Rate the Story Game, número tres

Nine.

- -

“Come on, Kendall!” Chelsea slurred to me, one arm clinging around my neck and the other limp with the contents of a cider bottle sloshing all over her hand, “You’ve barely drunk anything!” I looked down at my plastic cup with a look of grimace, I’d only had a few sips but it made my tongue curl up in disgust.

“Chels, maybe you should drink a little less?” As our conversation built up, I could see Chelsea for the drunken state she was, already her new tights were ripped and a magenta stain was down her front from the several bottles of wicked which she began her night with. She shook her head swiftly, spilling more of the cider over my shoes.

“It’s a par-party!” She stuttered, swaying slightly as she took another swig from the bottle. “Come on!” Chelsea pushed the plastic cup in my hand towards my mouth with a force, causing the drink to topple out of my hand, and the blood red liquid splashed all over my front.

“Chelsea!” I yelled, staring down at my top as the liquid seeped into the cells of the material for a permanent residence. All Chelsea could do was giggle at her idiocy with one hand clasped over her mouth in mock astonishment. I flung the empty cup onto the floor before giving Chelsea a austere glare and fighting through the crowds of inebriated teens to reach the fresh air.

- - Special K.
Chapter One, Unposted. c/c?

seven point four.

---

Several hundred yards away, Ryan was impatiently tapping his fingers on his leg, waiting for the stewardesses to move their asses and get the door open. He'd already tugged his bag out of the overhead compartment and it was standing next to him in the aisle. He'd booked a first class ticket and there were only a few other people in the section, all of them impatiently checking their phones or their watches or grumbling under their breath. Three of them were business types, in jackets with briefcases or laptop cases. There was one girl who looked somewhat out of place, but that may have just been Ryan's critical appraisal of her flourescent green top that he felt should have been destroyed in a ceremonial bonfire.

"Home for Christmas?" one of the flight attendants asked him, her smile less plastic than the woman standing next to her.

"Friend's birthday." It wasn't quite a lie, but Ryan's insides squirmed anyway. He should have been used to the little fibs by now, but he never was. Or maybe it was the fact that he was telling the stewardess he'd never met more of the truth than he'd told Spencer when the boy asked why Ryan wasn't going to spend Christmas with the Smith family like he always did. ("I just want to go on a vacation, y'know. Get some writing done.") They were fighting now because of it. Spencer didn't buy Ryan's bullshit for a minute.

The door was opened and Ryan grabbed the handle of the suitcase, giving the flight attendant a small smile as he left the plane, trying not to walk too quickly. His luck, he'd trip and he shouldn't look too excited to see a guy no one even knew he knew anyway. As he was walking, he pulled a pair of sunglassses from his coat pocket and put them on, knowing it would fool anyone who really looked, but hoping anyone who'd recognize him wouldn't get a chance for a second glance in the crowded airport.

Alex was waiting, able to see over most of the crowd with his height, dressed in jeans and a shirt with ostentaciously colored writing on it, a winter coat in his hand. He tried to fight his smile, but failing miserably, the whites of his teeth showing visibly even when Ryan was still a few yards away. "Hey," the younger said, his fingers twitching and then his hand balling in a fist, resisting the urge to reach out and hug his boyfriend, or even just squeeze his arm.

---uneverything

10. Lovely.

-

It was exactly 7:46 on the evening of January 8th when Charles McKinley’s cell phone rang. He was having dinner at a restaurant in the lower east side of Manhattan, alone at the table in the corner, as usual. He had a gin and tonic along with his salmon fillet and wilted chard.

He was not expecting a phone call.

Especially not a call from her.

Ina Bridley was one of his brightest students. So bright, in fact, that she had graduated a month earlier, finishing up college at NYU exactly six months ahead of schedule. In addition to being bright, she was absolutely beautiful. She was tall, with thick, curved hips and perfect round breasts and long, dark auburn curls. Her eyes were dark, intelligent, always sparkling.

