#erleidn

[amachja-moved]

@erleidn​ 

“No, this way. It’s really really reaaaaaaally important, the Commander insisted.” Her hands on Mikasa’s shoulders gently, but firmly, push her friend towards Hange’s office. Reluctant as Mikasa may be, Sasha will not let this one slide - the day is too important, the occasion too rare, to let her slip away like a shy little mouse seeking refuge from a cacophony. For once, somebody needs to stand in Mikasa Ackerman’s way -- and her roommate is more than happy to fulfill that duty.

“There we go. Ready?” She asks - almost giving away the surprise, if Mikasa has not already seen through her complete and almost admirable lack of subtelty. Excitement already ignites sparks in her warm brown eyes, and, without for a single moment letting go of her hostage, she pushes the door open - revealing the surprise inside. “Happy birthday Mikasaaaaaa!” Half a squeal, half a song through flutish voice, Sasha gives way to her enthusiasm, as her guest (or Hange’s, depending on the point of view) discovers the cakes, biscuits, and other treats laid out on the table - all obviously homemade, all obviously prepared by a certain Marleyan Sasha may or may not have conned into participating. “I’ve told Connie to go get everyone, they should be here any minute now.” Because naturally, teamplayer that she is, she had forgotten to let anyone else in on the surprise. Finally, grinning wide, Sasha pulls a little box out of her pocket, wrapped in red paper, and leaves it on the table. “For when everyone gets here.” In it, a bracelet, of wool and thread, pretty whites and dark reds interwoven according to a pattern her mother taught her long ago. A little token of friendship, in this very special day. 

[massensterben-a]

apricity: (n.) the warmth of the sun in the winter.

His fingers are numb with it. It is a gnawing thing and with every passing moment, it swallows another part of him. He feels like a feast, something presented, something left in an open field. He thinks that a greater creature, a god or a crow, should come and eat him. The cold does not freeze you, it makes you disappear. 

Snow drifts around him like ash. And he wishes he didn’t know one better than the other. He wishes the snow would drift around him like snow. The clouds are full of it, fat furry animals that shake themselves rid of the tufts. Or else, more aptly: there is a great desolation in heaven which is on fire and the dust is raining through the cracks, all to get caught in his eyelashes and melt. ( Into a place I come where light is silent all. ) The white hills are nestled against the sky like sleeping doves, their dainty beaks tucked under their wings. The muddy track drags itself between them, winding them apart. 

Bertholdt cannot feel his feet but he need not feel them to drive them on. Long-limbed, lean-muscled, he has grown overnight into a born runner. He takes the miles in leaps and bounds, one step of his equals two of his peers. It makes no difference how he is weighed down, laden with equipment, with weaponry. Running feels like flying. He becomes shapeless in the bristling chill. The mind flows apart under the rhythmic repetition of pounding feet. He carries the cold with him where it bites his skin ruddy. It cannot touch the furnace that burns in his chest and if that is all that remains of him; he is reduced to his essentials.

I don’t want to do this. 

Then do it faster.

Bodies dot the landscape he leaves in his wake. They run and stumble along, singular organisms, black against the muted white that surrounds them. Bertholdt looks ahead. There is a shape up ahead. She is always just up ahead. She should not be remarkable, but she is. She startles him with her effortlessness. She instills in him a sense of awe he cannot parse. 

Mikasa defies logic. No, she defies what he has been sold as logic. It could be daunting if he wished to be daunted by it. But Bertholdt finds in her existence a strange sense of solace. What is this girl if not a testament to human survival? To the worthiness of flesh? 

He comes up beside her at the checkpoint. He fills his straining lungs with cold air, lets it sting him through. Mikasa stands, removed, her eyes never passing over him. She is waiting and the waiting is a very solitary act. He has no room in it and so he steps aside. As they stand on the hill together and apart, the sun finally breaks through the thick cloud cover. It falls onto them, flushed cheeks and dark hair, an ephemeral waterfall of light. Gold-tinted, silver-lustered, they watch the other runners conquer the trek. 

