#can a woman with the most wretched life imaginable

[grendel-menz]

come be just a wild rabid animal with me random girl let's eat your mom

[chxnsgirl]

방찬 ─── cracks in the mirror

♡ pairing ៸៸ idol!chan x fem!reader genre ៸៸ angst, fluff ៸៸ cw ៸៸ ED behaviors mentioned , body image angst , weight loss mentions , mean girl mina , chan is sweet

♡ synopsis ៸៸ after a girl says something mean about your body at work, chan consoles you. [ part 2 ]

a/n ๑ i messed up the format please don't laugh at me

♡ masterlist

the work dynamic today was strange. you were working with your friends, han, changbin, and chan, helping out with music production and note taking. this was a normal day, or at least, it would have been, without mina present.

mina is.. to put it bluntly, the biggest pick-me-bitch you’d ever met. she was normally assigned to work with itzy on their productions, but this particular day, she needed to fill in for a staff member who couldn’t make it into work. she put on a facade around everyone else, but you saw her for what she really is, an emotional vampire, manipulative snake, and an attention whore. you realized it when she only talked to you when you were around the guys. 

you two were hired together, during a group interview process, and she was so nice to you.. until she found out you’d be the one working with stray kids. if you weren’t around the members, she’d be cold to you, never saying more than a few words to you before finding an excuse to get away from you. 

the way she acts alone would annoy any sane person, but it annoyed you times ten when you noticed the way she’d flirt with any male in her presence. especially chan, who you weren’t as close with, but you couldn’t help but gain some feelings for him while working for him, and though he almost never reciprocated the flirtation, you felt as though compared to her you stood no chance. 

and why is that? she was gorgeous. that, you couldn’t even deny. she was white, and she had blonde hair, striking blue eyes, which were framed by her long eyelashes. not to mention, she was skinny. she was the beauty standard. you had struggled with your weight your whole life. you were always the chubby kid in your class, the chubbiest out of your friends. you became accustomed to feeling inferior to basically any skinnier woman in your proximity. 

so, even though you extremely disliked mina, you couldn’t help but envy her. she was beautiful–physically flawless. imagine the disappointment you dealt with everyday knowing nobody else is aware of her wretched personality. 

the sad part was that you actually lost a significant amount of weight since then, but you still felt like the same girl you were in high school, extremely overweight and invisible. you weren’t skinny still by any means, but you were healthy, and that’s what’s most important. 

you mentally cursed to yourself as you looked at the time on your apple watch. it was only 1pm. at least you only had a good two hours until it was time to go home, since changbin needed to end early for a prior engagement. while you were typing away, mina was sitting on the leather couch next to you, about a foot away, half-way paying attention to what was actually going on. 

han was sitting in a chair about two feet away, writing in his journal, and chan and changbin were directing seungmin in the booth, lost in concentration. 

you try to focus on the task in front of you, but you can feel her eyes on you, like she’s studying you for some kind of weakness. you glance up, just in time to catch her watching you, a faint smile tugging at her lips.

“hey,” she begins, her voice light and overly sweet, as if she’s sharing a secret. “can i ask you something?”

you sigh, already dreading whatever’s coming next. “what?”

mina shifts slightly on the couch, her tone now casual, like she’s making conversation. “i’ve been meaning to ask, you know… how do you deal with, like... not having to worry about, well, fitness and stuff? like, you’re so relaxed about it. i mean, i can’t imagine just… not caring about how i look all the time.” she tilts her head, her eyes narrowing just enough to show she’s enjoying the discomfort she’s causing.

you feel a pang in your chest, but you try to mask it, pretending like her words don’t bother you. mina leans back on the couch, a mockingly sympathetic expression crossing her face. “it must be so nice not to stress about it like the rest of us. you’re just so… comfortable, right?”

the condescension in her voice is unmistakable, and it’s almost impressive how she manages to turn an innocent comment into another thinly veiled jab. you can practically hear the unspoken “must be nice” ringing in the air.

you try to keep your face neutral, but her words hang in your mind, a reminder of the deep-seated insecurity she knows how to exploit so effortlessly. a part of you was pissed off; not at her high-school attempt to make you feel insecure–but the fact that it actually hurt your feelings. “mina-” you start, but you’re cut off, and she speaks up again. “i mean, more power to you. i’d feel so self conscious with all that extra weight.”

neither you or mina notice han’s eyes subtly watching mina, his attention fixed on your conversation now rather than his writing. 

your body heats up in embarrassment, and you try your best to swallow the lump in your throat. you feel your stomach tighten, but you force a smile, doing your best to mask the irritation creeping up your spine. you take a slow breath before responding, making sure your voice comes across calm, maybe even a little amused.

"well, mina," you begin, keeping your tone light, "i guess i'm just lucky. i've always been comfortable with myself, you know?" you glance at her, making sure to meet her eyes with an easy, unbothered look. "not everyone feels the need to be so... obsessed with their appearance."

you let the words hang for a second, watching her expression flicker slightly. you knew that would get under her skin.

"guess it's just one of those things you either have, or you don’t," you add, giving her a half-smile as if it’s no big deal. "but hey, i’m sure we all have our own ways of dealing with things."

you turn your attention back to your work, knowing full well that she won’t push any further—not with the way you just shot her down without even raising your voice. mina forces a smile and a quiet chuckle before adjusting on the couch, facing forward and pulling out her notepad. 

as soon as mina turns her attention off you, han turns his off both of you, scribbling in his journal once more. he knew he should have spoken up, but it wasn’t the time or place, and he needed to be professional. you felt the same. as much as you wanted to find a way to reveal mina’s true personality to everyone present, your work and the work of everyone else in the room was so much more important than how you felt about her. 

still, her words rang in your head the rest of the session, and you found yourself unable to focus. 

you must have zoned out during the rest of the session, because before you knew it, everyone was packing up to leave. as you shoved your laptop in your bag, you heard mina’s insufferable giggle from across the room. you looked over and saw her talking with chan, being flirty as always. 

witnessing this along with the emotions you had been holding back for the past two hours became too much. you felt the lump form in your throat again and the tears pricking the back of your eyes. you quickly gathered your things and walked down the hall to the furthest practice room. you sat your bag on the floor and plopped on the couch as you began to let the tears fall. you buried your face in your hands as you let out a few quiet sobs. everytime mina was around, you felt so inferior to her. she was the perfect girl, on the exterior, and she knew how to make herself seem so sweet. but she was so rude to you. for what? 

you reached over and grabbed a tissue, blowing your nose. as you sniffled, on the brink of pulling yourself together, the door to the practice room opened. in walked chan, who was equally surprised to see you sitting there. however, his expression turned from shock to concern as he saw you with tear stained cheeks. “y/n?” he turned and closed the door behind him. “what’s wrong?” he set his things down on the desk and sat next to you on the couch, putting his arm around you. this made tears well in your eyes again and you let out another cry, covering your face in embarrassment. 

“hey,” he rubbed your arm softly in an attempt to comfort you. “it’s okay,” he cooed, making both your heart flutter and ache at the same time. he reached around you and grabbed the box of tissues, holding them for you. you grabbed another and wiped your eyes as you sniffled, your breathing ragged from how intense your crying was. “i’m sorry,” you said weakly, staring down at the makeup on the tissue. “don’t apologize. what’s wrong?” he was still rubbing your arm gently as you tried to calm yourself and find the right words to say. “i can’t.. i can’t tell you,” you sniffled, fighting back another round of sobs. “why not?” 

“it's too embarrassing.” you scoffed at yourself, looking at anything in place of him. “y/n.” he started. “not if you’re this upset over it. you can talk to me, you know that.” 

“i just.. i hate my body.” you weeped, shaking your head. “i can’t stand to look at myself.” 

“what?” chan asked, pulling away from you, as if he was shocked. “you hate your body?” you nodded sheepishly. “why?” he sounded as if he couldn’t believe it. “because, well, look at me, chan!” you gestured to your body as you sniffled again. “seriously, i don’t even know why you stand to look at me.” 

“okay, stop.” chan chuckled, and you finally looked up at him. “there is nothing, and i mean nothing, wrong with your body. what makes you think that?” you sniffled again, debating on if you should tell him your reasoning or just brush it off with just “a lack of self-confidence”. you inhaled deeply before you started to explain. “when i was younger, i was always the bigger girl in my grade. i was always the butt of my classmates’ jokes, i was always the girl nobody would ask out. so, i vowed to lose the weight, no matter what it took. i worked out for hours, restricted my eating down to the bare minimum, and here we are.” you gestured to your body. “over a hundred pounds lost.” you looked down at your hands. “but, everytime i look in the mirror, i still see that overweight girl looking back at me. and everytime i eat a meal, i get terrified of turning back into her.” 

a moment of silence passed before you spoke up again. “its stupid, isn’t it?” you chuckled at yourself. “no, it’s not.” he shook his head. “it's not your fault you feel this way. people should have been kinder to you.” he said softly. “im so sorry you went through that. but.. that’s not who i see when i look at you, not at all. i see.. a creative, talented, pretty girl. your weight doesn’t cross my mind, not at all.” he shook his head as he said the last bit. “really?” you looked up at him, your brows furrowing. he nodded and smiled, his gaze still softer than ever. “really.” he hesitantly reached forward and pushed some hair off your face. you blushed and looked down, realizing you must look crazy with all your makeup running down your face. 

“thank you.” you dabbed under your eyes again. “no need to thank me,” you could hear the smile in his voice. “i’m just telling the truth.” 

you smiled weakly and nodded. “come here.” he turned to face you more and opened his arms for a hug. you smiled and hugged him tightly, your arms wrapped around his neck. he squeezed you into the hug as well, rubbing your back. after a moment of embracing each other, you pulled away more calmed down. “i must look crazy right now.” you laughed, reaching for your hand mirror. he chuckled as well and stood up, going to his bag. “i have something that can help with that,” he said, rummaging through his things. he came back over to you with his makeup wipes. “here.” he sat next to you and pulled one out, handing it to you. “thanks,” you said before wiping off all your makeup. once you were finished, you looked over at him, noticing he was still watching you with an amused smile. “did i miss a spot?” you asked. 

he shook his head. “no. i've just.. i've never seen you without makeup before. you look pretty.” you blushed at his compliment and scoffed. “you’re just saying that.” 

“im not! i swear i'm not.” he exclaimed. “you really are pretty, y/n.” his words made you break eye contact briefly. “thank you, channie.” you peeked at him. “mhm,” he hummed in response. you smiled to yourself and walked over to the trash can to throw away your tissues and the makeup wipe. you sat back down after, sighing. “you think im pretty..” you thought you were just thinking to yourself, but you realize you said it out loud, and a blush creeps onto your cheeks, making chan smirk a little. “yeah, i do.” he nodded. 

“i also think you’re.. funny, kind, and hard-working.” he complimented you. 

your heart flutters at his words, and you can’t help but feel the warmth spread across your chest. “i’m… hard-working?” you chuckle nervously, not quite used to hearing such kind words about yourself.

“of course,” chan grins, his eyes soft. “you’re always giving your best at everything you do. that’s something i admire about you.”

you bite your lip, feeling a mix of emotions. the weight of everything that had been building up throughout the day, all the insecurities, the hurt, it all feels lighter somehow. chan’s presence, his support, the way he’s genuinely here for you, it gives you a sense of calm that you haven’t felt in a long time.

you shift on the couch, your mind racing with thoughts you hadn't been brave enough to say aloud before. “it’s just hard, sometimes, you know? i’ve spent so long thinking that my worth is tied to my appearance… or what people think of me. and hearing you say that… it makes me feel like maybe i’ve been looking at things the wrong way.”

chan leans back slightly, giving you a reassuring smile. “you are so much more than just your appearance, y/n. everyone sees something different in you. but i see you for who you really are–you don’t need to worry about fitting some image of what ‘pretty’ is. you already are, inside and out.”

you’re quiet for a moment, letting his words sink in. it’s hard to believe sometimes, but hearing him say it with such sincerity gives you hope.

“thanks, chan,” you say softly, your voice steadying. “for everything. for… just being here.”

he smiles, his expression tender. “anytime, y/n. i’m always here for you.”

you nod, feeling a little more at peace than you had when you first walked into this room. maybe things wouldn't change overnight, but for the first time in a while, you felt like you weren’t alone in this battle. and maybe, just maybe, that was enough.

after a beat of silence, the door clicked open and you heard a familiar voice. “hey chan, can i-“ han stopped in his tracks when he saw you two sitting on the couch talking. “oh, sorry.. i thought it was only chan in here.” he said awkwardly. “oh, no, it’s okay. i need to get going anyway. i have some work to catch up on.” you reached down to grab your bag. 

“wait,” chan stood up as you did. you looked up at him, but he glanced over at han before looking back down at you. “are you gonna be okay taking the subway?” he asked you. you laughed and nodded. “i’ll be fine, chan. i’ll text you when i get home.” you gave him a small smile before walking past him, where han was holding the door open for you. “bye han!” you waved before walking down the hallway. 

“is she okay?” han asked chris, closing the door behind him. chris sighed and sat back down on the couch, putting the tissue paper back in the bag where his present was kept. “she’s just going through some stuff.” chris looked up at him. “what did you need?” 

“that's.. kind of why i was coming to talk to you. i heard mina talking to her in the studio today. she was.. saying things about her body.” han said nervously, holding onto the back of one of the desk chairs. “what?” chan asked, a hint of frustration coming out in his tone. “what did she say?” his nostrils flared as he looked up at han. “she, uh.. she was just talking about how y/n was so brave for being confident with ‘extra weight’.” he said uncomfortably. repeating something as rude as that felt unnatural to him. especially since you had done nothing for that unwarranted criticism. 

chan sighed and shook his head. he was pissed he had missed that happening. he would have definitely nipped it in the bud if he heard it. “i’ll talk to mina tomorrow.” he managed to remain as calm as he could. “thanks for telling me, han.” 

[jellicatty]

❝ THE OTHER WOMAN ₊˚ ❞

A tale of an unfortunate woman— cursed with a lonesome life, pouring all of her love to a wretched and unfaithful man.

╰┈➤ contains : sukuna x female reader. cheater! sukuna. toxic relationship. other woman is mean. written in other woman's pov. third pov. sfw-ish. angst.

╰┈➤ note : unedited because this was from my archives + wrote this two years ago lol. this fic is inspired by Lana del Rey's The Other Woman ! I loved the song so I used it for some inspo hini >____<

Oh, other woman, how lonely you must be.

The other woman has time to manicure her nails

The other woman is perfect where her rival fails

And she's never seen with pin curls in her hair, anywhere.

She’s fresh from the boutique; luxury draped around her form. From head to toe, was the old money of the famous businessman— Sukuna Ryomen. Pride swelled on her chest at the sight of measly women with their cheap brands. She felt perfect amongst the sea of the low-cost. Though among piles of garbage, hidden jewelry resides.

Her eyes held the usual disgust and her ego stood tall, yet the doubts at her head fought for their lives. Face to face, was the wife of her beloved. She looked so spent, her beauty slowly fading with the times. They acknowledged each other’s presence as poor Y/n thought of her as a very lovely woman.

The other woman enchants her clothes with French perfume

The other woman keeps fresh cut flowers in each room

There are never toys that's scattered everywhere

The flower endured even the harshest of her tenor.

Suddenly, the woman’s sour mood turned sweet, her eyes scanning the bags and bags of expensive jewelry. But all of it didn’t matter to her. The woman in love quickly searched for the concealed letter, her heart fluttering once touching the rough, sealed paper.

And she read it, repeated it, hated it.

It was unfair.

How unfair it was for her to receive only letters. His touch, lonely woman yearned for his touch. Gritting her teeth, the woman let anger control her until red no longer consumed her body.

Amongst the ripped bags, was the other woman who desperately called for his love. But the woman knew he was busy with his own children, tending to them with his pitiful spouse, surrounded by numerous toys and annoying cries of her own devil spawns.

And when her old man comes to call

He finds her waiting like a lonesome queen

'Cause to be by her side

It's such a change from old routine

Most would run away with fear in their eyes once taking a quick look at his monstrous stature. But, her love clouded her mind. Instead of fear, it was adoration— heart erratic at his predator-like stare.

“Sukuna, my darling, how are you-”

“Who told you to speak?”

His words were enough to make her obediently follow. She was such a pet for him; all nice and loyal. To her, no action can be enough of a sign that love was not present. She was too far gone in her own fantasies. Too far gone in imagining his eyes lit up the same way hers do.

Although his eyes do shine, they do so with an obviously evil haze to it. His malicious intent clearly displayed within his cold gaze, and only a fool would ignore them.

But, the other woman is a fool.

A fool for offering herself to a man.

She didn’t question his order any further, only getting straight to undressing herself in front of his dark gaze. Used woman was useful, she served as his distressor, an enjoyment inside his boring life. No children, no toys, no cries, no demands, no complaints, no questions asked.

Between them was no love, only entertainment. Because to be by her side, is a change from his old routine.

Clueless woman thought otherwise.

But the other woman will always cry herself to sleep

The other woman will never have his love to keep

Other woman, why can't you just see?

His love was not yours, it never was.

His steel eyes will never search for yours. No rough hands will grasp your body tonight, for it will only be against his darling’s plush skin. His attention will not be at your seducing red gown or the skin that showed. His focus will only be on his darling’s enhanting dress that showed their uneven curves and cured insecurities.

Is it clearer now? Now, when Y/n's form is tightly pressed against Sukuna's, looking at you with those eyes? While their bodies slowly dance under the dim lights? Oh, she knows. Their gaze at you is unsettling, full of hatred for claiming what’s not yours.

And as the years go by the other woman

Stop dancing on the bridge. There’s no one beside you.

Will spend her life alone

You fell? How pitiful. No imagination can save you now.

Alone

The only cure for loneliness is death, right?

Alone

© jellicatty | no plagiarising please (*ᴗ͈ˬᴗ͈)ꕤ*.ﾟ

[hanzajesthanza]

What is your witcher hot take? Mine is that rats didn't deserve to die like that, cuz they were just children that suffered through unimaginable pain. Ofc, they would probably grow into tyrants, but who knows, they never seemed straight up evil to me. They were bad influence on Ciri, but in some strange way, they were probably one of rare people that did love her. So like, i never found their deaths satisfying, unlike most people...

good take. i always thought the point of the rats, ciri becoming falka, and bonhart stalking them as death was that contempt, violence, and revenge are a cycle. dealing out death and misery makes death and misery find their ways to you. one bloody revenge just means there will be more to come. of course, what's satisfying is very personal, but i think it does a disservice to imagine the rats as evil, but bonhart as somehow good for killing them. no, we are dealing with... lesser and greater evils. no matter if this is the catalyst for ciri to eventually stop being an evil herself.

the rats and ciri are lesser evils. nilfgaard is a greater evil. bonhart, for me, represents the "true evil," because he is a pure sadist who only captures, tortures, and kills because it brings him pleasure and money. in other words, he is the anti-geralt (geralt representing the good), he becomes ciri's anti-father, and is, essentially... precisely what people imagine of witchers - killing for the pleasure and for money.

and above all else, the rats' deaths were horrific and traumatizing for ciri, so i don't find that satisfying, i see her at her lowest... sapkowski has written some other satisfying deaths (if i said them it may be spoilers for the hussite trilogy and crossroads of ravens) and i didn't get that vibe from chapter 2 of tower of the swallow, i got a miserable and wretched vibe instead.

(by the way, loving your art!)

as for my hot takes... good question. i can't tell if these are hot takes, maybe i have some metaphorical hypoesthesia when it comes to judging temperature of takes, but... here are things that me when i had just joined the fandom would have disagreed with, or known nothing about.

the hanza's deaths work narratively and are not random or bad writing. it's a successful tragedy and although it's painful, it is true that you can clearly see the direction they are going in. if any of them had survived, that would have been a disservice to them and would have made the series feel like a children's series. authors who are afraid to kill off their characters are cowards who don't want to offend their audiences, or who want to be prepared with an already-developed cast for future spinoffs.

angouleme's character is actually crucial to geralt's company, and people who say she's irrelevant need to read manuscript discovered in a dragon's cave. yes, her inclusion was coincidental, but let me also remind that ciri was also a surprise

"there is too much arthurian legend in the last book" there is not enough of it.

"nimue and condwiramurs are boring" i like them. also, people forget that nimue was introduced in baptism of fire, she wasn't just randomly made up just for lady of the lake. i like her, and she is us, she is the child entranced by the legend. nimue is actually so important because... another take... the witcher series (and nearly literally everything andrzej sapkowski writes) is about love, the power of love to save and redeem, and the pain and suffering in its absence (love = grail = woman). but nimue's love, what she saves, is not for another person, not for the literal girl ciri, but for the legend of ciri, which saved her. the legend saved her from her mundane life of toil, it inspired her to make something more of herself. so nimue, in return, saves the legend, saves ciri to go to her ending, which everyone had forgotten. the love nimue displays is so unique because it is not that for a lover, friend, relative, or child, but that for a legend... i find her story and her connection to ciri deep and beautiful.

the last wish is a misleading introduction to the series, because the series is mostly comprised of the saga, which takes a different format and takes the characters much deeper than the first short stories. i think diving into the witcher series as a contemporary english reader with no context is not the best way to do it, because without context it makes no sense why this begins with short stories and transitions into being novels. i have one solution to this which is to include a foreword at the beginning of the last wish, sword of destiny, and blood of elves, to explain how witcher was originally published in the magazine fantastyka, later fixed-up, and later came the saga. the original polish editions even explained this on the back covers, so i'm not sure why they have been deprived of their context. it's frustrating.

geralt and yennefer's relationship (and generally when sapkowski writes a lead heterosexual romances) works better through symbolism and storytelling, than through imagining every little interaction between them. in other words, it's not created to be a tumblr ship, it's more like something literary. yes, they have some beautiful and some funny interactions, but the real appeal of the relationship is what they give/receive to each other, how they learn and grow for the other, how they're both damaged people who find salvation (aha, love, grail) in each other.

the portrayal of female characters is sometimes objectifying, sometimes eyerolling, sometimes cringe, but the claims of misogyny in the books are overblown and in general misunderstood. if you look at the hardboiled crime fiction genre (something which inspired the witcher a lot), sapkowski is actually subverting a ton of misogynistic tropes with the witcher, to make the women come out 'on top' instead of the male protagonist. i just want to scream about how geralt and yennefer are presented in an egalitarian light in the last wish, and how the saga is about the right of ciri's bodily autonomy and woe to anyone who tries to deprive her of that. i don't know how people in one moment can roast sapkowski for being staunchly and openly pro-choice, and then call him misogynist the next. do you not realize the contradiction? misogynistic treatments of characters occur, but it is not what drives the series. the actual series, again, like kind of everything sapkowski writes, is driven by the power of woman and femininity. and the marginalized, the downtrodden, the scapegoated, the tortured... and, also by the same coin, magic. i just want people to read what andrzej sapkowski has actually written and said on the topic of gender and women instead of just doing one read of the last wish and sword of destiny and drawing all conclusions from that. and i want people to also look at what his contemporaries in the polish sf/f genre were saying about women at the time. again, people have a lack of context, which leads to a lack of comprehension.

i... it's criminal that this series isn't more popular amongst my demographic (young adult... american... lesbians...?). less of a hot take, i'm just whining. but it is hard to try and look for fantasy book discussions and be met with tiktok romantasy spice, which is most popular... this is why i'm grateful for all the friends i've met on here ;w;

witcher IS a series for fun and entertainment, but it got me back into reading "for fun" and the best part of it is that it's not just insular, self-contained, self-absorbed. the best part is that it encourages you to read *in general*, which is something that not all books do. there is a sad assumption that anything "for fun" has to be shallow, that's not the case at all!

(as an american) americans have trouble understanding the witcher. it's not impossible, you have the capacity to learn, but you need to be openminded about learning, and not understanding things right away/innately. so it is easier for a lot of the american audience to assume the witcher was created by lauren hissrich or that cd projekt red is an american company.

the hussite trilogy is technically (as in writing skill) better than the witcher, but it is so tightly wound that it's more difficult to come up with fanfiction and headcanons, to make it one's own. the pacing is more entertaining, but it moves so fast you get less contemplative reflections. it suffers from its own success, so this is why i can't say which one is better/worse. it's not all just about writing skill

[lesewut]

Why have you given me imagery, Lord? Shadows took the form of supple and elastic striding girl's legs. The woman. Pale cheeks of a saint, burning curves of the hips, mouth and voice of the dove. Woman, fragrant as a meadow of flowers, beautiful, wrapped in lace, thin as cobwebs, girl, spun from light and dawn, female with the movements of a cat and the slenderness of biblical harlots, joy, fleeting grace, water nymph, swaying in the water lily, predator with weather-glowing eyes, mountain child of the cactus blossom, shepherdess, rosy in bridal dress, washerwoman with crumpled crimson apron.

Miguel's thinking knew no centre, only a beyond the border and a swinging of the pendulum to one side or the other.

//

You can't become a peaceful citizen with a nightcap who respects and obeys the wise as well as the stupid laws of the land, who begets his children in silence, who doesn't go through life but skulks around it like a beaten dog, who only cares about his food and that his fellow citizens don't notice his flaunted piety and his wretched sinfulness! You can do that! You can indulge in mediocrity and mangy ordinariness. What is left to us, proud heirs of a past glory?

//

Again he ran through the dark alleys, without a destination, jumping over the chains that blocked the streets at night, threatening to suffocate in the sultriness of the night. The whole of Seville breathed spicy scents, was a single love song, the whispers of the lovers became a chorale that rose to the heavens like the sound of the surf - the whole city blazed like a single love torch.

//

Yes, yes, that was it. Through your own labour and care, alleviating the hardship and suffering of thousands into which you have plunged thousands. To alleviate the pain that you have sown and increased. Making amends for evil with good, with action for action.

The story of Don Juan, the legendary libertine and seducer, has captured the imagination of writers, philosophers, and playwrights for centuries. First appearing in Spanish literature, the character has evolved through various cultural and historical contexts, serving as a mirror to society's changing values about morality, freedom, and redemption.

One of the earliest and most influential portrayals of Don Juan comes from Tirso de Molina, a Spanish playwright of the early 17th century. In his play El Burlador de Sevilla y Convidado de Piedra (The Trickster of Seville and the Stone Guest), written around 1616, Tirso introduces Don Juan as a deceitful and sacrilegious seducer who ultimately faces divine justice. This play reflects the Catholic values of the Spanish Golden Age, a period of intense religious orthodoxy. The work's moral message is clear: unrepentant sinners will inevitably face punishment, no matter their worldly success.

In the 17th century, French playwright Molière reimagined the character in Dom Juan ou le Festin de Pierre (Don Juan, or The Feast of the Statue). Molière’s Don Juan remains a bold libertine, but the play is more than a moral tale—it critiques the hypocrisy of religious and societal norms. Written during the reign of Louis XIV, Molière's portrayal challenged the rigidity of the era's moral codes, blending comedy with biting social commentary.

The 19th century brought about significant changes to the Don Juan legend, reflecting the era's Romantic ideals. In 1819, Lord Byron, one of the most celebrated Romantic poets, wrote an epic satirical poem titled Don Juan. Byron reversed the traditional narrative by portraying Don Juan not as a seducer but as someone constantly seduced by women. The poem is an expansive critique of European society, filled with wit, irony, and philosophical musings. Byron’s Don Juan is more of an antihero, embodying the Romantic fascination with flawed, rebellious characters who challenge societal conventions.

Spanish playwright José Zorrilla, in his 1844 play Don Juan Tenorio, took a different approach. Zorrilla's Don Juan is a Romantic hero who undergoes a spiritual transformation. In this version, Don Juan repents for his sins and ultimately achieves redemption. This portrayal aligns with Romanticism's emphasis on emotion, individual struggle, and the possibility of salvation.

The legend of Don Juan has also been a subject of philosophical exploration. Danish philosopher Søren Kierkegaard, in his works The Concept of Irony and Either/Or (1841 and 1843), analyzed Don Juan as a symbol of aesthetic pleasure and hedonism. Kierkegaard explored how Don Juan epitomizes a life devoted to sensuous enjoyment, which he contrasted with the ethical and religious stages of existence. He viewed Mozart’s opera Don Giovanni as the ultimate artistic representation of this archetype, marveling at how music captures Don Juan’s seductive and ephemeral nature.

In the 20th century, playwright George Bernard Shaw revisited the Don Juan myth in his play Man and Superman (1903). Shaw’s Don Juan is no longer a simple seducer but a philosophical thinker. In the play, Don Juan debates profound issues about life, love, and humanity’s purpose. Shaw also included an essay, "The Revolutionist’s Handbook," which further elaborates on his ideas about evolution, morality, and the "Life Force." This version reflects the intellectual spirit of the Edwardian era, grappling with modern questions about progress and human nature.

Josef Toman, a Czech author and playwright, offered a unique and deeply humanized interpretation of the Don Juan legend in his novel Don Juan, first published in 1944. Toman's work stands apart from traditional portrayals by giving the character psychological depth and placing him within a richly detailed historical and cultural context. His Don Juan is not merely a libertine or seducer; he is a man searching for meaning, grappling with love, morality, and the constraints of his time.

In Toman's interpretation, Don Juan is portrayed as a complex and multifaceted individual. Unlike the purely hedonistic figure of earlier traditions, Toman’s Don Juan is driven by a deeper longing—for freedom, connection, and self-discovery. His actions are not solely motivated by lust or selfishness but stem from a desire to break free from societal constraints and hypocrisy. This Don Juan is not a simple villain or antihero but a deeply flawed, tragic figure whose defiance of convention reveals the moral contradictions of the world around him.

The novel is set in the 17th century, during Spain’s Golden Age, a time of intense religious orthodoxy and social rigidity. Toman uses this historical backdrop to ground Don Juan in a specific cultural and political reality, allowing readers to understand him as a product of his environment. Through Toman's vivid descriptions, the Renaissance and Baroque worlds come alive, filled with both grandeur and moral decay. Don Juan’s rebellion against this world, his refusal to conform, and his pursuit of personal freedom reflect a broader critique of the societal and religious hypocrisy of the time.

One of the central themes in Toman’s work is the tension between freedom and morality. Don Juan is depicted as a man who seeks to live authentically, rejecting the oppressive moral codes imposed by society. Yet, this pursuit of freedom often leads him into conflict—not only with others but also with himself. Beneath his outward charm and defiance lies an inner struggle, as he grapples with questions of love, redemption, and the consequences of his choices. Toman explores Don Juan's capacity for genuine love, showing a man torn between his desires and his longing for something deeper and more enduring. This portrayal adds a layer of poignancy and tragedy to the character, making him more relatable and human.

Toman’s Don Juan also delves into the psychological dimensions of the character, offering readers an intimate look at his motivations and inner conflicts. This approach reflects the literary trends of the 20th century, influenced by modern psychology and existential philosophy. Don Juan is not merely a symbol or archetype in Toman’s hands; he becomes a living, breathing individual whose struggles resonate with readers on a personal level.

Written during World War II, Toman’s novel was created in a time of political oppression and existential uncertainty. The themes of freedom and rebellion in the story take on an added resonance in this context, as they can be seen as a reflection of the human desire to resist tyranny and seek individuality in the face of conformity. Toman’s Don Juan becomes, in many ways, an allegorical figure—a symbol of humanity’s enduring quest for meaning and self-determination.

The novel received acclaim in Toman’s native Czechoslovakia and is regarded as a significant contribution to the Don Juan mythos. Its literary quality, psychological depth, and historical richness have cemented its place as an innovative interpretation of the legend. While it remains less well-known outside Central Europe, Toman’s Don Juan is a powerful and thought-provoking work that reimagines the famous seducer as a deeply human character caught between his desires, his ideals, and the realities of his world.

Historically, the figure of Don Juan has served as a cultural mirror, reflecting society’s fears, desires, and moral struggles. From Tirso de Molina’s religious cautionary tale to Byron’s satirical antihero and Shaw’s philosophical thinker, Don Juan’s character has evolved in tandem with humanity’s shifting values. Whether seen as a villain, a hero, or a tragic figure, Don Juan remains a fascinating symbol of humanity's eternal dance with freedom, passion, and the consequences of choice.

Toman’s portrayal of Don Juan invites readers to see beyond the myth, to explore the complexities of a man who defies convention but ultimately cannot escape the consequences of his choices. It is a story of love, freedom, and the eternal struggle between the individual and society, told with richness and poignancy that continue to resonate today.

[scotianostra]

October 14th 1285 saw the second marriage of King Alexander III to Yolanda de Dreux.

We hear a lot about Alexander in my posts due to the events after his death, I will try and concentrate more on his Queen, although she was Scotland’s Queen Consort for only 4 months and 14 days.

In that short time, Yolanda carried the hope of a nation – and its king – to secure the Scottish succession.

Yolande was born into a minor branch of the French royal family, probably sometime in the mid-1260s. Her father was Robert IV, Count of Dreux, who died in 1282 and her mother was Beatrice de Montfort, who died in 1311. She had 2 brothers and 3 sisters. Little is known of Yolande’s childhood but we can imagine that as a junior member of the Capetian dynasty, she grew up amidst some privilege and splendour.

Queen Margaret died in 1275 and within 8 years all 3 of her children were dead; 8-year-old David died at Stirling Castle at the end of June 1281, Margaret died in childbirth on 9th April 1283 and Alexander died at Lindores Abbey in January 1284, sometime around his 20th birthday. Alexander’s heir was now his infant granddaughter by Margaret and Erik, little Margaret, the Maid of Norway, born shortly before her mother’s death.

Whilst Yolande was growing into adulthood Scotland was experiencing a “golden age”, a period of relative peace and prosperity. Her king, Alexander III was married to Margaret, daughter of Henry III of England and the couple had 3 children survive childhood. Their daughter, Margaret, born at Windsor on 28th February, 1261, was married to Erik II, king of Norway, in August 1281. Their eldest son, Alexander, was born on 21st January 1264, at Jedburgh. On 15th November 1282 Alexander married Margaret, the daughter of Guy de Dampierre, Count of Flanders. A younger son, David was born on 20th March 1273. With his entire dynasty resting on the life of his toddler granddaughter, Alexander started the search for a new wife. In February 1285 he sent a Scottish embassy to France for this sole purpose. Their successful search saw Yolande arrive in Scotland that same summer, accompanied by her brother John. Alexander and Yolande were married at Jedburgh Abbey, Roxburghshire, on 14th October 1285, the feast of St Calixtus, in front of a large congregation made up of Scottish and French nobles. Yolande was probably no more than 22 years of age, while Alexander was in his 44th year.

The marriage was the shortest of any English or Scottish king, lasting less than 5 months. Tragedy struck in March of 1286 when Alexander took a tumble down that cliff near Kinghorn.

There followed months of uncertainty in Scotland. She had lost one of her most successful kings and the succession was in turmoil. Little Margaret, the Maid of Norway, had been recognised by the council as Alexander’s heir, but his queen was pregnant; and if she gave birth to a boy he would be king from his first breath. A regency council was established to rule until the queen gave birth. In the event, Yolande either suffered a miscarriage, or the child was stillborn. Some sources, the Lanercost Chronicle in particular, have questioned whether Yolande was pregnant at all, suggesting that she was intending to pass off another woman’s baby as her own. The plan thwarted, the chronicle recorded that ‘women’s cunning always turns toward a wretched outcome‘.¹ However, there are major discrepancies in the chronicle’s apparently malicious account and tradition has the baby buried at Cambuskenneth.

In May 1294 Yolande had married for a second time; Arthur of Brittany was a similar age to Yolande and was the son and heir of Jean II, duke of Brittany and earl of Richmond. Yolande was the second wife of Arthur, who already had 3 sons, Jean, Guy and Peter, by his first wife, Marie, Vicomtesse de Limoges.Yolande and Arthur had 6 children together.

Her second husband died in 1345 and after being widowed for a second time Yolande did not remarry.

During her time in Brittany Yolande continued to administer her Scottish estates; in October 1323 safe-conduct to Scotland was granted to a French knight ‘for the dower of the Duchess of Brittany while she was Queen of Scotland‘.

It seems uncertain when Yolande died. Sources vary between 1324 and 1330, although she was still alive on 1st February 1324 when she made provision for the support of her daughter, Marie, who had become a nun.

[spiderslvts]

𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐑 𝐀𝐁𝐈𝐆𝐀𝐈𝐋 ; 𝐚 𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐥 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐞𝐫 . . . @alastor-radiodemon

HE DOES NOT BELONG HERE,     but he enters the gates beside the princess of hell herself,  trying  desperately  to keep his shoulders from appearing as tense as he felt. the spider - demon could feel each set of eyes tracing his uncertain frame  :   ( ripping him apart with their gazes ), craning their curious necks to see the wretched thing walk the streets.  ANGEL WAS NO ANGEL  in the most literal sense of the word.  charlie might not have  perfectly  fit  in   when it came to her appearance, but angel dust had no hope of even  trying  to blend in at all.  he imagined himself as  𝐃𝐀𝐑𝐊𝐄𝐍𝐄𝐃 𝐁𝐋𝐎𝐎𝐃 𝐀𝐂𝐑𝐎𝐒𝐒 𝐀 𝐖𝐇𝐈𝐓𝐄 𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐁𝐋𝐄 𝐖𝐀𝐋𝐋.  staining holy land with every  uncharacteristically timid  step that he took.

even still,  angel walked with purpose. a HESITANT PURPOSE, one that he wasn’t entirely sure where he was meant to find, but  PURPOSE NONETHELESS.  he strolled through the ivory city streets, letting the pleasant coolness of the air brush over his skin.  𝙷𝙴 𝚆𝙰𝚂 𝚂𝙾 𝚄𝚂𝙴𝙳 𝚃𝙾 𝙸𝙽𝙵𝙴𝚁𝙽𝙰𝙻 𝚂𝙺𝙸𝙴𝚂,  being in heaven almost felt like being alive again, touched by the lithe fingers of springtime.  angel knew it was only for a short time,  but he could still close his eyes.  ⸺   HE COULD STILL PRETEND.

he finds himself in a what he  supposes  is a cafe  (  LORD, HE HADN’T BEEN IN AN ESTABLISHMENT THAT WASN’T A CLUB IN DECADES  )  .   the sweet scent of espresso and caramel hit him at once, enveloping him in a deeply unfamiliar warmth that forced him to pause in the middle of the crowded place. around him,   much   shorter   angels  were drifting in and out of the establishment,  glancing at him with demented curiousity as they did.  ANGELS WERE STILL JUST AS JUDGEMENTAL  ,  it seemed.  allowed to spend eternity in peace, and yet the fucks still  STARED  at something out of the ordinary, as if angel couldn’t  see them do it.  

his eyes found the corner of the cafe, and, in turn, he met the gaze of a woman’s softened features. she hadn’t seemed to have her appearance as  SHIFTED  as the others around her  ⸺  she looked . . . almost human.  an   ETHEREAL  version of a typical angel. two pale, feathered wings were relaxed beside her, a soft, aegan - blue in their color. they stood out against the deepness of her skin, lingering with a subtle, golden gleam, as if her appearance alone proved she was  𝗧𝗢𝗨𝗖𝗛𝗘𝗗 𝗕𝗬 𝗦𝗢𝗠𝗘𝗧𝗛𝗜𝗡𝗚 𝗛𝗢𝗟𝗬.  her hair was worn in thick, ebony curls that tumbled down her delicate shoulders. she looks up at angel with  ICHORED EYES,  and it’s as if she’s speaking to him   (  WITHOUT ANY WORDS AT ALL !  )   he recognizes pieces of her  ⸺  not from a life  HE HAD ONCE LIVED  , but from a man he  now knew.   

angel slowly pushed himself further into the crowd, hesitantly stopping in front of her before holding out one of his hands.  A PEACE OFFERING,  of sorts. 

❝     ANGEL.    ❞    he speaks the words with a confidence he  forces himself to have.  ❝     i know ‘ya, uh . . . have no reason to believe me, or nothin’, but . . .   ❞     it’s a shot in the dark, but perhaps this was redemption, in a way. selflessness, wasn’t it ?  a reason to try.

❝     i think i know how ‘ya can see him again.    ❞  she listens because she knows what he means. the unspoken words.  ⸺   ABIGAIL, RETURN TO ALASTOR. 𝐌𝐎𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑, 𝐑𝐄𝐓𝐔𝐑𝐍 𝐓𝐎 𝐒𝐎𝐍.

[crownmemes]

Elementary Sentences, Vol. 3

(Sentences from Elementary (2012-2019). Adjust phrasing where needed)

"I would never suggest that a woman cannot melt corpses."

"Your romantic inclinations are not a flaw to be corrected; they're a trait to be accepted."

"I know you, and I know you'll never be happy within the confines of a 'traditional relationship.' I said what I said because it pains me to see you try to fit into one simply because it is the default mode of polite society."

"Did you bring a child with you to work today?"

"It is a poor detective that blames her evidence."

"You must understand that you will always be special to me."

"Can we do something besides talk about murder?"

"Imagine sitting for an oil portrait in this day and age. The hubris practically leaks off the canvas."

"What is wrong with me? I'm not feeling anything I'm supposed to be feeling..."

"I'm an expert in many things, but love is not one of them."

"You think this is an exercise in self-pity?"

"It's a form of torture, having to swim through my old life."

"Would it not have been simpler to just tell me?"

"You're not a doctor anymore, and I'm not your patient."

"If you want to drag your feet on this, feel free. Just keep in mind, this investigation could be handled quietly, or it could show up on the evening news."

"Do you plan to reproduce? Are you going to procreate at some point?"

"The things that I do, you think that I do them because I'm a good person. I do them because it would hurt too much not to."

"It hurts. All this. Everything I see, everything I hear, touch, smell. The conclusions that I'm able to draw, the things that are revealed to me."

"You helped me when I needed help. I won't forget it."

"I've thought long and hard about it and, after many, many hours, I've come to the most wretched of realizations: you are my friend."

"Well, I confess to being surprised that this has escaped my attention."

"I have what some may call a strong personality."

"Sometimes, without meaning to, I can bend others to my point of view."

"You are, in your own way, a lonelier man than me."

"The great love of my life is a homicidal maniac. No one's perfect."

"I don't have enough caffeine in my system to understand you right now."

"What is existence but the absorption of and the reaction to the data that the universe presents?"

"That's one of the dumbest things I've ever heard you say, and I've known you a long time."

"Justice is like an orgasm; it can never come too late."

"My behaviour was inexcusable, and I do apologize."

"I let myself in. I hope you don't mind?"

"I've always been willing to go to great lengths to protect my family."

"How much do you really know of my father?"

"Spies don't have motives; they have orders."

"If I've learned one thing over the past couple of years, it's the importance of making amends."

"The past is the past; I wish to move forward."

"Ask yourself; when you were a boy, could anyone have parented you?"

"You're not a cop; you're a citizen with delusions of grandeur."

"Perhaps it's best that I don't hear the full explanation."

"I don't think that either of us is a fool."

"You don't care for my father much, do you?"

"You are one of the best liars that I have ever met, and that's saying something."

"You seem angrier than I'd expected. May I ask why?"

"Respectfully, I don't like that theory."

"You can never just drop anything, can you?"

"It's been a long time since you've enjoyed any intimate contact."

[dickens-daily]

CHAPTER VI—THE HOSPITAL PATIENT

In our rambles through the streets of London after evening has set in, we often pause beneath the windows of some public hospital, and picture to ourself the gloomy and mournful scenes that are passing within. The sudden moving of a taper as its feeble ray shoots from window to window, until its light gradually disappears, as if it were carried farther back into the room to the bedside of some suffering patient, is enough to awaken a whole crowd of reflections; the mere glimmering of the low-burning lamps, which, when all other habitations are wrapped in darkness and slumber, denote the chamber where so many forms are writhing with pain, or wasting with disease, is sufficient to check the most boisterous merriment.

Who can tell the anguish of those weary hours, when the only sound the sick man hears, is the disjointed wanderings of some feverish slumberer near him, the low moan of pain, or perhaps the muttered, long-forgotten prayer of a dying man? Who, but they who have felt it, can imagine the sense of loneliness and desolation which must be the portion of those who in the hour of dangerous illness are left to be tended by strangers; for what hands, be they ever so gentle, can wipe the clammy brow, or smooth the restless bed, like those of mother, wife, or child?

Impressed with these thoughts, we have turned away, through the nearly-deserted streets; and the sight of the few miserable creatures still hovering about them, has not tended to lessen the pain which such meditations awaken. The hospital is a refuge and resting-place for hundreds, who but for such institutions must die in the streets and doorways; but what can be the feelings of some outcasts when they are stretched on the bed of sickness with scarcely a hope of recovery? The wretched woman who lingers about the pavement, hours after midnight, and the miserable shadow of a man—the ghastly remnant that want and drunkenness have left—which crouches beneath a window-ledge, to sleep where there is some shelter from the rain, have little to bind them to life, but what have they to look back upon, in death? What are the unwonted comforts of a roof and a bed, to them, when the recollections of a whole life of debasement stalk before them; when repentance seems a mockery, and sorrow comes too late?

About a twelvemonth ago, as we were strolling through Covent-garden (we had been thinking about these things over-night), we were attracted by the very prepossessing appearance of a pickpocket, who having declined to take the trouble of walking to the Police-office, on the ground that he hadn’t the slightest wish to go there at all, was being conveyed thither in a wheelbarrow, to the huge delight of a crowd.

Somehow, we never can resist joining a crowd, so we turned back with the mob, and entered the office, in company with our friend the pickpocket, a couple of policemen, and as many dirty-faced spectators as could squeeze their way in.

There was a powerful, ill-looking young fellow at the bar, who was undergoing an examination, on the very common charge of having, on the previous night, ill-treated a woman, with whom he lived in some court hard by. Several witnesses bore testimony to acts of the grossest brutality; and a certificate was read from the house-surgeon of a neighbouring hospital, describing the nature of the injuries the woman had received, and intimating that her recovery was extremely doubtful.

Some question appeared to have been raised about the identity of the prisoner; for when it was agreed that the two magistrates should visit the hospital at eight o’clock that evening, to take her deposition, it was settled that the man should be taken there also. He turned pale at this, and we saw him clench the bar very hard when the order was given. He was removed directly afterwards, and he spoke not a word.

We felt an irrepressible curiosity to witness this interview, although it is hard to tell why, at this instant, for we knew it must be a painful one. It was no very difficult matter for us to gain permission, and we obtained it.

The prisoner, and the officer who had him in custody, were already at the hospital when we reached it, and waiting the arrival of the magistrates in a small room below stairs. The man was handcuffed, and his hat was pulled forward over his eyes. It was easy to see, though, by the whiteness of his countenance, and the constant twitching of the muscles of his face, that he dreaded what was to come. After a short interval, the magistrates and clerk were bowed in by the house-surgeon and a couple of young men who smelt very strong of tobacco-smoke—they were introduced as ‘dressers’—and after one magistrate had complained bitterly of the cold, and the other of the absence of any news in the evening paper, it was announced that the patient was prepared; and we were conducted to the ‘casualty ward’ in which she was lying.

The dim light which burnt in the spacious room, increased rather than diminished the ghastly appearance of the hapless creatures in the beds, which were ranged in two long rows on either side. In one bed, lay a child enveloped in bandages, with its body half-consumed by fire; in another, a female, rendered hideous by some dreadful accident, was wildly beating her clenched fists on the coverlet, in pain; on a third, there lay stretched a young girl, apparently in the heavy stupor often the immediate precursor of death: her face was stained with blood, and her breast and arms were bound up in folds of linen. Two or three of the beds were empty, and their recent occupants were sitting beside them, but with faces so wan, and eyes so bright and glassy, that it was fearful to meet their gaze. On every face was stamped the expression of anguish and suffering.

The object of the visit was lying at the upper end of the room. She was a fine young woman of about two or three and twenty. Her long black hair, which had been hastily cut from near the wounds on her head, streamed over the pillow in jagged and matted locks. Her face bore deep marks of the ill-usage she had received: her hand was pressed upon her side, as if her chief pain were there; her breathing was short and heavy; and it was plain to see that she was dying fast. She murmured a few words in reply to the magistrate’s inquiry whether she was in great pain; and, having been raised on the pillow by the nurse, looked vacantly upon the strange countenances that surrounded her bed. The magistrate nodded to the officer, to bring the man forward. He did so, and stationed him at the bedside. The girl looked on with a wild and troubled expression of face; but her sight was dim, and she did not know him.

‘Take off his hat,’ said the magistrate. The officer did as he was desired, and the man’s features were disclosed.

The girl started up, with an energy quite preternatural; the fire gleamed in her heavy eyes, and the blood rushed to her pale and sunken cheeks. It was a convulsive effort. She fell back upon her pillow, and covering her scarred and bruised face with her hands, burst into tears. The man cast an anxious look towards her, but otherwise appeared wholly unmoved. After a brief pause the nature of the errand was explained, and the oath tendered.

‘Oh, no, gentlemen,’ said the girl, raising herself once more, and folding her hands together; ‘no, gentlemen, for God’s sake! I did it myself—it was nobody’s fault—it was an accident. He didn’t hurt me; he wouldn’t for all the world. Jack, dear Jack, you know you wouldn’t!’

Her sight was fast failing her, and her hand groped over the bedclothes in search of his. Brute as the man was, he was not prepared for this. He turned his face from the bed, and sobbed. The girl’s colour changed, and her breathing grew more difficult. She was evidently dying.

‘We respect the feelings which prompt you to this,’ said the gentleman who had spoken first, ‘but let me warn you, not to persist in what you know to be untrue, until it is too late. It cannot save him.’

‘Jack,’ murmured the girl, laying her hand upon his arm, ‘they shall not persuade me to swear your life away. He didn’t do it, gentlemen. He never hurt me.’ She grasped his arm tightly, and added, in a broken whisper, ‘I hope God Almighty will forgive me all the wrong I have done, and the life I have led. God bless you, Jack. Some kind gentleman take my love to my poor old father. Five years ago, he said he wished I had died a child. Oh, I wish I had! I wish I had!’

The nurse bent over the girl for a few seconds, and then drew the sheet over her face. It covered a corpse.

_____

Title | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter |

[my-blessed-prince]

Sunday Excerpts, Home in Narnia, Ch. 1, Verity POV, pt. III

@vsnotresponding @olive-riggzey

It had every imaginable and unimaginable chore on it. Dishes, dusting, shoveling the driveway, cooking, and much more. 

“Mother, when do you want this done?” Verity asked.

“That’s for tonight. There’s more for tomorrow.”

Lao’s eyes bugged. She was certain that they were sharing the same thoughts. This would take far longer than five hours. 

“Stop staring, and get working.”

“It’s so long, it’ll take time to read.” Lao said in a monotone voice.

“Then read faster. I’ll be in my room. When I come out, I better find two busy-bees.”

Her mother left the two of them in their shock. The door shut a little too loudly, and the anxieties poured out of Verity. “She wants me to be her slave.” She said in a frantic whisper.

“Not even the boarding masters give this many chores to delinquent students.” Lao said with a glare. “We couldn’t finish this by midnight!”

“Do you think I could pass as a boy? Be Veros?”

“Might be hard when you get…breasts….” Lao said, and she noticed his eyes remained precisely on her face and nowhere else. In another situation, it would be rather funny to see Lao be so awkward about her budding breasts.

“The authorities will say that it is her right.” Verity said with folded arms.

“There’s a boy at our school that I’m pretty sure is abused.” Lao said. “A teacher reported to an authority, and they didn’t do anything. Said it was a private matter. He has bruises.”

“And he’s a boy. I’m a girl.” 

“A stupid notion. Boys should do house chores too. Who wants to be an unpaid maid for the rest of their life?”

“No one.” Verity said in a monotone voice.

After a slight pause, Lao asked. “Should we get started? I can take on most of these, if you want to do the easier chores.”

“Do you really mind–”

“I’m not the one stuck here.” Lao said.

“Thanks.” Verity said, and she kissed his cheek again.

Lao’s whole body went stiff, and he cleared his throat. “Alright, for starters–”

The two of them went over the list, and Lao took the most demanding chores. With some exploration they realized that the kitchen appeared like it hadn’t been cleaned the whole time Verity had been gone. There were cockroaches, and she saw a mouse run across the tiled floor. 

“Yeah, I can do the kitchen.”

“I really can do it–”

“No.” Lao said.

They went around the house more, determining which rooms were dirtiest. The bathroom’s were wretched, and Lao offered to take those too. The cleanest room was the main room, and that would be the one that Verity would do. The backyard was full of weeds, but it wasn’t the same nastiness that permeated the rest of the house, so she offered to do that as well.

The two of them took on their separate chores, and Verity’s mind spun while she scrubbed away grime on the coffee table, vacuumed the dusty carpet, and wiped off the sitting chairs at least three times for each chair.

These were the easy chores, and she was getting tired. Lao was doing the more difficult ones, but he wouldn’t be here forever. No, in a matter of two weeks, he would be going off to school with the others.

She would be staying behind here, working away. Her mother periodically came to check on her, and her fingers tightened around the rag she used to clean. Verity would never see anyone, but that dreadful woman for months and months on end.

It was unthinkable. 

She finished cleaning the main room, and she went to check on Lao. His hair, which almost always was in a long black braid, was currently tied up in a high bun. He had pink rubber gloves on, and he was ferociously scrubbing at a stain on a plate that looked like it had crusted over months prior.

He had yet to notice that she was in the same room as him. Lao had been in here for at least two hours, and hardly a dent had been made in the dishes.

An unutterable idea flitted across her mind. She could run away. Live somewhere else. Pretend to have no records, and be an orphan. Their world wasn’t kind to orphans or little girls, and it stayed stuck in her mouth.

Leaving Lao, she went back to do her other chores. She probably should have started with the outside, but it was cold. She was to get rid of icicles, shovel the driveway full of snow, and do much more.

She put on her winter coat and mittens again, and she grabbed the shovel from the garage. It was nearly as tall as she was. With her back bent, she started to shovel away the foot of snow. Her mind wandered with repetitive work. How bad could it be to run away? Surely, the streets were better than this. At least the homeless had variety, and perhaps they would be kind to her. If they weren’t kind to her, it wouldn’t be the same hurt of knowing that one’s mother hated her. She was the less preferred daughter. Alina was never asked to stay home from boarding school. Was it because her sister had been docile? Verity tried her best to hold her tongue, but it was a bit difficult when around her mother. 

After being in the cold for who knew how long, her fingers started to become numb. She rested down her shovel in the snow, and she rubbed her hands together. This was impossible. Lao was doing the hard work, she would simply die without him. Her own mother would work her into a ditch.

Her body shivered, and she remembered how she hadn’t had lunch or dinner. Her stomach grumbled impossibly loud, and she cursed under her breath. Lao was probably still stuck doing the high pile of dishes with food caked on them for months on end.

The night was waning on, and Verity wondered how long the two of them had been working. She had been outside for at least two hours, hadn’t she? The driveway to her home was long and wide. Would Ray and Lee show up soon? What would she tell Ray? Would he care? He tended to have a blindspot towards their mother. 

Down the road, she saw her father’s car. He had been more distant since Alina’s death, but surely he would fight for her not to be a slave. Due to the heavy snow, her father parked on the side of the road. He got out of the car, and he shook his head at the foot of snow in their driveway.

She ran towards him. “Dad!” She wrapped her arms around him, something that hadn’t been done in far too long. No hug was returned, but she didn’t let that dampen her spirits. “Dad! I missed you.”

“You should get back to working, Verity. The driveway is impossible.”

Her heart fell at the lack of affection returned. It was moments like these, that she wished she had been an orphan like Lao.

“Dad, she wants me to quit school. You’ll help me return, right–”

“It was my idea.” Her father said. 

The wind bit at her cheeks. “What?”

“I can’t possibly do the housework myself. Your mother has been insufferable since Alina died. I thought it was a good solution to have you stay home and do the work yourself.”

“I want to learn, daddy.” Verity said.

“I’m sorry, Verity. Sacrifices need to be made.”

Without further word, her father went to return into the house. “I’ll be trapped.” Verity said in a small voice.

“You’ll be helping your family. What you’re supposed to do. Stop complaining and get this driveway cleared. The neighbors don’t like when I park on the side of the road.”

“Will you help me?” Verity asked.

“I’ve been working all day. It’s nearly 9:00 PM. I’m sure you can do it yourself.”

Her father went into the house, and the door shut behind him. Tears poured down her face, freezing to her cheeks. 

[quinnverse]

“Poisoned me to the idea? I suppose it’s a good thing I’ve grown immune to such poisons after knowing her my entire life. As sharp as her teeth are, Mister Bolton, I can promise you her bark is bigger than her bite.” Belle adored her cousin, but it was no secret that Emma's personality was rougher around the edges than was ideal for young ladies of their stature. While Belle had been raised in high London society, Emma had grown up across the pond in South Boston, where respectable ladies were few and far between. But that didn't mean her cousin couldn't be charming when she wanted to be.

“Fortunately for you, you’ve caught me in my tolerable human form, as well. Though, I can help but wonder what sort of beast you take the shape of when nighttime rolls around. Your teeth must be quite sharp to dare go toe-to-toe with my cousin.”

She listened to him speak, carefully eyeing him with curiosity. It was hard to imagine what about him had sparked Emma's ire so vehemently, but Belle didn't doubt that there was something lurking beneath the surface. She knew enough about men to know they never showed their real face up front. Oftentimes, it wasn't until marriage that a woman got to see the real face lingering behind the mask. Even her own brother had fallen to such traditions as he chased the dream of becoming one of London's next notorious rakes.

“What, indeed.” She hummed, her eyes alight with mischief. Belle was no stranger to the precise reasons men typically gave for finding her personality so disarming. She was too smart, too bold, too frank for her own good. Her good looks were the only thing saving her from a life on the shelf labeled 'wretched bluestocking' and she never pretended otherwise. Even so, she refused to dilute herself to suit a man's standards and, thankfully, this one didn't seem too set on changing her quite yet. “I have a feeling we’re going to get along well, Mister Bolton.”

Her eyes lit up at the mention of the great bard and the corner of her lips twitched upwards. She couldn't be blamed this time, she thought. There was no way she could be penalized for speaking about her literary passions when he had been the one to bring it up in the first place.

“You’re familiar with Shakespeare?” She blinked, pleasantly surprised she’d managed to find an intellectual man in what seemed to be a sea of imbeciles. “Well, seeing as how Emma is an only child, I hope that doesn’t make me Bianca. Or better yet, that you aren’t Petruchio.”

Belle narrowed her eyes and shot him a playfully daring glance. From how Emma had described him in her letters, she had expected him to be outright deplorable, to be brash and rude with his words. But the man that stood before her was nothing short of charming and it puzzled her. Was she speaking to the right John Bolton? Was it possible that Emma had written about someone completely different? Or was it a case of Jekyll and Hyde?

“You’d be surprised, many of the men back in London seemed to enjoy the challenge of taming an American shrew. Then again, most of those same men are the type to blindly stick their hand into such a raging beehive if it meant getting a lick of honey.” Eyeing him with a smirk, Belle added. “Metaphorically, of course.”

"Scared?" Benjamin echoed, chuckling. "Well, I don't know...should I be? Miss Dunster is my only true acquaintance with a lashing tongue, so if my suspicions are correct -- which, sadly, they often are -- I imagine she's poisoned you to the idea that I'm nothing more than a beast." Here, his mouth quirked into a smile. "I'm only partially a beast. Lucky for you, you've caught me during one of my rare human appearances."

The woman admitted to the rumors not being complimentary, and Benjamin regarded her with a snort. "Then my suspicions were correct," he decided. "How do you two know one another?"

With a demure smile, the woman took his hand and dipped into a curtsy. “A pleasure to meet you, Mister Bolton. I'm Belle,” she greeted.

"Belle?" Benjamin echoed, almost testing the name on his tongue. "It means 'beautiful' in French, correct?" With a sheepish laugh, he was quick to reassure, "Fear not: I won't insult you by giving a trite compliment such as that...regardless of whether or not it's true."

Belle regarded him sagely. “I assure you, most people would argue there's no disadvantage to not knowing me. In fact, most men back home would consider you all the wiser for it. But English men aren't known for their brains."

Benjamin snorted. "It sounds like we have much in common then," he said, "for I can find no reason to disagree... And, as it so happens, all present company don't seem particularly fond of me, either. Just what is it about us, Miss Belle, that has everyone running scared?"

She hummed. She was quick to bring up "Uncle John," and a dawning horror settled upon Benjamin once he realized that this must be the cousin Emma spoke of so fondly.

Reaffirming this, Belle said, "I can’t imagine my dear cousin has let that happen so easily. She likes things done a certain way, and it would take a village to convince her otherwise.”

Unbidden, a light flush nipped at Benjamin's cheeks and he breathed a nervous laugh. "No, you're right about that," he agreed. "Miss Dunster has been far from easy. Er...her conduct hasn't made things easy, that is. I don't know what I've done to set her off, but I imagine courting her would be akin to courting a swarm of bees...so in other words, she's Kate from The Taming of the Shrew."

[pink-strawberry-kissess]

Glimpse of us (Leon S Kennedy x ?)

CROSS POSTED FROM MY AO3

Summary: "She's like a part of me I can't let go."

Leon struggles with his unresolved feelings with a certain woman in red as his life falls into disarray after being forced into a relationship he never wanted under the pretense of it "being good" for him.

“-I never thought my life would turn out this way.”

Based on the song "Glimpse of Us" by Joji

pain pain pain gang gang gang

Notes: a/n: OKAY so I literally haven’t written anything for a few months now. I used to write for a different fandom, and if you’re interested in it, I can send you my tumblr. If you're not interested in that fandom/characters then i'm not disclosing it lol so you have to ask me somehow lol

SO I just haven’t been super uhh, my writing isn’t very good right now but I’m trying lol

i initially wanted to write a bit with infinite darkness leon but i felt like i couldn't get it in properly so i just axed it also leon vendetta is kinda implied but not a lot the plotline is used so-

since this is over most of leon's timeline there's different versions of him, so hopefully you can imagine which one i'm talking about when i get to it lmao

OKAY THANKS HOPE YOU ENJOY (or not)

also so i don't get crucified, cleon shippers probably dni???

(See the end of the work for more notes.)

Warnings: Implied Sexual Content, Angst, Fluff, Suicidal Thoughts, Past Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Canon, Divergence, POV Multiple, POV Changes, No Dialogue, Brief Dialogue, time jumps, Time Skips, could be read without much knowledge of the games but some are obviously from games/movies, Heavy Angst, certain ships do not apply here, angst with no happy ending for one ship, Non Canon Timeline,  Implied/Referenced Torture, Implied/Referenced Cheating, Cheating,  Established Relationship, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Gun Violence, Resident Evil 2 Leon, Resident Evil 4 Leon, resident evil 6 leon, resident evil damnation leon, Game: Resident Evil 2, Post-Resident Evil 4, Leon S Kennedy - Freeform,  leon kennedy - Freeform, Ada Wong - Freeform, Mentioned Ada Wong

Word count: 3227

//

Regret laced through every single fibre of his being. Sharp thorns piercing him with pangs of guilt and nearly swallowing him whole in a deep carmine red of his own blood. His body aching from years of paralyzing trauma. Every painful day spent wondering if it was going to be different. Every second kept him thinking, if he made a different decision; would he still be here. Exactly like this, today.

