Rate the Story Game, número tres

9. I really like how it's written. It's great.

---

Ryan loved ballet. Not because of the way the dancers were able to move effortlessly and oh so beautifully; but because of how thin they were. Brendon thought he just loved the ballet like any other person did. He didn’t know that Ryan’s obsession had anything to do with anything other than dancing.

Ryan would find pictures of dancers and add them to the enormous collage that he had been forming for months on the inside of his closet door. Each morning when Ryan went to get his clothes for the door he would always take a moment to stare longingly at the flat stomachs, the long legs—sticks that emerged from the tulle of their tutus. Legs that were limber; legs that Ryan wanted. If only he could have the perfection that the ballerinas were able to obtain.

While Brendon was in the bathroom, Ryan would stand in front of the mirror in the bedroom before putting his shirt on and stand sideways, sucking in his stomach and admiring the way it looked. If only he could lose that weight. He pulled on his shirt. He looked at his legs—they didn’t even compare to the dancers’. He pulled on his jeans.

- uneverything

9.3. I love your descriptions.

-
If there was an ideal time to visit the Atlantic City Boardwalk, this would be it.

The crowds were slim; mostly middle class, mid-western, mid-size families enjoying the last bits of sun and surf that the year had to offer. A few vendors were standing on the edges of the near deserted boardwalk, their voices too loud and brassy, Brooklyn and Jersey and Harlem accents ringing over the dim sounds of the crowd like crappy audio commentary on a cheap DVD - insert laugh track, pause for clang of bicycle hitting metal trash cans, faint vulgarities, laugh track again. The sun was bright, artificially bright, too strong for late September. It bothered the locals - made them antsy. The sea should be grey by now, not a shiny navy blue. It was unnatural, especially paired with the clash of vendor's voices, the din of the out-of-towners, the weird warmth of what should be the early autumn sun. It was strange, and strangely beautiful.

Fitting, thought Jackson Lutes. Fitting that today would be sunny.

The man, walking down the boardwalk at an easy pace, was tall and thin, with stark white hair and dark blue eyes that seemed just as out of place as the unseasonable ocean. At first glance, someone looking at Jackson Lutes would think he was older - elderly, even. But, upon closer inspection, you could see that he was fairly young, mid 40's at most. He liked that most people thought he was older (it was a bit of strange irony, looking so old when he'd always felt younger than most, and his hair was something he'd had since he was in his early 20's), so he left it as nature had intended - bright white, the color of notebook paper or hotel pillowcases or jumbo puffed marshmallows, just a few specks of what used to be a dark rich black left at the roots. Adding to his strange appearance were his clothes - mod, almost punk rock, lots of black and dark blues and reds. Mirrored sunglasses -aviators, no others would do- made him seem distant, cool, like some hipster bassist in a mod rock band or a visiting movie star from some foreign country.

He thought about that, smiling languidly as he thudded down the walkway, silver buckled motorcycle boots glinting in the sun.

October 19th, Original Novella

9. Too much description for my personal taste, but it paints a really great picture with metaphors that I don't see often or at all, like "jumbo puffed marshmallows".

---

The five of them ate, making small talk about the plane and what colors Pete wanted to do the nursery before Andy and Hilary made up some excuse to go outside. They were going to smoke and everyone knew it, but their parents always appreciated the lie.

Unfortunately, that meant Pete was his mother's mercy as soon as the back door shut. "So," she asked, turning and fixing her eyes on her oldest child, "is the marriage . . . working?"

Pete groaned while his father cleared his throat, looking embarrassed. "Dale, I thought we said we weren't--"

"No, you said," the woman interrupted, glaring at her husband. "It's perfectly reasonable to want to know how someone's marriage is going."

"It's fine," Pete said pointedly. "Our marriage is fine. We're fine."

--an update for learning to fall

9. I love the normalcy of it all, it flows very well and you can actually picture it as something realistic.
- - -
“Yeah?”

I don’t know what that feeling was that shot right through me, like a shooting star – gone and yet lingering. I breathed in, for the face that stared at me was easily recognizable. He was a local troublemaker that generally made a nuisance of himself by being too cool to follow rules. I had been curious, granted, but staring at him in the eyes was a whole different matter, and I felt small – intimidated. A small grain of sand in that vast sea his eyes composed. It was a terrifying feeling.