Especially when she looked at him.

They had begun an affair one year earlier, during Christmas break. She was a Junior and couldn’t get home to Georgia because of snow. All of her friends were home for Christmas. He saw her wandering around the library, trying to balance a stack of books in one hand and an MP3 player in the other, shimmying her hips to a silent beat. He tried not to look at her undulating hips and instead focused on the back of her head, trying to place her amongst the hundreds of students. After a moment, she turned slightly, revealing a profile fit to be carved into a cameo, and he stepped forward, grabbing the books as they started to slip out of her hands. She blushed, slipping her earphones off the top of her perfect head.

- 280 Days

(Sorry for the sudden cut off, it goes into a really long flashback from there.)

nine point five.

- -

“Come on, Kendall!” Chelsea slurred to me, one arm clinging around my neck and the other limp with the contents of a cider bottle sloshing all over her hand, “You’ve barely drunk anything!” I looked down at my plastic cup with a look of grimace, I’d only had a few sips but it made my tongue curl up in disgust.

“Chels, maybe you should drink a little less?” As our conversation built up, I could see Chelsea for the drunken state she was, already her new tights were ripped and a magenta stain was down her front from the several bottles of wicked which she began her night with. She shook her head swiftly, spilling more of the cider over my shoes.

“It’s a par-party!” She stuttered, swaying slightly as she took another swig from the bottle. “Come on!” Chelsea pushed the plastic cup in my hand towards my mouth with a force, causing the drink to topple out of my hand, and the blood red liquid splashed all over my front.

“Chelsea!” I yelled, staring down at my top as the liquid seeped into the cells of the material for a permanent residence. All Chelsea could do was giggle at her idiocy with one hand clasped over her mouth in mock astonishment. I flung the empty cup onto the floor before giving Chelsea an austere glare and fighting through the crowds of inebriated teens to reach the fresh air.

- - Special K.
Chapter One, Unposted. c/c?

7. It's not badly written or anything, I just feel like there's a lot more telling than showing, which I'm not a fan of.

---

Ryan and Z were sitting in front of the laptop. Ryan was trying to ignore the screen, while somehow picking out one of the items they were shopping for online. Ignoring the screen wasn't working out too well. "So do you like plastic?" Z asked. "Or Cyberskin? Do you even care if it vibrates?"

Ryan squirmed uncomfortably. "I just, uh . . . don't care?" He withered under Z's unimpressed glare. "Cyberskin," he muttered. "Vibrating is good." He cleared his throat. "So, uh, does my sex ban count while we're waiting for this to get delivered?"

"We're not waiting for it to get delivered," Z returned without looking at him. "You're picking one and then I'm going to run to the store and get it. Oooh, what about this one?"

Ryan wrinkled his nose. "It's pink."

"It's not like you're going to be looking at it."

"It's still pink."

"Fine. I'll get it in blue so you can pretend you're all butch with your big Cyberskin vibrator."

---uneverything

9.7, that was rather amusing *giggles*

---

The door opened onto a small porch that looked out onto a ragged street. A fence separated the darkened yard from the world outside of it, and looking at the conditions of the cars and other house, she could understand why. She closed the door behind her even as he hand strayed into her pocket looking for her cellphone. She wasn't stupid enough to walk around in a place like this alone.

"Running off than?" a soft British accent asked.

Izzy jumped as she spun around to look at Wesley who lounged in a small chair, a lit cigarette dangling from his fingers. "I don't belong here."

"No, you don't," he agreed. "But Andrea would never forgive me if I let ye run off in the middle of the night. Sit down."

She hesitated for a moment before she sighed. She had looked back, it was too late for her. Izzy sat down in one of the other small chairs, pulling her legs up to her chest and wrapping her arms around them. "You shouldn't have said anything."

"Likely not," he agreed. "But I've always been a dumb ass."

-- Some Little Princesses Chapter 8

Nine.