Leon was riddled with decades of trauma, pain and remorse. Turning to the bottle as a common response to him. His coping mechanism to escape from everything that was thrown at him.  Struggling with his lost innocence of youth and losing himself to the pain of it all, caused him to turn to the sweet bitter liquid one too many times. Drowning himself in anything other than what he was feeling, wanting to taste more than the metallic aftertaste of blood and the wretched stench of death that lingered in his memories.

//

Blue bright eyes and naive to the world, at the age of twenty one, he finally completed one of his childhood dreams of becoming a cop. Wanting to do good and be good despite it all.

Then Raccoon City happened.

Post traumatic stress disorder. PTSD is a common symptom with soldiers, along with a long list of others. Seeing atrocities that no person should ever see in a lifetime. Leon had seen more than one person should ever see in a single night. Afterwards, nights were spent alone, tossing and turning. Struggling to get a single second of relief. It was nothing other than, hell. It only ever got worse, never better. There were others who maybe suffered worse, those who never lived to tell their tale. Though, he’d never wish that on anyone. When your entire being is plagued with painful memories. The only remedy is the obvious one.

//

She'd take the world off my shoulders

If it was ever hard to move

She'd turn the rain to a rainbow

When I was living in the blue

Why then, if she is so perfect

Do I still wish that it was you?

Perfect don't mean that it's working

So what can I do? (Ooh)

When you're out of sight

In my mind

//

Somehow, she was always there. Following him around desperately like a love sick puppy. Her bright personality reminded him of himself sometimes. The younger version him.  The version of himself where he truly believed that the world was black and white. Right and wrong. Good and evil. Not the shades of morally ambiguous greys that filtered his view of the world now.

Yet every, "I love you," he heard from her was supposed to fix him. That’s how ‘love’ is supposed to work, the way it brightens up your world in every hue of colours. Seeing colours you've never seen before. Every little achievement, goal reached and task finished is something to celebrate with someone that loves you. The sun shines just a bit brighter and feels just a bit warmer. Every season spent together is a new change embraced. The freezing and melting of frigid ice cold winter and the blooming of pink petals every spring. The hot humid heat of summer and the cooling cozy nights of autumn. Every little thing just feels better. Every problem is an easy enemy to defeat with someone there by your side. You feel invincible. It’s perfection.

That’s how it’s supposed to be. ‘Love’ is supposed to cure all ailments. Make you feel better. Fix you. So why didn’t Leon feel any better.

//

'Cause sometimes I look in her eyes

And that's where I find a glimpse of us

And I try to fall for her touch

But I'm thinking of the way it was

Said I'm fine and said I moved on

I'm only here passing time in her arms

Hoping I'll find

A glimpse of us

//

Despite his best efforts, he could see how he pained her. That despite it all, he couldn’t love her the way that he knew she wanted him to. Her childish fears of his true feelings for her pained him more with each lie.

“Of course I love you.”  

A lie intertwined with piercing thorns with a delicate white rose a top it. Each petal, a white flag surrendering each time she asked him. Reassurance for each time she was afraid. Petrified that Leon was going to leave her. And each time another white rose raised to ease her fears. A garden of little white lies to keep her. But with each new lie, there would be more thorns he’d have to avoid catching on at some point. Ripping him open and exposing his lie he had lived for the past years he had promised to her.

/

First loves, no matter how brief. Change you. Years had gone by and he hadn’t been able to feel like that ever again. Pure unadulterated desire. Something so captivating in her eyes that left him haunted by the image of her every night. That very shade of warmth in her eyes, despite her cold temperament. The very idea of her left him dazed and disoriented. Hungry. Something that fuelled him in his very bones. Comfort was something he craved and desired, as for most people. But something about the thrill of it all. That excited him even more.

He couldn’t ever forget.

Her.

It was brief, the time he spent with her, but the sparks that he felt burned him from the inside out. Eviscerating any sense of reason he had. Each new revelation about her brought out new emotions in him he had kept tucked and buried away. The pain of her supposed death. The relief knowing that she had been alive all along. And the years he spent mourning her. Not only her, but the idea of losing someone. That he’d been at fault. That if he had been just a bit faster. Stronger. That maybe, it could’ve been different. Seeing her again. Her kiss against his lips felt like it was yesterday again, igniting him. The gentle brush of her hands against his body. How easy it was for her to melt into him.

6 years. 6 years is nearly a lifetime for someone in their twenties. Leon had hardened as a person, stoic and strong. Someone more cynical. Not as aloof to the world and its secrets. His recruitment into becoming a government agent was less than ideal, threatened with death or becoming an agent; he took the obvious route.

Afterwards he had already begun to realize that the world was more corrupt than he originally thought it was. Cold and cruel leaders with plastered good faces and outlooks lead the world. Little white lies kept the world in order. How naive it was to think that it was anything other than that keeping the corruption at bay. The worlds powers fought constantly for authority, threatening each other with violence, viruses and mass terror. The elite knew, that all that mattered was how much one let slip. That’s how it’s been for decades, and nothing was going to stop it.

He knew that it was a losing battle. The wrong side of the coin to bet on. Despite that, somehow he'd always find a way to fight it.

//

Years had passed again before he saw her again. A shot in the dark as her sharp crossbow bolt flew past him, hitting her target behind him. A threatening introduction; granted, he was quick to draw his gun at her as well- their circumstances were less than ideal. His gun quickly lowered after shouting her name.

Another woman was attached to him at the hip. And she briefly wondered about their relationship as the brunette drew her own gun at her. Helena, she heard Leon calling her. Helena’s long brown hair wavering with her as she shook in rage, tears brimming at her lashes, her gun wavering just the same.

The gun remained aimed at her. Yet her gaze was fixed on Leon. His hair had gotten just a bit longer. Still framing his perfectly sculpted face, his piercing eyes that shade of blue she could get lost in. He looked a bit more scruffy, roughed up with a few more years of age. And she secretly wondered if he tasted just the same. The slight concern of having Helena’s gun still aimed at her were quickly extinguished as Leon finally gently lowered the gun away from her.

In the brief few seconds he called out for her, he’d already wondered how she’d been since they’ve last seen each other. Despite the distance, he swore he could still remember her scent against him. The sweet saccharin taste of her against his lips. He had promised himself to another and yet he was already thinking about her again. Thinking about the nights they spent together.

They never claimed to be anything. A couple of nights of sex and shared romantic notions meant little when they knew they couldn’t be together. Their lives would never work together without heavy sacrifice. So these few nights spent together were nothing more than a fantasy. Something so sweet and just beyond reach, lingering on the edge of what could be. His thoughts lingered to dark places intermixed with longing ones. He’d wondered if she had found someone else, if someone else could quell the need she had. His sick mind already imagining her with someone else had him twisted with a slight rage.

And yet images of the moments in bed with her still tangled around him flooded his vision. Him buried in between her warm creamy thighs with her legs wrapped around his waist.  Wondering if she was staying another night or not. The way she rode him how he needed her to. His fingertips pressed hard into her skin as he felt his release deep inside of her. Marking her anyway he could, the only reminder of him on her. Her manicured nails pressed painfully into his back as her walls fell down as she released herself around him. The last bit of resistance slipping away from her as she clung onto him, desperately riding through the pleasures that coursed through the both of them. In those split seconds, Leon could see her. The real her. The version of herself where she fully trusted him. His own fears about her. The constant struggle of wanting her- and knowing that it couldn’t work.

The empty pain every morning he woke alone, with nothing more than a delicately hand written letter placed on the nightstand. Her gentle scent still enveloping him. Her warmth lingering in the bed. It only made him want her more. His own inner demons was killing him, ripping through his flesh like the monsters he dealt with. Flooding him with dark red desire.

//

Tell me he savours your glory

Does he laugh the way I did?

Is this a part of your story?

One that I had never lived

Maybe one day you'll feel lonely

And in his eyes, you'll get a glimpse

Maybe you'll start slipping slowly

And find me again

When you're out of sight

In my mind

//

The interaction was brief, more dangers were always close by. More questions riddled him as he worked towards ending the case, destroying the so called evil. Helena working alongside him, her soft voice nearly whispering to him what he already knew.

“She’s more than just a friend, isn’t she? You have feelings for her.”

He didn’t need to hear it, already knowing that. His little lie he told himself to bare himself the excruciating pain of not knowing the truth. But it was more complicated than that. True, that friends don’t spend hours learning every single part of each others body. It was her kiss prints that lingered on his skin for years. Each one etched onto him like a stain, no matter how hard he’d try; he couldn’t help but feel like his skin was on fire each time she touched him. His fingers traced against her body, against each scar and new wound; asking her where it came from as she did the same for him.

She would mirror his movements, somehow timid yet sure sometimes. Deliberate but graceful. The obvious scar she’d graze her fingertip against his shoulder. The slight concave little circle against his skin she remembered bandaging all those years ago. A little morbid reminder of their first night together. The first time she felt like she let someone in.

Those nights were often the same. His fingers ghosting along her body until they were pressed tightly against her soft hips. His airy whimpers and whines growing as he tried to hold onto her for dear life. Grasping tightly as he chased her lips, wanting more and more each time, bruising her skin and marking her as a reminder of him. Finally feeling what he craved. Cradling her smaller face against his hands as he felt the short wisps of her dark black hair bouncing with each movement of their bodies. His own matted dirty blond tresses against his forehead as her delicate fingers ran through his hair, pushing them out of the way as she breathed another kiss against his skin. Inhaling each other like air. Feeling and fuelling the fire inside of him.

It was supposed to be more complicated than that.

And yet he was quick to jump from a burning building seeing her laying lifeless on the ground. Running to her the second he saw her needing him. As she laid against him, cradled into him, he whispered sweet nothings to her; much like he would during the nights she would stay. He silently prayed to see her open her eyes again. Wanting to see those warm eyes again.

A short exhale slipped from her lips as she slowly woke, “I was just resting my eyes,” she exhaled a quiet laugh, noticing Leon as his tall form shielded her from the entire world. A small smile formed on her lips, ever the hero.

“Shouldn’t sleep on the job,” he quipped back, aiding her back up onto her feet. As the city burned, the evil defeated. She was already gone again. Leon seeing her from across the tops of the building, he questioned himself again. Despite their lives being tangled together in the most messy and intimate ways, he still wondered about her. Wondered why she always helped him somehow in the end. Leading him back to her somehow.

//

'Cause sometimes I look in her eyes

And that's where I find a glimpse of us

And I try to fall for her touch

But I'm thinking of the way it was

//

Now he was stuck. Stagnant in a loveless relationship he never wanted to be in. Lifeless in a lifestyle he never wanted. Working on missions that never went anywhere. More corruption, more of the government covering up something else. And yet she was there. The ‘bright sunshine of his life’ that was supposed to brighten his day with each of her smiles. And try her best, he’d try to be better.

Each empty bottle of whiskey she would find stashed somewhere in their shared home left little to the imagination. A soft sigh slipped from her lips. This was all she ever wanted. But he was never really here. Each hug and kiss felt hollow. They haven't shared a bed in months. If they did it would only be a few hours of sleep before he'd be gone again. Each time he’d swear it was only her. She’d believe him. The way those baby blues stared back at her, she’d believe in him every time. Of course she’d want to. She didn’t want to throw away years of their lives together. Spent together, and grown together. She was persistent, wanting to make it work. But each smile he gave her only broke away at her heart. His twisted sweet smile that would tell her that everything would be okay.

She wasn’t naive. At least not towards the end of their relationship. The subtle soft scent of her lingered on his skin some nights. Airy floral jasmine and supple honey stained his skin, penetrating deeply into him. The slightest of bruising of her lip prints reddening against his neck. The way he kissed her felt off, chaste. And yet it would be lingering, like she could taste her. How sickeningly sweet she was. Like she was laced with sweet plump cherries and liquor. No wonder he always went back to her.

Even the way Leon spoke would be different, for a while. Softer, gentler and more relaxed. Somehow more like himself. Claire knew deep down that she was a stand in, a second choice. Someone who was just there because she was there. Left standing there alone when she wasn’t needed anymore. And she deserved better than this, so why didn’t she go?

Each night he was away, he would take the quietest way back, sneaking into their home at the darkest of night. Like he was a stranger in his own home. He never wanted to wake her, and yet she was awake, every time. Awake in her own nightmare.

//

Said I'm fine and said I moved on

I'm only here passing time in her arms

Hoping I'll find

A glimpse of us

Ooh, ooh-ooh

Ooh, ooh-ooh

Ooh, ooh, ooh

//

“-I never thought my life would turn out this way.” Losing all of his men in a single mission was the last straw for him. The gentle tip backwards into his alcoholism. One of the last many triggers that lead him to almost putting a bullet into his head. But he never did it. No matter how easy it was to pull the trigger against an enemy, against one of those monsters. He couldn’t do it to himself. His finger ghosting along the cold metal trigger, aimed at himself. Cowardice or pride, maybe both, his finger lifted each time, his gun remained loaded, and left alone. Placed back onto the bedside table. Each time he’d lay back down, lay his body to rest, and wait for the next day to rise.