There is some warmth to it, to the standing, to the waiting. The sun slowly creeps into his skin, reminds him he is flesh and bone, though it is an unwelcome reminder. He glances at Mikasa, wonders if she ever feels herself a specter, despite all her immediacy. Hopefully not. The sun catches in her hair and she tugs at her scarf. She looks smaller now, as if she cannot cast a shadow. It is odd, perhaps, to see two pack animals, divorced from the one they tail. Without Eren, Mikasa seems only half the person she should be. Without Reiner, Bertholdt is no one at all. Together they stand, arrested circuits, unactualized. The warmth is not so warm after all. 

She is waiting for the sun, too. 

[goljath-a]

gives him a kissu on his nose u_u

                                        ... MMN -- ?

THE GOLIATH stirs, briefly / one tapered ear flickering at the sound of Mikasa’s approach - her deliberate, measured footfalls instantly recognizable even to his mute senses, nulled in the wake of a passing stormcloud. The sky is a gray wash today, too dense with condensation to allow for the sun’s invigorating light to pierce through, leaving him lethargic and useless. Even the effort of opening a single eye comes across as a laborious thought, so he need not even bother to acknowledge her presence, which he knows - instinctively - seeks only to offer consolation. Her lithe hand to the bridge of his nose, her lips to his flushed skin - he wonders, among the many things quickly observed then disregarded in the haze of his rapidly-fading consciousness - if perhaps she is cold, and came to him for a reprieve from the elements which so relentlessly bully humankind’s fragile constitutions. So, in the throes of this misplaced guilt, Jäger dredges up a low purr from what little stores of energy he has left, its frequency inconsistent but stubborn. Oh, of all things, he knows very well that humans dislike the cold ...

[geopfert]

[ fix ]

[ fix ] for your muse to treat mine’s injury 

She wakes to static. Zinc-colored noise clamors through her body, hums in her bones and bulges out of her in puffs of steam, belched forth from a rip in her side. Heat runs fevers within the intricate web of veins and clustered tissues that make up her design. She feels it sweltering beneath the pearlized mauve underskin that is her last defense, this garment of flesh and bone, held together only by the finest gossamer. 

Blood is a currency in which she is particularly affluent. She can feel her body bloating with an abundance of it. One puncture wound and it all flows out of her. It rises in her throat like the tide rushing up to a flood marker. Pieck is sitting upright, discarded like a doll with its stuffing leaking out of her belly, against the wall and sees nothing but steam, and beyond the steam: the blue sky. What a blue it is. Garish, jarring, offensive to her senses. She tries to swallow but her gag reflex rebels. It is an art to drink blood without flinching and she does not have the right mouth for it. She chokes and coughs, sweet copper coating her tongue. When she turns, instinctively to cover her mouth, spit the blood into her hand instead, she finds that she is restrained. 

A steady hand is on her shoulder and effortlessly pins her down. Its twin is pressing a compress against the steaming wound. Dressed in her own gore, Pieck labors beneath the tent of the Paradisian soldier. Tension winces through her like an electrical current, leaping from nerves to tendons to contracting muscles. She stares up into the face of the young woman that keeps her insides from leaking onto the ship’s floorboards. Enemy!, her instincts sound in alarm. They are such creatures of habit, unaccustomed to change. They do not adhere to the shifting laws and logic of battle. They fear what they fear. They beg for stasis. She can feel half her chest still pounding with worry for Porco Galliard, as if worry were something that could reach him now. 

Pieck staggers a breath into a mouth. An Ackerman, she knows. Of course she knows. She has seen this woman before, on the battlefield. Uncompromising death. Worse yet: uncompromised. It is alien to them both, this perfunctory display of care. Only a few weeks ago this woman, all slaughter, all machinery, has seen countless Marleyans and Eldians to their death. Did it make a difference to her, Pieck wonders. Does it now? 

