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1800titz · 10 months

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I really need you to see the potential in this Paragon self duplication thing.

“Again,” Harry encourages, nudging at her sternum with a palm that lacks the gentleness of amiable coaching. Deftly, he blocks her weakened onslaught of ice with a forearm radiating deterrent and takes a step back, wriggling with his fingers in a come hither motion, “Again.”

Arctick attempts to catch him off guard, throwing an underhand aimed for his family jewels, and white radiates from her palm — the expanse of the attack is stifled, instantly, and a pale hue of violet glows translucently ahead of his stature. Ice splinters into shards that fall in crystals.

“Ooh,” the man dips his chin, pivoting as his brows pinch and his strawberry mouth curls, “Sneaky aim. Low blow, sweetheart. That would’ve hurt.”

“Are you angry? Y’look angry,” the hero tells her on an open-mouthed beam, then juts at her with his chin, taking another casual step back over the mat, “That’s good — use that.”

The young woman sends a flurry of chill spiraling, and as the man blocks the first onslaught, as expected, with an effortless burst of power from the tips of his fingers, a second wave erupts, this one aimed for his legs. Arctick can only grimace as Paragon smoothly bars the attempt — what a dickhead.

“You’re weak — you’re angry because you’re weak,” he goads, irises glinting, “You’re angry because I’m calling you weak. So use that. Show me I’m wrong,” he twists away from her and stretches his arms out — an invitation, his back, and the young woman makes a last ditch effort, her pent up rage rushing out in a torrent of ice aimed to pierce.

“Better,” Harry exclaims, enthusiasm interweaving the syllables, and he turns his chin, just a bit, over his shoulder. His forearm bends to emit a luminous glow that blocks what would have tagged flesh and muscle. She sees the corner of his mouth visibly twitch. “But not quite.”

“This is ridiculous — it’s not a fair fight,” Harry sees Arctick buzzing when he turns, an intrigued crease over his brow bone — she stands with her hands at her sides on the opposite side of the room, but every muscle in her body is tensed, like she physically aches to freeze him.

“No?” Harry cocks his head, venturing toward her on bare soles.

“This isn’t active combat,” she expands, letting the frustration leak into her tone, “You tell me to strike, and you expect it when I do.”

His mouth quirks, and there’s a lull, like he’s ruminating. Finally, he asks, “You want active combat?”

Arctick lifts her chin at him, expecting a vivid, violet current of electricity to hurl from his palm, to send her nerve endings on fire. She expects him to vanish, shard by shard, into invisibility that’ll leave her craning her neck and flitting her gaze about the room in apprehension. She expects him to twist and grapple for the weight rack, to fling it at her with superhuman strength.

“Then let’s make this—“

What she doesn’t expect is the crook of his lips, his figure stood ahead, and then the subsequent warm press of a palm over her stomach. It slinks from behind, and she feels his mirror press behind her as his original form illustrates a smirk from across the floor.

“A fair fight,” croons the voice behind her — the same inflection as the cadence ahead. She stiffens at the touch. It’s soft, unlike his prior ministrations. Her head twists over her shoulder, and irises ogle the reflection in the broad expanse of mirrors on the wall beside her. Paragon stands ahead of her, feet away, his arms crossed, and …Paragon stands behind her, his arm rippling with muscle as it flexes over her. He’s duplicated.

“Hm?” Harry hums against the shell of her ear. In his original form, he watches the display like a strange sort of voyeur — the whole experience is odd, and he can tell the showcase of ability has caught her off guard. It’s sort of a weird process — acting through different vessels, the coordination of it all. More than anything, it’s an interesting party trick beyond a single split. From there, he feels his powers weaken in their tether when divorced among a plethora of vessels.

“Get your hands off of me,” Arctick grits out, her own grappling over his forearm, and Paragon’s original form just keeps his arms crossed as the touch of his copy grows sturdier.

“Oh, but I can’t do that,” Harry says from across the floor.

“Active combat, remember?” his copy wrangles its arms over her own flailing limbs. The original Paragon nonchalantly watches a warm, glow zap between his fingertips, across the room. The young woman manages to dig an elbow back against the warm body behind her, and the motion incites the priorly steady buzz in his hand to falter. That fucking hurt.

“You don’t want to play nice?” the man’s head cocks from across the floor, and Arctick sees his duplication clasp over her, in the reflection, before she’s launched through the air with a grip over her wrist. The only thing that keeps her from catapulting against the back wall of brick is her own grip — she maintains it over the copy’s joint as she’s spun through the air. She lands on her feet.

Now, the copy faces her, and behind that, stands the true Paragon, just idling by like he’s watching a show.

“Alright,” the copy contends, mouth curling, “Then I won’t play nice.”

#DO YOU SEE THE SELF DUPLICATION VISION #superhero!au #Paragon blurb #dom harry styles #harry styles #harry styles edit #harry styles edits #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles smut #harry styles wattpad #harry styles one shot #paragon verse

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wardenswateringhole · 4 days

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Shadowed Cross - Chapter 1

(This is an AU worked on by @peachypede and myself. Inspired by @bluebellowl's 50's AU.)

-Mild body horror

-Blood mention Cut for length. Enjoy.

Ilona’s legs pumped as hard as they could. The bike sped along the darkened road. All traffic had thankfully cleared out before the coming storm. The wind threatened to push Ilona backwards as it howled through the trees. She persevered, her cargo sitting in the basket in front of her reminding her why she was rushing the way she was.

It was supposed to be an easy dead drop. She’d find the package, secure it, and take it to it’s intended destination. Most likely another dead drop. It hadn’t panned out that way. A couple of old women just could not stop talking. Even after bidding each other good bye on four separate occasions, the conversation between them dragged on, leaving Ilona to wait even longer for them to clear out so she could search for the package. The sun’s rays had begun to reach for the horizon by the time the two ladies left and she was able to get on with her job. She had silently prayed for whoever Robert was and hoped that he didn’t mind the entire world knowing about the painful rash on his rear end.

Now here she was, rushing to beat the torrential downpour and lightning that threatened to rip the sky in twain. A small wooden box sat in the basket on her bike. Plain and unassuming with some winding carvings on the front. The clasp on the front was a weathered brass and fastened shut.

Despite her urgency, Ilona couldn’t help but let her mind wonder. Perhaps as a method of dealing with the circumstances being completely against her on this night. First the conversation with Everett, now this. What it worth it?

She peered down at the box. There was no way to tell what was inside. She hadn’t seen fit to ask what it was she transported on these dead drop jobs. They paid exceptionally well for what seemed like such simple tasks to her. Sure she had to sneak around a couple times to get the item in question. It never seemed overtly dangerous. Other than some overly tenacious guards at a warehouse or dogs in a junkyard.