“You have something I need.” His words flowed like the water in my life I had long lost. Perhaps that was his biggest attraction, the way he spoke. I felt my back hunch over, slowly straightening as I stood up from my crouch. Ironically enough, he was my height. Yet, the way he spoke, it made me feel as if he were clouds.

“Well, what do you need?” I honestly did not know. How could I? Just watching him stare down at me that way made my skin crawl, made me forget how to swallow, made me forget who I was; all of it replaced by this underling puppet with broken strings.

“A smoke.”

I felt my gaze slither back to his. “I don’t smoke.” For a moment, I wondered if he was going to hit me. His glare was equally hurtful, and at that moment, I knew who I shouldn't fuck with.

- Yoake [Dawn], wip.

eight point eight. i think you meant 'attraction' instead of 'attractive'. i really love the metaphor of the shooting star. it sums up a lot.

---

Ryan didn't smoke and he didn't want to be around it because of the baby, but when Andrew and Hilary were done, he would go outside and just sit with them. Hilary was only a few years older than him and Andrew was his age. They didn't want to talk about the same things Pete's parents did, Pete's mother in particular. It was just nice to sit around and talk about normal things, like Hilary's job and what her friend had said at some party that was hilarious. Andrew didn't talk as much when he was high, but he was quiet in a comfortable way. They didn't stare at Ryan's stomach.

It was the day before they were set to leave and Andrew decided to speak for once. "So, when are your parents coming out to interrogate Pete?"

Hilary gave a small, warning shake of her head at her brother, but he didn't seem to notice. Ryan did, however. "It's okay," he told her, turning to look at his brother-in-law. "My dad died last year. And my mom's . . . I think she's Phoenix, but I haven't talked to her in a few years."

"Oh." The boy shifted awkwardly. "Sorry, I didn't mean--"

"It's fine," Ryan interrupted, shrugging, turning his head and staring across the yard. Hemmingway was trying to drink out of the pool again. "Shit happens."

---unposted chapter three update of learning to fall

9. It flows really well, and I like the characterization.

-

Sometimes, two people can seem so utterly perfect for one another, without realizing it. Friends will notice and comment on how the two should just hook up, but most of the time, the two people just don't see it. Sometimes, this is because of their blindness to their own feelings, or their inability to admit them. Other times, however, it's their friends who are blind.

I have these two friends called Emma and Max. They argue like crazy; constantly at each other's throat pretty much every day, with insults flying from both directions. And I don't just mean the harmless insults that don't mean anything, I'm talking about the kind that are meant to sting. Honestly, I don't even know why they're friends anymore.

Well, actually, I guess I do. Max was good friends with Adam and Lucy - they all went to the same improv club together - and Emma was friends with Elly, Liz and Rachel from years ago. I knew Liz and Adam back in middle school and was pretty close to both of them, and Jacob was someone we kind of adopted a while back. And now, all of us hang out in this big group. Quite odd, really. So I guess Max and Emma are really just friends out of habit rather than from choice.

-Friends and Family

7, I like the conversational style , but it seems a bit plain to me.

- - - - - -

The smell of sweat licks my senses as I jarr the door open with the point of my toe, the resulting subtle pain can't draw my eyes away from the source of the smooth aching noises. The slick backs, tied limbs, untidyly knotted together. Dale wearing the wiley grin of the wolf as he spotted me over the spike of a shoulder, biting down, sucking profanely at the flesh of the others neck, snapping capilleries and leaving me to feel the sting of the bruise. I, desperate for relief, flatten my eyes to the heaving form of his contemporary. On tight inspection the stranger has a network of tribal tattoos marring the olivey tone of his skin. Dark hair not utterly unlike mine. My near-twin from behind i suppose, the kind of guy maybe a friend of mine would catch by the arm, only to find themselves mistaken. It takes me a few solid minutes but I finally recoil, throwing myself away from the door the heady atmosphere now like acid touch teasing and scolding at every expanse of my skin. I count every step from that door to the kitchen but I just know he hasn't followed me. I put my ass in a chair, my head in my hands and give him ten minutes to get his shit together. He won't take too long before he comes to either gloat or grovel. I know these things about Dale, i'll be eating away at him up there. True to form in eight minutes theres the heard thumps of flat feet on dated floorboards. I know him better than anyone.