The warrior wills life back into her limbs. The steam recedes, it cools. She sits up straighter and places a small hand over the compress to relieve Mikasa of her service. She tries not to be ungrateful but loss has burrowed deep into her heart and the poor thing has no room left that is not housing the parasite. Everything takes so much work and she is too damn tired to care. Still, Pieck licks her lips and blinks against the blue. She finds her voice in her throat, in the sea of blood, and dredges it back to the surface. All empty vessels float atop. 

“...I’ll be all right. Thank you.”

[liberons]

⌜     (     STARTER  CALL     )    ▷▷                          ❛    FT.   MIKASA   !       @erleidn​   :

                  ❛        𝑝𝑎𝑠𝑠   𝑠𝑜𝑚𝑒   𝑓𝑟𝑒𝑠ℎ          bandages ,    would  you  ?    ❜

[lerfmuses-moved]

@erleidn​  liked  for  a  GABI  STARTER !

                       if  a  few  days  ago  you  told  gabi  where  she  would  be  right  now ---  she  wouldn’t  have  believed  it .  in  fact ,  she  would’ve  probably  called  you  crazy .  on  a  boat  on  the  way  to  save  the  world ;  helping  the  people  she  once  thought  enemies .  her  entire  world  had  been  turned  upside - down .  things  hadn’t  been  adding  up  for  a  while ,  though .  this  world  had  been  making  less  and  less  sense .  even  now ,  it  was  still  confusing ,  chaotic .  it  was  hard  to  grasp  the  situation  they  were  all  in .

                       at  this  very  moment  it  was  likely  her  family  was  dead .  it  was  such  a  had  thing  to  think  about ,  but  she  couldn’t  let  it  get  to  her .  she’s  shed  so  many  tears  already .  what  mattered  most  now  was  doing  everything  they  could  to  stop  the  rumbling .  they  may  not  be  able  to  save  liberio ,  but  there  was  still  some  chance  for  the  rest  of  the  world ,  wasn’t  there ?

                       stop  eren  jaeger .  gabi  may  be  a  child ,  but  she  was  also  a  trained  killing  machine .  she  would  do  everything  in  her  power  to  help  the  alliance  and  stop  the  rumbling .  she  could  be  useful  and  she  knows  she  could  be .  as  long  as  everyone  here  worked  together ---  worked  towards  this  one  goal ---  they  should  be  able  to  do  it ,  right ?  they  had  to .  as  long  as  they  fought ,  as  long  as  they  didn’t  give  up . . .

                       she  needed  some  kind  of  hope ,  so  that’s  what  she  tells  herself .

                       but  there’s  something  eating  at  her .  an  uncertainty  born  from  a  conflict  she  had  no  business  it  witnessing .  a  moment  she  shouldn’t  have  been  there  for .  that  cold ,  unfeeling  gaze ---  the  heartbreak ---  the  rage .  that  scene  replays  in  gabi’s  mind  as  she  looks  to  the  other .  mikasa  was  the  name ,  wasn’t  it ?

                       ‶  excuse  me . . .  ″  they  had  time  before  they  got  to  their  destination .  there  they  would  fuel  the  plane  and  try  to  catch  up  with  the  founding  titan .  since  they  didn’t  have  much  else  to  do ,  gabi  decided  it  might  be  best  to  at  least  ease  some  of  her  concerns  regarding  the  ackerman .  she  didn’t  know  anything  about  the  family ---  only  the  things  eren  had  said .  and  while  she  would  take  anything  that  man  said  with  a  grain  of  salt ,  seeing  his  malicious  intentions ,  the  scene  she  witnessed  made  her  feel  a  bit  hesitant .

                       ‶  i  was  wondering  something .  ″  gabi  tries  to  meet  the  woman’s  gaze .  this  was  the  woman  that  had  saved  her  life ,  it  would  seem  like  that  should  be  enough  reason  to  trust  her .  yet ,  there’s  some  doubt .  not  because  she  was  an  enemy ,  not  because  gabi  believed  her  to  be  a  bad  person ---  it  was  something  else .  ‶  before  all  of  this  happened ;  when  eren  came  to  talk  to  you  and  your  friend . . .  why  did  you  still  try  to  protect  him ?  even  after   he  threatened  the  both  of  you ,  after  he  said  all  those  things .  ″

                       the  both  of  them ---  gabi  doesn’t  include  herself  in  the  group .  it  was  reasonable  for  her  to  be  threatened  or  talked  down  to  by  the  enemy .  yet ,  he  barely  acknowledged  her .  eren  was  out  to  hurt  the  people  he  had  a  connection  with .  his  friends ,  gabi  can  only  assume .

                       ‶  are  you  going  to  do  the  same  thing  when  we  reach  him . . . ?  try  to  protect  him ?  ″

[crossingplace]

sargasso

❛  ... it seems important to mention all the things that went wrong.  ❜  + Annie @erleidn

   “Going over all the things you could’ve done differently only helps if you learn from them what to do next.” She watched her voice travel to Mikasa, both taller and smaller than she remembered as the girl leaned against the grey-painted capstan. “Judging from how many times Armin and Hitch came underground to talk to my rock, it took me two years to stop, and I didn’t get much out of it.”

   Mikasa’s voice returned, soft and slightly hesitant.

   “But you’re not mentioning it,” Annie replied, “You’re probably just thinking in circles.”

[meantexist]

'  I know you mean well.  '  +  Sasha ! // @erleidn​, meme

       gaze turned towards the ground --- sasha looks all the image of a girl afraid, a child caught stealing from their mother. hands fumble with the belts on her thighs, stripping from her uniform.       ( it’s easier with help. )

       “ what’s 'well' matter, anyways? we’re officers now --- meaning well doesn’t mean much out on the field! i shouldn't have said that to him. ”       it was easier when people weren’t looking towards them like this, wasn’t it? back during training, back before everything went to shit, back before they found out about marley.       ( but that seems so long ago, DOESN’T IT? it’s been years. )

       “ it was RUDE of me, wasn't it? i basically insulted a superior officer! ”       ( all because that damn military police guy told connie off --- if she'd just kept her mouth shut! )

[raganhir]

𝐀𝐂𝐊𝐄𝐑𝐌𝐀𝐍  !     /    @erleidn​

                      ❛❛         we're        soldiers           ,           aren't        we           ?         ❜❜                        the        smile        tugging        at        his        lips        is        weak           ,           forced           .                       ❛❛         there        are        times         𝐰𝐞        𝐜𝐚𝐧'𝐭        run        away           ,           no        matter        how         𝚋𝚊𝚍        the        odds        are           .         ❜❜

[usurpyr-a]

                    “... Mikasa.”

HE HOVERS in the doorway, this bridge between worlds, all awkward angles and too-long limbs stretched out of proportion / boyhood as an ill-fitting suit. Her name lingers on his tongue with unusual foreignness, as though his mouth can no longer accommodate it / syllables catching on his lips like drips of sticky dew along the contours of a flower petal. It’s too delicate, too ... strange, suddenly, though strange in what way he won’t elaborate on, can’t bring his mind to comprehend. He shuffles a little further inwards, pressing his back to the wall - the image of a frightened animal comes to mind and he grimaces before he can stop himself ( THIS IS NO TRAP, NO CAGE, NO SNAPPING JAW LUNGING AT YOUR THROAT- ). He takes a moment to center himself, dredging up the heavy reminder of why he came here in the first place from the frothing, churning depths of his inner subconscious. That’s right - it’s just Mikasa. I know her. I’ve known her since we were kids, since I was ...

                     “I, ah ... Do you- have a moment ... ?”

@erleidn

[amachja-moved]

hands: (Mikasa) takes (Sasha) by the hand.

@erleidn (wordless) (acc.)