Was it the cargo that was so valuable then? The box was so plain it was hard to believe anything of value was inside. Ilona’s gut twisted slightly at the thought of there possibly being drugs inside. Maybe Everett was right… Maybe it was time to stop this business…

A shadow darted across the road in front of her. Small and black. Ilona snapped back to her senses just in time to twist her handlebars and avoid running the creature over. It hissed and ran into the bushes as Ilona fell, tumbling across the pavement and eventually sliding to a stop. The box flew past her, leaving wooden shards in it’s wake. It eventually stopped some ten feet before in front of Ilona’s body.

Ilona slowly pulled herself up. She rubbed her face, checking for injuries. Thankfully nothing had happened to her head. Her arm however, had seen better days. A sharp pain coursed through her limb as she tried to move the arm. It moved at least, but tell tale wetness on her hand and the shredded bits of her sleeve spoke of what damage had been done.

Her attention snapped to the box in front of her. She managed to pull herself to her feet to retrieve it. Holding the object in her hurt arm, she pulled the bike upright and fidgeted with the light on the front.

“Dammit… Fuck… COME ON!”

The light flickered to life as if almost on command. She used the small bulb to examine the cargo. The box was tattered and splintered but still whole. The clasp on the front was broken, gone and lost to the darkness of the night and the storm.

With careful hands, Ilona opened the box to check the contents. A segmented jewel glimmered back at her in the focused light. It sat framed by snakes and demon’s wings cast in light colored metal. The jewel itself looked shattered but as if someone had tried to make it whole again with some metal filament. Ilona picked it up and turned it around in her hands. She breathed a sigh of relief as she didn’t find any damage to the item itself. It seemed like some gaudy piece of antique jewelry. Probably for some eccentric collector. At least it wasn’t drugs…

She noticed the blood on her hand. Her hand had sustained a nasty scrape on the pavement. She’d have to make sure to clean that well when she got home. Along with all the other bits of road rash. She wasn’t going to hear the end of it from Everett tomorrow.

A distant flash followed immediately by a crack of thunder caught her attention. She quickly put the jewel back in the box and reoriented her bike. It wasn’t a pleasant ride to the drop off point. But she was determined to make it.

Later

Large hands held the box firmly as their owner walked down the darkened hallway. Sporadic flashes of lightning lit the path before the man. Shadows clung to the opulent trappings. Paintings, bright and beautiful in the light hung with dreary shades. The pale marble of a few small sculptures seems to almost glow with the lightning, the mottled shadows from the rain molding the features to something stark and alarming.

His footsteps, steady and purposeful, were muted against the ornate rug that lined the hall. What little sound his large frame managed to make was drowned out by the rolling thunder and rain battering the windows. Fine black leather shoes stopped at a door. A hand, complimented by a shining gold watch, reached forth and turned the knob.

The room within was just as dark as the hallway. A few moments and a desk lamp was clicked on. Golden light illuminated a desk covered in books of various sizes and titles while reaching weakly to the corners of the room. Shelves holding still more books peered from the shadows. The light was just bright enough to show off the embossed titles and ornate typing. Curious objects sat among the tomes. A decorated plate showing a battle from a long ago time. An animal skull of unknown origin. Trinkets tied with feathers and teeth, all dangling and rattling from their perches.

The man sighed as he held the box under the light of the desk lamp. It was damaged badly. The looping and winding carvings were scuffed and splintered. The edges frayed with bits of wood poking out precariously. The clasp that once held it closed was completely gone.

“This thing is in some state… What the hell happened?”

Papers and notepads that had sat on the desk were pushed aside to make room for the box. Though he was alone, a second voice was present. It sounded as if it had floated in from the ether. It sounded raspy, like blackened smoke.

“The pretty box isn’t important. What’s inside is still good, yeah?”

The man sat down in the padded chair and began to contemplate the parcel. The box was opened carefully with both hands. The hinges creaked loudly in protest, threatening to come undone in the man’s grasp. Inside, a brooch shined back at him. It was nestled carefully within the velvet interior. It looked tiny as he picked it up. Eyes the color of steel peered down at the purple jewel marbled with silver. His fingers ran delicately over the snakes and wings that framed it.

“It looks good. Not a scratch.”

“Great! Let’s get to it then! You know what to do?”

The man was already leaning down and searching through the drawers of the desk. After a few moments of rummaging, a small dagger was produced. It joined the box on the desk as the man pulled a handkerchief from his pocket.

“Yeah, yeah… Still a bitch though. Why does it always have to be a blood bond? The last three artifacts were duds. I’m tired of slicing myself for this shit.”

The voice chuckled, a series crackling hisses.

“Ah, but I have a good feeling about this one, Joseph, Old boy. With this bit of sparkle, you’ll be nigh unstoppable. Now c’mon! Get on with the show!”

The dagger was retrieved with a sigh. With grit teeth, the blade was pressed into the man's thumb. Blood oozed forth around the metal. The dagger was discarded to the side and the bloody thumb was pressed firmly against the jewel. A thick red splotch was left behind as the man withdrew his hand.

Moments passed by in silence. The rain and the thunder little more than a far off distraction.

“Shit.”

The man grabbed the handkerchief and wrapped his thumb. The voice growled. “No! What the fuck!?”

“Another goddamn dud!… SHIT!”

A heavy foot stomped against the floor causing the desk to shake. The voice continued to protest.

“That can’t be right!”

“The hell you mean ‘that can’t be right’? You saw as well as I did that nothing fucking happened!” “BULLSHIT! Check the brooch!” “I did check the brooch!” “I can feel it! There’s no way in the nine rings that thing is fake! Check it again, dipshit!”

The man pulled a book closer to himself roughly and flipped to a page. It showed an illustration of the brooch, drawn in exquisite detail and additional notes scrawled to the side. The brooch was turned carefully in the light, each feature compared thoroughly with it’s written and drawn counterparts. The man’s eyes widened at the sight of a drop of blood dried onto the metal on the back of the brooch.

“It’s already bonded!?”

His fist wrapped around the brooch and tightened. His steel colored eyes began to melt into the color of red slag.

“Did they think I wouldn’t notice!? Do they really think they can get one over on me!? Nobody is going to have more power than me! I’m Joseph Cross Dammit! I run this city!”

His fist raised into the air then began to descend quickly toward the mahogany surface of the desk with the brooch still firmly in it’s grasp. The voice bellowed out.

“WAIT!”

The man’s fist stopped immediately at the sound of the voice’s protest. It hovered over the surface a mere fraction of an inch. The man’s face was drawn back in a snarl as he huffed through grit teeth.

“For fuck’s sake… WHAT NOW!?”

The voice lightened to almost a purr.

“Easy, Joseph. Think before you break. Yeah, you could smash that thing real good. That would take the power away from whoever is bonded to it, but it would also take the power away from you. Let’s just track down the asshole with a tracking spell and off’em. Reset the brooch’s magic and have a little fun at the same time.”