Dale sprawls clumsily into the room, his skin reeking of someone who wasn't me. He looks like life has just chewed him up and then projectile vomited him back into yesterday clothes. He tears at the orange juice lid, gulping it down, sparing me about half the bottle, how gracious. He doesn't have even the slightest grasp on nonchalant and I wanted to knock him out where he stands. Beat him black and blue in this stupid dated eighties kitchen. I fucking hate formica, it makes me think of my parents and all the pies my mum used to bake whilst my dad was out screwing her best friend. I decide to start the formal proceedings and I state what we both knew so well. 'You look like shit' I offered, glancing across his bedraggled form it was clear he was either drunk or stoned or strung the fuck out.

'I know, thanks'

'Nice boyfriend you got there,' I countered.

'Fuck you.'

'Watch out Dale or someone might go thinking your gay.'

'Fuck you Oz.'

'Then again most average joe straight guys, which you are of course, do have the tendency of fucking nameless blokes into their best friend mattress. Yeah course it's so typical... Get a grip man.' I spat it at him, barely keeping my voice from shaking.

'Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you'

The last syllable was just static to me, screaming it out at me all over again. He was so pliable now I could take him to angry and back within minutes. It was so sadistic but it filled a gap inside that he kept leaving wide open. Deepening gradually with each new progression he made into become a shell of anything near to my best friend. It was so warped. I only had to tug the strings and he danced like a marrionette, a perfect puppet carved in Dale's likeness. I half expected the real him to walk through those doors and have a good laugh with me at this poor impression of himself. Yet the door stayed closed and the doppleganger just stared me straight down. Neither of us knowing quite what move needed to be made next. Still i'm pretty sure I was the only one playing for checkmate in this game.

-- Jacket, Unposted, Chaptered

12. THIS IS SO INTERESTING I love your vocabulary, and you're so descriptive it's like I'm there

-

Zeus detonates the sky with fulmination and thunder and electricity and I can hear Hera crying out, trying to relax him but he threatens her with a clenched fist of her own beautiful hair. I'm alone, all alone, palms against my ears holding my breath as Poseidon swallows me whole under a crushing wave. Tumbling beneath the water, cold and cutting, the tide pushes me onto the embankment. Cough cough cough water like cement stuck in my throat. I don't have much time so I gather my dress and broken pieces into my arms, running and running until I reach some kind of farm land spotted with old sod. And just like that Hephaestus sets the land ablaze, burning away crops and marking beaten tracks in the ground.

I have to sit. I need to rest these weary eyes and this tormented soul. Upon this ignited ground there is still hope, I can feel it pulsing on my withered fingertips. I can see it within the white-hot flames licking the horizon, dancing and jumping around on the land. It's hard to stay calm with destruction around, then I remember my family, gone. Cinders, fragments fanned into the air. I remember the stories my grandmother always told me about Aphrodite arising from simmering sea foam, the dismemberment of genitalia, Cronus Uranus Thalassa.

- i don't even know anymore

11. I will never tire of reading that piece. It's so beautiful and stunning. <3 It truly is a work of art. I love love love it. You should post it as a drabble, really.
- - -
“Mom, what is that?”

It was square and it had rice with seaweed in it. I mean, yeah sure, it’s Japan. They bow down and eat with sticks, but that was most definitely the strangest thing she had ever cooked. Well, assuming she took her time to do so anyway.

“Oh, this?” She picked up the small box and her smile broadened. “You father explained to me the meaning of the bento box, and how much it reflects the effort of a good mother.” I could see how the smile in her eyes faltered, but how her lips never twitched. I wanted to learn how to do that. And back then, well fuck, I really couldn’t understand the mechanics of how and why she tried so hard. It just seemed like a neat trick I could pull off in life.

“Do I have to eat all of it?” I smelled the food and I felt my stomach shrink. One thing was for sure, Japanese people seriously needed to start growing some cows for burgers or something. This was just plain nasty. I even made a face and closed the box again. It had this pretty sakura blossom inside on top of my rice. But… still.