--------- All is quiet on the southern front; the sea lies before them, glimmering and still, catches sunlight and adorns itself with a million diamond shards stretching to the horizon. The waves are playful today, wrap around their ankles, lick at the skin of tired soldiers and retreat before they can jump out of reach. “Haaa, so cold!” Sasha yelps; drips of awe and gleeful spark in her voice. Will she ever get used to the sea? Four years and countless trips; and yet every time is like the first. And judging by Mikasa’s expression, stripped of its usual reserve and stoicism, she suspects she is not alone in this perpetual state of wonder. The sand is slippery under their bare feet; Sasha extends a hand to her friend to help her get by her side; and Mikasa takes it, her grip as though she is holding on to dear life, tugging a smile at Sasha’s lips.

All is quiet on the southern front; and in just a few hours, they will be on the ship, and by tomorrow, they will stand on the other side of the sea. Silence falls between them; only the murmur of waves rustles still. Mikasa’s hand has not left hers, and Sasha’s fingers grip a little tighter around hers; palm to palm, keeping the warmth hidden, keeping it safe. “To think that we’ll be in Marley tomorrow...” Unbelievable, isn’t it? How the world has expanded. Sasha feels so small, sometimes, when she thinks about it; small and dizzy, as though she is nothing but a leaf carried away by the wind. “I’m gonna miss home. But it’s excitin’, isn’t it?” They’ll go there and back again - it’s only temporary, after all. Besides; how far can home really be, as long as Mikasa is nearby. People over places; friends over a house. Mikasa Ackerman over an entire island. 

[massensterben-a]

@erleidn​

Bertholdt prefers to stand. 

He keeps his arms crossed, tightly, as if against the creeping cold, next to the fire. He has taken up position as a sentinel, marble-pillared, iron-cored, between the sleeping bodies of the warrior cadets and the rest of the campsite. His expression belies neither attentiveness nor disregard, but each time someone shifts on their threadbare bedding, something around his grey eyes darkens. The tension in his shoulders is palpable. He looks like he is gearing up to lift the axis of the world. 

The years have sharpened his edges. He has, by some irony, stretched another few centimeters. He has widened in the shoulders, lost the last of his pubertal softness. Though only twenty years old, which could be nothing, he looks to the world like a man at the end of his journey; a journey which has finally hollowed him out beyond reprieve. His mouth has never been quick to smile but it was always soft. Now it’s little more than grim line, a perpetual sneer. There is a deadness to him that even grief can’t shake. This does not change when his gaze cuts to Mikasa. 

Last he saw of her had been in Shiganshina, if he recalls correctly. He remembers her blade slicing into his flesh, never quite hitting the mark. He remembers the pain of that, the fear she used to instill. She doesn’t look too imposing now. But Bertholdt has long since abandoned his charitable notions. Charity must be rationed. He saves it for those who have proven trustworthy. Certainly she wishes to do the same. 

“...You look terrible.” He greets her, half-heartedly. Pot meet kettle, as it were. “If you’re not up to slit my throat, I suggest you get some rest. You’re no use to anyone if you’re dead on your feet tomorrow.”

[goljath-a]

whelve (v)

whelve ( v. ) - to bury something deep, to hide.

THIS OVERT unfamiliarity breeds contempt / upheaves him in a such a way that even his stubborn roots begin trembling at the tips of their long fingers, struggling to find their purchase against a landslide ( sand slipping between his digits / too much time lost to overconfidence: PLEASE, FORGIVE ME, I HAD NO IDEA- ). He’s especially annoyed at the heavy silence that hangs between them / like a bone threatening fracture under a slowly-increasing pressure - and isn’t that an apt comparison to make ? After all, he’d killed those three men with less than a thought: it’d taken no effort at all to flatten them beneath his heel, his palm. He hadn’t even noticed them rupture apart at the force / hardly even heard their brittle skulls crack open like the shells of fresh fruit gushing seed / didn’t even feel their panicked spasming against his searing flesh - their cries for mercy had manifested as a soft buzz humming along the edge one tapered ear, completely incomprehensible. ( HAD SHE SCREAMED ? he wonders. HAD SHE BEGGED THEM TO STOP / HER VOICE DROWNED OUT BY ALL OF THEIR BLUSTERING ? HAD THEY TRULY BELIEVED THEY HAD ESCAPED UNSCATHED / THAT NOBODY WAS LISTENING ? )