Joseph’s arm relaxed slowly. He nodded in agreement.

“Yeah… Yeah! That’s a much better idea.”

He stood and sorted through the papers that were pushed aside before. One with symbols and strange writing was grabbed. Joseph held the brooch in one hand and looked at the paper. Red smoke billowed from his mouth as he spoke in a tongue not of human origin. It floated to the brooch and swirled around it a moment before dissipating. The chanting stopped and the brooch was placed back onto the desk with the paper.

“I got a trail. Let’s go say hello.”

A dark swirling portal appeared behind Joseph as he retrieved his hat from the coat rack. He adjusted his tie and stepped through. The portal disappeared as if made of mist.

Joseph found himself bumping his knee into a shoddy card table. It clattered and squeaked lightly against tile flooring. Glowing red eyes scanned his surroundings. It was a small pillbox of an apartment. He assumed he stood in what was supposed to be the kitchen, though it was all just one room. The card table he bumped into had an opened first aid kit on it. It’s contents were strewn about. A tiny fridge sat against a wall with various magnets and a calendar marked up with various colors of ink. A picture of three people smiling hung from a magnet in the shape of a smiley face.

Joseph stepped carefully toward a window. He could see what looked like a fold out bed. A shirt was hung up on the door handle of a closet. It was torn with dark stains. A flash of lightning revealed a figure curled up in the bed. Even in the dark, Joseph could see ribbons of dark energy wafting from them.

He leaned down and examined the figure closer. It was a girl, clad only in a thin baby doll night gown. Her pale skin was barely hidden by a raggedy blanket that she had most likely shrugged off in her sleep. A pitiful whimper left her as Joseph's hand touched her shoulder lightly. Poorly tied bandages and badly placed gauze covered her arm and hand. The voice whispered harshly at Joseph.

“What’s the hold up!?”

Joseph gently ran a finger over forehead, brushing the hair from her face.

“I can’t kill this one.” “What!? Why the hell not!?”

“She’s one of our best delivery drivers.”

SO!? You have other delivery drivers!” “Not like her! She’s the one that takes the hard to sell deliveries. The ones no one else will take. Besides, what kind of boss kills one of their best employees!? It wouldn’t be fair…”

Another whimper escaped the girl. Her body shivered as the wisps became thicker.

“Fine, but you better do something quick! This girl is about to go through a very rough transition and it’s not going to be quiet! The whole town is going to hear this broad’s screams in a few minutes!”

Joseph looked around for a few moments. There wasn’t much he could do. The blanket was wrapped around the girl as he scooped her up and carried her back through the portal.

It was not a good night.

Joseph had barely gotten Ilona settled onto a guest room bed before it all started. Skin previously cold to the touch now burned fiercely. Joseph did what he could but he knew there was no making it easier. All he could offer was kind words and a cool towel on her forehead as she screamed.

Screams of pain, or terror, of something he could not identify altogether as her mouth bubbled with blood and teeth that had fallen out. Teeth fitting for a wild animal quickly grew in their place. Her eyes had blackened and garbled shrieks of blindness and confusion accompanied them. Her nightgown did little to hide the undulating of her flesh as muscles rearranged themselves. The squelch and cracking of bones breaking and reforming could just barely be heard over her suffering. Black fur pushed it’s way out her skin. Two horns did the same on the top of her head, covered in ripped skin and viscera. The skin around her fingers and feet darkened and the appendages warped into different much larger shapes. Claws sprouted from the tips of her new fingers and toes.

Through it all, she begged. Her sightless eyes stared at Joseph as she begged him for comfort, for death, for it to all end. He held her hand and cooed to her.

“You’re doing great… It’ll be over soon…”

He wasn’t sure if his words had actually reached her. Eventually her screaming began to quiet and her body went limp. Her eyes drifted closed as exhaustion finally claimed her. Joseph placed a blanket over her. She looked so peaceful as he ran his hand over the fur on her cheek.

“In the morning… You’ll be mine.”

#wardenwrites #Shadowed Cross AU #Joseph Cross #Brawlhalla #Oc Ilona

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txemrn · 1 year

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Keep Your Head Up

Book: TRR/TRH Post-series

Word count: ~2325

Song Inspo: "Keep Your Head Up, Princess" - Anson Seabra

Warning: fairly fluffy (no one dies!); tiny sprinkles of angst, mentions of bullying

A/N: I am participating in week 21 of @choicesflashfics prompt challenge! I chose prompt #2: "I look at you and my heart breaks because all I see is loneliness.” The prompt will be in bold.

A/N 2: Most of the characters and some of the plot points belong to our friends at Pixelberry. Please excuse my errors! Also, if you are curious about Royal Roulette: it's a fun little challenge you can do anytime for yourself! Take your music and hit mix! Take the first song that pops up, and use it as a muse for a fic! No need to credit me, but do tag me if you do it because I LOVE reading other RR!

~🖤~

"Where is she?" Liam grits his teeth, frantically glancing around the ballroom before turning back to his head guards. A strangled-growl drips from his words, a crimson hue coating his vision. "Can anyone tell me where the hell she went?"

Not waiting for an answer, he pushes open the heavy, ornate double doors to exit the ballroom before bounding down the side corridor that leads to the grand staircase. Each step he takes becomes quicker, angrier, and despite being in full regalia, his walk becomes a run. Once he reaches the living quarters of the palace, he takes the stairs two at a time until he reaches her room. And he knocks softly.

When she doesn't answer, he raps against the polished wood once more. "Love?" But again, she doesn't answer.

He sighs, his jaw ticking, knowing that he needs to speak with her. To hug her. To hold her.

To tell her that he loves her.

He turns the doorknob, inviting himself into her room; but upon entry, he notices the darkened room is empty. Her bed is still made, her belongings untouched.

He lets out a heavy sigh, turning on his heel to search elsewhere– that is until he hears the soft rustle of taffeta from the large, oak wardrobe on the far end of the room.

A smirk grows across his face as he saunters to the closet. Of course, she would pick this as her hiding place. Her favorite book was The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe from C. S. Lewis's The Chronicles of Narnia. Staying quiet, he cautiously approaches, leaning in closely, just to verify he heard correctly.

And suddenly, a breath hitches as a quiet, almost inaudible sob continues.

And the fibers of his heart begin to splinter, shattering into a million shards on the ground.

He thought he could protect her and shield her from the snide comments and hateful glares. The judgment from the public was bad enough, but the turned up noses and undercut statements made by nobles could be relentless. Seeing her bright light and contagious laughter stolen at the ruthless words of bullies seeped a new level of sadness into his heart.