Each day, he drifted further and further apart from her. And she slipped further and further away from him. The love she felt for him, it waned everyday. Sand escaping the hourglass, their time was running out. Each time she tried to let him in, he’d simply walk away. Each fight lead to her forgiving him. Leon making the simple promise of doing better, and Claire letting him feed her the lie. They’d lay together in their bed, simply holding each other as they both wondered where the other was. Even in her arms, she knew, he wasn’t there. And as he lay there, trying to feel something, anything, a spark of a feeling. He’d try to feel. Try to feel, anything. He couldn’t.

All he could do, was try and remember.

Her.

//

'Cause sometimes I look in her eyes

And that's where I find a glimpse of us

And I try to fall for her touch

But I'm thinking of the way it was

Said I'm fine and said I moved on

I'm only here passing time in her arms

Hoping I'll find

A glimpse of us

//

Notes: also if it wasn't painfully obvious, i clearly ship one over the other

HER in italics and BOLD is always Ada and i wanted to keep it vague for angst reasons. but i think you can figure it out towards the end. i PERSONALLY always think that leon will alway find a way to go back to ada so even though i know that people like to ship him with claire, i just don't think it makes sense lol so aeon all the way for me.

uhhhhh yeah, so that being said i might post more aeon stuff soon ^__^ i just don't really know since i haven't written for this fandom and i've been out of practice (from writing) for a few months.

THANKS OKAY BYE

[b0ther]

tags : drabble/one-shot idk. feminine pronouns, afab reader / royalty or kingdom au, inspired by kill the villainess, eating out, semi-public and clothed though they don’t have sex yet lol we’re gonna have to wait for part two, this was supposed to be short but i got carried away bye.

i’ve been reading a lot of reincarnation manhwas, and i can’t stop thinking about knight yuuta.

knight yuuta with tough, veiny, calloused hands, his fingers are long and pretty and knuckles are chipped with dried blood; a boy that spends his days practicing his swordsmanship against a dull dummy until the sun sets. knight yuuta who is then knighted by a duke’s daughter, whose lips are zipped with obvious intention to display her disinclination to be in the ceremony. knight yuuta who follows the lady home that night, three steps behind her at all times, and recognizes that the vicinity around her isn’t the one that he is welcomed in; knight yuuta who doesn’t speak of it or point it out either way.

“i don’t need a knight,” the lady then says one afternoon, eyes closed as she sips on her most favored flavor of tea under the bright sunlight. knight yuuta is sitting across her, eyes vigilantly watching her every move and ears perked up as if someone is going to ambush her in her own garden — he insisted that the lady enjoy her afternoon tea alone, you see, that he isn’t fit to be sitting on the same table as a lady. but she looked up at him with disinterest that struck his chest, questioning his loyalty to her. he immediately took the only empty seat on the round table.

the duke’s daughter, knight yuuta quickly learns, has a cute side to herself. she keeps him close to her, in the mansion and in the castle, even when she told him that she has no need of him to be around. she takes him to the market, and inside extravagant boutiques that he had never thought that he could enter. and though she has her own lady-in-waiting, she prefers discerning his opinion over hers. knight yuuta does not think of dresses often, and so he carelessly picks ones that he thinks would look best on his lady, and waits just outside the changing room.

but she drags him in, her touch delicate and unforgettable, it’s the first time he’s been touched by those soft hands — she smells of lemon cakes and roses; his lady closes the door and tells him to sit on a chair on the very back of the room. one servant argues — it would be improper for him to see you change, my lady — and she indifferently waves their reasoning away, “he is the only person in this room who has sworn his life to me, wouldn’t it be audacious of me to place my faith on all of you but not him?” as more complaints flows out of the servant’s mouth, his lady raises one hand to silence them and commands another to undo the laces of her dress. that day, knight yuuta learns of the boundaries the lady placed between them — he also learns that the lady has smooth, silky skin, and though his expression is unmoving as he watches her undress to her corset, both hands on his knees forms a fist.

neither knight yuuta nor his lady likes the crown prince very much. he came to learn that the person he is serving is second only to the crown prince, his lady’s inimical fiancé, and that she holds power and influent that most people would not be able to even imagine. knight yuuta knows his lady as one who is loved by all in the duke’s household — and how can one not? his lady, despite her frigid appearance, has the heart of gold that many claims to have, and he is convinced that no one in the kingdom is able to rival neither her elegance nor beauty. and so he wonders, day and night, how is her fate so ill that she is set to marry the wretched prince.

knight yuuta has not ever comment on the countless times his lady hides behind the palace pavilions, shielding herself from leering eyes as she continues to sob and wail quietly into her fragile palms. he has never seen her cry, at all times, he is on the lookout for people that are walking towards them — his gaze is enough to send them away — so that his lady’s dignity would not be tarnished any more than what that bastard prince has commit. he’d kill him, knight yuuta swears, if he isn’t the goddamned crown prince, he’d slit his throat wide open for making his lady cry.

why would anyone choose another woman than his lady? why would anyone openly flaunt their choice in picking arrogant and crude ladies to be their partner? doing so is one thing, but letting his lady catch them in the middle of coition is another. she is trying her best to fit in the mold of the perfect king’s wife, and the crown prince insists lazing around with no inch of grace in his body, even knight yuuta, who comes from a lowly origin, knows better than to exhibit infidelity even in a political driven engagement.

his lady asks him to accompany her to a nighttime tea one evening, and who is knight yuuta to refuse? the underlying sparks in her eyes isn’t present, her voice is low under flickering candlelight as she brings her cup to her lips. “you’re the only one i can trust, sir yuuta,” she says without precipitating movements, “you are my only friend.” that night, yuuta stabs his blade through the chest of a man who tried to bring a knife up to his lady’s face in her own garden. though his lady is unmoving, she lifts her gaze to the sky as the assassin breathes his last breath, “the crown prince has trivialized my knight.” as yuuta peers up at his lady, his eyes widen in overwhelming exalt — she looks magnificent.

trips to town has become a weekly occurrences for yuuta and his lady; her favorite hobby is to dress in regular clothings and prance down the marketplace, making him carry all her luggages. the downtown theater is her best loved place — a new short play every week is to be presented, with new songs and new tricks. his lady loves stories, and yuuta loves watching her eyes light up at every twist the play would offer. though that evening, his lady’s melancholic frown seeps pass her defenses, and he immediately recognizes the presence of the crown prince three rows under where they are sitting — in his arm is another lover yuuta does not recognize.

as his hand creeps to the hilt of his sword, his lady stood up. she is silent, as always, trying her best to not be the center of attention, as she makes her way out the exit. all thoughts of harming the crown prince escapes his mind — his lady is all that matters, after all. he follows her to the empty night streets, hand flying out to catch her wrist; yuuta disobeys his lady for the first time and did not let go even when she tries to pry him off. she refuses to look at him, and he understands, so he tugs her frail body towards his larger one, hand pressing her forehead against his chest.

“i don’t even love him,” as soon as he feels his lady’s sobbings, yuuta pulls them into an alleyway — he will not see her crying face, so no one else can do so. her fingers grip his tunic, tears sopping the material and yuuta can only rock them back and forth as a vain attempt in calming her down. “yuuta, i’m a-always doing my best, i-is that not enough?”

yuuta grits his teeth at the question — he’d kill the crown prince, he swears it. he pulls her from his chest, for the first time, he takes in the sight of her piteous face — her tear-stained cheeks are flushed, eyes swollen, and chest heaving. his heart clenches at the sight, and so, he closes his eyes and brings his large hand to cup her jaws, leaning down to catch her quivering lips with his.

at first, yuuta expects a harsh shove. he expects a slap on his face, or perhaps even a punch. he does not expect for his lady to be melting into the contact; all the tension on his shoulders fades away as he falls in deeper to the kiss, one hand wrapping around her small waist to hold her body closer to his. he can feel her hiccups as she raises her arms to snake around his neck, pulling him down towards her. yuuta knows that he should be careful when it comes to his delicate lady, that he should hold himself back as he is much stronger than she is; and he might have committed a sin when he thrusts her onto the wall.

he silently reprimands his excitement, and while he keeps each hand on her jaw and waist, his dark eyes peered down to his lady, waiting for her to rebuke his actions. but she does not comment on the cold wall or his daring decision — instead, she looks down to her feet, still trying to manage her hiccups, and quietly asks, “are you not going to kiss me again?”

splutters of apologies fly out his lips — he has kissed the crown prince’s fiancé, and while the fear of his own life is not present, yuuta fears for his lady’s. she turns away for a moment, her then erratic breath is now calm and slow, muttering something yuuta does not quite catch. she unhooks her arms from his neck, her soft touch traveling from his neck to the curves of his hard jaws. turning to look at him, shy and timid, his lady grips the base of the hand on her jaw with her smaller ones, tugging it off his face and placing it very carefully on the mound of her breast.

yuuta holds his breath.

the resilient lady keeps her eye contact — he doesn’t know how she does it — and presses her fingers on top of his, making him dig into the fabric and feel his digits drowning in the soft flesh underneath. yuuta does not say a word, he merely does what his lady tells him to do. “you can move,” her pliable voice whispers, and so he does. he takes the initiative to fondle her chest, stepping in closer as he admires how she fits perfectly in his wide palm. the fingers on his hand loosens; his lady takes one thumb to nibble between her teeth as yuuta continues to knead her mound, his breath hot against her face. he was so engrossed in her breast, that when his lady lets out a low sigh, he immediately pulls away.

at an instant, his eyes goes to her face — has he hurt her? he is greeted, however, by his lady’s flushed face (now for an entirely different reason) and her drool pooling on her thumb and on the corner of her pretty lips, threatening to spill out. has her lips always been this plump? yuuta feels his cock hardening against the restraining fabric of his pants as he thinks about how his kiss may be the one making her look so. . . amorous.

“sir yuuta,” his lady whimpers, and he almost flinched at how sultry the complaint sounds. she is so different from the lady he usually serves — so different from the usual bold and prideful woman that she is. yuuta raises his hand back to her chest and she lets out a sigh of relief; his lady looks so small as he towers her, so supple and pliant. is he allowed to do this? is he allowed to see her in such state?

she must have noticed his hesitation. her teeth let go of the thumb in her mouth and she slowly tugs the material of her long skirt to her chest. yuuta let go of her body completely and allows her to exhibit her smooth skin, the fat of her thighs making his head go dizzy even when he’s seen her change so many times. the reveal of her undergarments is slow, but yuuta doesn’t mind, not when his lady is revealing so much of herself to him — her laced underwear cups the shape of her pussy so well, that he almost convinces himself that it’s a sin to be staring for so long.

yuuta swallows the lump in his throat and squats before his lady, the case of his blade clashing against the ground. his face is just inches from her core, breath blowing against her warmth when his lady breaks his trance, “y-you can touch it. if you want.”

he may as well faints. yuuta looks up at his lady who’s intently staring back at him, tense from all that is happening. something tells him that she wants him to touch her, and so he raises one finger — just one, he tries not to be greedy — and presses that finger flat against the length of her slit.

“ngh—“

the responses are all so new for him. he keeps his eyes on his lady as her face rumples into an expression he has never seen her worn — it stirs something inside of him. he wants nothing more but to take his cock out and beat it to the expression she is showing him, but he doesn’t do it. instead, he waits for her cues while occasionally pressing harder on her mound.

“you—“ his lady takes his hand and directs him to a specific spot of her groin; yuuta can feel a bud nestling right there under her underwear, “—you can touch me there.”

yuuta follows her command, and he finds his heart drumming against his chest when his lady’s fingers immediately grips his hair. he places his free hand on her thigh — one he has been longing to hold — and continues pressing her down on the spot she had shown him while occasionally running his finger up and down her slit.

his eyes never leaves his beautiful lady’s face, only glancing to what is in front of him for a moment to see her undergarments getting darker in color when he feels his finger getting wet. yuuta swallows the lump of his throat again — she looks so ravishing, he must say, so inviting. it takes every fiber of his being to not do anything too rash, he wouldn’t want his lady to be uncomfortable around him, but he is only getting more and more close to her pulsating core. her little pants are music to his ears, her little moans of his name — and just his name. they both don’t know what to say in times like this, and yuuta feels content with his lady calling out to him with her velvety voice.

until, of course, something inside of him decides that it’s a good idea to press his lips against the fabric separating his finger and her folds. “yuuta��!” his lady squeals, fingers digging in his scalp as he continues to place flutters of little kisses on her drenched underwear, tasting the sweet slick of his beloved lady. she’s addicting.

yuuta shifts on his feet, angling his face so that he can kiss her better. he uses one finger to pull the fabric aside and let the cool night air breeze against her wet slit. his lady shivers, and he is sure that she is about to say something but his tongue races her, and takes one long lick in between her folds to let her juice run down his tongue. his lips settle on the bud he had felt earlier and slowly sucks on her glistening clit.

noises that his lady makes after he does that is different. though she was panting before, she didn’t do so in a way that is so. . . exhilarating. he is rock hard now, sucking on her throbbing clit, squelching sounds that fill him with delight entering his ears easily. she is so so wet, sopped in her own slick for him.

