Drafts

Used a pair of velcro mitts to catch spring fever.

I don't know.

"Could you at least tell me who's making you feel this way? Please?"

The older man begged, concerned about the boy sitting in front of him. But Kris knew better to remain silent and enjoy his drink. As he inhaled the sweet scent of cocoa, his mug was inches apart from his lips when the words accidentally slipped out.

"You are."

"I didn't kill her; we made a pact. We were going to kill ourselves together."

Erm... yeah.

Roxas wanted to grab him by the shoulder, digging his nails in the skin as he pulled the taller redhead down in a lust-drivin kiss.
"Just cause I'm his lover doesn't mean we're in love."
When those words hit Axel, he felt the blond pull him down, pressing his lips against him. Something inside him broke, and he knew right then he couldn't stay faithful to Demyx any longer.
--

"I've always been used by him. He's an intelligent guy, knowing who to pick, and how to place them. We're just pawns in Zexion's little game, but you... You're one piece that isn't in the set. He doesn't play you, and that's why I hate you."

Roxas-centric stuff has been getting in my head too much recently... >_>

I'm not entirely sure. :XD

--

...mentally filling out the Mad Libs on the back of the box.

"Make me some."
"No."
"M-o-m!"
"Fine."

There's nothing I love more than a good summer storm, kicking my soaked shoes off at the door, dripping wet all over the front porch.

...but maybe I'm just being angsty.

We called him Skittles. I'm not quite sure why, we just did.

The thunder shook the whole first story, reverberating in my gut.

...coming straight out of Compton!-wut?

I was at a diner and I heard this song and I started crying--at a diner!

She was never any good at symbolism.

Spencer remembers this because he was in a religion class with her in middle school, and there was an assignment in which they had to read a short story and describe what they thought certain things in the story meant. She cried after class because she failed the assignment.

He's got a face only a mother could love and judging by last weeks performance, even she's gone off it. :shifty

daisuke andou.:

He's got a face only a mother could love and judging by last weeks performance, even she's gone off it. :shifty

I adore that

It's filled with fire, and ice, and hot, and cold, and beautiful, and just so full of sin, he doesn't know what to make of it; so he just kisses her back.

My father masturbates for a living.

“Françoise,” I intone stoically, “Has HIV.”

The girl’s face goes all slack, losing continuity as she lets out a short, almost hysterical laugh and immediately freezes, expressionless. “Oh,” she says blankly. “Oh, shit.”

-

His lips are a dark bruise against a palette of anemic white.

-

I can still remember watching his small fingers, stained with sharpie ink and nicotine, twitching anxiously against the lacquered surface of the hotel table, faded tattoos spelling out H-A-L-L-O, over and over and over, tap tap tap tap tap, like some sick attempt at Morse code. He looked so fucking pale sitting cross–legged on the garish evergreen canvas of the comforter, humid hazel eyes practically melting out of his head in the vacant heat.

-

He was swaying drunkenly as he stood, the pool lights illuminating his face with a warped, flickering blue glow. Chlorinating his flushed china cheeks.

:shifty

When I was eleven, my father was arrested.

My father had a ring that he never took off. It was a present from his aunt that he received on his twentieth birthday, the day of his biggest paycheck yet. It clung to his finger like mould, smearing a green circle onto his skin because, as he discovered a week later, it was constructed of copper. The cheap bronze metal started to peek from under the weary silver coating, he told me the first time I asked where it came from, and over time the beauty of it rotted away. The copper oxidised - that’s what left the green shadow on his finger - and the minerals were absorbed into his body. My father didn’t know or care that copper has supposed medicinal properties. He developed arthritis in his left hand, and he didn’t believe me when I told him the ring stopped him getting it in his right.

Engraved on the jewellery was a lizard. Its sharp head poked over the top of the ring, body curving down along the plain band until its tail curved round into an S-shape. It had dimples in its metallic skin where there were still pools of silver, where weather and sweat couldn’t reach to wear it away. When I was little he’d call it speckled, like a real lizard, and my eyes would widen in some kind of entranced fear as he lunged towards my face, the lizard only gently snapping at my cheek with its frozen nose.

And then one day, the ring was stolen from his finger.

I'm never going to use it.

This was some random line that I had floating around...

A rift…a rift…a rift…as big as the Amazon river...