“Oh. Well.... No, sweetheart, you don’t have to, if you don't want to.” I couldn’t see her face; only smell that sweet perfume of hers that would forever remind me of spring and laughter. It was like smelling the true essence of forgiveness and protection. I hugged her and thanked her and left for school with a cramping grin that made my cheeks ache. I was just a few days shy from turning eleven, and my big forehead never let that detail slip. It was a shame it let other more important ones go loose.

By the time lunch rolled in, I was starving. I sat down and ate half of what was in my bento box, just because I was being nice and I was hungry. The rice was overcooked, the seaweed was burnt, and the whole thing must’ve been dipped in soy sauce. I threw the rest away. But then again, I wouldn’t have, if I had known that not finishing your bento box signaled the teachers and the other students what a failure my mother had created. If I had known, I would’ve wolfed the whole thing and demanded for more of that disastrous cuisine in a box. I just didn’t know. And that’s how most of my life worked- not knowing. And it’s stupid and just plain frustrating to know that just because you threw away your food, the neighbors started to spread rumors about your mother. Just because I didn’t have the fucking balls to eat some stuff that tasted bad.

But like the neighbors said, what could you expect from an American?

- Yoake [Dawn], wip.

9.8. I love this. I love that she didn't know and she's looking back on it and I love the phrase "grow some cows", cause it's just amusing.

---

"We're the number five album on iTunes." Spencer said, voice low. "And all of Fall Out Boy's albums are up there, too."

The boy blinked, letting that register. "But . . . our album's two years old." While Ryan was trying to ponder why on earth his pregnancy and marriage would lead to such a thing, Spencer was opening up a word document and when he spoke again, his voice had that business tone to it.

"Okay, so, press statement. I guess we should do one as a band and you should probably have an individual one since you're the one with child." Ryan snorted. "So I guess Brendon and Jon and I'll be all 'blah blah blah, best congratulations to Pete and Ryan at this time in their lives. We thank you for your support and ask that you respect their privacy during this personal time. Do you think it's necessary to point out that you never fucked Brendon?"

"Probably, but don't." Ryan shook his head. Damn fanfiction and horny teenage girls. And damn crazy friends for sending him links to the stuff. "What should I say, Spin?"

The boy was already working on it though. "I appreciate all your kind thoughts, but respectfully request that you allow me and Pete our privacy during this time. Any information that I to share will be given through the appropriate channels. I am an extremely private person and do not like to disclose the details of my personal life which is why I did not release a statement before."

"Any information we wish to share." Ryan murmured in a low voice.

---part two of learning to fall.

9. I love your style and I love the fanfiction reference. However, the statement seems a bit wooden but that might be the point.

---

All that could clearly be seen was the small gleam of light from the end of his wand. Uriel kept walking- terrified of stopping, tired from running. His eyes had began to itch at least three hours ago and his chest was tight. He took a swig from his hipflask and the pain eased away like a dilapidated rowboat off the shore. It came back. It always came back. He had been walking for weeks now, ever since he had read The Daily Prophet upside down in Nurse Bryony's office. Before all of His reign and downfall, Uriel had been a masterful potion brewer. He had happily sold watered-down potions to the Muggles, disguised as herbal remedies. They were so weak and were only taken by his daughter Aisling's customers. Muggles - like any species - were always so in live with the idea that someone could see into the future.

Aisling was dead now. Uriel sees her eyes sometimes when he manages to fall asleep. They wake him up and he has to walk again. She only exists in his head as a memory and a name associated with some Death Eater or another. And he went mad. Some Aurors turned up before they could kill him too. Those chestnut eyes glassy and pale and staring into the abyss and they made Uriel watch.

He grits his teeth as his foot treads into something soft. He didn't stop to look down, he would deal with it when it was lighter. He could remember hearing a stream running not so far away not so long ago. He resolved to go back and wash. But walking was the only thing he wanted to do.

--- The Hallowed Travellers Prologue. Doctor Who/Harry Potter crack!fic.

8.
---
Mike didn’t notice for a long, long time.

Billie was always the quiet kid, even more so when his dad died - it was like he died and grabbed Billie’s voice box and took it six feet under with him. Mike knew Andy Armstrong a little bit before he went, he was a nice guy with a deep voice and Billie always talked about him like he was Jesus Lord Almighty, and Mike supposed he could understand that, even though he didn’t really like adults all that much.

So when Andy died and Billie went quiet, Mike still talked to him at school and after school and even went to the funeral and talked to him, and even though sometimes Billie didn’t talk back, Mike knew he was listening. And in December, three months after the funeral, Mike made some offhand joke about some kid at school and Billie had smiled, he had fucking smiled, and he even giggled a little, and it made Mike’s heart soar and for the first time since that rainy September he thought maybe Billie would be okay.

Once they crossed the threshold into teenage years and Mike had his growth spurt and Billie stayed pathetically short, their differences became more apparent than ever. Billie’s mother watched from the sidelines, waiting for the day the tall and handsome Mike kicked her dark little son to the curb, but it just never happened. Mike was there after school faithfully, always with polite words to say and a smile for Billie, and they went up to his room and did whatever they did, and Ollie always watched them climb the stairs, one tall and fair and the other small and dark, and wished Andy was around to see what good a friend Billie had.

Ollie wished Andy could be around to see a lot of things.

- I Don't Do Too Well On My Own

8.5 - It was very sweet. And although I haven't read the whole story, it's like I have and I know what's going on. Very good.

~

He had not seen her for fifteen years, and it was his entire fault. Snape whimpered as the pain threatened to creep back into his body as he ran.

And then she was suddenly there, only ten or so feet away from Snape.

Her red hair whipped around her shoulders, and beside her was a boy who bore a striking resemblance to Snape himself. Mainly because he was Snape himself.

The teenage Lily Evans was every bit as beautiful as Snape remembered, and he longed to reach out, to touch her. And as the tears came – and come they did, flowing shamelessly down his cheeks – Snape couldn’t help but… smile, for the first time in a long time, her energy overwhelming him.

Lily laughed at something teenage Snape said, and Severus felt his very insides coil to life as he watched her cheeks bulge with pure happiness. The teenage Snape didn’t know how very lucky he was to be standing there in her presence.

Severus continued to watch them, to watch Lily as his love threatened to engulf him, until it started to get dark and the pair moved away, back inside the castle. Snape followed silently, his eyes on the back of Lily’s read hair as they moved across the grounds.

Severus saw, much to his irritation, James Potter staring with interest at the back of her head too, but he ignored him.

eight point five. I like that this is sort of tinged with regret. I'm wondering if we'll discover if there's a reason Severus ignored James.

---

The music was perfect, as always. Pete fought like hell to get Patrick to change a chord progression anyway. He didn't win, but he didn't really want to. He thought maybe he just wanted to get out some frustrations and he felt like shit afterward, but Patrick never held onto musical fights after they were done. "So how's everything going with Ryan?" Patrick asked as they wandered out to the kitchen, opening the refrigerator and pulling out a bottle of water, letting Pete dig around for a can of soda.

"Fine." The older boy straightened up, letting the refrigerator door close. "I mean, he's still moody and pregnant and doesn't want to talk to me about anything important, but we named the baby a few nights ago, so that's good." He opened the can and took a drink.

Patrick gave a soft smile, almost patronizing, but Pete didn't notice that part. "That's great. What name?"

"Oliver Frederick."

"Like Oliver Twist."

---unposted update for learning to fall

8.7 I love how Ryan's pregnancy is something that just... is. I also like how the dialog is natural, as always.
- - -

“Educate yourself, you stupid yankee!”

Sometimes I remember and I wonder if I dodged that manual because I was lucky, or if it was because I was so used at dodging shit from my rampaging dad. Yeah, sure, I guess I did hit my hip against that desk and fall down on top of my bag, wrinkling my math homework. If I want to be positive, I could say that I got a free English manual for Japanese etiquette. It would’ve been a nice gesture if they had given it to me nicely, but no. Japanese assholes like flinging manuals at Yankees.

Fuck them, too.

They kept saying things about disrespect and shame. The rest I couldn't understand. That worked just fine with me. I sat down and promptly took out a book to read. I threw a fuss over the fact that the first page was all wrinkled and partially torn. I resented them for that. Stephen King did not deserve this kind of bullshit.

“Oi, Haruno-san, learn to read in Japanese.”

Her name was Ino. She was blonde. I did not like her. She did not like me. We were, for the most part, equals. But I was smarter than her. And from the little stuff I knew in this place, that was one thing I took for granted. Yet, I still don’t know why I blushed. There was no logic, no reason, no fucking…

“Um…” fuck off? Thanks? What the fuck? I didn't know what to say anymore. I didn’t know anymore. “It’s hard.” Of course it’s fucking hard, excuse me for not being able to draw symbols that represent words. Well, at least I could speak for the most part. I thought I was making up to it when I raised my chin. She just laughed.