He gently taps on the door of the wardrobe. And instantly, the movement stops, retreating back into hiding. "It's me," he softly whispers, "Daddy."

After a brief, silent pause, the hatch unlocks, the door swinging open to reveal six-year-old Eleanor tucked in the corner underneath her winter coats. Her pink ball gown is scrunched up around her body as she hugs her knees, her trusty stuffed lion Fabian under her arm for cuddles. Her freckled, cherub face is swollen and blotchy, wet from her tears. Her hair remains in a blonde French braid with pink jeweled barrettes, fixed by her mother for the evening.

"Eleanor?" Liam quietly crawls onto the floor, pulling his ankle under his knee to crisscross his long legs. He takes a deep breath, his crystal gaze matching hers as she coyly watches him like a frightened animal. "What's wrong, Squirt?"

A large tear slopes down her nose as she tucks her head lower into her arms. She remains silent.

Liam gently clears his throat. "Why aren't you down at the Baron's ball?" Again, the young princess remains quiet except for her rhythmic sniffles.

He turns his attention to her feet, noticing her beloved pair of black Converse high tops. And he can't help but smile. Gosh, he loves his girl.

Eleanor has always marched to the beat of her own drum. She showed interest in so many different things, playing with both dolls and toy cars, eager to play soccer and climb trees while also hosting tea parties and playing in her mom's makeup. She was rough and tumble, but loved glitz and glam. She wasn't too fond of wearing heavy, itchy ball gowns, but when Riley suggested she wear her Chuck Taylors like a comfort item, their daughter couldn't wait for the next royal function.

That event was tonight.

"Princess," he sighs, "I look at you and it breaks my heart because all I see is loneliness. I want to make whatever this is better, but I can't unless you talk to me." When she doesn't budge, Liam glances back to her high-tops, and remembers she was debuting them tonight. He taps on them. "Did you show your friends your cool sneakers?"

Eleanor looks up with a scowl before putting her head back down. "They're not cool," she cries.

Liam's eyebrows furrow with curiosity. "What do you mean they're not cool?" He reaches over and grabs her foot, playfully inspecting the shoe. "These look pretty cool to me, but then again–" he tickles her knee, "--I think the person wearing them makes them the coolest shoe ever."

Eleanor looks up with a pitiful smile, wiping at her face with her arm. Her brilliant blue eyes match her father's, more ablaze from being red with irritation. She quickly climbs out of her corner, and reaches for her dad; but before her arms could reach him, he was already pulling her into his own embrace. She clings tightly to his neck as his large hands rub endearing circles on her back.

"They said they were stupid."

"What?" Liam looks down as his daughter readjusts to sit in his lap. "Who said your shoes were stupid?"

"The other girls," she holds out her feet, knocking the toes of her shoes together. "They said that real princesses don't wear boy shoes."

"And how would they know? You're the only princess in that ball." He boops her nose causing her face to scrunch with a genuine smile. "Uh, Squirt, where are your glasses?"

Her elation died at her dad's words. "I don't want to wear 'em, Daddy."

Liam extends his arm into the wardrobe, pulling out the purple bifocals, holding them out in his hands. "Why not?"

"'Cause…" she fidgets with her skirt, "I'm not pretty with them on."

"Squirt," he places his finger under her chin, lifting her gaze to his. "It's impossible for you to not be pretty. In fact," he smooths out her dress before pushing back a gold wisp of hair. "You are the prettiest girl I know."

"Daddy," she bashfully singsongs.

"What?" He sits up a little taller. "I know these things. I am a king." He chuckles. "Now, about these glasses–"

"--I don't want to wear them."

"But they look so pretty on you, Eleanor," he unfolds the glasses, offering them to her.

"They give me four eyes. And-and I don't want four eyes, Daddy! What if they turn into five… or six?" She drags her fingers down her cheeks.

Liam titters to himself. "Who told you glasses give you 'four eyes'?"

She crosses her arms. "Stupid boys."

"Eleanor," Liam warns, "you know we don't say words like that about others."

She pouts harder, slumping in her father's lap.

"Let me show you something," Liam points to her eyes. "You have one… two eyes right here, but you need glasses to help you see, right?" She nods. "These," he looks at the eyewear in his hands, "are like having another set of eyes. See?" He points to each lens, "three... Four."

"Oh!" A wave of understanding crawls across Eleanor’s face. "Four eyes!"

"Right," Liam snickers, placing an endearing hand around her back. "People say it to try to be rude, but honestly, all they're pointing out is that you wear glasses. That's it."

"Oh," Eleanor considers her father's words before continuing. "But they said I was ugly in them. And I don't want to be ugly, Daddy."

"Hrmmm," Liam thoughtfully looks at her glasses, and then slips the small pair on his face. Clearly made for a child, the eyewear pinches tightly at his nose and across his temples. "Am I ugly?"

"No," Eleanor giggles, holding a hand over her mouth.

"But, I thought these glasses make people ugly–"

"Daddy!" She squeals, "you're being silly!"

Liam chuckles, hearing her laugh again. He takes off the glasses, cleaning them off against his shirt. "Eleanor, do you know why princesses wear crowns?"

"Because they're princesses," she answers proudly. "And crowns are pretty."

Liam reaches over to a wooden chest next to the wardrobe that is filled with costumes, play clothes and accessories. He pulls out a plastic, gold crown with bright pink jewels glued around the band.

"Crowns," he continues, holding the toy crown in his hand, "help princesses keep their heads up."

"Nuh-uh!"

"Yeah, huh!" Liam jovially retorts. "See, some people can be very mean. And because you are a princess, you're an easy target for people to be mean. But do you know why they're mean?"

Eleanor innocently shakes her head, her attention glued to her father's words.

"They're mean because they're jealous."

"Jealous?"

"That's right," Liam nods. "You have something they don't have. It can be a pretty dress or a pretty smile," he pinches her cheek. "Sometimes it's simply because someone else hurt their feelings, and they want someone else to hurt, too. They're jealous of your happiness. They think that if they're mean, it will make them feel better."

Liam takes the toy crown and fixes it to her head. "Being part of the royal family means you have a lot more things, that you are given a lot more opportunities than people not born into nobility--which, you should never, ever be ashamed of. But we live our lives in the public eye, so people from around the world know how privileged we are."

Eleanor taps her finger on her lips, knitting her brows together. "So… they get jealous?"

"That's right, Squirt," his lips slowly curl. "They can."

"But, Daddy? It… it still hurts my feelings."

"I know it does, baby," he pulls her in close to his chest, "I know it does. But just remember: those mean words are not true." Liam looks up at the gaudy crown on his daughter's head. "So, that's why princesses wear crowns. That's why you wear a crown, Squirt. It's there to remind you that when people say mean, untrue things about you, keep your head up. Don't listen to them. You don't want your crown to–"

There's a sudden thud on the ground.

