Drafts

The night had become a cyclical purgatory in which he unremittingly relived the events of _______'s death until sleep became impossible.

“Why should Arthur just get to stomp around like a giant while the rest of us try not to get smushed under his big feet? Lancelot is just as cute as Arthur, right? Lancelot is just as smart as Arthur, people totally like Lancelot just as much as they like Arthur, and when did it become okay for one person to be the boss of everybody because that's not what Camelot is about! We should totally just kill Arthur!”

(I don't know if I'll end up using it or not, but it's fun to imagine. )

---

Patrick sees graffiti everywhere now.

It took him a while to notice at first; City G’s been covered in spray-paint secrets for as long as he’s been living in it and it’s just become part of the scenery. Somehow, though, somewhere along the line, the tags morphed into something... else, something dangerous, something more than just words and numbers and the odd picture here and there.

…sat back and prayed to every god he could think of that they had nothing in common.

-

“No, Sophie!” She yelled, slamming the plate onto the counter. “Enough of this ‘writing!’ I’m done!”

-

mistook the sinking feeling in my stomach for sickness; three days in bed.

cut from post.
using on a story and didn't want it to seem like i was promoting it. :3

People think the story of the guitarist who burned to death in a plane crash at age 25 is a sad story and I agree, but that's because they never heard the story of the guitarist who drank himself to death at age 30 because he was convinced he was a failure.

If you ask me though if you ask his millions of fans he was anything but a failure, his ears were tuned to a different frequency I guess

Emotion cannot make a man stay put. At least, not for a man that has spent his life running from broken buildings and empty people, empty buildings and broken people.
---
I want to use it but I just can't bring myself to expand on it anymore.

and he called her Margot because he loved her and she was beautiful and he especially loved beautiful things

Her edges are too rough and jagged for her to be considered conventionally pretty, he knows this, but she’s sort of fiercely beautiful and he’s enchanted by her nonetheless.

an oak moon in the ancient age of wheedled breaths. we who coax our lungs with apothecaries and remedies crushed from the chemicals brewing in the sands of our ancestors, lulled by the silent bray of burnt lips and the whimpering pulp of maws, our sentiments crystallized in the false honey of courtesy, the whispers of gears seamlessly obliterating the light, life that blows like a cool breeze in the scrim of aged faces, the liver spot the shape of peru, the unutterable grace of the filigree of queen anne's lace on your great grandmother's hand, the same withered sinews that once cusped the softness of your yelping forefathers, yearning only to die by those hands, a web of entwined fingers like the roots of your family tree, felled by the blindness of foreign moons. i spent the night curled in the coil of your animal heat which kissed through the skin sheathing your chasms, your glass instruments, a sigh and a stifled release, a bleating promise of renewal from a hollowness that could consume worlds, wishing wells, the dusk etched into the touch of holiness. We studied the ash that gathered in the pits of our eyes, versed in a loneliness as pure as the delirium and wretchedness of the lifespans of insects.

a burial shroud of moths drifting in storied prisms, etched from psalms flung from the lines of palms as fleshy as rotted fruit, mother of pearl pealing in bloodied mouths, a song sung with broken jaws, all descending from the sodden gallows, an eternal retching of creatures who crave a light as absolute as the eyelids of headstones

(e never kissed c like he meant it, but that's just 'cause he never did.)

She was one of those people who never fell for the impulse-buy items by the register. She might glance over them casually while the cashier scanned her purchases, but she never as much as lifted a pack of gum from the little wire rack unless she'd planned to do so before even leaving for the store. Which she rarely did because you got a better deal if you bought a multi-pack from the candy and snack aisle.

I knew what had gone wrong, it was the disease that ate you from the inside, that devoured all of you. You said you loved me as you left me, your body so frail and tired looking. I'd kissed your chapped lips, your burning forehead, your flushed cheeks and I couldn't say a word.

--

How she loves beautiful things. She loves standing in the mirror. When she does, she counts her bones, which are so beautiful. She loves finding something sharp and cutting the shapes into her arms. The beautiful shapes. She loves the control over her life which makes her feel like the beautiful girls she see's on TV. Ever day she falls in love with the beauty she has in bed beside her. When he cries, she kisses his tears. The tears she loves are diamonds. Beautiful, wonderful, perfect tear drop diamonds. She kisses away his beautiful tears a lot, especially when she tells him about her beautiful things. About the bones and the cuts. In a strange way, she loves his tears because he loves her and her beautiful things. She knows it's complicated, but she is used to her beautiful things being too complicated to explain. How she loves dangerous things.

--

I have an amazing talent for messing things up. They say everybody has a skill, and this is mine. I ruin things, and don't bother to say I don't because I do.

--

He makes mental notes on how to save her and with each word he realizes just how much he loves her. He tells her of the future they will have.

I like to think I'm pretty charismatic. I know I'm not, but I like to think I am anyway.

please don't leave me. i don't want to be alone. it's so awful here, so dark and bleak and miserable and i can't, i can't deal with it any more, can't handle the aching sadness of this place. i don't want it to consume me too. you're the only thing stopping it from swallowing me whole, the only thing keeping me from destruction. you have to stay. you have to look after me. you have to keep me safe.

#

Nick turns to William, looks at him hard and says, "My brother."

William looks back at him, unfazed. "My best friend," he says, with the same inflection Nick used.

Nick's mouth works a little, like he's testing the words on his tongue. "He won't hurt him," he says, eventually, and William just nods, understanding.

Nick smiles. It's sort of blinding and William blinks at him, stunned, wondering why the fuck Nick spends so much time scowling when he can do that with his lips.

"Wanna know how I got these scars? Well, let's seem. I was like you, ahm... not too happy with myself, shall we say? Wanting to escape, eh? And so one day I go into the bathroom and I take my father's razor. And I, well, I'm not so good to myself. And afterwards, everybody wants to know why I'm so sad, why I'm crazy, why I won't smile. So eventually, I get the razor back and I put it in my mouth. And I cut up, I make myself smile real wide. Not so crazy now, huh? Not like you!"

He grabs my hands and turns them, palm up, exposing the soft white skin of my wrists and forearm. Tattoed with raised scars of the months I spent trying to end my life because I had nothing and nobody left to live for. The world had ended, and every day I tried to leave too. That was when I realised I couldn't die. But now looking into the Joker's eyes, anything seems possible.

Gwaine left Caerleon when he was eighteen, still foolish with the wilful idealism of youth, still determined to find that something better people always used to talk about with wistful smiles and hopeful eyes. He’s sailed the seas for nigh on seven years and he’s yet to find more than the murky depths of the ocean and the murkier depths of human souls.

He thinks about going home, sometimes, usually when he gets so drunk everything fades to a dull throb and all he has is memories for company. He thinks about going home until the prospect is so tantalising it makes something in his chest ache. He thinks about going home, and when he wakes in the morning with an army pounding at his temples he laughs and laughs and laughs so his head and his heart aren’t the only things that hurt.

A needle. A face. A mask. My vision stopped and started and faded. I felt something sharp. A hand touching me. Somebody laughing until my screams devoured me.

Kevin doesn’t like his box. Kevin has never liked his box. He knows that’s weird, knows that he was put in it for a reason and it’s where he’s supposed to be so he should like it, but he doesn’t. He doesn’t like it one bit.

(He thinks it’s a punishment, maybe. For what he doesn’t know; he can’t remember anything beyond these four grey walls, can’t remember anything from Before.)

My body ends here.
It accomplishes so much and reaches its limit.
A very short limit.
I give up.
baby wait
Too many cracks in my heart.
Stale world.
Dead immortal world.