Here I am, late to my own birthday party and dancing on diamonds.
Who is one of the sweetest, coolest people I know, with a deeply twistedly cool mind, and this really great way of fitting thoughts together.
You say the nicest things. Really. And you so have your finger on the things I like and my desperated crazed love affair with the unreliable narrator. I just take things apart until they don't quite work the way they're meant to. That's hardly smart. Smart is making them work better.
This whole thing is completely gorgeous.
Bright eyes, so fucking bright it’s like they shouldn’t take in any light at all.
This is so Joe, with his bright crazed messanic eyes burning away.
They must be pulling him back, forcing his shoulders into something unnatural, muscles and sinews spliced until the skin at his upper back is stretched with the bursting out of the wings, of hollow bones and strong, oil-black feathers.The conjunction with the reality, the wrong, of a man with wings growing out of his back, the bones creaking and the
( ... )
“I’m fucking dead. There’s a bullet rushing through my head, wings ripping my skin apart, all the fucking time I’m talking to you. I am in all times, all places.” A vicious double-shot of the horrible and painful obvious and the thing... the thing where it isn't Joe at all, not any Joe we know, like something is talking through Joe with its own agenda. And the mindfuckery and the shifting perspectives *more love*
He takes off his shirt, knows Joe is watching him, knows he can see him, smiles at how rail-thin he is now, at the scars and bruises littering his skin.
What the fuck has been happening to Billy, when is this, are they the bruises Joe put there during their final dance? What does this say about Billy's mental health? So many questions.
Hiss of- unnecessary- drawn-in breath. “Yes.” Thread-thin whisper, with soft aftershocks twining through the room at the sound.
Beautiful.
Naked. Honesty, again, complete honesty, but the meaning can be spun out, expanded until it says whatever Joe wants it to. There's that
( ... )
Oh, that is dark, and nasty, and absolutely brilliant. The description of Joe's voice creeped me out, and then there was this: Joe only breaks things, goes ham-fisted when the motors won’t work, when the fuse is gone. Kicks it into working, forces, breaks more- And yet Billy wants to be broken, if that;s what it takes.
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Who is one of the sweetest, coolest people I know, with a deeply twistedly cool mind, and this really great way of fitting thoughts together.
You say the nicest things. Really. And you so have your finger on the things I like and my desperated crazed love affair with the unreliable narrator. I just take things apart until they don't quite work the way they're meant to. That's hardly smart. Smart is making them work better.
This whole thing is completely gorgeous.
Bright eyes, so fucking bright it’s like they shouldn’t take in any light at all.
This is so Joe, with his bright crazed messanic eyes burning away.
They must be pulling him back, forcing his shoulders into something unnatural, muscles and sinews spliced until the skin at his upper back is stretched with the bursting out of the wings, of hollow bones and strong, oil-black feathers.The conjunction with the reality, the wrong, of a man with wings growing out of his back, the bones creaking and the ( ... )
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“I’m fucking dead. There’s a bullet rushing through my head, wings ripping my skin apart, all the fucking time I’m talking to you. I am in all times, all places.”
A vicious double-shot of the horrible and painful obvious and the thing... the thing where it isn't Joe at all, not any Joe we know, like something is talking through Joe with its own agenda. And the mindfuckery and the shifting perspectives *more love*
He takes off his shirt, knows Joe is watching him, knows he can see him, smiles at how rail-thin he is now, at the scars and bruises littering his skin.
What the fuck has been happening to Billy, when is this, are they the bruises Joe put there during their final dance? What does this say about Billy's mental health? So many questions.
Hiss of- unnecessary- drawn-in breath. “Yes.” Thread-thin whisper, with soft aftershocks twining through the room at the sound.
Beautiful.
Naked. Honesty, again, complete honesty, but the meaning can be spun out, expanded until it says whatever Joe wants it to. There's that ( ... )
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Eep.
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