"Oops!" Eleanor’s hands fly up over her mouth as she looks at the plastic crown that slipped off her head, crashing to the floor.

Liam rolls his eyes before offering a kind expression towards his daughter. "Come here, Squirt." He wraps his arms around her, placing tender kisses in her hairline.

"Daddy?" She slides on her glasses. "Is it too late to go back to the ball?"

"Ehh," Liam shakes his wrist, his watch turning for him to read. "It looks like the night is over."

"Aww rats," Eleanor deflates, "Uncle Maxwell was going to play Baby Shark for us to dance to."

"Well," Liam stops, glancing down at his daughter. "Do you still want to dance?"

Eleanor’s eyes light up as she eagerly nods her head. She grabs her father's finger, guiding him to an open area of the room. "What should we do for music?"

"I've got an idea." Liam bends over, holding out his hands, curling his fingers into a C-shape with his thumb. "Ba…by… shark! Do-do-do-do!"

Eleanor squeals, joining in with her father singing and doing the hand motions. They both dance around the room, creating their own dance party they both would never forget.

------

Baron's Ball 10 Years Later…

The rubber soles of her Converse high-tops tap hypnotically against the polished ballroom floor. She anxiously chews on her nails as she watches the other noble children laugh and dance amongst the parents.

She had spent the better part of a day getting ready for the annual event: hair curled, pinned and hair-sprayed into place; make-up carefully fixed to the features of her classic beauty; her baby blue ball gown perfectly tailored to her budding womanly curves. But even though she felt beautiful, she remained nervous of facing the other kids, and she knew she would probably be left alone, no one wanting to dance with her.

Life for Eleanor didn't get easier at royal functions. The bullying and backhanded comments continued over the years. It hurt, but the desire to hide and cry became weaker and weaker as she remembered her father's words so long ago.

Keep your head up…

"May I have this dance?"

Eleanor’s pedal pink lips curl into a bright smile as she turns towards the familiar baritone voice. "Daddy, you said you were going to stay in the–"

"And miss the chance to dance with my beautiful daughter?" He beams.

A soft blush crawls across her cheeks as she takes his hand, following his lead to the dance floor. After a cordial bow, they begin to waltz, their feet gliding across the floor with ease.

"Thank you, Daddy."

"Oh, Squirt," he nervously titters, "someday you'll be queen, and these dances with you… well, they'll just be an old man's precious memory."

Eleanor scoffs. "I will always save a dance for you."

Liam laughs. "You might want to take that up with your husband. If he knows how much of treasure you are, he'll never let go–"

"Excuse me, your majesty?"

Liam and Eleanor stop at the timid voice, turning to see Bartie Beaumont mid-bow.

"Son?" Liam gives a curious, yet humored glare.

"I was wondering, that is, if it's okay with you… oh! And if it's okay with your daughter… um…" clearly nervous, the young man takes a cleansing breath as he wipes his palms against his slacks. "May I have this dance?"

Liam turns to his daughter, noticing her eye's brightening by the moment with anticipation. And he smiles. He takes her hand, guiding her closer for Bartie to take it. As they begin to bow, Liam clears his throat, making both Bartie and Eleanor freeze.

"I'm watching you, Beaumont."

"Y-yes, sir," Bartie swallows thickly.

"Daddy," Eleanor growls.

Liam takes his cue and begins to walk away–that is, until he turns around again. "And leave some room in between–"

"Daddy!"

~🖤~

Thank you so much for your support! Every like, comment and reblog means the world to me! 🖤

~🖤~

Tags (please let me know if you wish to be added/removed)

PERMA

@alj4890 @ao719 @charlotteg234 @issabees @kat-tia801 @kingliam2019 @mainstreetreader @mom2000aggie @neotericthemis @nikirennie87 @peonierose @socalwriterbee @tessa-liam

ALL TRR

@3pawandme @alyshak92 @iaminlovewithtrr @lovingchoices14 @malblk21 @rubiwalker @sfb123 @twinkleallnight

#the royal romance #the royal heir #choices fanfic #choices fanfiction #choices trr #choices trh #royal roulette #choices flashfics #liam rys #king liam #princess eleanor #bartie beaumont #choices the royal romance #choices the royal heir

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outofangband · 5 months

Note

Will Feanor get to meet Maedhros in your ‘Splinters Like Jewel Shards’ series

This is dependent on if I ever finish it :/ but yeah they will meet!

#maedhros

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swordofsun · 4 months

Text

Wanted to do something for the new year, so I guess I'll do a 2023 book wrap up. In chronological order from the beginning of 2023 to the end.

Putting in a read more because this is 90 books and that's too much to not hide it.

Rereads marked with a *

The Iron Dirge by Sam Sykes - Grave of Empires #2.5

Three Axes to Fall by Sam Sykes - Grave of Empries #3

The Chosen and the Beautiful by Nghi Vo

Six Wakes by Mur Lafferty

The World We Make by N.K. Jemisin - Great Cities #2

Unbreakable by Mira Grant

Apocalypse Scenario #683: The Box by Mira Grant

Juice Like Wounds by Seanan McGuire - Wayward Children #4.5

Lost in the Moment and Found by Seanan McGuire - Wayward Children #8

The Spirit Thief by Rachel Aaron - The Legend of Eli Monpress #1*

The Spirit Rebellion by Rachel Aaron - The Legend of Eli Monpress #2*

The Spirit Eater by Rachel Aaron - The Legend of Eli Monpress #3*

The Spirit War by Rachel Aaron - The Legend of Eli Monpress #4*

Spirit's End by Rachel Aaron - The Legend of Eli Monpress #5*

Shards of Honor by Lois McMaster Bujold - Vorkosigan Saga #1 (Publication Order)

The Coup of Tea by Casey Blair - The Tea Princess Chronicles #1

The Scourge Between Stars by Ness Brown

Lyconthropy and Other Chronic Illnesses by Kristen O'Neal

The Jewel and Her Lapidary by Fran Wilde - Gemworld #1

Sandry's Book by Tamara Pierce - Circle of Magic #1*

Comeuppance Served Cold by Marion Deeds

By A Silver Thread by Rachel Aaron - DFZ Changeling #1

The Mimicking of Known Successes by Malka Ann Older - Mossa and Pleiti #1

The Twice-Drowned Saint by C.S.E. Cooney

Tris's Book by Tamara Pierce - Circle of Magic #2*

The Bones Swans of Amandale by C.S.E. Cooney (Novella)