He doesn’t feel anything, strangely - or, rather, not-so-strangely, as he hadn’t expected ‘anything’ to begin with, neither more-nor-less. For all of The Doctor’s emphasis on the supposed ‘value’ of human life, he is almost disappointed to discover how worthless it really is: no more than a copper tang at the back of the throat / an old penny pressed flat against the roof of one’s mouth, the taste bitter and cold. And he supposes The Doctor will be disappointed in him, inevitably, because for all of his carelessness there still remains at least one witness who has survived him / who sits, patiently calm, looking up at him with wide, dark eyes that swallow all light and betray no realization, not a single glimmer of fear. ( YOU MUST LEAVE, HURRY - DON’T YOU UNDERSTAND ? SO LONG AS I STILL BREATHE, NONE OF YOU WILL BE SAFE- ) He almost wants to posture, frighten her with a sneer or some other monstrous expression / dredge up an unholy noise just to fill this absence between them. He remembers - in stilted bursts, through jagged gaps in memory waiting to rejoin with their splintered shards - that with The Doctor’s wife, it had been much easier than this. How thoroughly he had terrified, in presence alone - yes, those men had been just the same: crying and hysterical / cowering away from his misshapen jaws.

( The wool shackle around his wrist is insignificant. It means nothing / their words meant nothing. OATHBOUND / HONORIFIC: this place is paradise, this place is the only safe-haven left that will have us. Don’t you understand ? We have nowhere else to go. The world outside is doomed. We were promised great power if we chose to stand by your people - we will be fine / we will stand strong, no matter what. Why would we leave ? Why would you so openly disobey your master ? WHAT HAVE YOU DONE ? WHAT ARE YOU PLANNING TO DO ? )

Humans are weak, disinteresting creatures / but so too do they boast a particular kind of resilience. In this girl’s eyes, he has no option left but to confront his own distorted reflection, the forest mirrored at his back, and for a moment he is jarred / displaced - unmoored from this single point in time and cast back into a past that never happened / a body not his own, burdened with a weight much too heavy for the hollow bones he now possesses / cursed with a sight that does not loom but cowers, frightened, inexplicably ashamed of his own impossible actions. HE KNEELS IN THE DIRT, MOUTH AGAPE / ON DISPLAY: I ONLY WANTED TO HELP THEM QUICKLY. There is a ring of outstretched arms encircling him, their fingers pointed, all accusing. In the distance a voice thunders across the generations, crackling with an electricity that needles painfully at his temples, commanding ‘silence’ and ‘submission’. There is no disobeying that voice: it is invincible, insurmountable / strong fingers buried deep into the tender flesh at the nape of his neck, paralyzing everything below / setting ablaze anything above. He can only perceive the agony of unbecoming - the sensation of his atoms being shred apart, one-by-one, and reformed into an abomination / his delicate insides reduced to less than raw meat / his screams echoing with greater intensity, a dull roar. His bones being ground to dust. His helpless twitching against that hand, while the voice strips him away: I FORGIVE YOU, MY SON. I LOVE YOU, MY SON. DO NOT STRUGGLE, MY SON, DO NOT WEEP. ALL THIS IS BY DESIGN: ALL THIS IS YMIR’S WILL. I WILL MISS YOU, MY SON. NEVER FORGET THAT. I WILL MOURN YOUR LOSS.

