aseaofquotes:

Sarah Dessen, Keeping the Moon

aseaofquotes:

Sarah Dessen, Keeping the Moon

Anonymous
GEN GEN GIVE ME YOUR FINE POETIC BOOTY

no

aseaofquotes:

Denise Gosliner Orenstein, The Secret Twin

aseaofquotes:

Denise Gosliner Orenstein, The Secret Twin

mortiuum:

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     ’ not very, no. ‘

     ”— Then why must you sit on me?”

dear current and future rp partners: i’m going to go days without replying to you, please don’t take it personally.

e—scaprism replied to your post:Genesis do you wear glasses?

of course he wears glasses. he’s old after all B)

crxor replied to your post:Genesis do you wear glasses?

g-glasses-senpai

tagged as #escaprism #crxor #ooc; #tbd;
Anonymous
Genesis do you wear glasses?

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i am glasses-megane-kun

sits on umu

     "Do I look like a chair—?"
     If I was, I’d very much like to be an extravagantly blood-red poltrona di proust.

tagged as #I-- #mortiuum

ncinque:

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       “Then she must be a quite sadistic fair lady. Of course it doesn’t mean I don’t like this suggestion, this could be a new interpretation."

       If she were to say where and when she heard and learnt that song for the first time, her answer would be unsure: her feeling was that she has known the melody ever since she was in that world, however it was clearly false. Perhaps it happened when she was taken from the institution, when she was the last one left; probably those rhymes spoke to her, revealing her something about herself and the place that shaped her. It took many experiments and different materials in order to create a reliable bridge, and that would be she, whether the wood and clay were all the children that died. Still it was impossible to create something indestructible and eventually she would have fallen down as well, it was just a matter of time, days, months. After all, a tool isn’t meant to last forever, and new ideas and components to make a better one could be found at any moment, a tool is replaceable.

       Effectively, she would have preferred to be both the fair lady and the mastermind, nonetheless, no matter what she could tell herself that was not her reality.

       Maybe –– she was nothing but wood and clay as well.

       “You can find several of these little songs if you’re interested in them. I must say I find it a curious hobby, though not the worst I have ever heard of." Was the end of the day the time for bizarre encounters? That field wasn’t really her forte, thus she couldn’t really think of other suggestions, she had been busy all her life doing something else, and in the end she never had spare time for activities such as poetry and the like. It didn’t mean she never read anything, that wouldn’t be true, simply she never felt so interested that she felt the prompt need to focus on it properly enough. "It’s also not ordinary to find a random person intrigued by this kind of subjects. No one ever cared to inquire me about the Fair Lady, I’m pleasantly surprised." And she hummed it quite often in various occasions, although she couldn’t recall anyone questioning it: whatever, it was fine also if they actually believed her to be a bit out of her head.

       “What’s your name?"

       As soon as she spoke her question, Five regretted doing it: she went with the flow and indulged herself with her curiosity, she allowed herself to be easy-going and forget for a bunch of minutes the reasons why she was there, albeit she couldn’t possibly afford it. It was too late, she already asked and she could do nothing about it: she left down her guard for a moment there, didn’t she?

    “I am in love with things that are open to interpretation. You can put it another way, of course; you always can. I admire those who bear that gift. The gift of interpretation.”

    He had warbled to Zack once. In pondering the mystery, in quoting portions of archaic texts as if it were some unanswerable authority of some point of morality— all having been part of a grand play of beliefs that had the entire world anticipating the closing chapter. Divinations would keep coming as long as one kept questioning them. Admissions steeped in legends of hope; of mystic homes and fairy garlands whom garnered each acceptance and assumption with some sort of conflicting ideal that troubled many a waking dream. Aye— there had been a point in his life, a point he remembered in the groves of effulgent sage where the breezes sang between the drooping mastery of the willow-dell, wherein his childish fancies first met poetry and its brassy intelligence in the heavy, many-paged form of LOVELESS. It were the day a child lost himself in the former grave place of alder ‘pon the wreathes of mossy stone; stanzas of reverence and ruin far too seductive to have him look away. 

    The ramblings of a summery childhood would not last, however. Words were forsaken ‘pon frontlines cloven by the altercation of east and west, never a bone of contention that would snap the wills of elders whom chundered atop the steel of their battle-podiums ringed by a sea of war-mechs. Songs were substitued by the hiss of fire-flowing iron that would consume the shallows of clarion waters, whose sulphur-flakes would orchestrate cracks and pops to speed up the charred camber of trees as they burst into flame. A child soldier, under these conditions where the position of his mind was exigently doomed by the horrors of the bloody vale, would hear no more nursery rhymes. There was only harshness and discordance in the endless chain of orders. A continuity more marvellously supernatural to him with the language of warmongering ones, whose sentences were never guided or drawn to the next with magniloquent metaphors and sweets that a fledgling poet could indulge. 

    So here he luxuriates.
    Here he is free.
    A man still a child.

    "I live to impress, of course. Rhymes, especially the little ones, have always interested me. They are vague, brimming with possibility, and teasing all whom know of its mischief to roll with the words and craft their own tale. They hide treats for the quickest— even more for the wise." He drawls; the uncanny laughter that italicizes the essence of his harmony one that reverberates within the pocket of this night-scape as he proves himself a man who wouldn’t delve deep into the riddles of literary works if there were no intellectual profit to be derived. Aye— he were a glory-hunter. The illustrious fire-earl whom commandeered his own steps to cerebral and spiritual greatness through all mediums, and one whom could soothe all militant drums into a more uniform rhythm if he tempted it. 

   "My lady, do not be alarmed." His majesty extended to the reading of body language; to pick up the hitches of lung and heart when one’s blunder had them a servant to circumstance. He bequeaths a smile — rouge and enlivened by levelled ivory — before he occupies himself with the maddened rush of a passing train, in which the moist and prismatic torrent of its interior lights would have it whiz on like a freight of stars.

    “— My name is Genesis,” he fails to look away, “Genesis Rhapsodos. May I know yours?”

tagged as #ncinque
aseaofquotes:

Roman Payne, Rooftop Soliloquy

aseaofquotes:

Roman Payne, Rooftop Soliloquy

ooc: Activity has been sorta spotty this weekend due to me being sucked into video games and catching up with a lot of anime welp. Everyone should be writing at their own pace here anyway. I’ll be on in a few hours to continue with drafts/chat with people about plots/and starters.

tagged as #ooc;
r u a boy or a girl

     "I am Genesis and I am a man— Charmander please.”
     
Idiot.

masochisticsadist:

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GEnOOOOSIs—!

Fortissississimo SCREECH bulldozing itself from her mouthSHRILL and BOOMING, a two-hundred and sixty decibel shriek ( voltaic bolt, electrical fulmination, mezzo-soprano tessitura on its own a force majeure, emulating hysterical arcs of electromagnetism TEARING the firmament asunder with its CORYBANTIC release )—his atrocious name comes out in a salvo of berserk FURY, volcanic eruptions exploding from every puerile vowel in his moniker that she drawls out, nothing about this verbal relinquishing brusque, nay, a conniption is garnered posthaste apropos to the unscrupulous manœuvers he resorts to, manipulating her magnanimity pertinent to extending her succor, tricking her, hornswoggling and being outright deceptive in apposite to her assistance ( albeit viciously malicious and mocking, she is cognizant that she—termagant, VIRAGO, ❛BITCH❜—is tempestuous and unpleasant to be around ( a ticking time bomb, a virulentAct of God ;); she has not forgotten how inimical he is, natheless their entire relationship is a sempiternal battle of dominance, did he forget how zealous she is in her quest for the complete subjugation of those capable of purloining her rightful attention garnered from others as being the strongest, the BEST? )

Presumptuous it is to surmise she would be humble here, at this investiture; ignoramus, her docility is a reward, her sweetness a delicacyrecherchéshe is onlymellow❜ to him when she feels he has earned it. Clearly standing about looking discombobulated is not something to be lauded in smiles and effervescent giggling.

Like the liar that he is, he beseeched her to concentrate upon his nonsensical palaver and she had, readily ignored his insolent tone and his uncouth tongue whilst having half of a mind to break his nauseating nose with the end of her right stiletto heel,SMASHING his unprepossessing face in with all the force of a freight train but she abstained by medium of being titillated by his palatable misery, the shame undulating from him which seemed to compensate for the scantiness of lion-hearted sorcery that would—typicallybe thickening the air at his decree; she knows, she knows how powerless he is, weak and piteous and at her planet’s mercy, Earth does not favor him and has always placed its partialities with her, HER HER HER. Summoners were made to withstand worldly changes bereft of query, adapting to anything and everything: absurdly sweltering climates, sub-zero temperatures, ocean biomes, she is savvy of his inefficiency here due to the fact that extraterrestrials hailing from third world planets were not meant to travel the stars and isn’t Gæa just, a round, begrimed sphere siring trash like him; here on the Blue Planet he is truly inferior, disconnected from whatever planetary phenomenæ he draws from, too complacent with homely modus operandi to know how to function on ❛alien territory,❜ iwis, she could have kept him here, in front of this grandiose gate and beaten to death, she should have, she regrets that she was particularly level-headed and friendship held greater luminosity over unhinged insanity, greater precedence because all she wants to do now is pick her teeth with his vertebral column, yank it right out of his back.

His first erroneous blunder is the blasphemous befouling of amaranthine filaments, unprofane tresses laden with esoteric ciphers and transcendental thaumaturgy tarnished by his squalid fingers, notwithstanding her scalp and her phrenetic reaction is instantaneous, utilizing whatever seconds she can salvage to make certain she sends his spine quaking with consternation, even if he himself seems driven by narcissistic animosity, unable to conceive the manner in which her banshee yell ripples throughout the very foundation of this establishment, breaks into every ear as if her voice is some kind of puissant spell on its own ( and it is when her enchanting being is broken down into layers, cosmogonical abomination ); she thought that they had some sort of mutual understanding that her hair was not to be touched in any battle, any petty dispute where he was concerned, that—although it is a glaring weakness with its impractical length and accessibilityhe would not sink so low to obtain leeway over her using such a simple, easy approach, she assumed him more efficient in pursuit of his endeavors, more original—

Quod erat demonstrandum, she has put too much faith in him.

Her descent into the turbid earth is as gauche as they come, head instinctively shifting in accordance with the execrable pull he has upon her hair, vigor ever so formidable for one debilitated on this planet; she can’t recall the last time someone was intrepid enough to do the aforementioned and she is so flabbergasted by his actions ( brimming with velocity and expelling swiftness ) that her body complies far too easily, awkwardly colliding into the muck, thick mud welcoming the entirety of her curvaceous form with a warmness she never received from him and she feels analogous to a swine, vilified, tarred and feathered, sputtering as slush fills her mouth due to the fact that she hadn’t finished screaming at him, was going to excoriate him for his impetuosity, his nerve, white ivories besmirched, her countenance tainted, limbs slippery as she squirms and writhes around akin to a fish out of water, physically protesting by being an absolute nuisance to keep contained to one position but he manages it despite her recalcitrancethe muffled expletives and witchy hexes that erupt out of her mouth rapid-fire akin to machine gun roundsfrightening in and of itself for she has never displayed that sort of crudeness ere, ❛unladylike❜ phrases muffled through the excessive ooze he continues to SLAM her face into repeatedly. Each time he does the aforesaid she feels her amour-propre diminishing, refusing to believe that he was successful in getting the best of her in the first place, his vindictive chortling only validating her irresponsibility, that she allowed a schlemiel to get the better of her and now she’s laying on her stomach—sautéing in terrestrial sludge, covered in it from head to stiletto-sheathed toecrashing her arms down into the mud in rabid protest because she can’t speak as clearly as she wants to, shaking, convulsing, sneering indignantly with nostrils flared as he ceases his shameless game for whatever reason which exaserbates her umbrage fifty-fold when it is another serving of verbal lambasting he bestows, brunneous muck dripping down her face, she can’t feel her face, mire threatening to fall into her eyes which weighs upon ianthe lashes, lids so overwhelmed that she cannot even lift them without some sort of substantial effort being made on her part.

Even so, her imperturbable stare remains straight, trenchant, piercing into the distance afore her and it is wholly unnerving: eyne ofttimes virid and phosphorescent ( it is no shock that they are outlandishly effulgent and aquiver ) are so illuminated, so sunlit that the light palpitating, pulsing from vats of radioactive acid is yellow, a sinistré, apocalyptic amber, volcanic flow-melt chartreuse-bien that casts gold light on the caked tendrils of her hair coiling unattractively in front of her; subsequent to the completion of his derisive susurrus, she snaps back with the savagery of a livid lioness and ATTACKS.

Voluptuous physique turns slightly to the left in tandem to her right arm sharply shifting from the position it was in prior, hand maintaining a cobra-esque grip upon his wrist despite the surface of his skin being somewhat slimy, and utilizing what seems to be a minimal amount of strength she flings him over her shoulder and unto his back, gleefully inviting the downpour of mud that rises into the air and splashes them both, luxuriating in the sonorous CRASH that she is greeted with as she tightens both of her hands into fists to gain some leverage upon the terra firma, too enthusiastic to pounce on top of him and that she does with the agility of a feline, cuspidated cuticula digging into his legs, rather apathetic apropos to whether or not she draws blood ( it isn’t her intention ( for now ) but she would be far more ebullient if he were bleeding ). Thereafter straddles him, wrenching his arms into place through medium of grabbing both of his wrists and slamming them against his flanks, consequently sitting securely upon his abdomen with her legs wide apart, astride; mayhaps her facial expression isn’t easily seen through the muck ( aside from her inordinately fulgent eyes ) but she is certainly smirking at him, the hardest she ever has, the epitome of vainglorious and malefic. Spasmodic is her lunacy, her ire, simpering nought mere seconds agosupercilious and haughty to show that her pride hasn’t been wizenedand now she is vehemently scowling, placing the palms of her hands next to both sides of his head, leaning over him and snarling is quite loudly, mimicking him quite obnoxiously: ❝❛Do you think this is a game? HAH, SAD, SAD that YOU are the only one PLAYING—❞ She is unbelievably condescending, caustic and her belittling tone takes a more patronizing approach, ❝❛I don’t give a damn who you’ve killed at whatever ludicrous event you have been to, wah, I’m Genesis and I’m a big baby and I talk like I’ve eaten shit my entire life and I look like shit, a red piece of shit with a nothing for a brain—!

Coetaneous to her vitriolic words do adroit hands move, gripping around his neck and applying a preternatural amount of pressure whilst she begins togratuitouslyadminister a forceful brutality normally saved for her adversaries constricting around said neck, in which she swiftly ceases attempting to asphyxiate him, removing her left hand from whence it came andwith the expedition of electricity—raises her hand adjacent from her head and brings her knuckles down upon his nose with disconcerting force, the likes of which he probably wouldn’t ever dare her to afflict his face with, thereafter flattening the palm of her hand against his countenance, pushing him down further into the mud, pressing the bottom of her palm against his mouth in an eerie fervor, disappointed that she can’t see how carmine his flesh must have turned, pressing the top of her palm against his nose and purposely smothering him, snerking about it, denying him the ability to speak correctly as he had done to her, periodically shoving her fingers into his nose and sticking clay up his nostrils.

We? Go together? I think you’re mistaken, I’M GOING TO FUCKING KILL YOU. Mud won’t be the only thing I’m covered in when I’m done. I’m going to wear your internal organs like armor to the coronation. People will ask me what I have on and I’ll say all three layers of GENESIS’ FUCKING DISGUSTING SKIN.

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     These heathen souls—
     of course Hell welcomed it.
     Hell of Earth, Hell of Gaia,
     Hell of All.

     A blur— the world. This entire world some unforgiving stage that sapped away all that made him grand. His war accoutrements, the bills and byrnies that sprinkled flesh with eternal marks of struggle, were ineffective due to the water’s absence and rendering him utterly and stupendously weak under one whom was more bravely fitted out. She were closer to the Earth. Her general perception not weighed down by whatever energies that seeped into his mind and obscured the most spectacular of his meticulous plots, and one whose limbs were out-eager, a vessel of precocious magicks, that could still function undisturbed by whatever whispers warbled subdued screams into the shell of his ears. Aye— he had become a blind man; a deaf and still man. Stiller than the pale lordliness of the ash-tree whose idle sways were theatrical displays of fire-white over the expanse of a green world; impartial to the knighthood of the glens. Aye— he were stiller than such. Locked and refused; his own powers and strength crippled by the annular successions of apparitional fangs that bore against his conscious and done away all the flames of anarchy that he could have easily summoned to rebuke her own reprimands—

     It made him feel sick.

     Embarrassment, exasperation, envy— all these faring into the flood’s sway of his abhorrence; morphing and christening themselves into disgruntled swells of anger, adversity and ambition. This world kept taking away. The hazel-spotted mud that cushioned weakened legs another extension of its cruelty as everything, even the specks and bold smudges that smeared incomprehensible calligraphy across his cheeks, were laden with that same sadistic mass far more ruthless than that of Gaia. Even the airs, the uncanny oxygen, was affecting the fervor of fire-conduits and more, consummating its mortal desire to have every ounce of his being at the mercy to the forces at work.

    And so that pride that always swelled at his core, the one that she habitually mocked at the dawning of all their pointless reunions, was swirling into an abyss of muted despair as every flick and apathetic flare of her gaze shot torrents of acerbity into his direction. Aye— their place on the sill of life would forever be adorned with the conflict that their ego brought forth. Both cantankerous, both fuelled by dishevelled infernos that they could conjure to the tips of dragon-slaying hands. It were difficult for one to imagine a situation where they were not at each others throats. They mocked one anothers failings, even the meagre, their self-worth high above their heads when, in fact, they both meant nothing in the grand scheme of things. They were repulsive. Smitten by glory and in-love with the breadth and brilliance of their own out-dated talents.

    They laughed at each other.
    They beat each other.
    They were out of control.

    He expected her to fight back, but misjudged his own handicap.

    That aforementioned weakness, the one that drills holes in his arms and leaves him breathless even on these short hikes, had left him haltingly slow and ill-prepared. It comes like lightning. A black sheep separated from its meandering flock; wreaking havoc down his spine and winding his lungs the moment his back made contact with the earth. He hears the squish of verdant waste first, then the fly of unseemly orts and oddments of chewed leaves and hardened dirt clotting the sky above him before the view is invaded by the fulgent emeralds of dual-irises. It’s volcanic; the petulance and peevishness that mars a countenance that was previously decked with the lavish twines of diamonds that undoubtedly would have lost themselves in the sea of rot that they fought upon, his lower legs feeling the point of stilettos whose cause was far more aggressive than the harsh gestures of sweetbrier. She would remain ignorant to the sort of suffering he was feeling now. The black aileron that he oppressively kept contained ‘neath aching scapula forced against networks of bones that should never regard it, inducing pockets of numbness to taint and temper once dexterous joints as his features contort into all expressions of agony. He knows, knows so exceptionally well, that she would love this sight. The boastful fire-earl, once teeming with confidence as he slammed her head repeatedly into the ground that adored her, was now writhing and despondent under his victim; made heavier by gravity and no longer some dainty little lass he could throw over his shoulder.

    He did not want to scream.
    He did not want to acknowledge the wails of his wing—

    — but he could not move.
   He has never felt so helpless before.

    Her mimicry is adhered, but he cannot respond. His eyes — once demonstrative like maelstroms, of thunder-clouds clipping low-trailing clap of the tempest — could only stare into a blurring face framed by the matted purples and the soiled whites of her semblance as she breathed and bellowed obscenities into ears becoming more and more deaf. The Earth’s favoritism assisted her triumph with the legions of all those things that despised the presence of something that should not be here. He felt as if he were trapped beneath constantly forming layers of hard-stone, all high-strung by their wretched desire to flatten and lay waste to cosmic objects that flew in from rival worlds, ready to squeeze out all essence of life until their land was untainted. His hands and legs could not longer function. His mind currently flitting between what it should really worry about now filling with alarmable swells of apprehension that boomed with each burst of her tongue. And they were words that would dull the inconstant shine of his scrutiny. Beckoning the lions and tigers of war to come forth and ravage him when he was at his weakest, taking advantage of the opportunity, as the sudden thoughts of him being here sunk beneath the hysterical pops and pants that his hypersensitivity ferried.

    He was now choking. She was strangling him.

    Aye— the effects of everything, in a delayed reunion, would suddenly increase by tenfold. Sounds that were meant to be quiet, like the splatter of gunk and the far-off twitter of a song-bird, would join with the earthquakes of sound that brimmed his head with cacophonies of nonsense. The colours of the world: they too would become unbearable. The blanched pinks of all her bodily imperfections bleeding into the increased vividness of her hair, blinded by the fluctuating opacities of her eyes as everything brightened and lost itself in the creeping blur of white that left him undiscerning of his plight. Destitute of vision and deafened by the loud war of things: Genesis, for the first time in his life, wanted to concede. His unresponsiveness does him little favours. The weakening of her hold only delivering bone-crushing knuckles to send another blow of wind-cloven rage into all his senses, blood welling up at the peak of his nose before he can feel the trickle of sanguine spreading luscious and iron-ridden tastes over the bloated wave of his upper-lip. He knows not where he musters the energy, and perchance the courage, to lift a hand to wrap weakly around one that still held all his words. Shaking intermittently, the spasms multiplying when she forces his skull deeper into the rising graves of sludge and soot, and tightening only minutely when she blocks secondary airways with silt, clay and fingers barbed with resentment. 

    He can only hope, for once, that she realizes. 
    Perchance she expects his fight, but no fight can come.
    She took advantage of his isolation.
    He is beaten.

     ”When one is inspired by melodies— oh.

ooc: Eyyy, I am awake and it’s the weekend and I’m probably going to just be sitting in my drafts typing away and I know I still have starters to write but I’m not sure when I will get to them because I have anime to catch up with and other things to do woot.

update & links;

ooc: okk— I’m at work right now but just thought I’d leave a note that I have a few multi-para/novella stuff still in my drafts and I’ve been going around plotting with some folk and still have starters to write. For those who may have just followed, I work 45hrs a week, which means I’m very slow during the weekdays now //shot. Be sure to check out my guidelines, my about, my threads page (for those concerned about a thread) & if you want, my personal blog is stalkable too!

tagged as #ooc; #queue