Even Though I Knew The End by C.L. Polk

Plain Bad Heroines by Emily M Danforth

An Unkindness of Magicians by Kat Howard - Unseen World #1

Never Ever Getting Back Together by Sophie Gonzales

The Ghost Network by Catie Disabato

The Keeper's Six by Kate Elliot

Siren Queen by Nghi Vo

Servant Mage by Kate Elliot

The Warden by Daniel M Ford - The Warden #1

Daja's Book by Tamara Pierce - Circle of Magic #3*

Jackdraw by K.J. Charles - A Charm of Magpies World #1

The Thief Who Pulled On Trouble's Braids by Michael McClung - Amra Thetys #1

Bluebird by Ciel Pierlot

Lexicon by Max Barry

The Splinter in the Sky by Kemi Ashing-Giwa

The Kaiju Preservation Society by John Scalzi

The Thief Who Spat in Luck's Good Eye by Michael McClung - Amara Thetys #2

Briar's Book by Tamara Pierce - Circle of Magic #4*

The Thief Who Knocked on Sorrow's Gate by Michael McClung - Amara Thetys #3

Murder at Spindle Manor by Morgan Stang - The Lamplight Murder Mysteries #1

Ebony Gate - by Julie Vee and Ken Bebelle - The Phoenix Hoard #1

Artificial Condition by Martha Wells - The Murderbot Diaries #2*

Rogue Protocols by Martha Wells - The Murderbot Diaries #3*

Exit Strategy by Martha Wells - The Murderbot Diaries #4*

Zen Bow, Zen Arrow: The Life and Teachings of Awa Kenzo, the Archery Master from "Zen in the Art of Archery" by John Stevens

Thornhedge by T. Kingfisher

Fugitive Telemetry by Martha Wells - The Murderbot Diareis #6*

Apparently I've hit the character limit without a paragraph break. So, we'll be starting over from 1, but it will really be #54.

Home: Habitat, Range, Niche, Territory by Martha Wells - The Murderbot Diaries #4.5

Compulsory: A Murderbot Story by Martha Wells - The Murderbot Diaries #0.5*

Magic Steps by Tamara Pierce - The Circle Opens #1*

Murder on the Lamplight Express by Morgan Stang - The Lamplight Murder Mysteries #2

Bone Swans by C.S.E. Cooney (short story collection)

Sleeping Giants by Sylvain Neuvel - Themis Files #1

Mammoth at the Gates by Nghi Vo - The Singing Hills Cycle #4

The Refrigerator Monologues by Catherynne M Valente

Triggernometry by Stark Holborn - Triggernometry #1

Street Magic by Tamara Pierce - The Circle Opens #2*

Foundryside by Robert Jackson Bennett - The Foundryside Trilogy #1

Advanced Triggernometry by Stark Holborn - Triggernometry #2

Inda by Sherwood Smith - Inda #1

Thief Liar Lady by D.L. Soria

A Haunting on the Hill by Elizabeth Hand

Red Rabbit by Alex Grecian

Can't Spell Treason Without Tea by Rebecca Thorne - Tomes and Tea #1

Red River Seven by A.J. Ryan

Dracula by Bram Stoker - via Re: Dracula

Beholder by Ryan La Sala

A Season of Monstrous Conceptions by Lina Rather

System Collapse by Martha Wells - The Murderbot Diaries #7

Cold Fire by Tamara Piece - The Circle Opens #3*

Dream of the Falling Axe by Sam Sykes - Grave of Empires #3.5

The Woman in Me by Britney Spears

The Salvation Gambit by Emily Skrutskie

I'm Glad My Mom Died by Jennette McCurdy

Hikaru No Go Vol 1 Decent of the Go Master by Yumi Hotta - Hikaru No Go #1

These Burning Stars by Bethany Jacobs - The Kingdom Trilogy #1

Shatterglass by Tamara Pierce - The Circle Opens #4*

Paladin's Faith by T Kingfisher - The Saint of Steel #4

The Crane Husband by Kelly Barnhill

Forest of Memory by Mary Robinette Kowal

The Archive Undying by Emma Mieko Candon - The Downworld Sequence #1

On The Fox Roads by Nghi Vo

Unlocked: An Oral History of Haden's Syndrom by John Scalzi - Lock In #0.5

Paris: The Memoir by Paris Hilton

Okay, and according to Storygraph:

My longest book was Three Axes to Fall at 806 pages

My most read authors were: Tamara Pierce, Martha Wells, and Rachel Aaron. Which is due to re-reads. I re-read 16 books this year.

My average rating was 4.14 out of 5.

I read the most in June.

I read 41 new-to-me authors.

52 of the books I read were part of series.

So, I guess, feel free to ask me any questions.

Happy New Year!

#books i've read #books i read in 2023 #booklr #year in review

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icybreaths · 11 months

Text

She dreamed that she could cut into herself – right down the center of her skull and face with a shard of ice.

A smooth, clean line – just like that.

She lay in frost needled grass, facing a blinding gray sky with split smile at the way the ground tickled her rotten, naked flesh.

Her frostbite blackened claw eased up the line of her neck and sifted through the innards of her mind as though fishing for the ripest fruit.

She dug through the headstones and the bones … past the ichor that wept from the darkest lane in her brain stem … and through the nest of maggots that writhed around her failed attempts at love.

Deeper – through the failures, the betrayal, and the blistering pain.

Deeper – through the centuries of silent tears, she told herself, through the lingering numbness. There must be something of worth in there…

Her heart palpated and her ribs threatened to tear their way out. Her breathing hitched as she pawed through the gray matter, desperate.

Slowly, she clutched a hard, frozen core, felt it splinter in her grasp. What burst between her fingers stole her breath away.

The glow of it; she had found it –

Her favorite hideaways. Her tastiest kills. Water rushing over her after she dove from the highest cliff. His warm flesh beneath her. The hum of his voice against her throat. Wildflowers kissing her nose. Meeting her friends eyes with shared laughter. Bloodbaths that feel like rebirth. Trying and trying again until she succeeded. Careless breezes through her hair. A treasured crystal’s gleam. The lovely bones that carried infinite lifetimes worth of stories. The peace of night swims, whether the moon was shuttered or not. Speckled feathers sauntering from a tree after a bird’s departure. The softness of a cotton candy dawn.

Jewel had to feel her way through the gore of her soul, but there were pieces of happiness in there.

Reasons to live.

#[ arctic clouds ]#body horror tw #body horror cw #gore tw #gore cw

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theluckywizard · 9 months

Text

Artifacts of Thedas

I took the excellent prompt list that @shivunin made and copied it here so I can mark the ones I have already done!