Tom Fletcher.:

When I was eleven, my father was arrested.

My father had a ring that he never took off. It was a present from his aunt that he received on his twentieth birthday, the day of his biggest paycheck yet. It clung to his finger like mould, smearing a green circle onto his skin because, as he discovered a week later, it was constructed of copper. The cheap bronze metal started to peek from under the weary silver coating, he told me the first time I asked where it came from, and over time the beauty of it rotted away. The copper oxidised - that’s what left the green shadow on his finger - and the minerals were absorbed into his body. My father didn’t know or care that copper has supposed medicinal properties. He developed arthritis in his left hand, and he didn’t believe me when I told him the ring stopped him getting it in his right.

Engraved on the jewellery was a lizard. Its sharp head poked over the top of the ring, body curving down along the plain band until its tail curved round into an S-shape. It had dimples in its metallic skin where there were still pools of silver, where weather and sweat couldn’t reach to wear it away. When I was little he’d call it speckled, like a real lizard, and my eyes would widen in some kind of entranced fear as he lunged towards my face, the lizard only gently snapping at my cheek with its frozen nose.

And then one day, the ring was stolen from his finger.

I'm never going to use it.

USE ITTTTTT DO IT DO IT. :tehe:

/spammm.

^ NOTHING TO WRITE IT INTOOOOO. :XD

-

He’s the bad guy. Of course he is.

Standing there, straight as a fucking snowdrop with a spliff tacked to his lips, he would blend in with the brickwork if he’d care to do so. Nobody sees the defiance of his scaffolded eyebrows or his tight jacket or his concrete hands, but that’s only because nobody’s looking. It’s not like he cares - he doesn’t really want oestrogen-fuelled weeps and screams pulling at his mind tonight, nor the soulless flash of the media tearing up his irises as he tries to catch some shuteye. No, he’d be quite content to suck as much smoke as he can get from this paper skin stuffed with relaxation until he’s floating above and away from this Friday night or Saturday morning or whatever the hell the hour is – that is, if he didn’t feel so alone doing so.

Shoes raped by time start to claim the gum-mottled pavement for their own, knowing exactly where to go. They twitch, whether from the hash not doing its job or the natural tension bleeding through each of their owner’s muscles, it’s hard to tell. Sprouts of multi-tonal hair try to shake off their orange blanket given willingly by the streetlamps above, and they scratch at hazel eyes as they disguise the wanderer from his world. Fists jam in jean pockets as his pace quickens, passing building after building until he’s too focused on his path to count how many streets he sneaks through. He could easily light up another joint but he’s nearly at his destination, and there’s no point stopping to roll one now. He knows that as soon as he reaches the place he’s headed, he’ll have all the intoxicant he’ll need.

Another intro to a story I want to write but never will.

She swayed slightly, standing beside the couch, her high heels and her silky dress worse for wear.
"What have you done?"
"I've spent the night dancing," she giggled. Her ankle twists and she falls out of her shoe and onto the arm of the couch. "I'm drunk, I suppose."
Her gaping smile is followed by mocking laughter and I leave her bent over the arm of the chair, greasy hair falling into her eyes.

"I'm drunk, I suppose."

He can still feel the five little trenches in his shoulder where capillaries were shattered by his mother’s shrapnel nails. She pushed him away whilst whipping her wand from beneath her robes, her goblin-crafted leather boots kicking the cellar door into its frame behind her son, just after her terrified eyes said their goodbyes. Draco tried to rip away the cotton wool she’d smothered him in by unleashing his own magic on the door, but no spell he knew of could break through her enchantment. Narcissa was smart, but when danger arrived it teamed with a reckless stupidity. Draco knew that there would be more than one intruder in the Manor; Narcissa only knew that she wanted her son out of reach of hexes and curses. She seemed to forget that he knew almost as many dangerous spells as she did, and two against five would be much more effective than one. A mother’s actions can be marred by fear.

I have too many random paragraphs I will never use. T_T

Gabe isn't a mind reader, but he certainly understood body language.

We see the world through finite eyes, like broken heels and rotting clocks.
-
Jesus, it's been stuck in my head for the entire fucking week. It doesn't even make sense.

I don't even like it. D:

Polaroid pictures and wilted daisy chains are all I have left of our summer together.

I don't know. :tehe: