#I can feel her spiteful being poisoning my soul day after day | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

theartofdreaming1 · 3 years

Photo

As usual, my thoughts regarding this week’s prompts and random thoughts on chapters 25-27 are below the cut.

heart

The imagery that really caught my attention this time was Peeta pointing out the changes in the moon to Katniss: The only indication of the passage of time lies in the heavens, the subtle shift of the moon. So Peeta begins pointing it out to me, insisting I acknowledge its progress and sometimes, for just a moment I feel a flicker of hope before the agony of the night engulfs me again. - So for one, we see another example of Peeta focusing on the small details in life (which I’ve previously hypothesized to being an important element in his recovery from his hijacking) as well as Peeta being the one to give Katniss hope, even if it’s just for a brief moment. Also, it’s a nice parallel to Katniss looking at the moon and desperately wishing for it to be “her moon” back in chapter 23. As a nocturnal person, I also love watching the moon from my living room window🌙

mind

Hmmh, I don’t think that Katniss and Peeta’s win was predetermined - although I do believe that by introducing the romantic angle, they significantly improved their odds. A Career winning the Games is not really that special and exciting, since it happens so often (although Careers generally satisfy that excitement for violence/blood/gore, that plenty of Capitol people seem to share). As a volunteer from District 12, who achieved an extremely good training score and proved herself to be very capable in the arena already, Katniss definitely had an edge by playing into the classic underdog story, which offered another exciting “narrative” for the Capitolites to follow - that, coupled (heh) with the romance angle Peeta introduced? Katniss (and Peeta) definitely had the entertainment (and excitement through novelty) factor on their side. Ironically, Cato’s chances of winning were not as good as he expected, precisely because he was playing it by the book.

soul

Poor Peeta (and Katniss), it hurts that their relationship was in such a rocky place by the end of the book. Especially those weeks right after the end of Book 1, when there were still cameras around District 12 and they had to pretend while hurting must have sucked big time🥺

Chapter 25

Ugh, the muttations are just so unsettling... *shudder*

Honestly, I’m just so impressed by Peeta’s presence of mind to draw that X on Cato’s hand, after he had just most of his calf ripped off, only to be grabbed and put in a headlock by Cato! He and Katniss work insanely well under pressure

God, Cato’s death is just so gruesome and awful... In the end, his “gift” from the Feast doesn’t help him win at all, but instead ends up prolonging his suffering a cruel amount... I wonder if in general these “gifts” come with a string attached (aside from the expected danger of trying to get them, I mean) - because the Gamemakers also intend for Katniss’s “gift” (medicine for Peeta) to force an even more cruel outcome on her - saving him from blood poisoning only to be forced into killing him herself... 🤔

I’m not sure if this is exactly medical protocol, but I’m terrified that if he drifts off he’ll never wake again. “Are you cold?” he asks. He unzips his jacket and I press against him as he fastens it around me. - Katniss is terrified of the idea of Peeta dying; at the same time, Peeta worries about her freezing - I can’t with these two 😩

Peeta begins to doze off now, and each time he does, I find myself yelling his name louder and louder because if he goes and dies on me now, I know I’ll go completely insane. He’s fighting it, probably more for me than for him - Katniss can’t lose any more people she cares about 😢; on a different note, Peeta fighting his unconsciousness “probably more for [Katniss] than for him” points out one of the crucial elements Katniss brings into Peeta’s life - she is that someone for whom he will fight - including for his own life and well-being - even when it feels easier to give up... Having that person in your life that keeps you going can make all the difference - if Katniss hadn’t had Prim and promised her “to really, really try” to win (and later also made Rue the same promise), I’m not sure she would have made it this far; it’s the thought of Prim anxiously watching her after Rue’s death, that forces Katniss to keep going, to not give in to despair after that particular traumatic event - Peeta, on the other hand, didn’t really have that kind of person in his life, as he will point out on the beach in CF (and Katniss acknowledges herself that the only person who will be devasted if Peeta dies is her)... that is not to say that neither Katniss nor Peeta aren’t fighters on their own - but it helps to have someone that inspires you to not give up

the adrenaline pumping through my body would never allow me to follow him, so I can’t let him go. I just can’t. - We’ll see the mirrored version of this by the end of Mockinjay

Pity, not vengeance, sends my arrow flying into [Cato’s] skull. - Another act of rebellion, technically (sure, this can be spun as Katniss killing Cato so she and Peeta may win - before Peeta dies from blood loss - but we know better - Katniss’s motivation was compassion for her supposed enemy)

We inch down to the tail of the horn and fall to the ground. If the stiffness in my limbs is this bad, how can Peeta even move? - Peeta is tough as nails, yo!

Before I am even aware of my actions, my bow is loaded with the arrow pointed straight at his heart [...] I drop my weapons and take a step back, my face burning in what can only be shame. “No,” he says. “Do it.” [...] “I can’t,” I say, “I won’t.” - In spite of her initial reflex, Katniss chooses Peeta/ chooses not to kill him; it’s a recurring theme in their relationship (despite her wariness of others, she chooses to open up to Peeta eventually; although she vowed to never marry and have children, she’ll choose to have a family with Peeta); also, my psychology-brain just noticed how this moment illustrates how harmful thoughts/impulses don’t have to determine your actions and are not an indicator of who you are - it’s about what you choose to do

“You’re not leaving me here alone,” I say. Because if he dies, I’ll never go home, not really. I’ll spend the rest of my life in this areny trying to think my way out. - Again, makes me think of MJ; also, I think that from this point onwards, Katniss and Peeta are officially linked together forever; the bond they forged during this traumatic experience will connect them to each other until the day they die

“On the count of three?” Peeta leans down and kisses me once, very gently. “The count of three,” he says. - My heart😭

Chapter 26

... while our muscles are immobile, nothing is preventing the blood from draining out of Peeta’s leg. Sure enough, the minute the door closes behind us and the current stops, he slumps to the floor unconscious [...] Through the glass, I see the doctors working feverishly on Peeta, their brows creased in concentration [...] I’m not sure, but I think his heart stops twice. - Peeta was in such a bad shape by the end of the Games; I’m still kinda salty that the movie really glossed over this fact :/

... they’re taking Peeta but leaving me behind the door. I start hurling myself against the glass, shrieking and I think I just catch a glimpse of pink hair - it must be Effie, it has to be Effie coming to my rescue - when the needle jabs me from behind. - Oh geez, in Catching Fire Katniss will also get sedated in a hovercraft because she’s upset about being separated from Peeta 😢 (also, Katniss thinking that Effie is coming to her rescue 😭)

While she [Lavinia, the avox] adjusts my pillows, I risk one question. I say it out loud, as clearly as my rusty voice will allow, so nothing will seem secretive. “Did Peeta make it?” She gives me a nod, and as she slips a spoon into my hand, I feel the pressure of friendship. - Katniss is so considerate of Lavinia’s situation, and Lavinia’s giving her a gesture of comfort and support; they’ve never been able to have a proper conversation (Katniss doesn’t even know Lavinia’s name), but still they managed to build up such a bond - compassion certainly is a strong thing to behold 😭 (and this whole scene is just through and through about compassion, with Katniss asking how Peeta is doing!)

Home! Prim and my mother! Gale! Even the thought of Prim’s scruffy old cat makes me smile. Soon I will be home! - Katniss is so excited to see her home and her loved ones again

I want to get out of this bed. To see Peeta and Cinna - Aww, the two people she grew closest to over the course of the past weeks (Haymitch will be added to that list in just a smidge)

Or do I hear a man’s voice yelling? Not in the Capitol accent, but in the rougher cadences of home. And I can’t help having a vague, comforting feeling that someone is looking out for me. - Thank God for Haymitch!

And behind one of them [doors] must be Peeta. Now that I’m conscious and moving, I’m growing more and more anxious about him [...] “Peeta!” I call out, since there’s no one to ask - Katniss is sick with worry over Peeta; romantic feelings or not, she cares so fricking much for him by now!

I run for them [Effie, Haymitch, and Cinna] and surprise even myself when I launch into Haymitch’s arms first. When he whispers in my ear, “Nice job, sweetheart,” it doesn’t sound sarcastic. - These reunion scenes are so intense and heartwarming! And then Katniss asks about Portia and Peeta because their presence would make this scene complete

when I asks for seconds, I’m refused. “No, no, no. They don’t want it all coming back up on the stage,” says Octavia, but she secretly slips me an extra roll under the table to let me know she’s on my side - It’s moments like these that help humanize Katniss’s prep team - they might be shallow, they might be completely oblivious and ignorant, but they aren’t that bad [of course, the prep team chattering about their mundane lives while talking about the event that ended with the deaths of 22 children shortly after, leaves a bad taste in our mouths]

I immediately notice the padding over my breasts, adding curves that hunger has stolen from my body. My hands go to my chest and I frown. “I know,” says Cinna before I can object. “But the Gamemakers wanted to alter you surgically. Haymitch had a huge fight with them over it. This was the compromise.” - God, the idea that the Gamemakers wanted to give a boob job to an unconscious, malnourished 16-year-old girl makes me sick 🤢 (Also, what’s the flipping deal about boobs?! As a pretty flat-chested gal, I’ve always been annoyed that there are barely any bras my cup size that are not push-up ones; I’m not self-conscious about it, so stop making me pretend that I’m bustier than I actually am!)

“I thought it’d be something more... sophisticated-looking,” I say. “I thought Peeta would like this better,” he [Cinna] answers carefully. Peeta? No, it’s not about Peeta. It’s about the Capitol and the Gamemakers and the audience. Although I do not yet understand Cinna’s design, it’s a reminder the Games are not quite finished. - Ugh, that sinking feeling when Katniss and the reader realize that the Games are still not over... Sidenote: Peeta flirted up a storm with grimy, bloodied Katniss and complimented her when she wore Cinna’s first, absolutely badass costume (”You should wear flames more often”)... Katniss’s girlish outfit has nothing to do with Peeta and she knows it... Cinna could have dressed Katniss up in a trash bag and Peeta would have been smitten - although a trash bag by Cinna would probably still look pretty good ;)

“How about a hug for luck?” Okay, that’s an odd request from Haymitch but, after all we are victors. Maybe a hug for luck is in order. - Aww, Katniss actually wouldn’t have minded giving Haymitch a hug just because - sadly, this is about survival tips instead :/

But what was it Haymitch said when I asked it he had told Peeta the situation? That he had to pretend to be desperately in love? “Don’t have to. He’s already there.” Already thinking ahead of me in the Games again and well aware of the danger we’re in? Or... already desperately in love? I don’t know. I haven’t even begun to separate out my feelings about Peeta. It’s too complicated. - Poor Katniss... she didn’t have the time and peace of mind to sort out her feelings regarding Peeta before they all got tied up and muddled with her need for survival. Now she’ll be having an even harder time trying to untangle that mess :(

Chapter 27

Then there’s Peeta just a few yards away. He looks so clean and healthy and beautiful, I can hardly recognize him. But his smile is the same whether in mud or in the Capitol and when I see it, I take about three steps and fling myself into his arms [...] He rights himself and we just cling to each other while the audience goes insane. He’s kissing me and all the time I’m thinking, Do you know? Do you know how much danger we’re in? After about ten minutes of this, Caesar Flickerman taps on his choulder to continue the show, and Peeta just pushes him aside without even glancing at him. - Man, their reunion here always gets me - it would be so fricking good if Katniss didn’t have to worry about their potential doom 😒😔 - she barely has time to just be happy to see Peeta alive and well before slipping back into survival mode while Peeta is just genuinely thrilled to have her in his arms, completely unaware of the pressure and immediate danger Katniss experiences in this moment... It hurts so bad

I’m with Katniss - How did the previous victors endure rewatching those horrible moments from the Games?! I guess because they had to, but oof... I think I’d just completely shut down, blocking out the footage shown, ugh

But I do notice they omit the part where I covered her [Rue] in flowers. Right. Because even that smacks of rebellion. - In such a callous and cruel place as Panem, any act of compassion can be regarded as rebellion, it’s crazy. In a place filled with apathy, hedonism, greed, and cruelty, the most radical things you can exhibit are love, kindness, and respect!

A wave of gratitude to the filmmakers sweeps over me when they end not with the announcement of our victory, but with me pounding on the glass door of the hovercraft, screaming Peeta’s name as they try to revive him. In terms of survival, it’s my best moment all night. - Again, another instance where Katniss’s genuine feelings/reactions to Peeta are get muddled with her need for survival

The one thing I never do is let go of Peeta’s hand. - irrevocably linked with each other

Despite Haymitch’s running interference, I’m determined to see Peeta privately. - Katniss just wants to have an honest and open talk with Peeta 😢 (I get where Haymitch is coming from, and maybe in this instance it’s the right call, but we’ll see a similar situation in the beginning of CF when Haymitch advises Katniss not to tell Peeta about President Snow’s visit and that time, it doesn’t go so well...)

Then Peeta’s there looking handsome in red and white - for someone who isn’t sure whether she’s into him or not, Katniss sure mentions how good Peeta’s looking a lot 😏

“Well, there’s just this and we go home. Then he can’t watch us all the time,” says Peeta. - 👀👀 Peeta is so thirsty here; reminds me of when he pulled Katniss close to him in the cave before they set out to hunt... He clearly believes she’s also “already there” regarding their relationship; he’s never this “suggestive” (can’t think of a better word right now) with her once she lets him know that she doesn’t really know how she feels about him - I feel a sort of shiver run through me and there’s no time to analyze why - Katniss totally isn’t averse to what Peeta’s suggesting here, either (though there’s probably also a healthy amount of fear mixed in with the thrill of being wanted - letting people in can be terrifying)

I can feel Peeta press his forehead into my temple and he asks, “So now that you’ve got me, what are you going to do with me?” I turn in to him. “Put you somewhere you can’t get hurt.” And when he kisses me, people in the room actually sigh. - It’s me; I’m people 🙋🏼‍♀️ (also, the “turn in to him”?!?!! it just suggests such a closeness, I can’t-)

Katniss burying her face in Peeta’s shirt when she’s afraid she might cry learning that he lost his leg 🥺 (how awful it must be to be constantly on display while you’re dealing with your private feelings, ugh)

“... The moment when you pulled out those berries. What was going on in your mind... hm?” [...] It seems to call for a big, dramatic speech, but all I get out is one almost inaudible sentences. “I don’t know, I just... couldn’t bear the thought of... being without him.” - It might not be a super eloquent way to put what she was supposed to say, but this way, Katniss is being perfectly honest (and frankly, if she’d had the chance to properly process her feelings, she would have been able to voice this sentiment with less hesitation)

I go back to my room to collect a few things and find there’s nothing to take but the mockingjay pin Madge gave me. Someone returned it to my room after the Games. - For one, Katniss didn’t think of that pin (again), but also - was the pin returned to her simply because it’s standard procedure or did someone (like Plutarch, for example) arrange for Katniss to get the pin back, to keep her connection to this symbol going?

I stare in the mirror as I try to remember who I am and who I am not. - Poor Katniss! She’s been through so much, experienced so many traumatic events in short succession recently (aside from the trauma she already had), already had problems defining her identity beyond sheer survival, and now the Capitol also keeps pushing an identity onto her and a romantic relationship, when she hadn’t even had the chance to figure out how she felt about that yet

“... Haymitch has been coaching me through the last few days. So I didn’t make it worse,” I say. “Coaching you? But not me,” says Peeta. “He knew you were smart enough to get it right,” I say. “I didn’t know there was anything to get right,” says Peeta. - Oh boy. It’s always so painful to see Peeta realize that he’s been completely out of the loop; again, we’ll see how Katniss and Haymitch adopt a similar strategy in the beginning of CF: banking on Peeta’s good social skills and eloquence and keeping him in the dark. In a way, it’s a sort of compliment they pay to Peeta for being good with people, but, by not telling him, they are also using him for their purpose (which is motivated by caring for and wanting to protect Peeta, but still). Peeta is right to be upset about it - he has always been very clear about not wanting to be used as a piece in anyone’s games, really. And, as we will see later in CF, they are way more effective as a team when they are open and honest with each other.

“It was all for the Games,” Peeta says. “How you acted.” “Not all of it,” I say, tightly holding on to my flowers. “Then how much? No, forget that. I guess the real question is what’s going to be left when we get home?” he says. “I don’t know. The closer we get to District Twelve, the more confused I get,” I say. He waits, for further explanation, but none’s forthcoming. “Well, let me know when you work it out,” he says, and the pain in his voice is palpable. - It’s just so goddamn painful😢 They’ve both been done so dirty by that forced star-crossed lovers of Distrct 12 routine. (Sidenote: I appreciate that Peeta actually gives Katniss the chance to explain herself here - still, it’s too much to deal with on the spot so I can understand why Katniss ended up dropping the ball, even though it’s frustrating to read.)

That it’s not good loving me because I’m never going to get married anyway and he’d just end up hating me later instead of sooner. That if I do have feelings for him, it doesn’t matter because I’ll never be able to afford the kind of love that leads to a family, to children. And how can he? How can he after what we’ve just been through? - Oh Katniss, you certainly are skipping a couple of steps here; I’m pretty sure there are some options in between dating and being married with kids you could look into. Also, she’s just assuming that this is what Peeta wants, but she doesn’t know that at all - As someone who also has this stupid habit of imagining how whole conversations could possibly transpire and then resigning myself to the hypothetical outcome of said imagined conversation instead of actually having them: Don’t do that. ‘Never assume - it makes an ASS out of U and ME.’

I see Peeta extend his hand. I look at him, unsure. “One more time? For the audience?” he says. His voice isn’ t angry. It’s hollow, which is worse. Already the boy with the bread is slipping away from me. I take his hand, holding it tightly, preparing for the cameras, and dreading the moment when I will finally have to let go. - Ma babies! They are both so hurt and both just want to be with each other 😭 But they’ll need some time apart, to figure things out before they can do that.

#thgagain #thg #hunger games #everlark #katniss everdeen #peeta mellark #my sketches and drawings #thg meta

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defectiveconantoy · 3 years

Text

Memories (ShinRan)

Fandom: Detective Conan

Pairing: ShinRan

Rating: T

Genres: Angst, Comfort

Words: 1,535

Author’s Notes: Remember my old WIP? I changed the title and finished drafting it right before @shinranweek was announced. 😅 The story is angst-ish mixed with confort. Enjoy!

“What a gloomy day!” Ran stares at the living room window with a frown on her face before returning to the couch. Shinichi, on the other hand, is fine with staying at home. He calmly stares at the television screen and says, “I wouldn’t worry. There’s always tomorrow. We can go to the park again, like we did yesterday. And remember, I’m not going anywhere. I’m here to stay. We have time.” That reassured Ran.

The Kudo mansion is quiet this Saturday afternoon, except for the rain lightly tapping on the windows and the sound of soup boiling in the background. Its smell of broth and fresh green onions linger around the living room and near the couch where she and Shinichi were located. Ran constantly switches her attention between the living room and kitchen while Shinichi sits and absentmindedly watches television.

Ran is spending the weekend over at Shinichi’s house. His parents are away for the week, and her father, Kogoro, left town for a case. During her visits, Ran’s favorite activity is to cook warm, homemade meals for an eager and hungry Shinichi, a tradition that first started during his Conan days. Today’s dish is miso soup, the perfect fix for the rainy weather. Good thing the meal sounds good because mothing good is on television right now. Bored, Shinichi daydreams, drifting to flashbacks of the past year’s chaos.

Calling it all chaos is an understatement. Might as well call it having your body and spirit stretched, compressed, stomped on, and slapped around. Being Conan was not easy. It was like one’s soul was screaming but nothing came out because its lips were sealed shut. He wished to tell Ran everything, to run free and stop living a double life and pretending he was not really Kudo Shinichi. The dangerous situation was an imaginary brick wall between him and Ran. He looked forward to finally breaking it and no longer seeing her hurting and waiting.

The Black Organization’s attack on him was a flash of lightning that ruined years of work achieved during his lifetime. Never will he forget the humiliation endured from being knocked down, bloodied, pulled by the hair, and forced to swallow that wretched pill. The poison’s few minutes of piercing, bone melting pain were followed by missed opportunities. Being Conan was a unique experience, but he can’t deny how his new life caused him to temporarily sacrifice his old one. To this day, he struggles to adjust but still manages to move on, in spite of slipping the occasional ah le le and Ran-neechan.

He next thinks about the moment he received the permanent APTX 4869 antidote. Days after receiving the pill, he recalls lying on a couch near Haibara Ai, who observed and documented his reaction to the drug. “Good news, Kudo-kun! Looks like the antidote is working as expected. Your vitals look fine. No heart problems or side effects. Everything looks great. Come back to visit me one week from now.” “Tch! You’d see me anyway. I live right next door,” Shinichi joked back.

At first, he was scared the drug was a fluke and would turn him back into Conan. Luckily, it ended well because he experienced the heart pounding and drastic bone growth without the shrinking afterwards. The worst after-effect was becoming Haibara’s test subject for a few days before her trying the antidote on herself. It was a sacrifice he was willing to make. After all, the first step in facing the Organization and gaining power over them was becoming himself again.

Back to reality. Shinichi shifts his attention back to the television screen and sighs. “Commercials are currently on. Still nothing good! How stupid!” The rain briefly stopped, but the clouds remain present. The house is a bit dark during these daytime hours. Ran is now in the kitchen stirring the soup.

Ran. Shinichi now blushes after he remembers telling her the truth a few weeks ago. He returned to the Mouri residence to pick up Conan’s (or his) belongings. They spoke alone in her bedroom, with her doing most of the talking. And boy, did he feel guilty! The memories hurt. He feels embarassed now while deep in his thoughts as he did then. He lied to her about his identity and used that front to stay at her home, take a bath with her, and unintentionally tune in on secrets she would never tell him as Shinichi.

Their conversation was actually quite a relief. Ran was more upset by him frequently running away to solve cases than over his massive lie. Shinichi felt grateful for her not breaking up with him, though their argument was settled under one condition: she keeps a very close eye on him. At least he finally gets to spend more time with her as himself this time.

He also owes Ran his life after the Black Organization’s defeat. Shinichi initially refused to get her involved. She instead was persistent and unwilling to listen. Never will she make the mistake of letting him run into danger alone again. His fast reflexes and her karate skills helped them escape a deadly kidnapping.

All this thinking makes Shinichi dose off and take a nap. In his sleep, he envisions Ran and himself strapped together, roped by their arms and waists and their backs turned away from one another. Ran lets out a soft cry, “Shinichi. I don’t want to die.” “Don’t say that,” he whispers. “Look, I have a plan. What we will do is —ah!” Gin appears out of nowhere, interrupting his speech before point a gun to his chest and forcing the poison on him again. He shoots and runs away before Shinichi could fight for Ran and himself. His vision is now blurred, and Ran is nowhere to be felt. He whimpers, and right when he becomes concerned about his body shrinking again, he wakes up sweating and screaming.

“Shinichi!” Concerned, Ran immediately darts towards the living room and sits on the edge of the couch. Shinichi’s eyes widened. He jitters, pants, and looks around in all directions before throwing himself at Ran with a tight embrace. She silently smiles and begins stroking his back. “Shhh! There! It’s okay. It’s okay,” Ran whispers before kissing his hair. He moves up and rests his face against her left shoulder. She eventually presses his back as a cue to change positions. “Hmm...please don’t leave,” Shinichi whispers. Ran responds, “Of course not! I just want to adjust myself.” “Oh!”

They settle down. Shinichi turns the TV off and begins talking: “Ran, I just had a nightmare about us. The Black Organization kidnapped us. Gin shot me and left me for dead once more. I couldn’t hear you, and I swore I was going to turn into Conan again. My first encounter with the Organization left me scared for my life. Scared for you too. Scared they would hurt you. I’m sorry again for everything. If I could take back this past year, I would. I betrayed you. I’d stop myself from leaving you behind back in Tropical Land. Back when I was Conan-kun, I wished you knew everything, but it would hurt you. I was also told not to tell you. Agasa-hakase and Haibara —”

“Ai-chan?”

“Yeah, her,” Shinichi continued. She even aimed a gun at me at the hospital after you donated blood to treat my gunshot wound. Or so I thought. It was a fake gun concealing a small bouquet of flowers. She scared me into not telling you about the Organization or Conan-kun’s true identity. I don’t blame her. That girl was really scared. She would panic any time she sensed their presence. Honestly, I was scared too, only better at hiding it. I didn’t want you to ever see me suffering and turning into Conan or get suspicious, discover everything on your own, and get yourself into deep trouble. Sorry again for getting you into this mess.”

“Don’t apologize,” Ran started. “I trust you. I knew you were hurting but couldn’t tell me for some some reason. I waited for the day you’d return and tell me everything face-to-face. When you first left, I’d sometimes think you were out fooling around with other women. But that’s not you. You were pretty close to me before that incident. You, the Deduction Freak, always talking to me about Holmes or the case of the day. Still, you changed since leaving. I sensed it though our phone calls and in Conan-kun.”

He remarked, “Conan was a new experience. I think it provided opportunities. I met the Shonen Tantei-dan, Hattori, Haibara, Akai-san, and so on. I also gained the courage to confess my feelings to you. Anyway, it’s nice to be back. I missed you.”

“I missed you too. I’m glad you’re back. Well, the miso soup is almost ready. Want to help me prepare the table?”

Shinichi replies with a grin, “Sure, Ran-neechan!”

“Here we go again! You can’t get away with your Conan-kun act this time.”

“Haha! I kid, I kid,” Shinichi joked. He smiled in Ran’s direction. “Let’s do this. I’m hungry!”

#dcmk #shinran #shinran fanfic #more shinran goodies #dcmk fanfic #i hope you like it

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mintseesaw · 4 years

Text

Aurora | 4

Pairing: general!jungkook x reader!princess x prince!jimin Genre: angst, fluff, historical au, forbidden love affair au Word count: 8.3k Warnings: themes of abduction and insurgence, imposing abortion as a punishment, story setting is heavily patriarchal // rating: 18+

translations of unfamiliar words will be provided below ^^

*unedited

masterlist

Previously...

“Did you miss me, Princess ________?” You heard him greet from behind. The sultry yet sweet tone of his voice, compelling you to face him as if your unwillingness to meet him so suddenly wasn’t there, anymore.

With a graceful turn, your solicitous expression caused by your unintended tryst last night gone in a flash tipping your chin forward to display a false confidence in front of the prince.

The amusement on his face widens, taking notice of the exceptional glow radiating from the princess. Have you been dolling yourself up just for him? The certain strangeness in the dark of your orbs igniting fire in him before he blinks and it vanishes, gone without a trace of acknowledgement from the weight of your stare.

He crosses the offending distance, smiling sweetly before he took hold of your hand and kisses your knuckles with an ardent gaze clashing against yours that harbor the coldness he had grown accustomed with.

“My lord,” an old man hurriedly attended to Jungkook just as he took an empty table without a word. Must be the owner of the stall. Uttering his request, the owner bobbed his head low before vanishing from his line of vision.

He was supposedly going to have breakfast with you after having tediously cooked the dishes, himself. The lack of light in your eyes and your dead enthusiasm had spoiled his appetite, and severely wounded his soul. Nothing could probably ease the ache sitting beneath his ribcage. Not when the intimacy he shared with you the night before and your cold treatment of him earlier painfully reverberated in his head like a roaring thunder in the sky.

You, giving him mixed signals, confused the hell out of his weak, young heart.

What am I supposed to do with you, Jagiya?

Perhaps, it was the uncertainty that was instigated by your emotions. That must have been the only reason.

Shortly after, the old man came back with an empty cup, pouring it full with rice wine from the bronze pitcher he brought with him. Jungkook mumbled an audible thanks before chugging down the alcohol like an angry man on his bad day.

“This isn’t something we both have a choice of.”

Your voice echoes in his head. A sweet, delicate voice that could easily slice his heart into two with your mere heartless words. A smirk made its way on his face, despite the amusement never reaching up his eyes.

There is nothing left to decide on because you’ll be with him in the end. He wouldn’t leave you, again. He wouldn’t lose his only chance he has to claim you as rightfully his. When he almost lost you back in the days you were young, right in his arms, before his eyes— it was the day he promised to show you what his heart truly desires. Whatever the cost may be.

He had never been that frantic in his life. Not even when he saw with his own eyes the deep cut in his arm gushing too much blood when he was young. Not when two poisonous arrows almost killed him in the battlefield.

When he stripped the covering off of the suspicious cart in search of any sign of you, the last thing he was expecting to see was your unconscious body, with your restrained arms and a piece of cloth stuffed in your mouth. With your aristocratic braids gone, he couldn’t see much of your face as your hair hung loose covering half of your face as your body lied down in a foetal position, as if you tried to make up with the little space the average sized cart provided which was filled dominantly by materials of what looked like rolls of linens of various colors.

He knew it was you.

Despite the filth covering your attire down to the skin of your bare hands, and your seemingly thinner frame, the mere sight of the body screams everything about you.

At the time, his younger self was almost sure he was going to explode at any moment from the excruciating constriction in his chest.

His eyes were livid while they scanned over the blood bathed bodies scattered around the cart that were slain by the sharp edges of his sword, looking for another sign of danger. When he was certain that none of the rebels on the ground were moving, he dropped his weapon.

“Princess!” He calls out, his bloody hands leaving imprints of the dirt-covered article of your hanbok as he shook your shoulders none too gently, desperate to wake you.

To no avail, you remain unconscious. The sight of you in a devastating state dreaded him. His younger self thought his world right there and then was collapsing, his surroundings slowing down and his gaze shrinking and focusing into you alone. Not even a pittance of fear shook him despite killing a group of rebels, none of the fact that he stood there alone fighting for his life did. None. Not until he pulled the bamboo mat off of the cart.

Where the fuck is that old man?

It’s been hours since Lord Min suddenly came up to his residence, forcing him out of his slumber at dawn without telling him the purpose of his abrupt disturbance.

When the scholar said he found another lead, Jungkook only took it lightly—not knowing it would turn out to be the key to finally locate you.

Lord Min led him to a trail behind a group of merchants who were supposed to exchange goods on the capital’s port with Mongolian merchants. When the suspicious group split into two directions— it left him and the scholar no option but to part ways as well. However, Jungkook insisted on following the merchants who particularly brought their supposed cart of goods.

As soon as he took his outer layer of robe to cover it on your shivering body, the morning breeze hits him mercilessly. Discreetly, he gathers you in his arms. As he sets you on his lap on the ground, he removes the cloth in your mouth, while pressing a trembling hand on your chest to feel your heartbeat.

“Your Highness,” he tried once more when he sensed a faint beating against your chest. His hands shuffle to remove the tie around your wrists.

“Come on… open your eyes for me, Princess.” He whispered desperately, tears freely rolling down on his cheeks without him ever noticing.

He gasped when he caught the slightest bit of movement from you. He thought he might have been hallucinating out of his desperation to see you alive. But then, you proved him wrong as your heavy eyelids slowly peeled open, before they closed shut, again.

“Your Highness! Please… do you hear me? Can you open your eyes again?”

You did, and with your slightly parted mouth, you drew a breath in heavily.

“W-Who are you?” you managed to rasp, almost inaudibly. However, he was too close not to miss what you said. Too close to be deemed righteous around the lady he desires. He didn’t care, because your cold body needed as much as heat from him. Nothing else mattered more to him than to save your life.

“It’s me, Jungkook. I am Prince Taehyung’s friend—“

“I-I… must… be dreaming,” you croaked in between dry, painful coughs.

“You’re not dreaming. Please, don’t talk. It's hurting you.” He chokes back a sob.

“Is this real? You finally noticed me,” you pause, only to breathe through your mouth once more. “I’m… tired, I want to rest,” you say without opening your eyes. But the moisture pooling out of your eyes meant one thing to him. You’ve been suffering from immense pain.

“No, no, no. Please, stay with me. Lord Min is coming to get us. He’ll be here soon,” he coos, not caring how he sounded a little more desperate, taking your cold hands up in his mouth to warm them up.

Jungkook continuously rocked your shivering body back and forth on his lap, never removing his eyes on you. He wanted to embrace you tight, cover you with his body to protect you from the horrible cold of the morning weather but he was afraid he would crush you.

He waited, waited and helplessly waited. Lord Min would come find him. That was what he reminded Jungkook as before they parted ways in the woods.

It was him and Lord Min who found you, even when the King had ordered a mass search for his missing daughter.

---

Although your disappearance was largely perceived as abduction, neither evidence nor eye witness was found to support the claim, hence stirring the urge to find you, himself. Roughly 10 days after you were last seen, not even a single trace of your whereabouts had been identified. Something was definitely off with the way the case was being handled. The lack of progress on the investigation drove the King in extreme desperation as well as the court in anguish due to the King’s adverse political decisions.

In spite of the rumors of insurgence spreading like a common gossip story in the villages surrounding the capital, the rumors fall on deaf ears in the court on the possibility that your disappearance was plotted by the rebel forces. As if the missing person was not a princess whom the rebels could use as a pawn to bend the King on his knees.

Jungkook spent most of his days in the capital, inside the gambling houses, pretending to play with men of all sorts of class. On some days, he visited the courtesan’s house capital marketplace under the disguise of an interested guest due to the rumors that some gisaengs, at the time, were avid followers of the insurgence. At nights, he pieced together the collective stories he tediously gathered during the day.

One day, he decided to make progress on his investigation, spying on a group of merchants trading with Jurchen merchants who were pretending under the guise of Mongolian heritage. It was Mina, a gisaeng whom he somehow befriended when his visits at the courtesan’s house had frequented, who shared her discovery of a Mongolian merchant accidentally revealing his identity when he fluently spoke a dialect she distinguished as her mother tongue since she was a Jurchen-born immigrant.

He didn’t find any suspicious or illegal goods being traded on the port nor could he confirm the real heritage of the merchants. However, on his way back to the capital, he was cornered by a man he recognized as one of the merchants in the port.

To his surprise, the merchant was strangely skilled enough to defeat him in a fight— scoring a severe cut on Jungkook’s side. He didn’t think the merchant would be merciful enough to let him live when Jungkook fell to the ground after what seemed like several minutes of intense sword-to-sword combat. Strangely enough, the merchant was forgiving and instead of ending the life out of him, the merchant took his time to scrutinize every item inside the satchel Jungkook brought with him. By then, he had already sensed that the man was anything but a mere trader.

Breathing heavily, he pressed his hand hard to his bloody waist as he watches the merchant curiously unfold a piece of hanji. It was the trade map he had drawn a few days ago, alongside the location where the camp can be found.

Jungkook knew it was over for him as he saw a glint of recognition in the eyes of the merchant.

After what seemed to be a long moment of silence, the merchant looks at him. “What is this map for?”

Jungkook laughed dryly and as his shoulders shook a little, a surge of pain shot in his core. He winces as the sensation doubled over his effort to make fun of the act the merchant was pulling in front of him.

“Are you one of them?”

If the merchant understood what he meant, he simply chose to ignore it. “I’m asking you a question, kid.”

“You’re one of them, are you not? I’m most certain you know what that map is.” Jungkook gritted through his teeth as the pain on his side intensified, spreading like a magma on his midriff.

By now, the merchant’s focus zeroed in on him. “You know about the camp? Who do you work for, kid?” The merchant interrogates, further. Though the man remained passive, Jungkook found it odd to notice the slightest bit of awe in the eyes of the strange man.

“You tell me, you act like you know my every activity.”

The merchant only raised an eyebrow. “Well, here’s the truth. I’m not a rebel. I’m not a merchant, either. I will help you if you tell me what you have gotten about the camp so far.”

Jungkook darted a glare at him. “As you can see, I’m heavily wounded, literally. You think I still care?”

“You’ll live,” the merchant dismisses nonchalantly, which made Jungkook scoff in disbelief.

“Look kid, I’m not going to kill you. But in exchange for your life, you’ll help me follow the movement.”

“It’s not like you gave me an option to decline.” Jungkook weakly contended.

The merchant effortlessly helped him up from the ground, “Come on, my grandfather is a physician. He’ll tend to your wound.”

Jungkook learned that the merchant who introduced himself as Lord Min turned out to be a scholar. He was writing a case relative to the alleged insurgence centering mostly in poor villages in the capital. Although he didn’t fully trust the scholar, sparing Jungkook his life was enough reason for him to disclose the true nature of his investigation to the scholar who was, at the time, penning colloquial stories about the insurgence.

Lord Min paused his scribbling, throwing a look of surprise at his new-found friend. “Did I hear you right? You believed the princess was abducted by the rebels?”

Jungkook only shrugged, already concluding what the scholar would say next. “It’s not the first time someone thought I was going crazy for telling them that.”

“Don’t get me wrong. I have been following the movement for months now,” Lord Min asserted, which prompted Jungkook to look back at him. “And since I heard about the sudden disappearance of the princess, it was the only theory I could come up with. Unless…” Lord Min trailed, taking notice of the interest glinting in Jungkook’s eyes.

“Unless?” Jungkook echoed expectantly.

Lord Min pretended to be in deep thought before adding up, “There is a lover involved.”

In disbelief, Jungkook threw a scornful look at him. “There’s no man in her life, I’m sure of that.” He remarked with conviction, folding his arms in his chest.

To his surprise, Lord Min hollered into fits of laughter, only severing the look of disdain on Jungkook’s expression. “For a young soldier like you, you seemed to be a little more concerned about the princess.” The older man remarked, meaningfully.

---

“Isn’t it too early to be drinking on your own, kid?” Taunts a voice, forcing him out of his reverie. With a lift of his head, his eyes landed on a commoner seemingly older than him adorned in a daffodil shade of a simple robe. Half of the man’s face was covered in conical shaped hat and just as the man tipped it high with his fingers, Jungkook immediately recognized the person standing across his table.

Your breath hitches on your throat as the warmth of his mouth sends tingles straight through your veins. With a subtle tug of your hand from his hold, the prince almost didn’t take your silent plea, not without his companion guard clearing their throat that snapped him out of daze.

If there’s particularly one thing that stood out to him aside from his aristocratic, --almost polished physical features, it was his forthright admission of his feelings on you. The was the he had made a move in regards to feelings. You appreciate the way he had not once tried to break into your boundaries for his satisfaction.

After what had happened, the least person you expected to see is him. The only man who had the guts to be with you despite the rumors that tainted your reputation. Guilt thrums heavily through your veins more than the throbbing of your muscles in your body.

Jimin deserves someone far better than what you can offer. Not with your heart, and most definitely not with your broken chastity.

“Your Excellency,” you greeted, tilting your head low in a subtle bow. Your eyes stayed firm on the ground, refusing to return his stare as you murmur, “I trust your journey has not been too much for you?”

You missed the way your concern roused a smile up on his flawless face or you would have flushed right away. “It was as expected. I am an impatient man, but it was worth the trouble now that my reward is standing in front of me.”

Taken aback at this teasing remark, your mouth unconsciously parted. You didn’t have the time to retract from the proximity he initiated just as he extended his arm, his palm meeting one of your cheeks as he tilts your chin up to meet his gaze. The pad of his thumb feather lightly caresses the softness of your skin there.

The abruptness of his move left you immobile for a moment, the heat coming from his hand involuntarily eliciting goosebumps to come out on your covered arms.

“Have you been well, little flower? I couldn’t be at peace knowing your health is not in the best condition. I was a thread of breath away from forcing my way into your quarters just to check on you myself, but you may never forgive me for if I ever disrespect your privacy.”

“There’s nothing to worry of. Mayhaps... my body has not been reacting too kindly to the cold weather. I had since taken herbal teas to help me recover.” The lie glided smoothly out of your tongue, piercing your lower lip with your teeth to prevent yourself from throwing up out of disgust.

The way his head bobs up lightly made you believe he bought your excuse. “Very well. Will you allow me to accompany you?” He whispers, as if it’s possible to turn down a powerful man like him.

“Of course, Your Excellency.” The smile you plastered on your face was enough to conceal your fears for now.

At your answer, the court ladies immediately hurried towards the recreational area, pulling the wooden chairs for you and the prince to sit on.

You take the opportunity to pull back from his touch as an excuse to occupy one of the chairs.

Mimicking your move, he settled on a seat, one that was the closest to yours. He then motions a dismissive wave on the watchful eyes of his guards, giving him and the rest of the court ladies a silent order to leave you two alone. With a bow, everyone retreated back down onto the ground, obediently.

As he turns his attention back at you, he asks, “Do you like to tease me, Princess?”

“W-What do you mean?” Your stutter evoked a subtle grin to reappear on the corners of his mouth. While your insides are a mess, the delight shining in his eyes lets you know he couldn’t see right through your miserable heart.

The subtle smile on the corners of his mouth stretches wider, “You know I like it when you call me by my name.”

His teasing once again scores a twin stain on your cheeks. Although you remain placid with his remark, he didn’t miss the immediate rush of blood coloring your face that, in return, earned a smirk from him.

Blinking, you straightened your back. “Why are you not appropriately dressed for the season, Your Excellency?”

Prince Jimin beamed in your attempt of changing the subject, eyes glimmering in glee. “My attire is fine. Mayhaps, if you are concerned, I can put on another layer of thick robe.”

Quickly, you shake your head. “There’s no need for such if you don’t feel like the weather is too much for you. Winter has just begun and only a few weeks more before the weather becomes unbearable, especially for envoys like yourself.”

“I can only imagine how our departure would be like.”

“You chose to come to the kingdom during the winter. Is there something that’s urgent on your purpose not to delay it until the weather has calmed down?”

”The only urgent thing I found was to see you. Have I not made it clear from the beginning?”

You purse your lips, afraid to voice out your thoughts. On the other hand, Jimin was way too deep in the subject to notice the slightest bit of trouble reflecting in your eyes.

“I didn’t think any woman would stir my interest after having my heart broken when I was young. You know, my brother—the Emperor gifted me a marriage in exchange for my service in the military. I was supposed to leave the palace for a while to visit my bride. The Emperor halted my plan only to have me represent him on his behalf during the coronation of Queen Soheon. If I didn’t come here, I would have been married by now.”

Burying your trembling hands on your lap, you distracted yourself with the beauty of the winter blooms on the pond, swallowing the gasp that threatened to spill as an involuntary reaction. His revelation left a lasting impact on you. In your head, you could hear yourself screaming the truth in front of him. He shouldn’t be this infatuated over you.

“Perhaps, you are well enough to company out of the palace? You still owe me a tour to the capital.” The prince posits all too suddenly.

Swiftly, he stood up and offered a helping hand in front of you. The sun is barely out, concealed with the thick layers of clouds to which is a great opportunity to wander around in the marketplace. Your false confidence slowly faltering as seconds turn to minutes with his gaze sweeping on your whole length. You accepted his hand, granting his wish. It was the least you could do to make up for him travelling a thousand miles to see you.

The following day, an event is set to be held in Changdeok to pay tribute for army’s victory in defeating the rebel forces in one of the borders in Joseon. Hours earlier than the customary outset in the palace, the finishing touches on the day’s festivities have already been wrapped up by the court ladies even before the sun rises on the east.

Historically, the day held no significance to the royal court nor to any prominent military figure in the nation. However, some weeks prior to the present day, the king received a letter from the young general relative to the army’s arrival to the capital, hence, the sudden establishment of a dogam to organize a jinchan for the returning heroes from the northern border.

With the anticipated attendance of the royal family in the morning banquet, you were forced to rise at dawn to prepare for your participation for the festivity.

Shortly after the attendants have finished braiding your hair, your morning tea was served just before you are set to leave your quarters.

“There will be two more banquets after the event in the morning, Your Highness.” Hyowon, one of the court ladies attending to your daily nourishment answers when you absentmindedly voiced out your thought as she pours a tea on your cup.

Fortunately, you were not foolish enough to utter the name of the man who’s been haunting your dreams since time immemorial. She may only be a distant relative of Jungkook, but the same blood runs thick in their veins and you wouldn’t want to embarrass yourself in front of anyone, much less to anyone related to him.

You nodded, taking your cup and hold it up to your lips.

Traditionally, the nighttime festivity is said to be the most anticipated from all sorts of celebrations as the audience who are commonly from noble descent look forward on the performances of high-class entertainers. Jungkook is obligated to attend all the events for the day as one of the honorary guests of the jinchan.

The supposed banquet is going to be your first attendance in a political gathering ever since you were given the title of a gongju on your seventh birthday. The thought was making you uneasy in some way in case something unforeseen transpires during the celebration, that it would be denunciated by the curse you were forced to live with in your lifetime. However, the thought of him present in the same room with you brings more in disarray.

A court lady from the dogam came to escort you to the reception afterwards. And not long after the arrival of Queen, the massive doors of the dining hall flew opened, revealing the King as he enter the premises.

Perhaps, you would still have had a clear view on whole expanse of the dining hall if not for the ivory article covering the totality of the platform where you and the rest of the royal palace women.

Meals have been simultaneously served just as the King had announced the ceremonial toast indicating the beginning of the celebration. An instrumental piece played by the musicians proceeded after, keeping the atmosphere pleasantly solemn despite the audible chatters in the hall.

From your seat, you could only see the king’s back as he led the banquet—sitting at the head of the table while the rest of the state and military officials sat in two long sets of vertically-arranged sobans. Despite the barrier, it was not difficult for you to locate where the man of your thoughts was settled at just by the mere sight of his silhouette. There he was beside Prince Taehyung, seemingly fascinated with the performances on the center if not occupied with something Prince Taehyung was telling him.

You could never change the way you treated him so poorly, yesterday. Your hostility was uncalled for, but perhaps, it was enough to displease him enough to lose his interest in you.

“You are not eating your meal, Gongju. Are the dishes not to your liking?” Princess Consort Sooyoung asks. Unlike you, your sister-in-law seems to enjoy the sumptuous serving on the soban, as opposed to your lack of enthusiasm on the food.

“It’s not that. Perhaps, it was too early for me to consume anything solid after I had my morning the tea.”

You drag your hand up on the table, picking up the pair of chopsticks to nestle them in between your fingers. To ease her worry, you attempted to touch the sweet flavored delicacy among the servings.

The banquet progressed rather slowly. As hours passed by, your legs grew numb from the lack of physical movement. It didn’t help that the remnants of muscle aches from your intimacy with Jungkook still lingers. Your sister-in-law caught the discomfort in your expression.

“Gongju,” Princess Consort Sooyoung calls for your attention, once more.

Tearing your gaze away from Jungkook, you tilt your head on the side to meet her solicitous eyes.

“Is your breathing alright? I noticed your heaving has frequented.”

“Uhh...I’m alright, Bubuin.” You falter. Instinctively, your eyes flew back to where he was situated. Your sister-in-law followed the trail of your gaze, and it was only then that she had pieced together the reason.

She chuckles softly, “I thought you were having difficulty with your breathing.”

Your face incredibly flushed with her words.

She didn’t attempt to speak to you after that, seemingly distracted in one of the ceremonial performances of the banquet.

Three hours later, the first phase of the jinchan had finally come to conclude to your relief.

When it was your turn to be escorted out of the hall, you couldn’t help but skim your eyes across the expansive lot. Of course, the chances of running into him are very slim to none. Not only that he was in a rush to leave the reception, but he would also take the path on the west out of the palace while you would take the opposite direction to go back to your quarters.

You thought wrong. Because the moment you arrive at the entrance of the Gyeongbok, you catch on the back of his frame on the small stretch between the library and the tall concrete wall.

Your heart instantly jumped at the mere sight of him adorned on the same uniform he wore the day before. But something didn’t make sense. What is he doing in the main palace—hiding there right after the banquet has ended?

The court lady remained still behind you as you tried to build up the courage to approach him. Perhaps, apologize for your behavior yesterday. But then as he shifted on his feet, you caught a glimpse of a hanbok across him— appearing nothing like the clothing of any man. A lady.

“You have the freedom to choose any woman in your life.”

Your own words hurriedly came rushing back on you, nearly losing your footing when the weight on your chest grew heavier. You couldn’t breathe.

“Princess—” you jumped at the sound of a low baritone voice from behind, the same voice you’ve known by heart since you were little.

Sheepishly, you turned to face your brother, his forehead crumpled causing his eyebrows to meet into a line.

“You looked like you’ve seen an apparition,” Prince Taehyung jests, with his face remaining passive without a trace of playfulness despite his obvious teasing.

That’s because you did! You seethed, internally. With an ugly emotion slowly seeping through your veins, you find it difficult to display indifference as if something—someone was not putting you in an emotional distress.

“Your Excellency,” you greeted half-heartedly.

“You are aware about the luncheon tomorrow, right? I am expecting you in my courtyard, little flower.”

“Of course,” You briefly answered. His face finally stretched into a grin, ruffling your neatly braided hair before bidding a farewell.

When you spun back to peer at the spot where Jungkook and his female companion were standing— nothing. No one was there anymore. Jungkook is gone, and so is the lady he was with.

The scene remained etched in your brain the rest of your day. Being unable to stay still in the confines of your quarters, you decided to do readings in in the library.

You were alone, just like what you have asked to your attendants, with the exception of a guard outside. Shortly after going through the shelves in the House of Yi section, you once again stumbled upon a book of biographical sketches after secretly reading the book several years ago. The sight of it alone refreshes your memory of the things you have discovered written in the pages of the books—specifically about Princess Moyoung, your grandfather’s eldest sister who slowly died in the hands of her husband who was born from a fourth class family.

It was said to be the matter that pressured the next royal generations to marry off any king’s daughter to a yangban which was prohibited prior to the princess’ unfortunate case to avoid any arising political conflicts.

It was the same thought that bothered you even when you had gone back in your quarters, bathed, and dressed in your night robe. If your father were still living, would he insist on keeping you in the palace? Or would he allow your supposed matrimonial union with Jimin over one with Jungkook?

However, you understand that either selection is a sacrifice. Life is about losing something to gain something else. You know what will be taken from you if you were to possibly end up with Jungkook. But what could you have possibly gained if you were to lose the man who owns your soul? An extravagant life with the prince?

The ache in your heart has sat idly in your chest since this morning. Your time in the library seemed to have worsened your distress as pain starts to sear in your head.

You stood up. Your attendant mimicking your movement to smoothen the sleeves of your silk robe. “I do not wish to be followed,” you simply say. They crouched their upper body low, conveying a silent message of obedience.

As you pass through the L-shaped corridor leading to the outdoor of your quarters, the rectangular hallway making up the main pathway of the courtyard is eerily quiet and empty. With subtle luminance provided by the light torches on each post you passed by, it was just as exactly the way you expected Gyeongbok during this time around. The reason why you chose to be alone since no one else will run into your way this time of night.

However, at your third turn, just as you enter the borderline of the queen’s courtyard, you hear a distinct sound of door opening from afar followed by the heavy, collective footsteps ringing in the air. As the footsteps grew louder, you hurriedly ran to the side of the greenhouse to hide, afraid of being seen without a companion to look after your care.

“Your Majesty!”

You bite your lip as your heartbeat picks up at the sound of a male voice—assumingly the queen’s eunuch, as if in desperation to stop Her Majesty to wherever she intends to go at this hour.

You didn’t know how long you were hiding there at the side of the greenhouse but it wasn’t long enough for you to be able to hold your breath until the traces of the footsteps were fading.

When any sign of human sound was out of earshot, you finally heave a sigh out of relief, taking a solid peek through the corner of the wooden wall to confirm your guess. Considering the pathway clear and safe from any presence, you cautiously proceed back to your footpath.

Merely focused on either side of your vision, you failed to sense that someone was making their way onto your direction. Their presence became known only when your arm was snatched from behind and a calloused palm right away covered your mouth, losing your chance to call for help. Panic immediately surges through your veins, your shock causing you to freeze momentarily.

Even without having a single look at your perpetrator, the feel of his thick arm around your waist lets you know you don’t stand a chance against their immense built and incredible strength. Just as you recovered from your shock, you frantically squirmed about against their hold but the more you struggle, the tighter their arm gets around your waist, pulling you flushed against their body.

“Why is Lady Yi- being punished?” Demanded Queen Soheon the moment she stepped foot inside the King’s quarters.

King Namjoon sprang up to his feet to meet her half-way, concern stirring immediate in him at the sight of his wife, noting the way her voice unusually croaked and holding such heavy emotion. He silently curses, taking notice how upset she had seemed to be over the scandal the concubine had caused all to herself.

“Sit down, my love. You shouldn’t allow your emotions to run high, it’s not good for your condition.”

Queen Soheon is always calm and graceful no matter how grave the situation is. He had not once witnessed her lose her innate grace ever since he married her, with the exception of the times he was intimate with her.

“Why?” She repeated, her eyes burning with fire.

“My love—”

“Jeonha, please… stop with your sweet filters and answer me why you didn’t stop them from forcing her to drink the medicine?”

He sighs just as he attempted to place her in his embrace. To his dismay, she pulled a good amount of distance between them, clearly setting the line of her anger on the matter, right straight to him.

How can he possibly be sure you would never find this matter out when only a slip of a tongue can give her the idea of what transpired some hours ago.

“You know I cannot disrespect Halma-mama’s power when it comes to the women in the inner court.”

As the Grand Royal Dowager Queen holds the highest rank in the inner court, it would only be necessary to say his grandmother ordered the punishment, when in fact it was never her idea to impose a harsh discipline on the concubine. However, the appeal of the elders in the inner court to decide on the fate of her unlawful conceiving resulted in a consensus decision to abort the unborn child. Unless the queen is proven to be sterile, the inner court strictly prohibits the harem to carry a King’s child.

“She is carrying your child!”

He knows that, very well. But he wished his wife would refrain from carrying the weight of her emotions as it might put a toll on her health and consequently affect their unborn child. “Calm down,” King Namjoon prompted cautiously.

He could never forgive himself for failing to protect his unborn child from being stripped off the chance to live in a world where his/her father rules out a kingdom. Never in this lifetime and in the next would he ever learn to spare himself the forgiveness.

“You know, Lady Li and I are both with child. If I were not your queen, you’d simply allow them to get rid of my child, would you not?”

He reaches out, once more. “No, no. Of course, not. Not under my watch.”

But the queen was quick enough to retract from the close proximity.

Perhaps, he was right. He cannot have the power to overrule the inner court, but why does his words feel insincere? It made her suddenly fear for her own child’s life despite the position she holds. When her mother warned her about the sickening life in the palace and the doctrines in the inner court, she never thought it would come to this extent.

How can she look at his family and pretend everything is alright. One wrong move and might lose her child as well.

All too suddenly, she could feel herself slowly being overwhelmed with disgust, needing the urge to throw up.

She couldn’t stand being here, to see anyone just yet. She fixes a glare at her attendants, warning them not to follow her. Her eyes lingered on him for a second before she took a swift turn, exiting her way out of the vicinity.

With quick strides, he followed her trail, only to spin back around, skimming through each one of servants in his quarters.

“No one must follow me or the queen,” his eyes particularly burned at his eunuch. “Do you understand?” He glowered, not waiting for them to answer as he too disappeared into the halls of his royal residence.

When you felt their grasp loosening, you began thrashing out as fear dominated your senses. Even with their hand pressed firmly on your mouth, you could hear your own sobs croaking out of your throat. And as if your pellucid fear had triggered them to stiffen, their hold around your waist loosened. But the adrenaline running in your senses all vanished the moment they finally spoke.

“Jagiya.”

Your eyes went round, recognizing the owner of the voice. He lets his hand fall from your mouth.

”J-Jungkook?” you hesitated. While you remained flushed against his body, you couldn’t be sure of their identity.

Swiftly, he spun you around to confirm your assumption for yourself. The light torches were a little far where you two stood but there was no denying it was him, judging by the little features of his face you could make out through the help of the vibrant moon lighting up in the sky behind him.

Yet, his action had already shaken you up, feeling the loud beating of your heart. All of your emotional baggage rushing all at once, you couldn’t help but lash out to him, seeing his chest as a target to release all your frustrations.

“Why did you do that?! I thought I was being kidnapped,” you anguished, horror remained etched on your face.

He took all your hits without a fight as guilt all too sudden consumed him after realizing the effect of what he had done. “I’m sorry, Jagiya. I didn’t mean to scare you,” he murmurs, drying the moisture on the corners of your eyes with his thumbs. The moon was like a spotlight focused solely on yours, giving him the clear view of your weary face.

It wasn’t long before you calmed down. Now, all you feel is shame as your anger washes out of your system with every hit of your fist against his chest. Your head bobbed lower, “Just... don’t do that, again.”

Hearing him whisper a promise not to repeat the same mistake, you all but give him a curt nod, allowing the silence to fill in the moment.

Jungkook, once again, made you upset, the second time he had gotten himself close to you after his return to the capital. Must he keep making you in anguish just whenever he’s around you? It was wrong of him to catch your attention the way he had just done when he could’ve simply called you out to do it. But after seeing the queen and her maids passing by the same path you’re about to take, he didn’t want to make an unnecessary sound in case anyone’s lurking around without him seeing through the vicinity covered in almost pitch black.

He wondered why you seemed determined to go on your way despite going on around without a company.

“Where are you going—”

“What are you doing here—”

You stilled just as he was surprised to hear you spoke the same time he decided to break the silence.

“I saw you going out of your quarters.” He simply answered. It was true. He left the festive banquet at the east to randomly visit your residence. He knew it would be unnecessary to invite himself into the premises so he just stood there, particularly waiting for nothing to kill time before he leaves the palace.

But then he saw the outermost doors of your residence opening, revealing none other than the subject of his thoughts. Then the rest was history.

“W-What? Are you spying on me?”

“Spying?” He chuckles at your choice of your words. He would’ve honestly accepted stalking better. “The banquet’s getting too loud to my liking. I’d rather spend my time with you. Mayhaps, luck is finally on my side when I saw you just in time— going out.”

Hearing his words earned a scoff from you. Wasn't he just with a woman this morning? Not to mention, it was one of the reasons why you randomly sought the need to breathe in some fresh air on a cold, winter night.

“I guess if you’re not distracted with your prince, you would have immediately caught the sound of my footing. Where are you going, anyway? Will you go see him?”

Your mouth parted in disbelief, “You didn’t hear anything from me when you were the one hiding with a woman just this morning.”

Hiding with a woman? For a second, his forehead crumpled in thought, recalling his activities prior to this moment. He couldn’t seem to remember when he actually hid with a woman. He didn’t even talk to any woman earlier in the morning, except for a friend—

“Ahh,” He hums in understanding, “Jagi, I’m not hiding with Mina—”

“Mina?”

He recalls speaking with Mina after the latter who belonged to the group of gisaengs during the banquet who recognized him inside the reception and was only able to catch up after him at the entrance main palace. Mina enthusiastically dragged him behind the closest infrastructure to briefly speak to him in peace without potentially attracting an audience.

“I met her a long time ago. Jagiya—“

“Forget it,” you immediately dismissed, but with him not missing the way color bloomed on your cheeks. “It’s not my business to hold it against you. You’re free to do as you wish.”

Are you being serious? How can you think he can be possibly interested to another woman?

He tilts your chin up so he can see your pretty eyes, clearly. “What are you saying, Jagiya? I thought we’ve already established that I’m yours. Have I not?”

He heard no answer from you, but didn’t miss the subtle shake of your head.

“No?” He echoes, the frown on his face deepens. Still, you refused to speak nor return the heavy weight of his peer.

“Our lovemaking wasn’t enough, was it?” His sudden brought up to the matter which should never be spoken of made you dart your eyes back up at him. There it was again, the same emotions reflecting in your eyes the morning when you put a cold shoulder at him. He couldn’t quite decipher the signals you were giving him.

“Jungkook, we’re not together anymore.”

“Then would you rather be with the prince over me?”

You look away, even though you really wanted to give an answer.

“I haven’t seen your beautiful smile since I came back, Jagi. But you were smiling a lot around him. Gods, was I jealous when you showed him of such privilege I was deprived of.” He groans, slowly inching his face closer, as if testing your reaction to his advance.

He took your lack of withdrawal as a sign to keep going. Silently, you gave him the freedom to intrude your personal space.

“You saw us,” you murmur, confirming it to yourself more than throwing it as a question to him.

Your jaw went slack, shamelessly anticipating for his lips to touch yours. Closer. Until your noses bumping, his mouth a breath away from touching your plump lips. It almost happened. Almost. Because just as he shifts his head a centimeter forward, finally capturing your awaiting lips with his, a cry of protest loudly resonated through the air, echoing as the sound bounces back from the empty silence.

“Stop following me!” The voice was undoubtedly owned by a woman.

If Jungkook didn’t recognize the voice, you certainly did. Her voice was too familiar for you not to identify her as the Queen, forcing you to draw back from the proximity immediately. Once again, panic courses through you, rapidly consuming your senses as fear worsened your capability to think rationally in a situation such as this.

Your wide eyes stared back Jungkook in a silent plea.

It wasn’t clear to you how far she was from both of you, but the nearing claps of footsteps tells you the queen and whoever was following her are passing by behind the greenhouse. If they decided to take a turn right across where you two stood, they will certainly not miss the sight of you seemingly in a rendezvous with Jungkook.

“I said—Jeonha!”

You gasp, slapping a hand to your mouth, utterly stunned at what you just heard. Jeonha? Does that mean she was addressing her order to your brother?

“The K-King is here...” you stammer.

He hushed you, silently telling you to keep still as he cages you against the outer wall of the greenhouse, as if shielding you from any potential eyesight. He was too close as he let his head hang low just beside the shell of your ear. You could hear his heavy breathing, the warmth oozing naturally from his body seemed to calm your nerves in some way, nearly forgetting about the predicament both of you are in, nearly missing the silence lingering in the air.

Are they gone?

Despite your pellucid reaction, Jungkook seems not one bit shaken by the fact you two are a thread away from being seen together in the dark.

Suddenly, he shifted onto your left, breaking his manmade territory around you to move further away from where you two were supposed to be hiding.

“Jungkook!” you desperately called for his attention in a panicked whisper.

Nervously, you watch his back as he extends his neck to peep behind the greenhouse. It didn’t take him long before he whirled back around, and in a flash, grapples your wrist and dragged you into the opposite direction.

“Where are we going?”

Though Jungkook could hear the agitation in your tone, he ignored your question, averting his focus to hide you and make no sound at all. The couple turned out to be closer than he had guessed them to be.

Just as he stopped in front of the doors of the greenhouse, he heard you argue about his choice of hiding spot, but ignored you for the second time.

In a calculated shuffling on the rusted bar keeping the twin panel of doors closed, he flicked it up, allowing him to push one of the doors open. The firm grip of his fingers on your waist was all you could focus on as he urged you to enter inside the greenhouse. Carefully, he pushed the door back closed, dragging you with it as he pressed your back against the cold surface. His hands on both sides of your head as he rests his forehead against the door, just above your shoulder. You couldn’t see much of the view behind him because of the lack of light inside. But the moonlight seeping through the transparent roofing of the greenhouse was enough to give you the faintest possible light to make out the features of his frame.

“It was too quiet, isn’t it? I thought the queen and king were gone.”

“We were intruding them,” he simply replied.

“W-What?”

He shifted his head to the side and before you knew it, a pair of warm lips touched yours in fervor. Jungkook has never been this bold before to break your personal space nor touches without asking your permission.

Years without seeing him, you understand that he might have grown into a persona different from what you know of him. When you saw him that weary day after four years, you picked up a sense of strangeness in his aura. Perhaps, it is his confidence or the powerful aura he naturally emits that made you speechless.

Groaning as the feel of your mouth accelerated the temperature of his body, Jungkook deepens the kiss with his tongue pushing passed your parted lips.

The way he held you in place, with his hands on your face and his torso locking you firm against the door, you didn’t expect him to withdraw from the kiss so soon which resulted in a soft breathy whine to slip out of your throat.

“Perhaps that answered your question,” he says, picking up the teasing tone in his voice. Jungkook dipped his head lower, burying his head on the crook of your neck to press a warm, wet kiss on the same spot he bruised purple two nights ago.

grand royal dowager queen - spouse of a former king; presently the king’s grandmother Halma-mama - how the royal grandchildren address their grandmother gongju - title of a princess bubuin - title of princess consort (wife of a prince) gisaeng - female entertainer yangban - any nobleman holding a government position dogam - a committee/body authorized to organize a royal event jinchan - other term for royal banquet soban - other term for a traditional table used in joseon era hanji - other term for traditional korean paper Changdeok - East Palace Gyeongbok - Main Palace/main residence of the royal family

note: after posting 4 chapters of the series, im finally opening a tag list skskssksjsj hahaahaha if u lovelies want to be tagged in the future chapters, send me your url here.

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speechlessxx · 4 years

Text

Bring Him Light - x (King!Steve Rogers x Reader)

Chapter Summary: The truth finally comes out.

Warnings: brief mention of sex, mentions of death, really shitty writing tbh, dialogue driven. (NOTE: when concerning the flashbacks, he’s actually explaining to the reader what happened)

Word Count: 2.5k

Note: Feel free to send me any questions because I know this is a really crappy chapter. (of course, I’m not going to reveal the rest of the plot)

<- Last Part -=+=- Next Part ->

You could still taste the salt from the sea on your lips. The memories of what happened aboard that ship still fresh like a wound that you’d carry forever. You stared at your hands that were conjoined with your husband’s. The wedding bands glistened in the dimmed room.

“Will you believe me if I told you everything?” Steven asked. His thumb drew soothing circles on the back of your hand. His grip tight as if he were afraid you’d disappear again.

“Everyone’s lied to me.” You whispered. You looked towards Wanda’s body, still covered with the bloodstained tarp. “What would make you any different?”

“This is the truth,” he promised. “The complete truth.”

When Steven was young, his mother doted on him because he was a sickly child. He grew up to have her compassion, optimism, and idealism. He was sixteen when his father unexpectedly died, and he was hailed King of Brooken. He wanted to carry his mother’s ideals into a new age for Brooken, but he underestimated what it meant to have a crown on his head.

The sacrifices he’d have to make, the betrayals he’d have to face, the blood he’d have to spill. He’s told more lies that he could count – all in the name of protecting his reputation and his power. A cruel king is respected after all. The lies were like storm clouds that poured hard. He drowned in them and got lost in the darkness those clouds brought. The lies burdened him more than anyone would ever know.

You squeezed hand, breaking him away from his thoughts. “Steve?” Your tone was soft, coaxing him back into reality. He welcomed the calm you brought. It eased the storm inside of him. You were ready for the truth – perhaps, you’ve always been ready. “Unburden yourself, my love.”

“I don’t know where to start.” He said, honestly. It was true. There was so much to the story. He wasn’t quite sure where it began.

“Start with Margaret, perhaps?” You suggested.

“I was young,” he began. “Twenty-one years old. Five years on the throne. They told me I needed a wife.”

“They?”

“Pierce and the old council.” He answered. “Brock’s father had just died, so he took the vacant seat. At first, I thought having my cousin on the council would alleviate the tension. The lords on the council were nearly twice my age, if not more. They saw things differently than I did. They wanted different things. Sometimes I felt as if I were their puppet. I was young when I took the throne. Sixteen. I didn’t know what to expect, so I leaned on their counsel. I depended on them,” he scoffed, remembering his earlier years on the throne. “They told me I needed to continue the line succession. Thanos was beginning to make a name for himself by this time. He had lovers and spawned two daughters. His line was growing, and the Rogers’s wasn’t. So, I asked them to find me a match. Pierce brought in Lady Margaret of House Carter. I was smitten when I first laid eyes on her.”

Steven sat tall upon his throne. The room was empty. Brooken had a tradition that detailed that those in royal betrothals must meet for the first time in private. He was giddy with excitement. Lady Margaret’s portraits were presented to him a month ago. She was easily one of the most beautiful creatures he’d ever seen. Lord Pierce made the arrangements and they were to marry within a week. “House Carter is a respected house in the Old World,” Pierce advertised.

The doors opened wide and a young woman walked through. Her hair was dark as night. Her lips painted a bright red. She smiled at him and bowed. “Your grace,” she greeted. “I am humbled to make your acquaintance and, of course, honored to be your betrothed.”

“I didn’t know her, truly. I didn’t realize how manipulative she was from the beginning. She charmed and enchanted me to do her bidding. We were married for nearly a decade. No children. She didn’t want children. I didn’t want to lose her, so I agreed.

“She had many faces. A face she’d show the people that made them love her. A face she showed me that hypnotized me. And the face she’d show my allies, which were her foes. She fought with James incessantly – even tried to make me banish him. I refused. He was my oldest friend. I promised the moment I took the throne, my riches, my blessings were his to share. She was trying to isolate me. She banished my allies from court. James warned me she was a devil. I refused to listen. I thought her a gift from the gods themselves. Until I caught her poisoning my mother.”

“What?” You gasped.

Steven nodded. The haunting memory pained him still.

He woke up alone after a long night of making love to his queen. It was early in the morning; the sun had barely risen. Orange streaks painted the sky. He searched for Margaret, wanting to jest her for allowing him to wake up alone. He found her whispering to his sick, elderly mother who was bedridden due to a broke hip.

“You won’t get away with it. My son will find out,” his mother croaked.

“Not from you,” Margaret gave her a wicked smile as she slathered arsenic-riddled paint on his mother’s toast. The thick substance looked like jam, but Steve knew better. She force-fed the queen mother the poisoned bread.

“What are you doing!” Steve boomed into the room, pushing his wife aside as his mother choked. “Guards! Get a physician!”

“She died later that evening.” Steven shook his head. It was your turn to console him. You released one of your hands from his grip and rubbed his arm. He took a shaky breath. “I stabbed Margaret in the heart in front of Rumlow, Pierce, James, and Sam’s father. I didn’t know, yet, that her betrayals were much deeper than the murdering my mother.”

“Enter Sharon?” You asked.

“I was widowed for a year. Pierce brought her in. The younger cousin of Margaret.” He continued. “Married two days after her arrival in Brooken.” He chuckled humorlessly at his naivete. “I should’ve never marry a stranger.”

“We married in two weeks.” You noted. “We were practically strangers, too.”

Steven shook his head in disagreement. He didn’t feel that way. In the two weeks he grew to know you, he learned the innerworkings of your mind, your soul. He knew he was in love with you, truly, even before he wrapped the cloak around your shoulders during the wedding ceremony.

“We weren’t strangers.” He said. “Far from it. Sharon was distant. Defiant. We never consummated our marriage, not that anyone would know. She refused to sleep in my chambers, refused to be held, or anything, really. It felt as if I had married a ghost that everyone could see. I couldn’t touch her, but she still haunted these halls.”

“You beheaded her.” You said. Steven bit his lip as he nodded. “Pierce said you beheaded her out of spite.”

Steven cocked his head to the side, brows raising, as if he entertained the idea. “Well, she was spiteful.”

“The men in the prisons… They preferred her over you and you imprisoned them, correct?”

Steven sighed. He was disappointed that you were so quick to believe rumors and lies about him, but he blamed himself for not being completely honest from the start. “Sharon plotted a coup on behalf of the Mad King.”

“How can you be certain?” You asked.

“She admitted it when she was caught.”

Steven stared down at the blonde. Her eyes wide as he finished reading her encrypted letter. “You’re not subtle. You’re not discreet.” He spat at her, crumpling the paper and throwing it at her feet. “You work for the Mad King. You’re here to topple me. Rip the crown from my head and give it to him. The game’s over, Sharon. You’ve lost. Your followers all caught and imprisoned. I will get a confession and you will die for treason.”

She recomposed herself, rolling back her shoulders with confidence. “You think you can just kill off another queen? What will people think of you, Steven.”

“I am pulling the weeds from my kingdom.” He snapped. “You Carters are all the same. Traitors. Liars.”

“Margaret was good.” Sharon complimented. “She had you wrapped around her finger for a decade. If she hadn’t been caught killing your mother, then she would’ve convinced you to ally yourself with Thanos.” She turned her head to the side and gave him a smirk. “Then, she would’ve killed you along with your mother. Such a shame, she was caught.”

“You admit. You’re a traitor.”

“Of course, I admit it. But mind you, your grace, your enemies are all over Brooken. You cut me down today, someone else will cut you down tomorrow.”

“I beheaded her for treason.”

“You didn’t tell people that your queens were committed treason. You allowed rumors to spread about your cruelty to your wives.” You frowned.

“As I told you before, a cruel king is respected.” Steven muttered. “But I never wanted you to be afraid of me.”

“Isn’t it odd?” You asked. “Both queens chosen by Pierce were traitors.”

Steven nodded. “They pushed me to get married once more, but I told them, this time I’ll choose my bride.”

“Me.”

“It’s three years after the War between the North. Tony and I were close before. I fought alongside your father when York was invaded ages ago.”

“You fought over a disagreement over land.”

“More than land. He wanted James dead. James’s father killed your grandfather. Since James’s father had died long before, your father asked for my friend’s head. I refused. So, a war erupted.”

“You traded blows with my father on the battlefield.” You recalled. You remembered your mother’s cries and pleads with the gods, asking for them to protect your father’s life. “He returned to my mother bloodied. You cut through his armor. But you looked him in the eyes and called the war off.”

“No one won.”

“No one.” You agreed. “Three years later, you ask my father for a wife.”

“I needed a wife I could trust. Although we had our differences, I trust your father with my life. I know Tony’s blood. I know how you would’ve been raised to be loyal. You took after your father and your mother.” Steven explained. “I didn’t trust Pierce to find me a wife that could slit my throat in the night.”

“You trust me?” You asked.

“The moment I stared into your eyes and saw fear… I knew you knew the rumors. I knew you thought of me as cruel – our first encounter made that clear.” He smiled at you softly. His fingers lightly traced the scars of your wrist. He brought your wrist to his lips and pressed a light kiss onto the skin. “But, truthfully, my trust in you waned when I saw you with Brock and Pierce leaving the dungeon. I began to think you were conspiring with them.”

“I – I – I wasn’t.”

“I know that now.” He said. “I realized you were afraid of disappointing me because you didn’t … you weren’t –“

“Pregnant.” Your voice wavered, immediately brought back to the painful memory of losing your baby alone on the boat. “I should’ve told you I was, though. But I was afraid. I thought you were going to kill me. You struck me.”

“I’m terribly sorry.” Steven shook his head. No amount of apologizes could ever make up to the faded scar on your cheek.

“I was afraid for my life and the child’s. They manipulated me because of my fears. They prayed upon it and convinced me to trust them. And I did. In turn, I – I lost my best friend and my baby.”

Steve pulled you to him. Your head rested in the junction between his neck and shoulder as you cried softly into him. He rubbed your arm, comfortingly.

“They tried to turn you against me.” Steven whispered. “They tried to weaken me by trying to kill you on that boat. I thank the gods that you’re safe now.”

“Thank you for telling me the truth.” You muttered.

Steven nodded and kissed the top of your head. His arm around you tightened a bit. “You should sleep. Get some rest. You need it after what you’ve endured.”

You agreed. Steven untangled himself from you before he leaned down to press a kiss to the scar on your cheek and a kiss on your lips. He began to walk away when you felt panic begin to settle. Your hand shot out and grabbed onto his arm, preventing him from taking another step.

“Please stay.” You begged. “I… I don’t want to be alone.”

He gave you a soft smile and nodded. You scooted over the cot to make room for your husband. The positioning was a bit awkward considering his massive build, but you immediately felt safer once his arms wrapped around you once again.

»»————-　⚜　————-««

You woke up alone in Steven’s bedchamber. The sun had already set, the full moon up in the sky. The pain had subsided after nearly a day of rest. The truth settling in inside your mind.

At least now you knew everything.

The doors opened suddenly to reveal your husband. He smiled at you as you sat up on the bed. “You’re awake.”

“You left me alone.”

Steven’s smile faltered. He couldn’t register if there was sadness in your voice or not as he walked over. “I – I hadn’t meant to upset you.”

You shook your head. “I understand. You’re a king. Your duty is to the people, not to me.”

“I am your husband, first.” Steve argued. “My duty will always be to you, my love.” He took your hand in his and helped you off the bed. “Come. There’s something I must show you.”

He led you to the balcony doors, opening it and allowing the air rush into the room. You breathed it in. The mixed scents from the gardens below overtook your senses, washing out the pained sea salt smell that still haunted you.

Steven guided you out onto the terrace and wrapped his arms around your waist, pulling you in front of him. You gasped as you looked up to the sky. Along with the bright moon and the stars were lanterns that floated into the air and painted the dark sky.

“For years, I stumbled alone in the darkness. Feigned love with false queens who sought to destroy me. And here you are. The true gift the gods bestowed upon me. I truly believe you were crafted to be my soulmate, (Y/N).” He murmured in your ear. “I wish I could take away the pain you’ve endured, but I cannot. I can only tell you whatever comes next, we will face it together as husband and wife.” Tears swelled in your eyes and cascaded down your cheeks as you stared up into the bright sky. “I love you, my light, my love.”

You smiled and turned to him, cupping his bearded cheeks in your hands. “I love you, Steve.”

#bring him light #steve rogers #steve rogers x reader #steve rogers imagine #king!steve rogers #king!steve rogers x reader #king!steve rogers imagine #chris evans #chris evans imagine #chris evans x reader #captain america x reader #captain america #captain america imagine #marvel au #marvel royalty #royalty au #medieval au #avengers medieval

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needs-to-stop-looking-at-yigas · 3 years

Note

Ooooooh I’ve got a great idea, sooga goes to rito village to confront revali, the only other asshole (he’s a much better bitch than CIL) he knows, and tells him about the cil bullying situation, and no rito could possibly resist helping sooga, and revali can be the ONLY asshole in his group of friends so he ain’t having none of it... bassically I want revali to beat cils ass. hope your enjoying your day!

Oooh? An asshole with an asshole. I'm in, let's fucking go.

"Sooga’s here, Sooga’s here!!"

The rito women immediately started to preen themselves, so excited. Revali couldn't help but give himself a look over as well. Sooga was showing up, unannounced? And apparently without Kohga? Either it was business, or pleasure. Either way, Revali stepped out of his house, being met with the sight of the blade master. Big, strong, he was a real heart breaker amongst the rito.

"Sooga! We haven't seen you in such a long time!"

"Oh you've been keeping up the work out routine, haven't you?"

Sooga, as usual, was swimming in rito women. They surrounded him like feral dogs, clearly wanting his attention. Sooga HATED it, Revali could tell, but it was a sight to see. Sooga looked more uncomfortable than usual however, so Revali decided to be a peach, and break it up.

"Ladies, why don't you let the poor thing breathe?"

"But Revali!!!"

They whined, a few clasping onto his arm. Revali shooed them off, shaking his head.

"Quit being harpies, all of you. Why don't you all fetch him a snack instead, maybe something with fish. You like fish, right Sooga?"

Sooga nodded, trying his best to keep polite.

"I do enjoy fish. If it wouldn’t trouble you ladies-"

"Oh not at all! KRISSI YOU BITCH MOVE!"

They damn near trampled each other on their way to their respective cooking pots. Revali chuckled, opening his front door.

"They like you. You should be flattered, rito men would LOVE to have them flocking the way you do."

"I swear they were about to pick me clean, like vultures…"

He stepped inside Revali's abode, allowing himself to sit down and be served a cup of tea. Never snacks. Revali knew he hated eating, especially away from Kohga. Revali took a seat across from him, getting comfy.

"So. You show up here, unannounced. And without Kohga. For what reason?"

"I actually wanted to come see you. It's...something Kohga can't know about."

Revali was listening. Maybe he wasn't too far off in his assumptions. A little secret between them, away from Kohga. With muscles like that, who could refuse? He nodded, taking a sip of his own drink.

"But of course, Sooga. Just ask for it."

Sooga took a sip, stalling. He wanted those stupid lips, and he wanted them now.

"I'm...not sure how to."

"Sooga, the shyness is endearing, but my time is VERY valuable. So...ask me."

Revali leaned in closer. He smelled mildly of sweat, and holy SHIT he wanted to jump on him right fucking now. Sooga nodded.

"Apologies. You're right. So, I will say it. I'm...struggling with a blade master. Cil. He keeps trying to take MY Kohga from me, keeps making me doubt my relationship with him. I feel as though it's...separating us, and he's...proud like you. I don't detest you as I do him, but I just thought you'd know how to...handle it. In a way."

Not where Revali thought this was going, at ALL. He sat back in his chair, trying to tell his body that his ever increasing boner wasn't needed.

"Are you. Are you saying you're being bullied?"

"It...sounds childish when you put it that way. No, it's...more like, he makes me doubt my work and my love for Kohga. I'm dutiful, and I love my Master, but Cil….gets in my head. I feel like I should...end things with Kohga, if I'm so weak to simple words."

Revali could totally abuse this. Agree with this Cil person, and be Sooga’s shoulder to cry on. But Revali didn't bully for spite. He bullied for the benefit of other’s. Link demanded the most trust from him, and in the process, became a trusted friend in arms. So, despite how much Revali REALLY wanted to suck off Sooga, he did what was right for Sooga.

"Don't be an idiot. Somehow you and Kohga love each other. And this Cil fellow- he's abusing the mushy parts about you to get what he wants. YOU need to remember that Cil isn't some all knowing being-he's manipulative. I want you to go home after this, pick up something special for Kohga, and remember what I told you. Do you understand?"

"....I do. That's, oddly kind of you, Revali."

"Yes yes, I know, I'm a saint really. Don't go telling Link, he'll expect the same treatment."

"If you stop bullying Link, I'll end up bullying YOU."

They both shared a chuckle at that. Them talking shit about Link was one of the things they bonded over. Revali was about to say something specific about Link, when Sooga reached over to hold his hand. Revali felt his feathers fluff up (how embarrassing), just melting under such a big, strong hand.

"Sooga-"

"I just. Thank you. It's...not something that's easy to talk about with other's. They're so kind and they don't understand. It makes the whole situation-"

"Asinine?"

Another chuckle at that. Revali REALLY liked that chuckle of his. He was going to push his luck, maybe try touching something else, when his house was promptly invaded. By eager, loud, rito women, each holding a plate of food.

"Sooga! I'm so sorry I kept you waiting! I brought my seafood curry!"

"Oh don't poison the poor man! Here, try my fish pie!"

"He might as well eat sawdust! Sooga, here, try some clam chowder!"

Sooga sighed, while Revali sat there, chuckling. Sooga didn't deserve all the pestering he got. The women's attention, Revali couldn't help. But he knew one thing he COULD do.

--------------------------

"Have a good one Cil! Try not to glare some poor soul to death!"

"And you, try not to catch a disease."

Von laughed at the retort, pulling his fellow blade master aside for a steamy, drunken, sloppy make out session. Cil had made the mistake of joining Von for drinks, and had a pretty awful time. Drinks were shitty, expensive, and all Von did the whole time was stick his hand in between several pairs of legs. Cil decided a walk home in the cold night air would do him some good.

"So YOU’RE Cil."

Cil stood still upon hearing the voice, as well as the crunch of leaves, slowly growing louder and louder. He slowly turned, just in time to see his sudden visitor. Revali, champion of the rito. Arguably the best archer of his kind. Had to be, to make up for that short stature.

"Take it you've been looking for me?"

"Yes, actually. You see, to put it bluntly, I hate how you've been treating a friend of mine."

"You wouldn't be the first. I also don't care."

Cil was already bored. He tried to turn around and walk off, when he stopped, feeling something breeze past his head. An arrow, now buried into the tree in front of him. He turned around, looking at that angry face, and the now drawn bow.

"I think it's time you start caring. I want you to stop it. And I'm being nice, asking you politely. Don't make me act uncouth."

"Unfortunate. Us Yiga don't care for manners, not towards our assailants."

They stared each other down for a moment, before Cil rushed him, blade drawn. Revali dodged, barely able to avoid being sliced, unlike the tree next to him. Revali fired, only to be forced to hide behind another tree, Cil somehow deflecting it with his drawn blade. Cil cracked his neck, slowly approaching Revali's hiding spot. This was way better than just some walk.

"Come now, little birdy. I'll clip your wings quickly if you come out now, rather than later. If you make me wait...I'll make these woods sing with your screams."

Revali turned quickly, firing his arrow. He aimed not for his shoulder or even his head. Instead, he aimed for his hands. The weapon fell as the arrow struck, but before Cil could reach for his weapon, Revali pointed the tip of the arrow at his forehead.

"You can save yourself the trouble. Leave. Sooga. Alone."

"Ah...he's your little buddy, huh? He's not even asking you to do this,"

Cil lifted his hands up in defeat, slowly walking backwards as Revali kept stepping forward, right until his back was against a tree.

"How both you AND Master Kohga care for him so much...I'll never know. But I DO know...that it is a mistake you will both pay for."

He quickly grabbed the arrow from the tree behind him, and jabbed it into Revali's shoulder. Revali was about to just bear it and retaliate, before Cil used his body to push him to the ground. It knocked the bow out of his hands, and Revali was on the forest floor, with Cil wrapping his hands around his throat, and squeezing. Revali flailed, trying to do ANYTHING to be free. He couldn't breathe. Couldn't think.

"I'm sorry Sooga was your demise. I pity you. I-"

He didn't get to finish as Revali managed to lift himself up a hit, and swipe his talons at him. It hit right at his face, not just scratching his features, but peeling off his mask. Revali leapt up, grabbing the mask and holding it tightly to his chest. Cil sat there, covering his bleeding face with both of his hands.

"GIVE IT BACK. YOU DO N O T DESERVE TO SEE MY FACE!"

Revali glared at him, meeting his eyes through his fingers.

"If you'll back off Sooga, I'll give it back."

"He is a MUTT-"

"I'll tell EVERYONE I saw your face."

"They won't believe you."

"Rumors are powerful. Many would LOVE to make people think its real, just to humiliate you. Care to risk it?"

Cil hesitated. But when Revali's claws started to glide down the wood, he was convinced.

"OKAY OKAY! JUST. GIVE ME THE MASK, AND WE'LL CALL IT TRUCE."

Revali had no idea these masks were such a huge fucking deal. Whatever. He tossed the mask in his direction, watching Cil frantically put it back on, smearing the blood on his mask. Revali picked his bow off the floor, putting it back into its holster.

"You yigas better keep your word."

Revali was in the skies in just a second, headed right for Zora's domain. He stopped at Mipha’s window, giving it a knock. She opened her window, immediately looking worried as she saw the state he was in.

"Revali! What happened, you poor thing?!"

"I was...helping a friend. Suppose you don't mind doing the same for me?"

Was this a stupid decision? Yes. Like Link level stupid. But...Revali didn't at all regret it. Not for Sooga.

#asks #Revali #Sooga #Cil #this was SO fun to do???#I loved getting some fight scenes #loved Revali and sooga being tender #and in case you're wondering this DID work #cil pulled back a LOT #and hes got a big nasty scar on his face that he hates #and hes too ashamed to tell anyone what happened #also headcanon; instead of blushing #rito feathers get all fluffy

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skevans · 3 years

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Nocturne op.72 no.1 — Essay

Hi, welcome to my long-forgotten tumblr I barely remembered existed. Dust and cobwebs aside, this is an essay I initially wrote in French for a Literature class. Don't ask me how the hell I found the will to hand this in to my teacher, bless his soul.

A couple of years later, I found that essay in the depth of a folder on my computer. I remembered what was in it, to a point, but when I decided to read it again, I got very emotional (and very mortified 'cause oh god school). And during the following weeks, I started thinking about a lot of things that were still floating unresolved within my head. But then, I decided to write. And after a few days of internal debate, I posted the first chapter of A Sea of Silence.

It's been months since I finished that story, and those months have not been kind to me for many reasons. And maybe that's why, this week, I started thinking about that essay. When I did, I was overcome with a desire to share it with the world—and especially with the people who read my fic. So here it is, hastily translated but just as honest. Please note that it discusses anxiety.

And so, thank you if you take the time to read this, and an even bigger thank you if you read the essay, too!

Nocturne op.72 no.1

When I think back on my childhood, I hear the sound of piano. Various melodies follow me, accompanying me in a waltz between memories. It’s my mother’s interpretation of Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata that haunts the quiet moments. My sister and I would play in an adjacent room, glowing with delight as our mother started the first movement. It’s the piece’s somber and melancholic tone that colours my memory, but it’s a good kind of darkness—the kind that feels like the soft touch of night as you walk under the stars. My mother didn’t stop there; she would segue into the second movement, a graceful interlude that almost got swallowed in between the grandiosity of the other movements. And at last, she would tackle the final piece. I remember the anticipation; I remember wanting to watch her fingers fly over the keys. We would sneak in the living room—don’t make so much noise, you’re gonna bother her!—and thus we became the spectators to a private concert. The combination of semiquavers and staccato, everything played presto agitato, was the most fascinating thing. And despite the intensity and the tempestuous rhythm, I would sense my muscles relaxing, my thoughts lightening, the frenetic beat of my heart slowing. When I listen to this piece now, there’s still a glimpse of that long forgotten peace.

I turn six and I learn the piano. It’s a decision that comes from me, but also from my mother. It’s a decision that pleases me, even enchants me. The learning process goes well; I love to learn and I love to play—a rarely seen fervour seizes me. My motivation originates both from a desire to walk into my mother’s footsteps and from a childish inclination to create noise. The teacher likes me, and the sentiment is reciprocal; she speaks with a soft voice, but underneath there is an unyielding tone that I come to respect. She nudges me forward, constantly making sure that I don’t neglect my practice. I try to meet her expectations because I want to succeed, but also to maintain that impression of calm that possesses me when I sit at the piano.

The next step is to play at a recital, so we set off for the musical conservatory. I’m ten the first time I play before an audience. Panic controls me—I worry I won’t be able to perform, and the thought loops in my mind until I believe it. I climb on the stage in spite of my terror, and the room morphs into a cage. At 10 years-old, the size of the concert hall is intimidating, to a point that my heart crawls up my throat. The exit is far—way too far—and all the stares fixed on me feel more like I’m attending a trial than a recital. My hands become damp (how will I play if my hands slip?), but wiping them on my dress of red velvet means showing my fear—and my father always tells me not to show my fear. So I look at the floor and force my legs to move until finally, finally, I stand before the piano. I sit. Even now, I believe it’s impossible for me to play my piece, that piece I yet find so easy. I take my time adjusting the bench; once done, my hands reflexively settle over the keys. One deep breath—and I start to play. That tranquility I’m so desperate for guides me, and the audience fades from my mind. My eyes track my fingers as they find all the notes—not one mistake—and for a moment, it’s like I’m floating over my body, surrendering utter control to instinct and music. Once the piece ends and my hands lift from the piano, it’s the thunderous applause that tugs me back into reality; I walk off the stage, that paralyzing feeling of fright dismissed.

The feeling that possesses me is anxiety. At 6 years-old, as I begin learning the piano, I don’t know what anxiety is; the only thing I understand is that music offers solace. When I turn 10, I can’t find the word to explain that emotion that assaulted me as I stepped on the stage. It’s with time that I discover the word “anxiety”. I see my reflection in the definitions I find in dictionaries and on the web; it’s those definitions that grasp onto me, that glue themselves over me until I cannot dissociate them from my being without ripping out of my skin. The term “anxiety” now belongs to me—or rather, I belong to it. The years pass and my thoughts cede before it. My anxiety takes control of me for a period of my life; I have lost all mastery of myself. I graduate from high school with terrible difficulty; I drop out of college three times. But anxiety doesn’t stop there; she smears her poison throughout all spheres of my life. My relationship with my family degenerates slowly but surely—so do many of my friendships. Working becomes a hurdle because my boss at the store agitates me with her severe attitude—it feels like nothing is never enough and everything is wrong. I cannot stand myself anymore. Anxiety seeps into my body, an army of swarming bugs that infiltrate all I am as an individual. They contaminate me from the inside, and I am nothing but a puppet, subjected to circumstances out of my control. And this lasts and lasts and lasts for eight years—eight long years. I lose my footing and fall into the arms of depression several times. Appointments with doctors tell me what I already knew. We try solutions and then more solutions; there are good times, scarce but cherished. But happiness and peace of mind slip through my fingers like grains of sand; I grab another handful, but it was never meant to last. These feelings end up seeming distant, unreachable, impossible. I mind myself to the fact that I will have to live with the physical and emotional wounds my anxiety inflicts on me. Time and experience allow me to gauge my level of comfort and how to react; sometimes, I cannot step out of my apartment. And so life goes on—and I am swept away by the tides.

Thinking back on this slice of my life, I’ve come to several conclusions. There were many happenings that were completely out of my control—and yet, as I dig deeper and deeper, I realize that this deviation originates from one thing in particular.

The year I turn 15, I experience an acute pain in my right wrist. Holding a pen for longer than a few minutes is impractical; playing piano on a regular basis is impossible. Those news, validated by a medical consultation, are not surprising—but they are heartbreaking. Later, the pain extends to my shoulder. Within weeks, I become an unwilling witness to the collapse of my dream of studying and teaching piano. The problem comes from within me, within my body—my love for the piano is the trigger to this pain. I’m told that a cure is implausible—you can do exercises to lessen the pain, and you have to eliminate repetitive movements since they will worsen it, and yes, miss, that includes the piano. I used to play piano at least one hour a day, something that unconsciously kept my anxiety at bay—but the inability to play for longer than a few minutes opens the door to my anxiety. I discover myself anew when I’m 16: tirelessly worried, always anxious, terribly distrustful. It’s the start of the downward spiral. I am not me anymore, I am someone else. Anxiety is my mother, instability is my father, fear is my sister. I am reborn into an unknown world dubbed Real Life by my family, who firmly believe this is part of being a teenager. But I don’t believe in this Real Life, and I pray to all and nothing for a miracle. I only know one line of prayer so I make up my own. I fill fictive litanies with my fears and my hopes. Amen. I refuse to consider this existence as True because to me, it can only be False. But my convictions are tossed aside, their dismissal hammered into me endlessly. It’s almost as if a huge neon sign hangs on a wall of my bedroom: Welcome to Real Life! But all I see are ridiculous directives that only bring misfortune—don’t forget to register for our latest draw! Discover what setbacks you will endure next! I don’t want this—I refuse, I reject, I refute. It’s the song of my mind, playing on repeat; I want to believe it—I want to believe it more than anything else because I have exhausted all of my solutions and the future beyond is veiled in uncertainty.

But with time, I realize that simply wanting something, no matter how much, doesn’t mean it will slip into the world through the cracks of my resolve. And so, I begin to toil over my own fate. I try to shape it. I fail. I try again. It’s a cycle with no end in sight. I wander aimlessly through life, and thus I discover more of myself and I try to understand. Questions assail me; most of the time, there is no answer; when there are, they are often unpleasant. Still, I accept them—because I have learned that closing my eyes and rejecting a reality will not bring me anything. This crushing problem, this anxiety that manipulates me, I try to be aware of it—and in the end, I accept it. She is part of me, too intrinsic for me to surrender her; she welded her existence in my foundations, and if I break free, I negate myself. But what crystallizes with time is the recognition that I’m living a fight that I believed lost before even entering the arena. It’s an intimidating fight: my adversary is formidable, and there is no end in sight; it’s an everlasting battle that occurs every hour, every minute, every second. And yet, I am not done—I gather my arsenal, I warm up, and I entre the arena. No referees—this isn’t a fair fight; there cannot be a winner, only moments of victory. My adversary steps forward, and in her, I see me—me as I was for eight long years. The signal goes off and we begin. No turning back now.

Strangely, what helps me survive the daily fights is time. Throughout this turbulent journey, my wrist undertakes its never-ending recovery. Nine years later, the dreadful pain I felt at every move has become a memory. I live alone now, and getting access to a piano is not always easy; neither is it regular. But one day—one day, I decide to try again. I make my way to my mother’s house on a day where she and her husband are absent; the fragility of my resolve hangs over me, and I cannot let it waver out of self-consciousness. In the basement are all of my mother’s sheet music—all of my sheet music—and it takes a lot of searching before I finally find the last piece I learned when I was 15. The last piece I ever played. Too eager, I snatch Chopin’s Nocturne op.72 no.1 off the floor, grabbing a few more sheet music from that part of my life forever ago. At last, I sit on the piano bench. I open the booklet, flipping through the pages until I find the Nocturne; it’s one of my favourites, whether by coincidence or a design of my own. But it’s with wretched bitterness that I realize I am unable to play the piece. Not only has it been nine years, but my dexterity has vanished, bidding me goodbye with a mocking smile. My fingers each weigh a pound; I hear myself strike the keys with a mortifying clumsiness; the resulting sound is disappointing, closer to chaotic noise than the flowing music of my memories. Nothing happens like I want it to. However, the same passage of time that helped my injury gave me the strength to cross out the word “abandon” from my vocabulary. I sometimes know victory, more often I know defeat, but what has become unfamiliar is capitulation. So I close the booklet, hiding the piece I yearned for, and I pick another one. It’s an easy piece, but in truth, nothing seems easy anymore; the piece is a crutch, a stepping stone towards more. In time, I will get sick of hearing Chopin’s Waltz op.69 no.2, my mind saturated by the melody from months of practice. It’s a challenge, and I start to get obsessed with the notion of learning this piece, because learning it means I can learn more. Nothing will stop me.

There is progress, but it’s slow and it’s tedious. Each week, I ride the bus to my mother’s house so I can practice for one hour, sometimes two. These hours are precious; I try not to squander them and I try even harder to remind myself this is just the beginning. My wrist still hurts at times; whenever I test my limits, a zap of pain echoes through my hand, signalling the end of the practice. It slows me down, frustrates me to no end, but the possibility of not playing for another nice years snaps me out of those low moments. And one day, six months later, I pick up Chopin’s Nocturne op.72 no.1 again. I start with the left hand; the constant rhythm of the triplets played legato rips the stitches of a long-buried wound. A ghost rises out of it—it’s Me as I was, and it possesses me, guiding my hand with its cold touch. I play the first line, then the second; soon enough, I jump to the second page. I am not here, not really; rather, I am lost to that old fragment of beloved peace. Now that I recognize the beast in me as anxiety, I finally understand that those moments of solace happen when I hear the twinkling notes of the piano. And so I get on my feet in the arena and I stand ready to continue the eternal fight. There are other ways to keep anxiety away, to rationalize it, and I think back on my first fifteen years, nearly empty of anguish, full of other pains, but also filled with hours of music. I learn Chopin’s Nocturne in three months. It’s not perfect—it will never be—but I can play it. I play it until I can do so with my eyes closed.

The year I decide to sit at the piano again, I return to school. The first semester is trying; I haven’t studied seriously in over five years—good habits are difficult to unearth. I try to keep my demanding job despite the crushing amount of pressure, but there comes a moment where I cannot breathe under that weight, and stress wins once more. Everything appears ready to crumble before it began. Luckily, my mother realizes that my fragile pyramid of cards is about to fall, and she wakes me up with harsh and well-aimed and true words; we don’t always understand each other then, and feelings get bruised, but in time, things will change for the better. I still fail the classes I took; I search for a new job. My anxiety hit me with an uppercut that could have turned the tables in her favour, but I stand again and again—I stand long enough to finish college a year later. I am 24 the day I hand in my final project that allows me to graduate. As I walk out of the building, there is pride accompanying me, but most of all, it’s a soothing sensation of satisfaction that wraps itself around me. It resembles that peace of mind I find from the piano, and that is what makes me smile.

The next fall, I have my own piano. The opportunity to play whenever is still incredible. Not long before the purchase, the pain in my wrist flares once more, stronger than before. But this time, I know what to expect. I adapt instead of running away; I’m not 15 anymore and I have so much more experience in the suitcase I carry through life. I get tests done in hope of a permanent solution; they reveal nothing new, but the professional advice that follows those tests opens the door to new possibilities to rein in the pain. Those possibilities are comforting in their own way; that absolute sense of defeat is now barely discernable.

I still believe that the Me from over ten years ago will not come back to life; she doesn’t exist anymore; her only vestige is her love for music. But that is alright—I am not the same person I was at 6 years-old when all I knew was the music weaving through the house. I am someone else, so I baptize myself anew. I allow myself the sanctity of a second chance, that unreachable notion always evading me. But this time, I chase it. I grasp it close to my heart. I take it—and I live it.

#writing #essay #anxiety

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beybladebladerboy999 · 4 years

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Dia means sun btw.

Lord Diavolo angst.

Maybe OOC LuLu, I just love soft, messy LuLu.

He regrets ever picking you for the exchange program. Because of you his life is ruined. He never planned to share Lucifer with anybody romantically.

Then one day he asked to talk. He confessed he was in love.

With you.

Diavolo cried himself to sleep that night. As he remembered his friends smiling face. Of course he congratulated him and gave him advice while Barbatos prepared a special blend of tea.

He always thought he'd have Lucifer body and soul forever.

He should have never let you come here. You have the brothers in shambles, bowing to your every command.

You have all of them wrapped around your little finger and you don't even realize it. Out of all seven you had to pick Lucifer.

He was always supposed to be his Lucifer. His fallen Morning Star with eyes that shone like fire. Skin as pale as snow, with hair as black and shiny as ink. His Lucifer only belonged to him in name only. He was so beautiful, he deserved better than to be your plaything. Lucifer deserved a Queen's status, he belonged on the throne working with Diavolo side by side.

You see this needed to be revised immediately, that's why he killed you. It was to easy really, wait until you got back to the human world, slip some poison into your water systems, and make sure his Lucy was busy with work all day and night.

Why don't I take your D.D.D Lucifer, it will just distract you. The faster you finish your work the faster you can talk to MC. I'm sure she misses you.

He had to be discrete, if lucifer found out all his love would vanish, so not even you could know your killer. He sent you letter often and texted you, played the nice guy, the supportive friend. Now you were far away in the Celestial realm, forbidden from dating the Morning Star based on your angel status. Of course secretly delivered by Barbatos to Micheal.

Then I gave him my brightest smile and shoved more paperwork into his arms, the arms that should be wrapped around him.

He saved Lilith, he gave him work, a place for him and his brothers to stay. Lucifer should be his, and now he will be, now that your out of the way. Watching from the Celestial realm as your boyfriend cries into his shoulder. His hair loose and his school uniform buttons undone, Diavolo could fell his heart beating.

You were gone, Lucifer was his once more.

The cost well the boys will get over it soon enough, they don't even know who killed you. After all you were a good friend to everyone, his tears were real.

He really would miss you, but you crossed the line when you took Lucifer from him. Maybe he'll come and visit you when Lucifer is wearing his ring. When its safe for his heart to never fell that way about you again.

Diavolo hugged his friend and soothed his heaving sobs.

You see Lucifer loves me , he doesn't hide anything from me. Look at him falling apart on my shoulder, the all mighty Morning Star, reduced to tears and a shadow of himself.

"Diavolo" he whispered

"Yes my Lovely?"

" Does Barb know who killed her?"

He sounded cool, and broken. He sounded like a man who just had his heart shattered.

"An unfortunate accident. Her poison garden had a broken pipe, the poison seeped into the ground into her drinking supply." He sounded mournful as he spoke.

" You know how found she was with her deadly garden Lucifer, that's why she got on with Satan so well, always hungry for information."

Lucifer chocked back a sob.

He told you your obsession would kill you one day, and now look at you. Stuck under his Father's thumb in the blinding white of his old home. At least he could rely on Simeon to keep you safe.

For the first time in his millennia old life Lucifer regretted his fall.

At his back Diavolo smiled, finally mine he thought, finally finally mine.

"This is where you live dearest?" he said. Looking at you in wonder. A small cottage greeted him with flowers blooming around metal gates. A green house in the backyard, filled to brimming with toxic and deadly plants.

he stared at you as you put on little green leather gloves and pointed at every plant, the poison it obtained and what it could do it a humans system. You showed him leaf patterns and squeezed a pokeberry and watched the seeds spill out, showing him the poison as red as blood inside.

"Isn't it wonderful" you asked. You gazed into his eyes, yours were filled with an almost child like wonder as you gazed around your garden. For once you had almost rivaled your boyfriend in Pride. He could practically see the peacock feathers sprouting from your back.

" I just want you to look upon the true irony of your current situation." She smiles as Lucifer plucks a Manchieel apple from the tree and bit down.

"I love you Lucifer" Then she looked up at me threw her long beautiful lashes. I felt the blush creep up my cheeks as my hand rose to meet my chest.

"I love you to MC"

I kissed her then, her lips were full and warm and she was alive. We kissed by the dying sunset, I pulled her flush aganist my chest and she wrapped her arms around my neck.

I remember the feeling of utter happiness as I help her aganist me. It was like a tight spring loaded in my heart.

I love you MC, I will always love you.

Lucifer's tears slowly drew to a close as Diavolo hugger him closer. You were always so reckless, always attracted to things that could kill you whether it be plants or your choice of boyfriend. You never had a sense of self preservation, its how you two originally gotten closer.

After he realized Mammon was a horrible human babysitter he slowly faded into the role. Then after your true heritae was revealed, he couldn't stop himself from falling in love with you.

Ha look where that got him. Youe dead and his heart is shattered on the ground.

Even after all those pacts you still went to Celestial, even though your a desecandt of the angel my Father wanted elimanited.

Maybe this is a new tourment from my Father after all, he took away Lilith, and now you.

My darling little MC.

Lucifer was sure his heart would never be put back together again.

He missed your warm touches. Your random notes on his mountains of paperwork, little encouragments and silly heart on sticky notes.

He saved them all.

You come in with snacks or drinks in the dead of night just to remind him to eat.

"How could you possibly love a demon, I'm a failure. A fallen angel." He looked downcast.

You confessed your love fo rthe first time that night. Heart shapped pancakes, on his desk after a particularly long meeting. At the time his first thought was "Beel didn't see these, how odd."

" I love you in spite of that. Lucifer you work hard, you sacrificed your freedom for your family. You work like a slave to because of it. Your so strong. You saved your brother from the dungeon, and bore the burden of greif all these years." YOu looked at him admiration and a touch of saddness.

"'I love you because no matter what you come to face, you better yourself with it." his pride swelled, he took in your flushed face, your sparkling eyes, and your soft hair. He loved you for so long. He pulled you close and kissed away your tears.

Then you fed each other pancakes.

He didn't do any work that night.

The brothers made you a memorial behdn the House of Lamentation. Filled to the brim with roses spelled healthy, and pictures upon pictures from your Devilgram account. Soft teddy bears and the controller you used most when playing with Levi, a tube of your lipstick you accidentally left behind.

Lucifer went their that night, he sat in frount of you and cried himself to sleep. It was almost like losing Lilith all over again.

You were the one to comfort him when you felt like this. When he lost the battle of the darkness inside his heart, but you were gone, and nobody else dared approach him. He felt your absence in the very core of his being, he missed your hands grazing his horns or preening his wings.

" Their like clouds! So fluffy!"

" They were made from clouds dearest" He smiled at you and pulled you onto his lap."

" I miss you MC, my dearest one." A few tears dropped onto your tombstone. He rested his head agaist your picture.

" Lucifer" a soft voice whispered, hiding in the shadows.

"Simeon" Lucifer looked up and saw his friend under the tree. He looked forlorn and...was that dread?

" We need to talk... I have a message from....her"

Lucifer sat up and gracefully walkes towards him. His uniform is covered in mud and he was an indent from your memorial but, he still looked prideful. Even if he didn't feel anything at all.

Simeon looked at him in a pitiful manner.

" She loves you Lucifer, and it wasn't an accident. She said she saw Barbatos, and the cop who was investagating, he was a demon who tried to eat her once. When she was with Satan at the library.

She says he lended over and checked her pulse after she drank the water. He said he was sorry, on all accounts."

Lucifer couldn't speak, he was falling once more in a pit of rage and despair.

" Are you sure?" disbelief coated his voice as he looked upon his best friend and companion.

" She's a mess about it, Barb came over and-" Simeon shuddered. "She's being peppered with questions about everythibg from Micheal, she saw a few of her deceased pets and started crying, she won't leave them be" he chuckled slightly.

Lucifer felt a stab of betrayal, but he also felt a sense of purpose.

"Thank you Simeon" he said cooly, buttoning up his unofrm, tying his belt, fixing his medals."Give MC my love from now until the end of eternity." Lucifer walked cooly back to your memorial. He touched your smiling face and took out his D.D.D.

The Demon Brothers (6) New (7)

Lucifer- Family meeting in the dining room, Five minutes

He shut off his phone and walked back into the house.

" Your so strong Lucifer."

"Your so beautiful"

" You'll always be my angel."

" I love you, and I'll always love you."

Lucifer stared at his brothers' gathered in he dining hall. He tuned out their questions and held up his hand.

He stood up the chair moving soundlessely on the carpet.

He placed his hand over the R.A.D badge, then he ripped it off. The stitches popping and metals clanging on the table.

He threw it to the floor.

"Who here wants to start a rebellion."

Yay my first aganst! So who wins that's up to you! Comment please I love reading them.

This is my girlfriend's story and I wanted to post it here and she let me so go check it out on wattpad

@sparkleshinegreen

#obey me #obey me diavolo #obey lucifer #agnst #fluff #to be continued #lucifer x reader #oc mention #death #murder #fanfiction

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ohdearhiddles · 4 years

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SUMMARY: Thirteen years post-breakup and Tom still takes your breath away. You were once young and childish, and you had wanted more than he should have given. Years later, just the sight of him causes your heart to flutter, but what about him?

TITLE: To Fall in Love Again

WORD COUNT: 2837

AUTHOR NOTES/WARNINGS: Kinda angsty I guess? I tried to be vague with the ages, but it was kind of hard since the idea of the story was based off of time gap, so my apologies! There will most likely be a second part to this just because I genuinely didn’t think that the next part belonged in the same part as this so yeah :) (AO3 Link)

He was beautiful.

Some people truly aged with grace, and despite Thomas William Hiddleston being 14 years older than when you had met him that fateful afternoon, he had certainly been one of the lucky ones. His curly locks were much longer now and dyed and a gorgeous black, and his smile - oh god, his smile - was still as dazzling and absolutely breathtaking as it had been many years ago.

Of course, though, the Tom standing before you was not the same one you had known.

This Tom had become so very loved by those around him; a true gentleman among men. He was even more humble and lovely as when you had met him from all that you could tell, and for a moment you wondered if he would even recognize you. You were but an average woman among the many beautiful women that graced his presence, and suddenly, you found yourself recalling the day that you had expressed that you felt as though you would hold him back.

Back then, his career and age intimidated you greatly. So much so that you had cut him out of your life like the immature young adult you had been - a regretful mistake that you came to terms with a long while afterward.

Now, you were a dapper, older woman, calm and sophisticated as you were meant to be. The childish side of you had long been hidden away and you when you weren’t reminded of how you once were, you didn’t mind the absence of such childish bliss. You didn’t believe you had aged as well as Tom did; in fact, you were certain that you looked even closer to his age than you had before. You could definitely have passed for a woman in her late thirties.

Fans crowded around the lovely man you had once loved more than life itself, and you felt a sharp throb in your chest. You stood farther back, holding a cup of coffee that had chilled significantly since you had gotten it, but you weren’t about to throw it away just yet. It gave you something to do with your hands at least.

His smile was radiant, and you wondered what on earth he was doing in the grand old city of New York. Women and men alike flocked like birds around the newest shiny object they had found. It was then that you noticed the small booklets in their hands. Playbills. Hurriedly, you looked around the area for signs adorning the exterior of theaters for any indication on why he was there.

Spotting a poster on a nearby wall, your jaw dropped. Broadway.

A small proud, smile played at your lips as you approached the sign. Tom loved acting, you knew that very well, and you had always tried to be as supportive as can be. But back then, you were still a child - an irritable, greedy child who had no business being with such a loving and considerate man that had his eyes set on the stars.

You recalled the day you looked yourself in the mirror, suddenly hating the type of lover you had become in spite of all Tom had given you. When he gave you his time, you had begged for more, and when he gave you his heart, you asked for his soul. Nothing had been good enough for you until the day you decided that enough was enough. Love was not about taking from him, borrowing his time and spending his affections like spare change. It was about acceptance and maintaining what you had.

If only you had known that before everything turned sour.

Your heart fluttered at the reminder of the days in which your relationship was flourishing, growing like the most beautiful flower among weeds. Although you and Tom had only dated for about a year, when it was good, it was good. He had never failed to make you laugh or make you feel loved, and that was exactly the problem. However, even flowers die when the seasons change and the air grows cold. That’s exactly what had happened. Your relationship became a weed, poisoned by all that surrounded it and you had believed it was all your fault.

One crucial moment had destroyed it all. The day you had said that you wanted more, more everything, and Tom had gladly agreed to give it to you. Every second after that moment was still vivid in your mind. The feeling of pure horror that overtook you as you watched a man say that he valued you more than his career, more than anything, was something you would never forget. Who were you to ask him to do that?

Nobody, was what you had decided. You were nobody. You had to accept it.

The relationship spiraled from there. The kisses became chaste and the sex became stale - passion was mistakenly shoved away. Tom’s smiles slowly withered in time, and your soul slowly blackened, becoming a void that sucked the life from him.

It took 46 days for things to end, and it took 598 days for you to pick up all the pieces of your shattered being after it all happened. And if you were honest, no one was ever enough even after him. Even now, you had tried to be exactly what was asked of you, asking for nothing in return because of a lingering fear that you would ask for far too much.

For years, you watched Tom become the actor and man he had always dreamed of becoming. He became a face that so many could recognize, and you were now certain that if you were to approach him, you would look like nothing more than a woman seeking attention that did not belong to you.

You dragged your eyes away from the poster, looking over at the crowd of people. The thought to approach was more than just appealing. But it didn’t feel right to approach him despite it all. You were someone from his distant past; you had no claim on him, no reason to make him reminisce something you had neglected. The again, you were still very much the same as you once had been deep inside, and today you wanted to allow her to take hold.

Hesitantly making your way to the crowd, you didn’t push or shove. You hovered in the background, looking on as a fans asked him signatures and pictures. And then you heard it - the ringing laughter that melted every bit of ice that had formed around your heart. You shut your eyes briefly, cherishing the sound that you didn’t dare to admit you missed. 13 years after the break up, and he still made you feel like a teenager.

When you opened your eyes, he was standing even closer. Actually, it looked as though he was trying to go on his merry way, but with so many people, you supposed that it was probably much more difficult to leave than it seemed. Especially for him if he was any bitt as apologetic and kind as he was before.

The crowd began to disperse slowly but surely, but you lingered You stayed towards the back, keeping a distance between yourself and the man that still made your heart race. You were hoping to remain as inconspicuous as possible, but it was becoming increasingly worrisome as he slowly got closer.

People began to gather around you, indicating his approach, but you stayed where you were. It would seem terribly awkward to walk away now, so you planted your feet in the ground and took root. Tom stood approximately ten feet away, and you began to feel sick. This was a bad idea, you thought to yourself.

An unforgiving shove distracted you from your unease as your lukewarm coffee fell to the ground, splashing against the pavement. A few people turned their heads, questioning you on if you were alright, but you couldn’t find a way to respond. A familiar face stood before you, a worried look in his eyes and you stared back at him, not knowing how to make any coherent sentences.