A vial of lyrium; one drop remains - In Progress

Crushed elfroot leaves

A freshly painted vhenadahl

A mage’s staff, splintered in the center

A Joining cup, its lip badly dented

Two handprints on an aravel

A Crow’s dagger, sticky with drying blood

A basket full of embrium and blood lotus - In Progress

Dracolisk scales

A shard of mirrored glass that reflects a different sky

Avvar furs, warm before the fire

A book of Tevene grammar, open on a table

A partially melted statue of Andraste I have a couple of these

Volume of Koslun’s teachings, the page edges soft and worn

A meticulously clean elven mosaic

Bronze statuette of the Champion, polished by handling - Hawke/Rose in Aberbeck

An Inquisition banner, mended many times over

Lyrium dust suspended in a clear fluid Vivienne & Rose Contraception

A pendant of a Paragon

An empty nug cage

An unstrung bow that whispers when touched

A set of leather armor with bolt holes in the shoulder

A plaque denoting the Hero of Ferelden’s birthplace

Halla fur caught on tree bark

An empty chest with scratch marks around the lock - Hawke & Bethany in dream

A letter with a broken seal; the wax is stamped with a familiar symbol

A small pot of kaddis, partially used Hawke, Bethany & Carver in Act 1

A handful of werewolf teeth

A sketch marked with the symbol of the Shaperate

Party favor from an alienage wedding

A Satinalia mask

A palm frond from Seheron

Orlesian shoes with jeweled buckles -In progress

A hand mirror, its glass irreparably shattered

A Rivaini amulet on a golden chain

Templar armor, marked by lightning

A cask of ale from Orzammar

Sketchbook marked with a griffon insignia

A doll dressed in an Antivan gown

Tiny cakes that taste like melancholy

#DADWC Prompts

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alicehattera03 · 2 years

Text

I'd love to have seen Athy getting truly angry and just, absolutely wrecking a room.

Mirrors, broken into hundreds of glass shards because she hates seeing her fake smile being reflected back at her. Chair legs splintered apart, wood dust lining the carpet. Lamps with suspicious red stains on their stems, their shades ripped apart.

Pillows turned inside out, feathers drifting here and there. Clothes all ruined, water soaking into expensive fabrics, burnt ribbons on top of muddied leather shoes, jewels gripped in her hands, and not letting go.

When Lily and the other maids discover her like that, Lily immediately orders the others out and just, quietly stands near her until Athy reaches out, taking her hand and pulling her down to sit next to her on the ruined bed. They pass time in silence, and then Athy says, "Thank you, Lily."

The next day, the room is restored to its original condition and everyone believes they had seen a hallucination, a figment of their imagination.

Because why and how could their beloved, wise princess act out like that? They must have been tired that day, yes. That was the right answer.

No one saw anything that day. Nothing at all.

#wmmap athy #wmmap athanasia #sibapod #sbapod #suddenly i became a princess #suddenly became a princess one day #who made me a princess #who made me a princess athanasia #wmmap #athanasia de alger obelia #whomademeaprincess #suddenly became a princess #i suddenly became a princess #sbap #sbapod athy #sibapod athy #athy

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caniscathexis · 2 years

Text

“others suggest, it was just confusing in the given situation, telling poor Karl to shoot the glass, which colloquially would mean shoot the window. But in this room there are no windows. Only walls of glass, screens of glass. Besides, the office has already been well shot up, as has everything inside it, all the computers and the walls, the limbs and monitors and files, everything except the one intended target. What remains to ruin? Shards and splinters and sparkling dust pile the floor and get slicked with blood, and this is what spurs Hans’ tactical innovation and confusing command: not to hit the target but to attack the surroundings. To devastate more and more of the glassy room and make their enemy run unprotected across it. To make him leave a trail to be followed, a red ellipsis that draws a line to its author.

We know this, and Karl does not, because we who watch have been directed to see those cut and naked feet. We’ve seen the dawning grasp of Hans that all the world’s a trap

[...]

So Hans shakes his head in frustration. He says it again, and he says it in English this time, as he is no longer just telling Karl. He is also telling the camera operator and the focus puller where to point the lens, playing on that linguistic doubling there since Étienne-Jules Marey’s repeating camera rifle: shoot the glass, not the character. He says it in English, and in whatever tongue it is dubbed into for global distribution, because he is telling us, we who are watching Die Hard, so that we’ll eventually realize the gravity of these words, even if it takes a couple decades, because shoot the glass inaugurates and names the nascent start of a relation to images that will come to be inseparable from basic parameters of how we see and how we touch.

Later, we won’t need to be told twice, because we’re already doing it, already aiming eyes and phones and virtual rifles, but we’re not there yet, and neither is Karl, though it isn’t his fault. He hasn’t seen this film yet, hasn’t seen the scene that follows (or the ones after that, his death waiting in the concrete wings), and so we’re all told, all given this direction to watch closely, because what happens is a portrait in miniature of what is to come.

[...]

The set is physically built and laboriously destroyed, its glass shot to shit, as happens sometimes in Los Angeles, like in Assault on Precinct 13, twelve years before, where all windows were ruined and the police station made porous to the revenge of those gathered outside. Or like nine years before Die Hard, some thirteen miles southeast from Fox Plaza as the helicopter flies, how Barbara McCullough filmed Water Ritual #1: An Urban Rite of Purification in Watts, finding in the city a pocket of what attempted development left strewn behind, including plenty of shattered glass, its “jewel quality” flaring when the sun hit just right. There, everything that had supported and fed and cheered lives lived in shelter now lay scattered inside or outside of houses for which the distinction didn’t matter anymore,

[...]

Later, in Die Hard, glass is purposefully shot again, although unannounced this time, and here too the relation of body and architecture and safety gets it twisted. The cop is standing on the window, like we blinked and gravity went sideways. His bare feet are still bloody, and they’re pressed flat against the glass, bracing him against a threshold that just won’t give, the screen locked until the passcode – easy to guess: more bullets – is entered, and with it too the user.

And much later than that, twenty-three years later, in Transformers: Dark of the Moon, a skyscraper really will go sideways, even without our heads lolling bored to the side in anticipation of sleep when this is all over. A giant robot python worm is busy boring through the building’s glass curtain wall into the open-plan architect’s office inside, and soon it strangles the building, as such things do. The tower starts to angle sideways, its mirrored cladding reflecting back the city into which it crumples, each individual pane displaying a fragment of the surrounding world in anticipation of when it all really shatters and still continues to reflect, the little spinning shards depicting everything except the camera that was never there to start.

[...]

But there’s no German here. No need to pass through the repetition and explain to us how to watch. Because this has become the expected mode, and so it’s no surprise that yes, Hans, the glass is shot and, yes, they tumble back inside, to slide the other direction down towards another drop out another window. They skitter and scream and desperately grab at frayed wires and cables that once powered and linked the computers of the office, and the characters deemed important enough to the story hold on fast. But others who never were put at the center of the frame to start find nothing to anchor them, because open-plan offices aren’t made for sinking ships”

– evan calder williams, shard cinema, “fragment 1”

#even the fragment before the introduction is astonishing #so excited to read more #film crit

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samseabxrn · 4 months

Text

Artifacts of Thedas

A personal version of shivunin's list found here!