- -

“Come on, Kendall!” Chelsea slurred to me, one arm clinging around my neck and the other limp with the contents of a cider bottle sloshing all over her hand, “You’ve barely drunk anything!” I looked down at my plastic cup with a look of grimace, I’d only had a few sips but it made my tongue curl up in disgust.

“Chels, maybe you should drink a little less?” As our conversation built up, I could see Chelsea for the drunken state she was, already her new tights were ripped and a magenta stain was down her front from the several bottles of wicked which she began her night with. She shook her head swiftly, spilling more of the cider over my shoes.

“It’s a par-party!” She stuttered, swaying slightly as she took another swig from the bottle. “Come on!” Chelsea pushed the plastic cup in my hand towards my mouth with a force, causing the drink to topple out of my hand, and the blood red liquid splashed all over my front.

“Chelsea!” I yelled, staring down at my top as the liquid seeped into the cells of the material for a permanent residence. All Chelsea could do was giggle at her idiocy with one hand clasped over her mouth in mock astonishment. I flung the empty cup onto the floor before giving Chelsea an austere glare and fighting through the crowds of inebriated teens to reach the fresh air.

- - Special K.
Chapter One, Unposted.

10.

--

I met him on the Carousel. He was smiling at me, laughing at me, and admiring me. I was leading him on, for sure. I wanted to, he was the most adorable thing I've ever seen. He had on baggy jeans, dark jeans. You could see his plain black boxers, which meant something. He didn't have on a shirt, which was just right to set my heart off. He had tattoo's, about... four or five. Maybe even more. His hair was messy, but perfect in so many ways. The sides of his hair was longer than a buzz, but not very long at all. He had gaudges, not big at all. His eyes, blue. The most perfect color blue you'd ever see. They could hypnotize someone, they were hypnotizing me. He looked at me with those eyes like he wanted me, he wanted to eat me. Or maybe he wanted me to be his, all his. I was dying to be all his.

After my turn on the Carousel, I walked out of the gate and fixed my shorts. I ran a hand through my long blonde hair as he walked over. My face began to grow red hot and my friends started flirting with his.

"Hello." He said simply with a crooked smile. His voice was just as perfect as him, and his accent was different. I could immediantly tell he wasn't from here. Finland, maybe?

"Hey." I said, nervous. It began to get awkward as we just stood there. He was watching me the whole time, before he broke the ice after about thirty seconds.

Let me buy 'ya some cotton candy, ye'?" He brought his hand up to his mouth, and I figured out why. He was smoking a cigarette. Marbolo I supposed. They always smell bad, I prefer Newports

--Carrousel de Paris
Chapter One, Unposted

eight point five. i quite like it, especially the way you got the accent. He had on baggy jeans, dark jeans. that sentences just sounded awkward too me.

---

Brendon can hear them fucking in the other room. They aren't loud at all and the walls aren't that thin. But his door is open a little and he's a singer, so he has a really good ear. He can even tell when they switch positions or when Haley is almost there. And it freaks him out a little that he can tell, but most girls seem to sound the same way when they get to that point. Their breathing gets lower and they start saying the same word over and over. But Spencer is clearly oblivious, because he hears Haley get to that point about four times before she finally gets to climax.

He hopes it won't be awkward in the morning with her. It definitely won't be with Spencer. They've lived on a bus for, probably, a combined three years. They've all heard each other jerking off at night and ignored it in the morning. And Spencer has walked in on Ryan and Brendon fucking more times than either of them can count. Which was definitely more their fault than his, but it was two against one so he always got the blame.

There's a problem with all that moaning and he thinks that if there's a hell, he'll probably go to it for getting an erection from listening to Haley and Spence, but it's not really his fault. It's just the noises, not the people. Haley does have a really pretty voice though . . .

"God, you're a sick fuck." he mumbles to himself, rolling over on his side and pushing his boxers down. It's always Ryan's face anymore. Even if he starts off thinking about someone else. Even when it used to be Sarah kneeling between his legs. It winds up as Ryan. And he probably only jerked off to Ryan about half the time when they were still dating. But he supposes that it's about fantasy and since he doesn't have Ryan anymore, that's his fantasy. And it's not fair. Because it makes him want to cry and his ex wasn't the greatest at handjobs anyway.

He's pretty close when he hears the tiny footsteps in the hallway--clearly not the drummer--and they stop for a second, then hurry past his room at almost a running speed. She heard him. And he hates himself as he immediately starts to come. Like what about her hearing him could have pushed him over? And she's Spencer's. And, fuck, if Spencer ever finds out . . .

---aftermath of a crash crash; unposted

Six.

- -

“Come on, Kendall!” Chelsea slurred to me, one arm clinging around my neck and the other limp with the contents of a cider bottle sloshing all over her hand, “You’ve barely drunk anything!” I looked down at my plastic cup with a look of grimace, I’d only had a few sips but it made my tongue curl up in disgust.

“Chels, maybe you should drink a little less?” As our conversation built up, I could see Chelsea for the drunken state she was, already her new tights were ripped and a magenta stain was down her front from the several bottles of wicked which she began her night with. She shook her head swiftly, spilling more of the cider over my shoes.

“It’s a par-party!” She stuttered, swaying slightly as she took another swig from the bottle. “Come on!” Chelsea pushed the plastic cup in my hand towards my mouth with a force, causing the drink to topple out of my hand, and the blood red liquid splashed all over my front.

“Chelsea!” I yelled, staring down at my top as the liquid seeped into the cells of the material for a permanent residence. All Chelsea could do was giggle at her idiocy with one hand clasped over her mouth in mock astonishment. I flung the empty cup onto the floor before giving Chelsea an austere glare and fighting through the crowds of inebriated teens to reach the fresh air.

- - Special K.
Chapter One, Unposted.

eight. i like the "magenta stain" part, for some reason. i think because it paints a particular color in my mind more than just "red" would. I don't know what "wicked" is though, so that confuses me.

---

Ryan was in New York to work on Panic's new album and he'd had a week off. Gerard had asked him to stay and Ryan had tried to say no. He'd mentioned he was going to parties all week, that he was going to be drinking. Gerard hadn't cared. Now the roles were reversed and Gerard seemed to care too much, while Ryan didn't care at all.

The back door slid open and Ryan stepped outside, crossing his arms over his chest in defense of the night chill. "Hey," he said softly, walking over and slipping his arms around the older's waist. He pressed his face into Gerard's shoulder.

"Hey." It was a short reply, but Gerard brought his free hand up to clumsily pat Ryan's hair. "Was it a fun party?"

"Not really." The boy sighed, one of his arms leaving Gerard's side to come up and brush the hair off his neck. Ryan pressed his lips against the exposed skin. "I love you. I'm sorry I'm so fucked up."

"We're all fucked up," Gerard mumbled, not sure what else to say, not sure what else he could say.

Ryan nodded. "I know. But I'm not apologizing for them."

Gerard pressed his cigarette to his lips, searching for the words. "You . . . you don't have to apologize, Ryan."

"You're a prettier liar than me," was all the boy said in return. And they stood there, staring at the buildings surrounding them, the windows with their curtains shut. Gerard finished his cigarette and Ryan tried to fight the dull ache that was already starting to press in at his temples.

---uneverything [and, yes, that is a gerard way/ryan ross]

9. For some reason I really like the you're a prettier liar than me line. It just seems kind of perfect, for them. The start seems a bit off to me, though, feels like there should be more there, but it probably works better in context.

---

The club is loud and pulsing and striped with strobe lights and Mike loves it, despite – or maybe because of – the fact that it’s so unlike his usual haunts. He stands out like a sore thumb here, his pastel pressed jacket and trousers completely at odds with the skinny jeans and tiny skirts worn by the boys and girls pressed in all around him.

Mike takes a deep, unnecessary breath, inhaling the smell wafting through the air towards him; it’s a sweet, tangy mixture of sweat and blood and human pheromones, and it’s intoxicating. Mike’s already fed tonight but these humans smell delicious and he’s never one to turn down a healthy snack.

He glides over to the bar, orders a drink he won’t touch and lounges there, casting a speculative eye over the crowd. They’re mostly as young as he looks, fresh and untainted and fucking mouth-watering, and Mike could have any one of them he wished. The desire rises in him and he can almost feel himself going dizzy with it, like when he was human and a child and would spin around in circles just to watch the world whip by.

It’s not hunger, it’s not anything like it. Hunger is desperation and need and clawing for the first warm body with blood pumping in its veins. This is pure, selfish want and Mike loves it, loves that he has the power to just take what he wants like he never had when he was alive.

-uneverything.

8. I love the present-tense and the line about despite/because of. I really like that and the description of the smell of the humans.

---

When Ryan had initially awoken in the room, Brendon hadn't been doing anything strange. He'd just been sitting in a chair and he was smiling when the amber eyes opened. Not a strange smile either, but Brendon's normal smile that Ryan had gotten so used to seeing. Ryan had been lying on his side, so he woke up to Brendon's face without even having to turn his head or roll over. There was a feeling of comfort that came with seeing that smile and it took Ryan a moment to remember he hadn't seen Brendon in a few months and then to notice his surroundings. It wasn't until he started turning his head, that he started noticing the concrete walls, that his wrists were duct-taped together and there was another piece of tape over his mouth.

But even then the boy didn't immediately start to panic. It could have been a joke. Brendon was smiling, after all. It was probably a joke. Spencer was probably hiding somewhere with a video camera and Pete was going to come in, leading a bunch of strippers who would climb all over him and try to make him blush. It wasn't until Ryan tried to sit up that he realized something was really wrong.

The moment he tried to lift himself from the thin mattress, Brendon was up, smile gone. He pushed Ryan back down and then swung the boy's restrained wrists up, over his head. His face was concentrated and Ryan didn't know how to react so he just lay there for a moment, trying to figure out what was going on. Brendon was tying Ryan's wrists to the headboard and then in the work of another minute, Ryan's feet were tied as well.

He'd never been able to secure someone so easily. It was the trust. Ryan figured whatever was going on couldn't be that bad, Brendon would never hurt him, never hurt a fly. Ryan was mistaken. And when Brendon turned, a new smile on his face, sickly and grotesque, the boy realized he may have made a mistake by not kicking. It was a flickering thought, but one that would return.

---uneverything

10.

-

Sweat poured down the back of Ryan’s neck as he watched his fingers, ensuring they were hitting the strings and notes that they needed to be. Plus, as he looked down like this, he could shamelessly ogle Brendon’s ass and no one would really be able to notice. That was his whole strategy with the finger thing; part of it was nerves about messing up, but most of it (after he realized his super massive crush on Brendon) was so he could get a few peeks in without any teasing.

As they finished off the first few songs, Brendon spoke to the crowd while sipping his water, watching everyone and laughing at their reactions to his ridiculous requests. Ryan smiled, responding to Brendon quietly when asked a question, but overall just kept continuously rolling his eyes in exasperation. The boy was goddamn crazy, but Ryan kind of loved it anyways.

"So, my friend Ryan," Brendon was interrupted by cheers as the truck slowed while he spoke.

"Anyways, Ryan thinks there's a crazy serial killer in the crowd. Can you guys please remind him that he's just being stupid by singing, uh, (Row Row Row) Your Boat? Surely psycho killers don't know nursery rhymes..." He laughed quietly, glancing at his friend.