“Sure, forehead.”

- Chapter II from Yoake [dawn], unposted.

7. It seems a bit disjointed and doesn't make much sense, especially the second paragraph from the end. I like the bluntness of the narrator, though, and their character intrigues me.

---

When a band breaks up they always, always blame it on creative differences, and no one ever believes them. This stance is mostly justified because usually ‘creative differences’ is just a feeble excuse to hide some big scandal, like the guitarist’s girlfriend having an affair with the singer, or the guitarist having an affair with the singer, or some big huge row that tears the band into tiny, irreparable pieces.

It’s not like that for them. There’s no juicy scandal, no secret affair, no awful row. It’s just somewhere down the line, Panic(!) splitting right down the middle without Spencer ever even noticing.

***

“It’s not because I-”

“I know.”

“We just think, me and Jon, that-”

“I know.”

“We just don’t want the same things as you any more, that’s all,” Ryan says, awkward hands fiddling with the scarf twined so tightly round his neck that he'll choke himself if he tugs it any closer to his throat.

And Spencer should say “I know,” and smile and tell him it’s fine, really, it’s fine, but the words are stuck in his throat and the blank expression is frozen on his face and he just can’t.

Because it’s true. They don’t want the same things any more.

(Somehow, that realisation hurts one hell of a lot more than a juicy scandal or a secret affair or an awful row ever could. Spencer almost wishes it was like that, because at least then he could get angry, at least then he could start yelling, at least then he could justify the abject betrayal curling low in his gut that he just doesn’t know what to do with.)

-Make Your Own Way (Back Home), unposted.

8.

- -

Savana was past caring at this point. She’s just a kid, she’ll get over it, she told herself as she sat on the couch at her mom’s house with her dog, Boo-boo. She groaned, remembering she didn’t have her glasses, then got up and went to grab a chair, sitting a few feet away from the television before she picked a movie to watch. The tailless dachshund jumped into Savana’s lap and licked her face.

“I know, Boo, she’s being stupid.” Savana kissed the dog and made herself comfortable as the movie started. She couldn’t focus, though. She knew the younger girl’s habit of running around with other guys (never girls, though.) It was why they had an open relationship, even if nobody really knew they were together.

Her phone rang halfway through the movie. “Hello?” she answered.

“Hey, Vanna,” the younger girl giggled. “I know you’re probably loving your time at home with Boo, and all, but I really want you to come out to LA.” She giggled again. “I want you to meet this kid. I think you’d like him.”

-Nearly Beloved, unposted.

8.5. I could really feel Savana's personality from this little excerpt, which I really liked, and I was interested to see where the story was going to go next.

***

Even as I insult everything Lindsey has ever been, tear her apart until she surely can’t mend, she still whispers my name, Gerard¸ the love so evident in her voice. Lindsey knows how much Father haunts me, what happened when I was a kid, and she wants to be the one to save me from my inner darkness that’s taken me. She’s told me that so many times that she knows I’ll change, that I’ll come around and be the man I used to be, that I’ll stop getting angry and find my peace, and that she can wait for that day to come. My hands are shaking again from the memory and the darkness is trying to consume me.

I smiled after I hit her. For one second, before I left and slammed the door, I smiled because she got what I felt like she deserved, just like Father used to after he hit Mom.

I’m turning on the radio, checking the news, trying to keep the darkness from consuming me. Stories of bombings, murders, and violence flood my ears, and I’m shutting it off again, unable to listen any longer to how fucked up the world is. Now, my hand is putting a CD in the player, turning up the volume until the bass is making everything vibrate, but it’s still not enough. The rise and fall of the instruments is white noise to my ears, the air feeling so thick, and I’m finally pulling over onto the shoulder. My chest feels tight, so tight.

The air is choking me, suffocating, and I can’t breathe.

I’m bolting out of the car, to the edge of the pavement, the rain soaking through my clothing. My thoughts are going back to all those moments I want to forget, my failures filling me, the realization of how stupid I am flooding me once again. All those times before, when I swore to Lindsey that I’d change, those were lies. How did I turn into this? When did the thread snap and make me think I had to punish her to keep her with me, to keep my life from falling apart? When did I become a monster?

Those promises to change are words of poison I speak to keep her with me, because without her, I’m nothing, my life is nothing, and Father would have been right after all, that I’m nothing but a failure, a mistake. I told Lindsey that I’d stop getting mad at her for talking with other men, just talking, and that I’d let her get a job to help with the bills, the one they were advertising at the art supply store because she loves art, and that I’d be okay with giving her more freedom, but those were lies. I never meant them, they were only to get her smiling again.

But now, I know who I am.

-Headlights in the Dust

10. I don't even like het, but this was so chilling and beautiful the genders of the characters seemed irrelevant. I love the part about him smiling, but I hate it, too.

---

Alex grinned as he dug his car keys out of his pocket, hitting the lock button, hoping his car was close enough to honk. It did, a few rows over and Alex helped put Ryan's suitcase and bag in the back. "Let's, uh . . ." He looked around, making sure no one was around, before opening up the back door and nodding his head toward it.

Ryan hesitated, looking like he might refuse for a moment, but then he shrugged. What the hell. He climbed in first, turning as Alex shut the door. And then it was a meeting of lips and tongues and hands, sliding under clothes and tugging at hair. The seats were cold, but their body heat seemed to fill the car in a matter of minutes. Ryan was vaguely aware of the fact that he was going to have hickies as Alex's hands slipped under his shirt, possibly bruises on his hips even through his jeans. And he was hard now. God dammit. "W-We should . . ." He tried to pull away to finish his sentence, but Alex just swallowed the words down, trying to undo Ryan's belt even as the older boy pushed his hands away.

"Dude, c'mon. It's been a month." Ryan couldn't tell if that was actual need making Alex's voice sound like that or if the younger boy was just whining. Either way, he had no desire to fuck in the backseat of the car where they could get caught and possibly arrested.

"I'm not fucking in the car." His voice was dead serious and that was definitely a whine coming out of Alex's throat now, complete with a pout that actually looked pretty damn cute. "No fucking way. The longer you sulk, the longer it'll take to get to your house."

Alex was too worked up to be annoyed by that statement like he normally would have been. Ryan was really only two years older than him, but sometimes he talked like he was a parent and Alex was a disobedient child. "Fine, fuck, Jesus." He pushed off Ryan and pushed open the door, shutting it behind him as he got into the driver's seat. The car was already started by the time Ryan climbed in and buckled.

---uneverything

10. I can see it in my head and it's brilliant.

-

Brendon eyed him oddly for a second before shrugging, not even bothering to calm that ridiculous fear. Ryan continued. "So, anyways. Remember how like, back when the band first got together, we'd like, have all that fanfictiony shit written about us and everyone always was shipping me and you?"

"Yeah, it was funny. Remember the time you helped me raise my three kids from some girlfriend who died? Or when we were in college and apparently we were so oblivious to each other's feelings that when Jon worked at Starbucks he'd like, force us to sit together to try and get our senses going so we'd date already? Yeah, they were good. Why, what's up?"

Why was it so hard to say, "Yeah, 'cause those kids had the right idea. I've had a massive crush on you since like, forever, but I've been too chickenshit to act on it?"

Or, why couldn't he just reach across the table and plant one right on him? Fuck, anything sounded like a good idea at that point. Brendon noticed his space out, questioning his friend as to if he was okay again. He genuinely sounded worried, not liking when Ryan wasn't who he usually was. It was entirely awkward, 'cause Brendon really did consider Ryan to be his best friend in the world even if Ryan didn't always agree with that.

"Uh, nevermind. Pete was reading a really weird one the other night and he kept sending it to me on MSN. Something about me being pregnant with his baby or whatever. I had to have an account to read it, though, so I didn't make one. Scares me that he has an account on there, though; who knows what he writes or who he poses as?"

Brendon's eyes lit up, wondering if he could track down the log in details so he could access Pete's account and find out if he wrote anything or read. Sounded like brilliant blackmail to him right?

And of course, as he began to ramble about the plan forming in his mind, he didn't even notice how Ryan seemed to just drown himself in the orange juice that he'd barely touched since he poured it.

-

something I've been working on.