“Are you alright?” He inquired, and you froze. You were sure he didn’t recognize you, and a feeling of relief washed over you, but it was quickly replaced with the familiar sting in your chest. His voice was like velvet, or perhaps it resembled a melodic tune that you wanted to sing constantly. You weighed your options on how to respond, but nothing came to mind.

“I’m sorry,” you blurted, ignoring the stares of those around you.

Oh, were you sorry. It wasn’t coffee that you were apologizing for, or the tiniest of splashes that made it’s way onto Tom’s pants. At that second, you were 13 years younger standing in front of a younger version of Tom, apologizing like you should have instead of running away. You were apologizing for the incessant rambling, the late phone calls that kept him up far longer than it should have, the greed you had held for his time, and the manipulation of his love.

Those two words held more meaning than anything you had ever said before, and you so desperately wanted to explain it all. You wanted to tell him that now, standing before him, you could feel yourself falling in love all over again. You wanted to tell him that you watched every movie, series, play, and poetry reading he had done. The only one you seemed to have not been aware of was his current escapade. You wanted to tell him that if you could do it all again, you would have been better. You should have been better.

Tom’s face was blank as he stared at you. You looked around you, a blush rising to your cheeks as everyone seemed to wait for your interaction to end. So, you took the first step. You lifted your hand, holding it out for him to shake. He reciprocated the action, eyes still trained intently on your face and the tears welling up in your eyes, but you hoped that it would be mistaken as tears of joy. A shaky laugh escaped your lips as you shook hands.

“It was nice meeting you,” you said, smiling up at the beautiful man as your heart plummeted to the ground. Everything was starting to feel hazy, and maybe that’s why it felt as though his grip had tightened and his touch had lingered significantly longer than it should have. Perhaps that’s why, as you turned to leave, you could have sworn that your name had slipped past his lips like a silent promise.

You weaved your way through the crowd, eyes trained on the ground as you began to regret the interaction. Your pulse was erratic as you walked away, hoping that the rest of the day would drown out this unforeseen meeting that you had voluntarily made worse for yourself. As you exited the crowd, the voices of everyone around you seemed to hush. All except one.

Tom’s voice bounced off of invisible barriers, an echo that made its way to you. It stopped you in your tracks as he called your name over and over again until a hand was grasped around your wrist. Turning quickly, you see the crowd had not followed him. They all stood in their spot, stares all directed at you.

He repeated your name once more, and you blinked in disbelief.

“Yes?” You all but squeaked. It must have been a funny sight - a woman of your age squeaking a reply like a child.

“It is you, isn’t it?” He repeated.

“It’s me,” you spoke, eyes wandering to where his fingers touched your arm.

His eyebrows furrowed as he scanned you up and down. It wasn’t an intrusive look, but it still made you uncomfortable after all these years of thinking you would never see him again. Then, out of nowhere, a wonderful thing happened. Tom pulled your arm, wrapping his own around your waist as if you had never done him wrong. He inhaled deeply before withdrawing from the embrace, a smile that you had dreamed about far too many times gracing his features.

“I didn’t recognize you at first, I apologize,” he breathed, hands still on your shoulders. “I wasn’t,” he paused. “I wasn’t expecting to run into you.”

“That makes two of us,” you mumbled under your breath, and a hearty laugh resonated within him.

“How are you?” He asked, voice filled with sincerity.

For once, you didn’t know what to say to that. How were you? You didn’t think about it all too much, and when you did, you chose not to dwell on it as much as you probably should have. The last thing on your mind was to worry about your own sanity and wellbeing.

“I’m doing good,” you said, knowing that the answer was bland and as generic as possible.

Tom seemed to not truly believe the statement, and you figured that you wouldn’t believe it either if your crazy ex started crying and pretended not to know you after over a decade of seeing one another. “How about you?”

“I’m doing well,” he replied, his smile faltering before he sighed. Liar. “Actually, if I’m being honest with you, I’m quite tired lately.”

You nodded, not knowing what to say in response as Tom’s hands dropped to his sides. The silence dragged out and you found yourself beginning to turn to leave.

“Well, it was nice seeing you,” you mumbled.

“Wait,” Tom spoke, reaching out again before pulling his hand back. “Wait.”

The next few seconds were a blur as he pulled his phone out of his pocket, typing away before holding it out for you to take. You eyed it suspiciously before taking it from his hands. “I heard you got a new number back then, but if you don’t mind,” you suppressed a gasp as you watched a small rosy tint appear on his cheeks. “I’d like to catch up sometime soon.”

It was then that you smiled, a true genuine smile, “I’d really like that.” So, you looked at the screen to type away. What you saw, though, was not what you had expected. An old picture from back when the two of you were together sat in the contact photo, and your name and old number were still typed out in their designated spots.

When you handed the phone back to the gentleman, you pulled your own phone out of your pocket and held it out for him to take. “Yours too.”

You watched in admiration as his long, nimble fingers tapped against the screen, typing his information into your contacts. After handing it back, he smiled, holding his arms out again as if he were asking for another hug. Not seeing the harm, you allowed yourself to be engulfed by his body, and right before you pulled away, Tom whispered: “I’ve missed you more than you know.”

So, when the two of you went your separate ways, you couldn’t help the heat that had risen to your face. You truly felt a decade younger as you walked away, not sure how to take that sentence. What had he missed? Did he miss you the way you missed him?

“I missed you, too,” you whispered to no one in particular, glancing back to see Tom’s eyes on your retreating form. And in that moment you wondered if it would be possible to fall in love again, and for him to fall in love with you.

After closing the door to your home, you felt a soft vibration in your pocket, and you felt as though a small sliver of hope had shone through the endless night you had grown accustomed to as you read it. It was a text that reminded you that, at one point, Tom had understood you better than you understood yourself. Even now, he still somehow understood you as if he could read your mind.

I forgot to tell you, but don’t apologize. I would do it all again in a heartbeat.

What? You typed up the response before hitting send. Within seconds, the three dots in a bubble appeared on the screen, showing that he was already typing his answer.

You said sorry when you saw me. Am I wrong?

I did.

Don’t apologize.

A second text chimed in less than a second later.

Unless you would like to make it up to me.

Your eyebrows knitted together in confusion as you read the text.

How so? You asked, nothing in particular crossing your mind when you thought about it.

Go to dinner with me tomorrow. Let’s make up for some lost time.

That was probably the last thing you had ever expected. These types of things were reserved for movies and books that you would never be a part of. But despite the thought that you were getting played, you did not have the heart to turn him down. Who were you to tell him no?

Okay.

#tom hiddleston #tom hiddleston x reader #tom hiddleston imagine #tom hiddleston imagines #tom hiddleston x female reader #tom hiddleston one shot #one shot #fanfic #reader insert #chance meeting #kinda angsty

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regrettablewritings · 4 years

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Well I recently watched Trouble in the Heights, so let's go for Nevada Ramirez & Love, even if he perhaps has 1 bare inch of it in his whole body.

(I’m still fucking wheezing oh my gOD. Nevada Ramirez is 5′9″, and that ninth inch is composed completely out of the one inch of love he can actually express like a normal human being.) Similar to the Bruce Wayne one, though, some of these were sorta referenced in past Nevada pieces (what few there comparatively are). So, just in case, I included links to those pieces because they generally go into more detail in certain areas. Hope that’s all good!

Who said “I love you” first?: Well, you said it in that way first, so technically it was you. But if we just meant the actual soul of the phrase, of someone vocally expressing to another their love and interest in their well being, even without the exact words in place? It was Nevada. And even he didn’t necessarily notice it in the moment. Granted, even a sentence like, “Hey, don’t be stupid and just go straight home, understand me?” can slip Nevada’s notice as a sign of his own affection. He’s not nearly as in tune with his emotions as he’d like to think, really.

What are their primary love languages?: It’s really hard to place what a guy like Nevada’s love language could possibly be -- mainly because it’s hard to picture a guy like Nevada and a concept like love even inhabiting the same room. Being a gang leader and, well, just being Nevada Ramirez in total, he likes to give off the air that he doesn’t really necessarily need anybody — that everyone, from his underlings to even his past lovers are more or less side dressing he allows near him. But don’t be fooled: This little shit gets by on spoiling you and the affirmations he earns from them. The great thing about gifts is that in theory you could present them without needing to say much or even say anything at all. And given ‘Vada’s . . . less than delicate manner of speaking, this can be a good thing. And don’t get it twisted, he ain’t no sentimental pussy or nothing; he just sorta likes how your face glows when he just so happens to remember things like your favorite candy, or artist you mentioned wanting a framed piece by. He don’t need you to tell him he’s the best (he already knows he is), but it doesn’t hurt to hear you cry it as you practically fling yourself at him and smooch him silly. He also appreciates acts of service. Shady as his business is, it still demands a lot of the man. He won’t always express it completely but those nights when you show up at his place with his favorite takeout, or he comes home and finds the sheets have been cleaned or that you’ve done whatever he’d meant to have completed earlier that day? He almost wants to drag you to the edge of the bed and express his thanks to you. He appreciates it more than you would think.

How often do they cuddle/engage in PDA?: Frequently, actually. There is hardly a moment wherein Nevada doesn’t have some part of him touching you: His hand resting on your hip or place in the back pocket of your jeans; your rump resting comfortably on his lap; his arm around you as you lean back in the VIP section of a club; or even just your legs over his own (or vice-versa) as you rest on the couch at home. Many would assume it’s just for show; that El Trujillo is simply asserting his dominance to all who might consider approaching you with sexual intent. They wouldn’t necessarily be wrong -- Nevada does intend to wordlessly yet loudly tell people that you belong to him. However, in addition to this, ‘Vada also just likes to show you off to everyone. And what better way to show the world his beautiful girl than to have her perched on his lap like a pretty bird on a branch?

What are their favorite things to do together?: To the surprise of no one, you two don’t have too, too much in common in terms of interest: Nevada, with his silver palate, enjoys eating out at restaurants with no less than four stars, and you enjoy going out to live shows, specifically on or even off-Broadway musicals. You don’t really care much for the strange food he likes, and he’s extremely particular about what sorts of show’s he’ll even bother with, but you do it for one another. But when it comes to what very few things you do enjoy in common, it ultimately gets narrowed down to two things: Cuddling on the couch and watching TV. Typically old shows or telanovelas because they’re both enjoyable and so terrible that neither of you can help but jeer at the bad acting, awful storylines, and cheesy sets and costumes. It’s a very strange bonding activity -- and certainly not one that anyone would associate with Nevada (and he wants to keep it that way). But it’s the one that you two enjoy the most after a long week, and a surefire way to help both parties relax and cheer up.

Who’s better at comforting the other?: Well, you’re one of the only one who can make him genuinely laugh if that says anything. Nevada isn’t an easy man to comfort, mostly because in his stubbornness, he’s become convinced that his power comes from his anger. So really, it should be sign enough that he even decided to go steady with you that he finds some sort of comfort in your presence (regardless of what he might tell you).

Who’s more protective?: Being a dealer of some infamy, Nevada is aware that he’s made more enemies than friends both in The Heights and out of them. As easy as it is to assume he doesn’t care too much about you, the reality is far from the truth: He cares deeply for you in his own Nevada way. When you go to one of his clubs, he’s never far away or not without you in his line of sight. There’s always a hand resting on your hip or your thigh, or he’ll, you’re always on his lap. Call it primal, but smart enough people who value their lives can take one look at ‘Vada’s hand resting on your ass and just know not to even bother with you. Slightly less smart may need to look at the man’s cold, murderous glower just for confirmation. And those with no sense of self-preservation have essentially signed their death warrant. But that’s in an environment he can control. Outside of his bars, his clubs, his restaurants where he’s a VIP? He’s a lot more quiet about it. Originally, he made sure you always had at least two Men-turned-bodyguards nearby you at all times, but you complained about how difficult it made everything from going to work to simply going shopping. “I don’t need your boys to know what types of tampons I use, Nevada!” you bristled. After much arguing, he eventually agreed to go another way about it: There’s actually more people with their eyes on you, often in disguise or paid off, but he’s made sure to put more distance on them so that you won’t feel as skeeved (or that you’ll even know they’re there for that matter). (For extra measure, if he can get you to agree to it, he’ll also have you equipped with a “Saturday Night Special” so to speak.) But be aware: The moment anyone so much as indicates even thinking about making you a target? That calm, cold demeanor rises to a simultaneously freezing yet infernal rage: You will be put on lock down or even ushered to a safe house until the threat can be dealt with. You will be escorted about the house at every moment by an armed man. And you will be kept safe until the threat has been literally disposed of.

Do they prefer verbal or physical affection?: Physical, because at least then he doesn’t have to say anything. Asshole behavior aside, Nevada knows damn well that he’s the absolute worst with words and that it honestly doesn’t take much to set you off. He figures that so long as he doesn’t have to actually say anything, he stands a better chance at not ticking you off and screwing himself over.

What are some songs that apply to their relationship, in-universe or otherwise?: “The Wolf” by SIAMÉS. “Silvertongue” by Young the Giant. “Love Me Dead” by Ludo, if the roles were reversed . . . Nevada is just plain symbolic of something that’s bad for you but just feels so good to have. That in spite of how poisonous he actually is, he is capable of using just the right words and moves to have you addicted to him after just one drop. And in spite of everything he might insist or do, it works both ways: You’re both tragically and constantly craving the other, and it can wear you both out. But then again, that’s just what addiction is: Craving to the point of depletion. Though if you want something more optimistic, there’s also “Body Talks” by The Struts: Nevada doesn’t understand it himself but all he knows is that the very moment he laid eyes on you, he was going to do whatever it took to make you his — and, judging by your body language, you were perfectly happy to do that, so long as he worked for it. And let’s face it: El Trujillo ain’t afraid to get his hands dirty.

What kind of nicknames do they call each other?: The problem is that Nevada does have the ability to give nicknames, but he’s mostly crap at it unless there’s an ulterior motive involved. Like when he wants to keep you from being mad at him or to stop you from pouting, he’ll teasingly run a finger along your jawline and pout back a cooing “Cariño” or “Muñequita.” If he means to seduce and tease? You’re his “Good Girl.” If it’s more like he’s for once asking you to do a favor, he’ll give out a quick “Babe” or something of that nature. But if he’s just trying to apply a nickname for the sake of using one? Don’t trust him with that. Trusting him to pick a pet name based on a characteristic of yours, or in reference to an event is just not a good idea. His bluntness almost always causes him to pick the wrong thing to focus on! For example: If you have a green thumb and have taken to keeping a small windowsill garden or a corner for your plants, he’s not going to reference a goddess of greenery or even a flower or spice — he’s going to try calling you “Dirtworm” or something! (And then get frustrated when you express distaste over the name.) You’re honestly probably going to have to guide him to what sort of names you’ll tolerate and what you won’t, which shocks every and all witnesses who know anything about Nevada. A romantic interest? Telling Nevada what to do? It’s more likely than you think! Even though he’ll go along with it to pacify you, the hot-tempered man obviously can’t help but feel as thought you’re being unreasonably picky. After all, he’s more than satisfied with the nicknames you usually give him. Granted, they’re just the same nicknames he’s been going by for years now: El Trujillo, Jefe . . . He used to be called “Daddy” in the VIP sections of his haunts, but that title has since been reserved only for you. That, and ‘Vada. And “Baby Boy”, but only very, very sparingly. Which is still more than he’d let anybody else get away with.

Thank you for your patience!

#nevada ramirez #nevada ramirez x reader #trouble in the heights #Raul Esparza #regrettablewritings #character ship meme #character ship headcanons #y'all keep requesting this absolute assholes/men who just are the absolute WORST at expressing love #you guise...blease love yourselves...#like -- love yourselves better than these guys could #says the person who still writes for 'em #raúl esparza

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kkintle · 3 years

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Anna Karenina by Leo Tolstoy; Quotes

Happy families are all alike; every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way.

“I always loved you, and if one loves any one, one loves the whole person, just as they are and not as one would like them to be.”

“Is this life? I am not living, but waiting for an event, which is continually put off and put off.”

Then, for the first time, grasping that for every man, and himself too, there was nothing in store but suffering, death, and forgetfulness, he had made up his mind that life was impossible like that, and that he must either interpret life so that it would not present itself to him as the evil jest of some devil, or shoot himself.

“Some think marriage a game; for others it is the most serious business of their lives.”

“Let he who is without sin cast the first stone,” (...)

“Vengeance is mine,I will repay.”

“Yes, she won’t forgive me, and she can’t forgive me. And the most awful thing about it is that it’s all my fault—all my fault, though I’m not to blame. That’s the point of the whole situation,” he reflected.

There was no solution, but that universal solution which life gives to all questions, even the most complex and insoluble. That answer is: one must live in the needs of the day—that is, forget oneself.

They were fond of one another in spite of the difference of their characters and tastes, as friends are fond of one another who have been together in early youth.

He had heard that women often did care for ugly and ordinary men, but he did not believe it, for he judged by himself, and he could not himself have loved any but beautiful, mysterious, and exceptional women.

He walked down, for a long while avoiding looking at her as at the sun, but seeing her, as one does the sun, without looking.

“Why, of course,” objected Stepan Arkadyevitch. “But that’s just the aim of civilization—to make everything a source of enjoyment.”

Stepan Arkadyevitch smiled. He so well knew that feeling of Levin’s, that for him all the girls in the world were divided into two classes: one class—all the girls in the world except her, and those girls with all sorts of human weaknesses, and very ordinary girls: the other class—she alone, having no weaknesses of any sort and higher than all humanity.

‘Forgive me not according to my unworthiness, but according to Thy loving-kindness.’

“All the variety, all the charm, all the beauty of life is made up of light and shadow.”

There are people who, on meeting a successful rival, no matter in what, are at once disposed to turn their backs on everything good in him, and to see only what is bad. There are people, on the other hand, who desire above all to find in that lucky rival the qualities by which he has outstripped them, and seek with a throbbing ache at heart only what is good.

(...) If one forgives, it must be completely, completely.

Anna was unmistakably admiring her loveliness and her youth: before Kitty knew where she was she found herself not merely under Anna’s sway, but in love with her, as young girls do fall in love with older and married women. Anna was not like a fashionable lady, nor the mother of a boy of eight years old. In the elasticity of her movements, the freshness and the unflagging eagerness which persisted in her face and broke out in her smile and her glance, she would rather have passed for a girl of twenty, had it not been for a serious and at times mournful look in her eyes, which struck and attracted Kitty. Kitty felt that Anna was perfectly simple and was concealing nothing, but that she had another higher world of interests inaccessible to her, complex and poetic.

“So now you know whom you’ve got to do with. And if you think you’re lowering yourself, well, here’s the floor, there’s the door.”

“With friends, one is well; but at home, one is better,” (...)

“Well, there’s nothing to be done. . . . It’s not my fault. But now everything shall go on in a new way. It’s nonsense to pretend that life won’t let one, that the past won’t let one. One must struggle to live better, much better.”

“Every heart has its own skeletons, as the English say.”

She had no need to ask why he had come. She knew as certainly as if he had told her that he was here to be where she was.

As though tears were the indispensable oil, without which the machinery of mutual confidence could not run smoothly between the two sisters, the sisters after their tears talked, not of what was uppermost in their minds, but, though they talked of outside matters, they understood each other.

“ (...) ‘No one is satisfied with his fortune, and every one is satisfied with his wit.’ ” The attaché repeated the French saying.