As the crowd began their crazy rendition of the children's song, Ryan laughed into his microphone and punched Brendon lightly on the arm. Of course he'd pick that song, of every song they'd ever joked about on tour; one night, while high, apparently Ryan had begun to sing the rhyme to Brendon loudly and obnoxiously, not stopping until Brendon folded the guitarist under his arms in his bunk and forced him to sleep. Even then, Ryan had been giggling and being stupid until he actually grew tired enough to doze.

Brendon grinned at Ryan, proving his point that his friend really had nothing to worry about. They were a good crowd of kids and supportive adults, ones who agreed to their cause outside of a handful of protestors. IT was easy to ignore those who disagreed, though, 'cause they were mostly just following Fall Out Boy since they were first off.

Gabe, from his trailer, heard the sounds of the crowd and laughed loudly into his microphone, tweeting that Panic had weird fans while tagging Ryan and Brendon in the post. While his phone went off in his pocket, Ryan ignored it and smiled as he began to play the beginning of But It's Better if You Do.

-

it lives {bbb fic}

9. I'm not a Panic fan, but that doesn't make it any less beautiful.

-
It was exactly 7:46 on the evening of January 8th when Charles McKinley’s cell phone rang. He was having dinner at a restaurant in the lower east side of Manhattan, alone at the table in the corner, as usual. He had a gin and tonic along with his salmon fillet and wilted chard.

He was not expecting a phone call.

Especially not a call from her.

Ina Bridley was one of his brightest students. So bright, in fact, that she had graduated a month earlier, finishing up college at NYU exactly six months ahead of schedule. In addition to being bright, she was absolutely beautiful. She was tall, with thick, curved hips and perfect round breasts and long, dark auburn curls. Her eyes were dark, intelligent, always sparkling.

Especially when she looked at him.

They had begun an affair one year earlier, during Christmas break. She was a Junior and couldn’t get home to Georgia because of snow. All of her friends were home for Christmas. He saw her wandering around the library, trying to balance a stack of books in one hand and an MP3 player in the other, shimmying her hips to a silent beat. He tried not to look at her undulating hips and instead focused on the back of her head, trying to place her amongst the hundreds of students. After a moment, she turned slightly, revealing a profile fit to be carved into a cameo, and he stepped forward, grabbing the books as they started to slip out of her hands. She blushed, slipping her earphones off the top of her perfect head.

- 280 Days

(Sorry for the sudden cut off, it goes into a really long flashback from there.)

eight point eight. I like the beginning but I'm not sure about the introduction of the affair. It seems like... abrupt. It could just be not reading it in context though.

---

Ryan was quiet. "I'm sorry, I'm just tired." He reached out, letting his palm press against Pete's thigh for a moment. "I'm . . . I might go take a nap." His voice was almost apologetic. "I know you just got home, but I'm exhausted."

Pete didn't seem upset. "That's fine, Ry. I, um . . . actually. There's this party tonight."

The boy smiled, tilting his head to the side. "Yeah? You should go. Get out of the house. Sounds like fun."

"Do you want to go?"

Ryan laughed, loudly. "Yeah, but uh, not like this." He let a hand skim over his stomach. "You go. Have fun." He leaned in for the kiss, letting his lips part slightly. Kisses were starting to get warmer, happen more naturally. The soft, sweet, chaste kisses. The sex kisses were something they had gotten the hang of long before they'd put on their rings. The sonogram pictures could testify to that.

"You're sure?" Pete brought his hand up, letting his palm stroke across Ryan's cheek before tangling softly in the boy's hair. "I could stay," he murmured, closing the space between them with another kiss.

But the boy just laughed again, tilting his head forward to lean his and Pete's foreheads together for a moment before sitting up. "I'm tired. Sorry." But he seemed so much more comfortable with saying no. Pete wasn't sure how he felt about that, but he just reached out and squeezed Ryan's thigh.

"Okay. I'll help you get into bed, okay? And then . . . well, just expect me late, okay? 'Cause I don't want to wake you up if you're asleep."

