; everyone has an alter-ego. His just happens to have a name and unfathomable power. And so eerie electronic beats provide the dark, enigmatic beginning of our modern Jekyll's journey, morphing into vocals as powerful as Hyde's appetite, all framed by electricity and wavering, mysterious voices which seem to insinuate a deeper and more dangerous kind of mind. Proceed if you dare.



( I love children, me! Snack-sized people always leave you wanting more. )

Blood; sometimes it sets his teeth on edge. Other times it helps him control the chaos. Because inside Dexter Morgan lurks a hunger for destruction-- for the cold steel of his knives and the lush rip they make against human flesh, for body parts tightly wrapped in saran wrap, lowered into the Gulf in hefty bags never to be seen again. Say what you like; he's a very neat monster. Having no human feelings can help the process too-- our dear demented serial killer remains empty inside, save for the code of his foster father and the skills needed for his survival. And when the moon is full and hanging plump in the Miami night, the Dark Passenger lies in wait, its deep chuckles rumbling through the mind of our darkly dreaming Dexter, hoping to slake its thirst for blood.



( Tonight's the night, and it's going to happen again and again. Has to happen. )

Time does not falter and it does not forget; and their tale, truly, is a tragedy-- in two parts. Once, they were together, and traveling held such wonders for her; though she was the only wonder for him. A war nipped at their heels even as they spun through their fantastic life, and finally, eventually, they were drawn to its center, unable to unknowingly orbit the chaos any longer. And fate, as it does, had plans neither could have seen -- nor have wanted to see. Torn away from him, impossible to return to her old life, she remains trapped in an alternate universe, forever aching to see him again. He continues to travel alone, his empty ship only serving to remind him how lively it used to be. Time had not saved them. But perhaps she could.



( The truth is: we ran out of time. )

The first part of one of the most windswept romances to ever grace the universe -- the stunning tale of two time travelers, each the perfect compliment to the other. When their eyes align, time itself seems to still; they are hopelessly caught up in one another and they spin, carelessly, across the stars -- a pairing they would never hope to part from. These songs detail their growing conviction for each other, a chronology which follows their time together, ephemeral as it is.



( And maybe we might go running, through seas and skies )

The world of Sookie Stackhouse is impossible. It is a world of vampires, shape-shifters, fairy godmothers and werewolves, and our blonde telepathic barmaid is stuck right in the middle of it all. Not to mention the fact that she's apparently something more than human, she has a blood bond with a stunning, thousand-year-old Viking vampire who just so happens to control the upper part of northern Louisiana (and is her ex-boyfriend's boss, if vampire hierarchy is anything to go by). But politics isn't the only thing Eric Northman excels in -- he happens to be spectacular in bed. This compiliation is a careful look into their lives, in between the Royal Summits (who knew Louisiana had a queen?), the bloodshed, and unexpected visitors; folk and indie at it's finest, strung together by the common thread of a burgeoning romance which neither could've predicted.



( “Eric, I really need to go. I got to get to work.” Or spontaneously combust, whichever came first. )

Belle de Jour's voice is like a string of colored beads, like steps to the sea, and London -- well, London is her city. Cool air and cooler hearts mingle under a glowing skyline, glass buildings reflecting the streetlamps like manmade constellations, and it's behind these depthless gleaming panes where she does her finest work. And though certain words trail behind her, displaced breaths grasping for description, the truth is she is everything that they encompass, and more. They can say what they wish, but sex is her calling, her life, and she wouldn't have it any other way. She is clever, sophisticated, perfectly crafted and she is an experience you will never, ever forget. It's a business doing pleasure with you.




( daintier, smarter, better dressed )

Music for the common time traveler -- when days split at the seams and you just need to step back. Because it's Monday and you've already hit the end of the week.

( the only thing I ever wanted )

These are melodies for our heroes, and their troubles: a dark, hot liason that swept the staircases and placated the wrath and foolhardiness of the stars; for a silence and severity that brews beneath and can be soothed only by a moist stirring of warm skin. He pulled at her dark hair like bowstrings, and she could breathe forbidden breaths into the ivory curves of his shoulders. Their lips hung like berries fit to burst when not touching. They walk a dark and bloody ground; the city's wounds may only be swallowed in the deep black hollows of their meeting mouths.

Soon it will not be this way; her guilt will flutter forward and his heart will gently evaporate among the clouds, and the sticky midnights will stop. Briefly, indefinitely, infinitely. But the sweat in their sheets will not wash out. Their eyes still catch. A lie can live forever.



( WHEN'S THE LAST TIME YOU SCREWED ALL NIGHT? )

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A foreign, familiar constant of the universe, bending with time, scattered in other whens and wheres like stardust across the galaxies. He is close with Death, and it follows gently in his wake, as it has always done. Centuries of life and loves and planets and knowledge are held, barely contained, within his changing frame. He is solitary, but almost never alone. The Doctor; the last of the Time Lords, a proud people outside of time who remain casualties of a devastating war. This is everything which encompasses his newest regeneration; his tenth body. Sweet, desperate violins entwine with haunting piano, which flows into loose beats and the static sounds of the guitar. Each song lets a facet of him show, from the loss of his planet, his self, and the slow struggle of realizing that though he is the last, he doesn't have to remain alone. And it does all of this without words -- welcome to an orchestral anthology of the Doctor.



( ashes to ashes )

Where velvet and cream fabrics were concerned, the equation of her eyes - sea-devil green and wide as all the world - puzzled him, and drew itself in millions of chalk lines along his insides, blotted with scribbles and the product infinitely eluding. There was a moment where Amsterdam lay wild and whipping on the edge of a negative universe, and their fingers were wound together like pale streams, formed perpetually in time and dotted in white beads on a dark black board. Her curls were smoothed out by its delicate winds. Then their light eyes met, and she'd watch that yellow lick of hair gracing the curve of his brow with a gentle humor as it trembled. A thin-set hand would then brush it away.

She left to study a sickness, and not long after, a poison sank into his blood and killed him. And though today a new man stands in his place, that formula plays out, still, deep along his brain and through the tongues of all the stars (who don't dare speak). These songs go softly on, for their sake; they say what science cannot. They are songs for Nyssa and the Doctor.



( FEARLESS ON MY BREATH )

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365 days, and even that is fading fast. A year to live and a war to fight; but things have never been exactly normal in the Winchester family. The end of the world is now, now, now, and the little signposts along the road are all pointing to one place -- the place, the one with fire and doom and man, can't the demons just take a freakin' break already? Don't worry, boys. Their day will come. This mix focuses on the Winchester brothers; the overall tone equal parts light and heavy, brash industrial notes mixing with the pleasant strum of acoustic guitar. The songs were chosen for their lyrics and mood, and here's the kicker -- there isn't any classic rock.



( And after that: the upward fall )

Isabella Swan is in love with a vampire. The slow and endless drizzle of her new town makes the green of the trees and grass glisten, ethereal. Her life is clouded by painstaking adoration and the constant struggle to survive the supernatural things she manages to stumble upon. So it's a fairly good thing that her vampire loves her back, fiercely and selflessly, and tries to protect her from the horrible wonders of his world. The songs you are about to encounter were chosen both for lyrical and atmospheric value, and the overall tone mimics that of their relationship: something haunting, otherworldly -- something beautiful.



( the daydream: the disconnect. )