...the air seeming to gather around her like held breath. As if this whole place were a story about her.
Once upon a time, a girl lived in a sandcastle, making monsters to send through a hole in the sky.
You almost hold up your piece of paper and say, ‘The girl I like just gave me a treasure map to herself.’ But you don’t. You just don’t.
She had said she didn't feel fear, but it was a lie; this was her fear: being left alone. Because of one thing she was certain, and it was that she could never love, not like that. Trust a stranger with her flesh? The closeness, the quiet. She couldn't imagine it. Breathing someone else's breath as they breathed yours, touching someone, opening for them? The vulnerability of it made her flush. It would mean submission, letting down her guard, and she wouldn't. Ever. Just the thought made her feel small and weak as a child.
Like attracts like, beauty finds beauty, and freaks look on from the smoking section, aching.
I want to touch with my mouth. His mouth, with my mouth. Maybe his neck, too. But first things first: Make him aware I exist. It’s possible that he is already aware, if only in a ‘don't step on the small girl’ kind of way.
It was funny, she thought, but her smile turned wistful because she had nobody to tell.
A wave of weariness took him. How could life be so unrelentingly ugly?
I will give them nightmares to haunt their dreams long after I'm gone.
Beauty,’ Brimstone had scoffed once. ‘Humans are fools for it. As helpless as moths who hurl themselves at fire.
Is that all souls are for? For when we die?" "No. They're for living, too.
Thank you, but we respectfully decline your overture, being more enjoyably occupied at present.
Around Mik, my powers desert me. I lose basic motor function, like my brain focuses all neural activity on my lips and shifts into kiss preparedness mode way too early, to the detriment of things like speech, and walking.
Oh, gross. Your stomach is full of butterfly barf!
I miss sunrise even more. The green scent of dawn in the forest? The color blushing back into the world, different every day.
It didn't escape Karou's notice that he found subtle ways of touching her.
Stop squandering yourself, child. Wait for love.
With the infinite patience of one who has learned to live broken, he awaited her return.
Like mold on books, grow myths on history.
...magic was ugly—-a hard bargain with the universe, a calculus of pain.
There are guerrilla armies that make little boys kill their own families. Such acts rip out the soul and make space for beasts to grow inside. Armies need beasts, don’t they? Pet beasts, to do their terrible work!
She had been innocent once, a little girl playing with feathers on the floor of a devil's lair. She wasn't innocent now, but she didn't know what to do about it. This was her life: magic and shame and secrets and teeth and a deep, nagging hollow at the center of herself where something was most certainly missing.
It's not like there's a law against flying." "Yes there is. The law of gravity.
A bruxis. That was the one wish more powerful than a gavriel, and its trade value was singular: The only way to purchase one was with one’s own teeth. All of them, self-extracted.
For the way loneliness is worse when you return to it after a reprieve—like the soul’s version of putting on a wet bathing suit, clammy and miserable.
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