Ryan nodded, putting his hand to his mouth to cover a yawn. "Okay."

---unposted update for Learning to Fall

seven.

- -

“Come on, Kendall!” Chelsea slurred to me, one arm clinging around my neck and the other limp with the contents of a cider bottle sloshing all over her hand, “You’ve barely drunk anything!” I looked down at my plastic cup with a look of grimace, I’d only had a few sips but it made my tongue curl up in disgust.

“Chels, maybe you should drink a little less?” As our conversation built up, I could see Chelsea for the drunken state she was, already her new tights were ripped and a magenta stain was down her front from the several bottles of wicked which she began her night with. She shook her head swiftly, spilling more of the cider over my shoes.

“It’s a par-party!” She stuttered, swaying slightly as she took another swig from the bottle. “Come on!” Chelsea pushed the plastic cup in my hand towards my mouth with a force, causing the drink to topple out of my hand, and the blood red liquid splashed all over my front.

“Chelsea!” I yelled, staring down at my top as the liquid seeped into the cells of the material for a permanent residence. All Chelsea could do was giggle at her idiocy with one hand clasped over her mouth in mock astonishment. I flung the empty cup onto the floor before giving Chelsea a austere glare and fighting through the crowds of inebriated teens to reach the fresh air.

- - Special K.
Chapter One, Unposted.

10, I love the curled toungue imagery and the whole depiction of being drunk I also loved the description of the drink being spilt, and the 'cells of the material. Its very vivid and original. I love pretty much everything you write honestly

- - - - - - -

The smell of sweat licks my senses as I jar 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 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 sprawled into the room, his skin reeking of someone who wasn't me. He looked like life had just chewed him up and then projectile vomited him back into yesterday clothes. He tore at the orange juice lid sparing me about half the bottle, how gracious. He didn't have even the slightest grasp on nonchalant and I wanted to knock him out where he stood. Beat him black and blue in this stupid dated eighties kitchen. I fucking hated formica, it made me think of my parents and all the pies my mum used to bake whilst my dad was out screwing her best friend. I decided to start the formal proceedings and stated what we both knew so well. 'You look like shit' I said, glancing across his bedraggled form 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 do have the tendency of fucking nameless blokes into their best friend mattress to prove some stupid point don't they. Get a grip man'

'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 plyable 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 original chaptered fic

seven. I like the writing. I'm confused about certain choices you've made. Like why i'm is never capitalized, but i is. That's strange to me. I'm also not sure how I feel about the dialogue having no ending punctuation, though I do like some of the lack of commas. I don't know if 'your gay' was a choice you made instead of 'you're gay' or a typo. It's not that I'm against experiment grammar/punctuation, I just don't see what it adds so far.

---

Ryan slammed his laptop shut and let out a loud, angry scream. The other three boys in the room turned to look at him, confusing painted on their faces. "Twilight is officially ruining my life."

Jon didn't say anything, just took another hit from the pipe. Brendon cocked his head to the side, looking not unlike a cute little puppy. Whereas Spencer just rolled his eyes. "Fanfiction again?"

Ryan groaned, letting his face fall flat against the table. "This is ridiculous. People aren't writing Ryden anymore because they're writing stupid Twilight fics. How the hell am I supposed to get new sex ideas?"

Brendon laughed and Spencer made a face. "You know, maybe if it wasn't two years since we made our last album . . ." he offered.

Ryan sat up. "No. It's not that. It's Twilight. I have to kill Twilight."

"It's a book," Brendon said, sounding curious. "How are you . . . oh."

Spencer jumped up, grabbing the back of the couch as he stumbled forward, his head spinning from the sudden altitude change and the combination of the pot. "No, no, no." He shook his head. "Absolutely not. You can't bother Patrick for something stupid like that."

Ryan crossed his arms. "Yes, I can."

---FBR Kills Twilight (tentative title); unfinished, unposted