He felt what a murderer must feel, when he sees the body he has robbed of life. That body, robbed by him of life, was their love, the first stage of their love. There was something awful and revolting in the memory of what had been bought at this fearful price of shame. Shame at their spiritual nakedness crushed her and infected him. But in spite of all the murderer’s horror before the body of his victim, he must hack it to pieces, hide the body, must use what he has gained by his murder.

“ (...) There, do you see, you know the type of Ossian’s women . . . Women, such as one sees in dreams . . . Well, these women are sometimes to be met in reality . . . and these women are terrible. Woman, don’t you know, is such a subject that however much you study it, it’s always perfectly new.” “Well, then, it would be better not to study it.” “No. Some mathematician has said that enjoyment lies in the search for truth, not in the finding it.”

In the pauses of complete stillness there came the rustle of last year’s leaves, stirred by the thawing of the earth and the growth of the grass. “Imagine! One can hear and see the grass growing!”

“Count the sands of the sea, number the stars. (...)”

“The great thing’s to keep quiet before a race,” said he; “don’t get out of temper or upset about anything.”

He was angry with all of them for their interference just because he felt in his soul that they, all these people, were right.

This child’s presence called up both in Vronsky and in Anna a feeling akin to the feeling of a sailor who sees by the compass that the direction in which he is swiftly moving is far from the right one, but that to arrest his motion is not in his power, that every instant is carrying him farther and farther away, and that to admit to himself his deviation from the right direction is the same as admitting his certain ruin.

(...) like a man who, after vainly attempting to extinguish a fire, should fly in a rage with his vain efforts and say, “Oh, very well then! you shall burn for this!”

(...) “we mustn’t forget that those who are taking part in the race are military men, who have chosen that career, and one must allow that every calling has its disagreeable side. It forms an integral part of the duties of an officer. Low sports, such as prize-fighting or Spanish bull-fights, are a sign of barbarity. But specialized trials of skill are a sign of development.”

“Who are you? What are you? Are you really the exquisite creature I imagine you to be? But for goodness’ sake don’t suppose,” her eyes added, “that I would force my acquaintance on you, I simply admire you and like you.” “I like you too, and you’re very, very sweet. And I should like you better still, if I had time,” answered the eyes of the unknown girl.

“Perhaps so,” said the prince, squeezing her hand with his elbow; “but it’s better when one does good so that you may ask every one and no one knows.”

“But time’s money, you forget that,” said the colonel. “Time, indeed, that depends! Why, there’s time one would give a month of for sixpence, and time you wouldn’t give half an hour of for any money.

“ (...) I’ll be bad; but anyway not a liar, a cheat.”

“(...) while you have at your disposal a means of helping them, and don’t help them because to your mind it’s of no importance.” And Sergey Ivanovitch put before him the alternative: either you are so undeveloped that you can’t see all that you can do, or you won’t sacrifice your ease, your vanity, or whatever it is, to do it.

“I imagine,” he said, “that no sort of activity is likely to be lasting if it is not founded on self-interest, that’s a universal principle, a philosophical principle,” (...)

Those joys were so small that they passed unnoticed, like gold in sand, and at bad moments she could see nothing but the pain, nothing but sand; but there were good moments too when she saw nothing but the joy, nothing but gold.

Hypocrisy in anything whatever may deceive the cleverest and most penetrating man, but the least wide-awake of children recognizes it, and is revolted by it, however ingeniously it may be disguised.

“No,” he said to himself, “however good that life of simplicity and toil may be, I cannot go back to it. I love her.”

He experienced the sensations of a man who has had a tooth out after suffering long from toothache. After a fearful agony and a sense of something huge, bigger than the head itself, being torn out of his jaw, the sufferer, hardly able to believe in his own good luck, feels all at once that what has so long poisoned his existence and enchained his attention, exists no longer, and that he can live and think again, and take interest in other things besides his tooth.

“It is a misfortune which may befall any one. And this misfortune has befallen me. The only thing to be done is to make the best of the position.”

And it was not the necessity of concealment, not the aim with which the concealment was contrived, but the process of concealment itself which attracted her.

“To sleep well one ought to work, and to enjoy oneself one ought to work too.”

Every man who knows to the minutest details all the complexity of the conditions surrounding him, cannot help imagining that the complexity of these conditions, and the difficulty of making them clear, is something exceptional and personal, peculiar to himself, and never supposes that others are surrounded by just as complicated an array of personal affairs as he is.

“The manner of life you have chosen is reflected, I suppose, in your ideas.”

When Sviazhsky had finished, Levin could not help asking: “Well, and what then?” But there was nothing to follow. It was simply interesting that it had been proved to be so and so. But Sviazhsky did not explain, and saw no need to explain why it was interesting to him.

“I work, I want to do something, but I had forgotten it must all end; I had forgotten—death.”

The position was one of misery for all three; and not one of them would have been equal to enduring this position for a single day, if it had not been for the expectation that it would change, that it was merely a temporary painful ordeal which would pass over.

By gymnastics and careful attention to his health he had brought himself to such a point that in spite of his excess in pleasure he looked as fresh as a big glossy green Dutch cucumber.

She laid her two hands on his shoulders, and looked a long while at him with a profound, passionate, and at the same time searching look. She was studying his face to make up for the time she had not seen him. She was, every time she saw him, making the picture of him in her imagination (incomparably superior, impossible in reality) fit with him as he really was.

Then he had thought himself unhappy, but happiness was before him; now he felt that the best happiness was already left behind.

He looked at her as a man looks at a faded flower he has gathered, with difficulty recognizing in it the beauty for which he picked and ruined it. And in spite of this he felt that then, when his love was stronger, he could, if he had greatly wished it, have torn that love out of his heart; but now, when as at that moment it seemed to him he felt no love for her, he knew that what bound him to her could not be broken.

“It is old; but do you know, when you grasp this fully, then somehow everything becomes of no consequence. When you understand that you will die to-morrow, if not to-day, and nothing will be left, then everything is so unimportant!

(...) no difference is less easily overcome than the difference of opinion about semi-abstract questions, (...)

“What is horrible in a trouble of this kind is that one cannot, as in any other—in loss, in death—bear one’s trouble in peace, but that one must act,” said he, as though guessing her thought. “One must get out of the humiliating position in which one is placed; one can’t live á trois.”

“One may save any one who does not want to be ruined; but if the whole nature is so corrupt, so depraved, that ruin itself seems to her salvation, what’s to be done?”

“What do they want to argue for? No one ever convinces any one, you know.” “Yes; that’s true,” said Levin; “it generally happens that one argues warmly simply because one can’t make out what one’s opponent wants to prove.”

(...) he had firmly decided in his heart; but he could not tear out of his heart his regret at the loss of her love, he could not erase from his memory those moments of happiness that he had so little prized at the time, and that haunted him in all their charm.

“Doubt is natural to the weakness of mankind,” (...)

“There’s some sense in this custom of saying good-bye to bachelor life,” said Sergey Ivanovitch. “However happy you may be, you must regret your freedom.”

In reality, those who in Vronsky’s opinion had the “proper” view had no sort of view at all, but behaved in general as well-bred persons do behave in regard to all the complex and insoluble problems with which life is encompassed on all sides; they behaved with propriety, avoiding allusions and unpleasant questions. They assumed an air of fully comprehending the import and force of the situation, of accepting and even approving of it, but of considering it superfluous and uncalled for to put all this into words.

The thought of the harm caused to her husband aroused in her a feeling like repulsion, and akin to what a drowning man might feel who has shaken off another man clinging to him. That man did drown. It was an evil action, of course, but it was the sole means of escape, and better not to brood over these fearful facts.

Never did he work with such fervor and success as when things went ill with him, (...)

And the most experienced and adroit painter could not by mere mechanical facility paint anything if the lines of the subject were not revealed to him first.

He knew that Vronsky could not be prevented from amusing himself with painting; he knew that he and all dilettanti had a perfect right to paint what they liked, but it was distasteful to him. A man could not be prevented from making himself a big wax doll, and kissing it. But if the man were to come with the doll and sit before a man in love, and begin caressing his doll as the lover caressed the woman he loved, it would be distasteful to the lover. Just such a distasteful sensation was what Mihailov felt at the sight of Vronsky’s painting: he felt it both ludicrous and irritating, both pitiable and offensive.

At every step he experienced what a man would experience who, after admiring the smooth, happy course of a little boat on a lake, should get himself into that little boat. He saw that it was not all sitting still, floating smoothly; that one had to think too, not for an instant to forget where one was floating; and that there was water under one, and that one must row; and that his unaccustomed hands would be sore; and that it was only to look at it that was easy; but that doing it, though very delightful, was very difficult.

But it is hard for anyone who is dissatisfied not to blame some one else, and especially the person nearest of all to him, for the ground of his dissatisfaction

“He’s just one of those people of whom they say they’re not for this world.”

He was nine years old; he was a child; but he knew his own soul, it was precious to him, he guarded it as the eyelid guards the eye, and without the key of love he let no one into his soul.

One may sit for several hours at a stretch with one’s legs crossed in the same position, if one knows that there’s nothing to prevent one’s changing one’s position; but if a man knows that he must remain sitting so with crossed legs, then cramps come on, the legs begin to twitch and to strain towards the spot to which one would like to draw them.

She had prepared everything but the words she should say to her son. Often as she had dreamed of it, she could never think of anything.

(...) and slightly turning, was saying something to Yashvin. The setting of her head on her handsome, broad shoulders, and the restrained excitement and brilliance of her eyes and her whole face reminded him of her just as he had seen her at the ball in Moscow. But he felt utterly different towards her beauty now. In his feeling for her now there was no element of mystery, and so her beauty, though it attracted him even more intensely than before, gave him now a sense of injury.

“You think he can’t fall in love,” said Kitty, translating into her own language. “It’s not so much that he can’t fall in love,” Levin said, smiling, “but he has not the weakness necessary.... I’ve always envied him, and even now, when I’m so happy, I still envy him.” “You envy him for not being able to fall in love?” “I envy him for being better than I,” said Levin. “He does not live for himself. His whole life is subordinated to his duty. And that’s why he can be calm and contented.”

“I don’t think anything,” she said, “but I always loved you, and if one loves any one, one loves the whole person, just as they are and not as one would like them to be....”

“It’s our Russian apathy,” said Vronsky, pouring water from an iced decanter into a delicate glass on a high stem; “we’ve no sense of the duties our privileges impose upon us, and so we refuse to recognize these duties.”

But her chief thought was still of herself—how far she was dear to Vronsky, how far she could make up to him for all he had given up. Vronsky appreciated this desire not only to please, but to serve him, which had become the sole aim of her existence, but at the same time he wearied of the loving snares in which she tried to hold him fast. As time went on, and he saw himself more and more often held fast in these snares, he had an ever-growing desire, not so much to escape from them, as to try whether they hindered his freedom.

“But you say it’s an institution that’s served its time.” “That it may be, but still it ought to be treated a little more respectfully. Snetkov, now ... We may be of use, or we may not, but we’re the growth of a thousand years. If we’re laying out a garden, planning one before the house, you know, and there you’ve a tree that’s stood for centuries in the very spot... Old and gnarled it may be, and yet you don’t cut down the old fellow to make room for the flowerbeds, but lay out your beds so as to take advantage of the tree. You won’t grow him again in a year,” (...)

But, as he told her, the more he did nothing, the less time he had to do anything.

“If you look for perfection, you will never be satisfied. And it’s true, as papa says,—that when we were brought up there was one extreme—we were kept in the basement, while our parents lived in the best rooms; now it’s just the other way—the parents are in the wash-house, while the children are in the best rooms. Parents now are not expected to live at all, but to exist altogether for their children.” “Well, what if they like it better?”

(...) felt a great weariness from the fruitless strain on his attention.

Anna had come from behind the treillage to meet him, and Levin saw in the dim light of the study the very woman of the portrait, in a dark blue shot gown, not in the same position nor with the same expression, but with the same perfection of beauty which the artist had caught in the portrait. She was less dazzling in reality, but, on the other hand, there was something fresh and seductive in the living woman which was not in the portrait.

Anna talked not merely naturally and cleverly, but cleverly and carelessly, attaching no value to her own ideas and giving great weight to the ideas of the person she was talking to.

If you knew how I feel on the brink of calamity at this instant, how afraid I am of myself!”

There are no conditions to which a man cannot become used, especially if he sees that all around him are living in the same way.

Yet that grief and this joy were alike outside all the ordinary conditions of life; they were loopholes, as it were, in that ordinary life through which there came glimpses of something sublime. And in the contemplation of this sublime something the soul was exalted to inconceivable heights of which it had before had no conception, while reason lagged behind, unable to keep up with it.

But as he looked at her, he saw again that help was impossible, and he was filled with terror and prayed: “Lord, have mercy on us, and help us!” And as time went on, both these conditions became more intense; the calmer he became away from her, completely forgetting her, the more agonizing became both her sufferings and his feeling of helplessness before them. He jumped up, would have liked to run away, but ran to her. Sometimes, when again and again she called upon him, he blamed her; but seeing her patient, smiling face, and hearing the words, “I am worrying you,” he threw the blame on God; but thinking of God, at once he fell to beseeching God to forgive him and have mercy.

In order to carry through any undertaking in family life, there must necessarily be either complete division between the husband and wife, or loving agreement. When the relations of a couple are vacillating and neither one thing nor the other, no sort of enterprise can be undertaken.

She was jealous not of any particular woman but of the decrease of his love. Not having got an object for her jealousy, she was on the lookout for it. At the slightest hint she transferred her jealousy from one object to another.

This irritated Anna. She saw in this a contemptuous reference to her occupations. And she bethought her of a phrase to pay him back for the pain he had given her. “I don’t expect you to understand me, my feelings, as any one who loved me might, but simple delicacy I did expect,” she said.

For an instant she had a clear vision of what she was doing, and was horrified at how she had fallen away from her resolution. But even though she knew it was her own ruin, she could not restrain herself, could not keep herself from proving to him that he was wrong, could not give way to him.

“(...) What’s so awful is that one can’t tear up the past by its roots. One can’t tear it out, but one can hide one’s memory of it. And I’ll hide it.”

“He thought he knew me. Well, he knows me as well as any one in the world knows me. I don’t know myself.”

“We all want what is sweet and nice. If not sweetmeats, then a dirty ice.”

“Yes, of what Yashvin says, the struggle for existence and hatred is the one thing that holds men together. No, it’s a useless journey you’re making,” she said, mentally addressing a party in a coach and four, evidently going for an excursion into the country. “And the dog you’re taking with you will be no help to you. You can’t get away from yourselves.”

Then she thought that life might still be happy, and how miserably she loved and hated him, and how fearfully her heart was beating.

“Yes, I’m very much worried, and that’s what reason was given me for, to escape; so then one must escape: why not put out the light when there’s nothing more to look at, when it’s sickening to look at it all? But how?”

“There’s no one I should less dislike seeing than you,” said Vronsky. “Excuse me; and there’s nothing in life for me to like.”

And all at once a different pain, not an ache, but an inner trouble, that set his whole being in anguish, made him for an instant forget his toothache.

And he tried to think of her as she was when he met her the first time, at a railway-station too, mysterious, exquisite, loving, seeking and giving happiness, and not cruelly revengeful as he remembered her on that last moment. He tried to recall his best moments with her, but those moments were poisoned forever. He could only think of her as triumphant, successful in her menace of a wholly useless remorse never to be effaced. He lost all consciousness of toothache, and his face worked with sobs.

Levin felt suddenly like a man who has changed his warm fur cloak for a muslin garment, and going for the first time into the frost is immediately convinced, not by reason, but by his whole nature that he is as good as naked, and that he must infallibly perish miserably.

(...) something had happened that seemed extraordinary to him. He, an unbeliever, had fallen into praying, and at the moment he prayed, he believed. But that moment had passed, and he could not make his state of mind at that moment fit into the rest of his life. He could not admit that at that moment he knew the truth, and that now he was wrong; for as soon as he began thinking calmly about it, it all fell to pieces. He could not admit that he was mistaken then, for his spiritual condition then was precious to him, and to admit that it was a proof of weakness would have been to desecrate those moments. He was miserably divided against himself, and strained all his spiritual forces to the utmost to escape from this condition.

“Without knowing what I am and why I am here, life’s impossible; and that I can’t know, and so I can’t live,” Levin said to himself. “In infinite time, in infinite matter, in infinite space, is formed a bubble-organism, and that bubble lasts a while and bursts, and that bubble is Me.” It was an agonizing error, but it was the sole logical result of ages of human thought in that direction. This was the ultimate belief on which all the systems elaborated by human thought in almost all their ramifications rested. It was the prevalent conviction, and of all other explanations Levin had unconsciously, not knowing when or how, chosen it, as any way the clearest, and made it his own. But it was not merely a falsehood, it was the cruel jeer of some wicked power, some evil, hateful power, to whom one could not submit. He must escape from this power. And the means of escape every man had in his own hands. He had but to cut short this dependence on evil. And there was one means—death.

Whether he were acting rightly or wrongly he did not know, and far from trying to prove that he was, nowadays he avoided all thought or talk about it. Reasoning had brought him to doubt, and prevented him from seeing what he ought to do and what he ought not. When he did not think, but simply lived, he was continually aware of the presence of an infallible judge in his soul, determining which of two possible courses of action was the better and which was the worse, and as soon as he did not act rightly, he was at once aware of it. So he lived, not knowing and not seeing any chance of knowing what he was and what he was living for, and harassed at this lack of knowledge to such a point that he was afraid of suicide, and yet firmly laying down his own individual definite path in life.

“Then she recovered, but to-day or to-morrow or in ten years she won’t; they’ll bury her, and nothing will be left either of her or of that smart girl in the red jacket, who with that skilful, soft action shakes the ears out of their husks. They’ll bury her and this piebald horse, and very soon too,”

“Yes, all the newspapers do say the same thing,” said the prince. “That’s true. But so it is the same thing that all the frogs croak before a storm. One can hear nothing for them.”

“The people make sacrifices and are ready to make sacrifices for their soul, but not for murder,”

“Were you very much frightened?” she said. “So was I too, but I feel it more now that it’s over. (...)”

“What is it? you’re not worried about anything?” she said, looking intently at his face in the starlight. But she could not have seen his face if a flash of lightning had not hidden the stars and revealed it. In that flash she saw his face distinctly, and seeing him calm and happy, she smiled at him.

“No, I’d better not speak of it,” he thought, when she had gone in before him. “It is a secret for me alone, of vital importance for me, and not to be put into words. “This new feeling has not changed me, has not made me happy and enlightened all of a sudden, as I had dreamed, just like the feeling for my child. There was no surprise in this either. Faith—or not faith—I don’t know what it is—but this feeling has come just as imperceptibly through suffering, and has taken firm root in my soul. “I shall go on in the same way, losing my temper with Ivan the coachman, falling into angry discussions, expressing my opinions tactlessly; there will be still the same wall between the holy of holies of my soul and other people, even my wife; I shall still go on scolding her for my own terror, and being remorseful for it; I shall still be as unable to understand with my reason why I pray, and I shall still go on praying; but my life now, my whole life apart from anything that can happen to me, every minute of it is no more meaningless, as it was before, but it has the positive meaning of goodness, which I have the power to put into it.”

#Anna karenina #Leo tolstoy #classic fiction #fiction #quotes #literature

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