“y-yuuta—“

he loves her. he really do. yuuta does not lower the intensity of his sucking, and instead, only grips her hips to support her body against the wall once he feels her knees trembling from either side of his body. she’s muttering all sorts of things now, telling him how he feels so good, how his tongue is making her feel so hot.

“yuuta— i’m gonna, i—“

his sweet lady cannot finish her sentence — she is cut off by her own gushing, juice flowing to make a mess on his chin as he continues eating her out, tongue poking at the sensitive button between her folds. she’s trying so hard to keep her voice down, yuuta can tell, biting the back of her hand as she throws her head on the wall. her hips convulses so hard against his face, grinding down on him.

yuuta does not stop. he keeps on lapping up her cum, obsessed with the taste of her honeyed slick as he tugs on her clit softly with his lips, silently begging her to give him more.

“s’enough—“ his lady’s words fall on deaf ears, yuuta keeps slurping up her juice until she finally pushes his head away. “e-enough, sir yuuta!”

yuuta blinks up at her — drowning in the sight of her post orgasm: sweat drenching down her face and neck, chest heaving with massive draws of breath, her hair disheveled and messy (quite unfitting for a lady), and her face somewhat debauched. he made her look like that, a sense of burning pride flares up in his chest, he’s the only one to see his lady like that.

remnants of her juice dribbles down his chin on his throat, and yuuta unconsciously scoops it up with a finger to put in his mouth, indulging himself in another taste of her sweet slick. his lady sees this and looks away, muttering about how indecent he is being. he cannot help the small smirk slipping on his lips as he wipes his face free of her wetness. he stands up, not making a move though his eyes lingers on her chest — he stares longer, more than he usually would and wonders what would his lady’s tits look like under all these article of clothings, and would she ever let him suck on them.

she drops the skirt from her hand, crossing her arms under her chest — perhaps to tease him, or to coax him even further — as her cool expression returns to her face. she still looks embarrassed, face still flushed with her hair sticking firmly on her forehead with sweat, but yuuta does not point it out.

instead, he simply offers her his hand when she says, “take me back to the mansion.” he does not mention too, of course, the way she stumbles in her steps, slightly limping, as they walk back home.

[shippingdragons]

Prisoner C33 review THE GUARDIAN – Trevor Nunn directs a wretched, wonderful Wilde

In this dark, poetic one-man play, Toby Stephens gives it his all as the wrecked writer – imprisoned for gay sex in 1895 – as he rues his misfortunes with his younger self

Watching plays on television does require a certain mindset. Appearing as part of BBC Four’s Sunday Night Performance strand, Prisoner C33 is a brand new one-man play about Oscar Wilde’s time in Reading Gaol. It’s written by Stuart Paterson, directed by Trevor Nunn, and stars a very good Toby Stephens as Wilde, playing two very different versions of the writer in conversation with each other. If you are in the mood for an hour of one man talking to himself about the great misfortunes of his life, in a dim, candlelit cell, while the perforated eardrum that would contribute to his death causes him great pain, then this is a poetic and well-crafted play that I imagine would be even more electric on stage.

That hour doesn’t stretch patience or outstay its welcome. It begins with an animalistic moan, deep in the bowels of the Victorian prison, its candles and iron gates lending this a gothic chill. The moan is not coming from Wilde, yet, but from a disturbed man a few cells down, whose mutterings earn him an off-screen beating from a guard. This is 1895, and Wilde is in prison for gross indecency after the details of his affair with Lord Alfred Douglas, his beloved Bosie, became public knowledge. He would emerge from his sentence having written De Profundis and with the material for The Ballad of Reading Gaol, but C33 is more concerned with what Wilde had to endure, and the ultimate cost of that.

Stephens plays him as a wretched, tortured soul brought to the depths of despair by his predicament. He’s cold, hungry, sick, dirty – and bored. “I can bear anything except losing my mind,” he says, as if the prospect is imminent. Perhaps it was. Most of the drama concentrates on this wretched version of Wilde, a man who can only refer to himself by his prisoner number, in conversation with his younger self – a witty, elegant man, dressed in immaculate velvet, with rouged cheeks, who is urging his counterpart to strive for survival. “I say, remember yourself for who you are. A great and exceptional man,” says the young Oscar to the prison Oscar, who refers to his surroundings as “this tomb for those who are not yet dead”.

Nunn directs with utter sparseness, as if for a stage production, and, clearly, this is about the dialogue and the performance (or should that be performances?). Wilde debates grand subjects with himself. He rails against England and “sound English common sense” and the English education system. He talks of morality and art and faith and God. Is art useless? Is he ashamed of the success of The Importance of Being Earnest, a play he wrote in haste for money, that the young Oscar says will be performed for the rest of time? Wilde’s ego and snobbery come and go. He is ashamed of his materialism, yet finds solace in imagining rich fabrics and good French soap.

There is much to say about love, too, from the betrayal of “sweet Bosie” to his adoration of his wife and children, though we know that he would never see them again. He wonders if his ability to see “all the beauty in the world”, in men and in women, makes him a superior man. It would truly be a crime if this famous wit were not allowed a glimmer of comedy in his musings, and among the trauma and the horrors, there are plenty of moments of sly humour. If his sexuality is superior, should he expect an honour from the Queen? “Well, certainly a tax rebate, at the very least,” he quips.

It is not an easy watch, and I mean that quite literally. The conditions of a prison in 1895 were grim, and the idea that his cell “lacks a woman’s touch” is laughable; no woman could improve on that filthy, freezing cesspit. It is dark and gloomy (if this were BBC One prime time, there would be issues raised by the viewers who complain about mumbling), its protagonists looking for light in the shadows, and there is a piercing, high-pitched noise every time Wilde repeats his refrain of “If it was not for my ear …”

But Stephens is remarkable, and gives it his all as both the wreck of a man who would live only for another four years, and as the suave, younger Wilde, exhorting his older, ruined counterpart to live. A man imprisoned for gay sex might be a relic of the past in this country, but it makes a pitch for contemporary relevance in other ways, too. “We cannot keep on living like this, governed by fools who think only of wealth and of war and the size of their estates,” Wilde rages, adding a touch of timelessness to this sorry, sad tale.

Source: THE GUARDIAN

[local-femme-gentleman]

playlists based on some of my favorite quotes

“There’s something about that tunnel that leads to downtown. It’s glorious at night. Just glorious. You start on one side of the mountain, and it’s dark, and the radio is loud. As you enter the tunnel, the wind gets sucked away, and you squint from the lights overhead. When you adjust to the lights, you can see the other side in the distance just as the sound of the radio fades to nothing because the waves just can’t reach. Then, you’re in the middle of the tunnel, and everything becomes a calm dream. As you see the opening get closer, you just can’t get there fast enough. And finally, just when you think you’ll never get there, you see the opening right in front of you. And the radio comes back even louder than you remember it. And the wind is waiting. And you fly out of the tunnel onto the bridge. And there it is. The city. A million lights and buildings and every- thing seems as exciting as the first time you saw it. It really is a grand entrance." ― Stephen Chbosky, Perks of Being a Wallflower

“The soul becomes dyed with the colour of its thoughts.” ― Marcus Aurelius, Meditations

“Humans are meant to work and sweat to earn a living. Those that try to get rich quick or live at the expense of others, all get divine retributions somewhere along the line. That’s the lesson. Unfortunately we quickly forget the lessons we learned. And then we have to learn them all over again.” — Jet Black, Cowboy Bebop

“There was something peculiarly gratifying about shouting in a blind rage until your words ran out. Of course, the aftermath was less pleasant. Once you'd told everyone you hated them and not to come after you, where exactly did you go?” ― Cassandra Clare, Clockwork Angel

“Cyberspace. A consensual hallucination experienced daily by billions of legitimate operators, in every nation, by children being taught mathematical concepts... A graphic representation of data abstracted from banks of every computer in the human system. Unthinkable complexity. Lines of light ranged in the nonspace of the mind, clusters and constellations of data. Like city lights, receding...” ― William Gibson, Neuromancer

“Closed in a room, my imagination becomes the universe, and the rest of the world is missing out.” ― Criss Jami, Diotima, Battery, Electric Personality

“Male fantasies, male fantasies, is everything run by male fantasies? Up on a pedestal or down on your knees, it's all a male fantasy: that you're strong enough to take what they dish out, or else too weak to do anything about it. Even pretending you aren't catering to male fantasies is a male fantasy: pretending you're unseen, pretending you have a life of your own, that you can wash your feet and comb your hair unconscious of the ever-present watcher peering through the keyhole, peering through the keyhole in your own head, if nowhere else. You are a woman with a man inside watching a woman. You are your own voyeur.” ― Margaret Atwood, The Robber Bride

“Is marijuana addictive? Yes, in the sense that most of the really pleasant things in life are worth endlessly repeating.” ― Richard Neville

“I wanted movement and not a calm course of existence. I wanted excitement and danger and the chance to sacrifice myself for my love.” ― Leo Tolstoy

“It is an illusion that youth is happy, an illusion of those who have lost it; but the young know they are wretched for they are full of the truthless ideal which have been instilled into them, and each time they come in contact with the real, they are bruised and wounded. It looks as if they were victims of a conspiracy; for the books they read, ideal by the necessity of selection, and the conversation of their elders, who look back upon the past through a rosy haze of forgetfulness, prepare them for an unreal life. They must discover for themselves that all they have read and all they have been told are lies, lies, lies; and each discovery is another nail driven into the body on the cross of life.” ― W. Somerset Maugham, Of Human Bondage

[rawrmeansmemes]

Troy (2004) SENTENCE STARTERS

change anything as needed!

They envy us because we're mortal, because any moment might be our last.

Everything is more beautiful because we're doomed.

You will never be lovelier than you are now.

We will never be here again.

You gave me peace in a lifetime of war.

You're still my enemy in the morning.

You're still my enemy tonight. But even enemies can show respect.

Imagine a king who fights his own battles. Wouldn't that be a sight?

Of all the warlords loved by the gods, I hate him the most.

You are a brave man. I could have your head on a spit in the blink of an eye.

Do you really think death frightens me now?

I would rather fight beside you than any army of thousands!

Why did you choose this life?

I chose nothing. I was born and this is what I am.

You say you're willing to die for love but you know nothing about dying and you know nothing about love!

Go home, ____. Drink some wine, make love to your wife. Tomorrow, we'll have our war.

Perhaps your brother can comfort them. I hear he's good at charming other men's wives.

I wouldn't be bothering with the shield then, would I?

That's why no-one will remember your name.

Everyone dies, whether today or fifty years from now.

You have your swords. I have my tricks. We play with the toys the gods give us.

All my life I've lived by a code and the code is simple: honor the gods, love your woman and defend your country.

I thought it was you I was fighting yesterday.

Last time you spoke to me like this, you were 10 years old and you'd just stolen Father's horse. What have you done now?

You are free. If I hurt you, it's not what I wanted.

Go. No one will stop you. You have my word.

I thought you were a dumb brute. It would have been easier to forgive a dumb brute!

Your reputation for hospitality is fast becoming legend.

You should not have come here tonight.

Last night was a mistake.

I have made many mistakes this week.

It's too early in the day to be killing princes.

We men are wretched things.

I see you're not hiding behind your high walls. Valiant of you. Ill-advised, but valiant.

You come here uninvited. Go back to your ships and go home.

The sun was shining when your wife left you.

She's up there, watching, isn't she? Good. I want her to watch you die.

I've fought many wars in my time. Some I've fought for land, some for power, some for glory. I suppose fighting for love makes more sense than all the rest.

I walked and I ate and I swam in the sea... I was just a ghost.

You don't have to fear tomorrow... come with me!

If you come, we'll never be safe. Men will hunt us, the gods will curse us, but I'll love you. Until the day they burn my body, I'll love you.

If you sailed any slower the war would be over.

I have heard rumors of your beauty. And for once, the gossip is right.

I don't care about the man's allegiance, I care about his ability to win battles!

You were brave to fight them. You have courage.

To fight back when I'm attacked? A dog has that kind of courage.

We don't need to control him, we need to unleash him. That man was born to end lives.

It's no insult to say a dead man is dead.

Bird signs? You want to plan out strategy based on bird signs?

You sack of wine! Before my time is done, I will look down on your corpse and smile.

The man wants to die!

Is there no one else? Is there no one else?

This war will never be forgotten, nor will the heroes who fight in it.

All those widows. I still hear them screaming. Their husbands died because I'm here.

Your glory walks hand-in-hand with your doom.

Peace is for women and the weak.

I can't imagine life without you.

I almost lost this war because of your little romance.

Do you enjoy provoking me?

Then I'll make it easy for him to find me. I'll walk right up to him and tell him you're mine.