"I feel like this pain isn't allowed. That I've done great things against greater odds, saved so much and so many, I shouldn't be in pain. I shouldn't hate it. I should be joyous. I won. I did it, I won, I survived, I lived. Against everything and everyone, I lived. I fixed their pain, I saved them. But I'm a selfish child and I can't be happy. I can't stop thinking 'when will my pain stop? when is it my turn to be saved?' And every time I hear them calling my name I hate them so, so much it makes me want to scream. Why does it have to be me? Why can't I be anything else but their champion? I never wanted this. I don't want this, but I can't stop it. I can't leave, I can't go away, I can't. I wish I could erase my name from history. I wish I could live trapped here, where no one knows me and no one can find me."
He realizes there’s a hollow trembling inside him where his infected heart used to beat, the stitches that had sewn his self whole together tightening, reminding him of the broken thing he used to be. He looks down at the floor, breathing deeply and allowing himself to… consider.
Stone covered in thick carpets and fabrics. Soft, durable, dark, they hadn’t been like that before. He used to like blue. The coverlet brushes against the ground, an empty luxury, unshared. He’d never allowed himself much thought. He never allowed himself to remember the way he’d destroyed his—their—bedroom. Shared barely for an instant, he’d turned his rage against the furniture, erasing her memory, erasing her smell and the way she felt against him, disgusted by his own blindness, his naivety. Disgusted by the unfamiliar, weak, all-consuming need.
Disgusted by her ambition. Disgusted by her disregard.
He’d shattered the bed with his own hands and never shared it again, kept it empty and unused, forfeiting sleep more often than not, choosing his desk or any concept he could conjure in the ample rooms of his facilities before the comfort of this place. If he had used it at all, he couldn’t remember it.
Athena had been all consuming. Athena had left an imprint in his soul so deep even after tearing himself apart he could feel the shape of her fingertips. Athena’s touch had branded him so deeply, claiming him so utterly he couldn’t envision the bright sky without bile raising. The crystal floor at the Convocation made him want to reach down his own throat and rip himself apart.
Weak hearted. Weak minded. Powerless. His heart and mind disconnected from her, from their past, but his body? His body, his traitorous flesh, remembers. Lahabrea is but a title, and he’ll never escape the shadow of Hephaistos. The sound of her dainty laugh, the smell of lilies, the warmth and her taste turned sour, repulsive.
No matter how much of himself he locked away, he can’t refuse his past, can’t erase it, can’t cage it forever and pretend it never existed. Secrets weigh heavily upon the soul and his is weak, torn in two, unable to balance, unable to stop, unable to face the truth and—
Without his heart, he’s left adrift within the reactions of his body. What once could be navigated, what could have been named and mannered those feelings is gone. He’s not unfeeling, but what connects his mind to his feelings, to his body, is locked away. A piece is gone and what is left instead is chaos.
He realizes there’s a hollow trembling inside him where his infected heart used to beat, the stitches that had sewn his self whole together tightening, reminding him of the broken thing he used to be. He looks down at the floor, breathing deeply and allowing himself to… consider.
Stone covered in thick carpets and fabrics. Soft, durable, dark, they hadn’t been like that before. He used to like blue. The coverlet brushes against the ground, an empty luxury, unshared. He’d never allowed himself much thought. He never allowed himself to remember the way he’d destroyed his—their—bedroom. Shared barely for an instant, he’d turned his rage against the furniture, erasing her memory, erasing her smell and the way she felt against him, disgusted by his own blindness, his naivety. Disgusted by the unfamiliar, weak, all-consuming need.
Disgusted by her ambition. Disgusted by her disregard.
He’d shattered the bed with his own hands and never shared it again, kept it empty and unused, forfeiting sleep more often than not, choosing his desk or any concept he could conjure in the ample rooms of his facilities before the comfort of this place. If he had used it at all, he couldn’t remember it.
Athena had been all consuming. Athena had left an imprint in his soul so deep even after tearing himself apart he could feel the shape of her fingertips. Athena’s touch had branded him so deeply, claiming him so utterly he couldn’t envision the bright sky without bile raising. The crystal floor at the Convocation made him want to reach down his own throat and rip himself apart.
Weak hearted. Weak minded. Powerless. His heart and mind disconnected from her, from their past, but his body? His body, his traitorous flesh, remembers. Lahabrea is but a title, and he’ll never escape the shadow of Hephaistos. The sound of her dainty laugh, the smell of lilies, the warmth and her taste turned sour, repulsive.
No matter how much of himself he locked away, he can’t refuse his past, can’t erase it, can’t cage it forever and pretend it never existed. Secrets weigh heavily upon the soul and his is weak, torn in two, unable to balance, unable to stop, unable to face the truth and—
Without his heart, he’s left adrift within the reactions of his body. What once could be navigated, what could have been named and mannered those feelings is gone. He’s not unfeeling, but what connects his mind to his feelings, to his body, is locked away. A piece is gone and what is left instead is chaos.
it's absurd. i've seen the parts of you that are barely human. you're more monster than mortal, than holy. i've seen your touch melt the skin of those who plead to you. you've branded me when i tried to guide and hold your hand.
i'd make you love, even if it sears my tongue, even if it turns me to cinders.”
Zoro is a monster with long teeth and a thirst for violence swelling deep in the pit of his stomach, in the marrow of his bones. Zoro's blood boils and boils and never cools down and Sanji is terrified of the frozen waters that marred his own childhood. Zoro was raised by thieves and normal men who worked an honest trade and traded his life for hers and became whole in the process. Zoro is a great beast with sharp eyes and soft scars that map a lifetime of sacrifice—for him, for her, for his captain.
Sanji feels like a moth, pale and covered by the dust of his memories, drawn to the sun, disgusted by his own existence. Sanji is weak, and that is also the truth. He's prey and has always been. He's only known how to keep running, always in a straight line ahead of him. it doesn't matter where, as long as it keeps going. and along the way he landed between Zoro's jaws, between his claws. Fragile prey in the mouth of a monster. And he somehow falls asleep in there, trusting and afraid that the tiger will close its jaws and crush him, pierce his wings and pin him to the cushion of his tongue. press him against the rooftop of his mouth and be swallowed into the dark. but he rests there, and he doesn't know for how long. how tangled he is, sleeping peacefully in the mouth of a tiger, no matter how dark, no matter how damp, as long as it's warm.
kaledo-art
prguitarman
theartofmadeline
areudirty
yousharknotpass
izzy806
discoholicmusic