A vial of lyrium; one drop remains

Crushed elfroot leaves

A freshly painted vhenadahl

A mage’s staff, splintered in the center [Filled 12/29/23 HERE]

A Joining cup, its lip badly dented

Two handprints on an aravel

A Crow’s dagger, sticky with drying blood

A basket full of embrium and blood lotus

Dracolisk scales

A shard of mirrored glass that reflects a different sky

Avvar furs, warm before the fire

A book of Tevene grammar, open on a table

A partially melted statue of Andraste

Volume of Koslun’s teachings, the page edges soft and worn

A meticulously clean elven mosaic

Bronze statuette of the Champion, polished by handling

An Inquisition banner, mended many times over

Lyrium dust suspended in a clear fluid

A pendant of a Paragon

An empty nug cage

An unstrung bow that whispers when touched

A set of leather armor with bolt holes in the shoulder

A plaque denoting the Hero of Ferelden’s birthplace

Halla fur caught on tree bark

An empty chest with scratch marks around the lock

A letter with a broken seal; the wax is stamped with a familiar symbol

A small pot of kaddis, partially used

A handful of werewolf teeth

A sketch marked with the symbol of the Shaperate

Party favor from an alienage wedding [received]

A Satinalia mask

A palm frond from Seheron

Orlesian shoes with jeweled buckles

A hand mirror, its glass irreparably shattered

A Rivaini amulet on a golden chain

Templar armor, marked by lightning

A cask of ale from Orzammar

Sketchbook marked with a griffon insignia

A doll dressed in an Antivan gown

Tiny cakes that taste like melancholy

#prompts

0 notes

hospitalterrorizer · 5 months

Text

diary83

12/3-4/2023

sunday - monday

sooo lazyyyy.

low energy. i have not done the stuff i wanted to do today. i am going to shower, and then at least try. i need to do the drum programming , at a minimum i think. maybe not all of it but at least getting more of it out, and then maybe doing one or two songs from the album, to get those mixed better.

okay i went and did some of that, i worked more on the drums, since i had a good idea for the main riff that's going decently i think, just getting that all aligned is going to be the struggle. or like, in time, i guess. i wonder if the whole thing is as intended.

anyway i am so tired now.

here is one thing i put together today, a server asked a daily question about the 'thesis' guiding the art anyone makes. i used quotes instead:

"a little later, the soldier maurice pilgore killed his lover, escudero, to rob him of something under a thousand francs, then, for his twentieth birthday, they cut off his head while, you recall, he thumbed his nose at the enraged executioner. finally, a young ensign, still a child committed treason for treason's sake: he was shot. and it is in honor of their crimes that i am writing my book. i learned only in bits and pieces of that wonderful blossoming of dark and lovely flowers: one was revealed to me by a scrap of newspaper; another was casually alluded to by my lawyer; another was mentioned, almost sun, by the prisoners--their song became fantastic and funereal (a de profundis), as much so as one of the plaints which they sing in the evening, as the voice which vrosses the cells and reaches me blurred, hopeless, inflected. at the end of the phrases it breaks, and that break makes it so sweet that it seems borne by the music of angels, which horrifies me, for angels fill me with horror, being, i imagine, neither mind nor matter, white, filmy, and frightening." jean genet, our lady of the flowers.

"i have discovered a miracle above the rain, thought joana. a miracle split into chunky, serious, twinkling stars, like a stationary warning: like a lighthouse. what are they trying to say? in them i sense the secret, the twinkling is the impassive mystery i hear flowing inside me, crying in broad, desperate, romantic notes. dear god, at least allow me to commuicate with them, satisfy my desire to kiss them. (…) stars, stars, i pray. the word splinters between my teeth into fragile shards. (…) what does it matter i still appear to be in the dormitory at this moment, the other girls dead to the world, bodies unmoving on their beds? what does it matter what really is? (…) i am fooling myself, i need to return. i don't feel madness in my wish to bite stars, but the earth still exists. and because the first truth is in the earth and the body." "(i'm writing about the meager minimum adorning it with purple, jewels and splendor. is this how you write? no, it's not by accumulation but by stripping naked. but i fear nakedness, since it is the last word) (…) would she have longed for the future? i hear the ancient music of words and words, yes, that's it. at this very moment macabea feels a deep nausea in her stomach and almost vomited, she wanted to vomit something that wasn't her body, to vomit something luminous. a thousand pointed star." clarice lispector, near to the wild at hear + hour of the star

"he was seized, kneaded by intelligible hands, bitten by a vital tooth; he entered with his living body into the anonymous shapes of words, giving his substance to them, establishing their relationships, offering his being to the word 'be'. for hours he remained inert, captivated and unveiled. and even later when, having abandoned himself and, contemplating his book, he recognize himself with disgust in the form of the text he was reading, he retained the thought that (while, perched upon his shoulders, the word he and the word i were beginning their carnage) there remained within his person which was already deprived of its senses obscure words, disembodied souls and angels of words, which were exploring him deeply." maurice blanchot, thomas the obscure

"the people wait for me, checking their watches, standing at their doorsteps, but i am a speeding car that never stops. i'm huge, shiny, and new, coming from the other side of midnight. gliding mass is strangely solid for a phantom, clad in a metal that's lighter than air. vaulting from the abyss of my garage, deep in the deepest folds of night, i blast forth, almost floating off the ground, and rattle the sky with a crash of silver. trees damp with dew sag and weep as i race past them, and the nocturnal birds flocking after me lay screaming in my wake. one by one, i overturn the traffic signs that line the road like white memorials. the gas stations i pass erupt in flames, leaving pocks of fire on the expanse of night… i ride and ride and never arrive. (…) there's something about kayo in these fits of delirium that shoots me through the heart. at times like these, she's truly at her best. every move she makes is resolute, a vow to resist the pull of tragedy, to poke fun at every situation, no matter how painful or grave, like someone flicking a watermelon to hear the sound it makes before they buy it. her laughter was potent enough to scorch the grass for miles around, to putrefy a field of ripe red strawberries." yukio mishima, star

"i fell on her with my full weight. she uttered a terrific scream. i clenched my teeth as hard as i could. at that moment we began sliding down the sloping ground. farther down, the rock formed an overhang. if i hadn't stopped our slide with my foot, we would have fallen into the night, and i might have wondered with amazement if we weren't falling into the void of the sky." georges bataille, blue of noon

"(…) let me say before i go on that everything i do is based on an urge that i don't understand, though i keep trying to understand it (…) until there was nothing around but a big off-white shell in the middle of the worst mess in the world. god, human bodies are such garbage bags." dennis cooper, frisk

anyway i am so tired and i think all of that speaks for itself, i wanted to read today but i have been so exhausted all day. so:

byebye!!!!!!!

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