But the moment passes in a slow blink. He arrives again at himself, this estranged existence he is still so unaccustomed to, and finds little has changed in his absence. The girl is still there - but. She is shivering, so violently. She is still staring at him, but this time he wishes that she would just look away: her hands are bloody and steaming / the hilt of a knife sticks out innocuously from his knuckle. His hand lingers half-opened in her direction, palm still tacky with the gore that clings awkwardly to the calloused grooves of his skin, and yet all he can think ( or not think ) is: why would I / it reach out to her ? What would there be to prove ? Nothing but his own guilt. Reluctantly, his gaze catches on that slip of red fabric at his wrist, and furthermore that damnable conscience persists: DID I / IT HELP ? DID I / IT SAVE HER ? WHAT VOICE WAS I / IT LISTENING TO ? WHO WAS I / IT OBEYING ? It likely doesn’t matter, in the end: the deed has already been done / the storm passed, or at least its eye. He retracts his hand with far more mindfulness than he had offered it with and sits back on his haunches, looking up at the sky while the wind hums a strange word in his ear. ACKER-MAN / BLOOD-OF-MY-BLOOD: A KINSHIP OF TRAITORDOM / SPEAKING IN SILENT TONGUES, DROWNED OUT BY THE NOISE.

He does not regret his actions, he decides at length. It is up to her to condemn his fate - he knows, intimately, that he cannot kill her / would not even dare to. What he had mistaken for the bristling of alienation has since revealed itself to be nothing more than pity, or perhaps concern, as foreign as the concepts are to him. ( “I’m sorry, I’m sorry” - what is the use of apologizing ? A phantom wound aches in sympathy. He picks apart the tight knot that has bound him to service for so long / how easily it unravels. He hopes that The Doctor can, at least, understand. He is tired, now. He wants to rest. She is cold. She wants to go home. He cannot reconcile these two things / the opposition that remains between them. Whose will is he trying to justify ? ) The scarf, in comparison, is such an insignificant thing to surrender. 

The memory of it will be long gone come morning.

uncommon words.

[geopfert]

👁

I see:

Absolute Conviction  |  Aggression  |  Ambition  |  Anger  |  Anxiety  |  Apathy  |  Arrogance  |  Bloodthirst  |  Bravery  |  Compassion  |  Confidence  |  Conflict  | Courage  |  Darkness  |  Defeat |  Denial  |  Desire  |  Despair  |  Determination  |  Devotion  |  Disappointment  |  Distrust  |  Dominance  |  Emptiness  |  an Enemy  |  Enlightenment  |  Envy  |  Excitement  |  Exhaustion  |  Elitism  |  Experience  |  Fear  |  a Friend  |  a Future  |  Gentleness  |  Greed  |  Grief  |  Guilt  |  Honesty  |  Honor  |  Hope  |  Hostility  |  Ignorance  |  an Illness  |  Insecurity  |  Integrity  |  Intoxication  |  Kindness  |  Lies  |  Loneliness  |  Longing  |  Loss  |  a Lover  |  Loyalty  |  Malicious Intent  |  Mania  |  Melancholy  |  Misery  |  Negativity  |  Overcompensation  |  Pain  |  Paranoia  |  Passion  |  Perseverance  |  Pettiness  |  Pity  |  Positivity  |  Pressure  |  Pride  |  a Purpose  |  Racism  |  Regret  |  Resentment  |  Resignation  |  Resolve  |  Sadness  |  Self-Hatred  |  Sexism  |  Shattered Remains  |  a Shining Light  |  Something Familiar  |  Spite  |  Stress  |  Stupidity  |  Submission  |  Tranquility  |  Trauma  |  Trust  |  Vengeance  |  Warmth  |  Wisdom  |  Wrath  |  a Cry for Help  |  Something Eating Your Mind  |  the Years have Changed You

You’re:

Animalistic  |  Approachable  |  Broken  |  Closed-Off  |  Cold  |  Crafty  |  Crazy  |  Defensive  |  Devious  |  Difficult  |  Disheartened  |  Emotionally Detached  |  Frightened  |  Frightening  |  Genuine  |  Guarded  |  Headstrong  |  Heartless  |  Human  |  Immature  |  Impatient  |  Inhuman  |  Insane  |  Intuitive  |  Lost  |  Mature  |  Noble  |  Patient  |  Pitiful  |  Primitive  |  Pure  |  Reliable  |  Remorseless  |  Reserved  |  Resourceful  |  Short-Tempered  |  Simplistic  |  Sly  |  Soft-Hearted  |  Struggling  |  a Threat  |  Trapped  |  a Troublemaker  |  Trusting  |  Understanding  |  Unique |   Unpredictable  |  Unwavering  |  a Victim  |  Wicked  |  Feeling Vindictive  |  Guilty of Something  |  Hiding Something  |  Lost in Thought  |  Planning Something  |  Scared of Me  |  Scaring Me  |  Someone I can Trust  |  Someone I Can’t Recognize Anymore  |  Someone to Fear  |  Someone Worthy of Respect  |  Weak to Manipulation  |  Weighed by Something

You:

Aren’t Being Yourself  |  Belittle Yourself  |  Don’t Want to Hurt Me  |  Don’t Want to Leave Me  |  Drown Yourself in Something  |  Feel Alone  |  Feel Empowered  |  Have a Plan that Involves Me  |  Have No One Else to Turn to  |  Have Nowhere Else to Go  |  Have Seen Some Things  |  Haven’t Been Sleeping  |  Lie to Yourself  |  Lost Faith/Trust in Me  |  Lost Something/Someone Important  |  Need Me/my Help  |  No Longer Believe Me  |  See Me as a Thing  |  See Me as Someone Else  |  Seek to Hurt/Harm  |  Seek to Manipulate  |  Think Highly of Yourself  |  Think I’m Hiding Something  |  Think Little of Yourself  |  Think You Know Best  |  Want to Hurt Me  |  Want to Protect Me  |  Want to Sleep with Me  |  Want to Use Me

[crossingplace]

❛ ... it seems important to mention all the things that went wrong. ❜ + Annie

old asks lol, thanks gia @erleidn

    In her protective coma, she’d gotten used to disorientation: the slow rocking of a rhythm that engulfed her heartbeat, the sway of a world that, for a little time, continued without her.

    Suffice to say, during the few times Annie had been on a ship before, she’d on occasion get nauseous. Now, though, she was grateful for the undulation of the waves carrying her, this stillness in motion comforting in its vast familiarity.

    Time had lost Annie Leonhardt for four years. She would let it lose her for another day at sea, if she couldn’t do anything else to change what was happening on land. Thus, she didn’t know how long she’d been curled up against the railing for by the time Mikasa came up on deck, only that she knew a sunburn would come soon if her healing let it.

    The light, Liberio getting destroyed, the ocean: the water rolled words out of her mouth, and Annie let them, liquid as they came.

    “Going over all the things you could’ve done differently only helps if you learn from them what to do next.” She watched her voice travel to Mikasa, both taller and smaller than she remembered as the girl leaned against the grey-painted capstan. “Judging from how many times Armin and Hitch came underground to talk to my rock, it took me two years to stop, and I didn’t get much out of it.”

    Mikasa’s voice returned, soft and slightly hesitant. 

    “But you’re not mentioning it,” Annie replied, “You’re probably just thinking in circles.”

[rulerofthesewalls]

There’s something calming about Mikasa’s presence that recently, Historia has really come to appreciate.

She’s always felt that way a little. But back when she still went by Krista, there was something intimidating about Mikasa as well. She didn’t respond to Krista in the same way that everyone else did, and she was so... confident. So strong, in a way that seemed almost incomprehensible to Historia.

( But it must be hard for her, too... )

Now, a lot between them has changed. But she has to admit - she still doesn’t understand Mikasa completely. No... it’s more like how she can be that strong.

Historia still doesn’t know quite how to phrase her question. So when finally she speaks, she speaks slowly - feeling a little guilty about inturrupting the peaceful mood between them.

“Do you ever feel... like you can’t control anything?“

@erleidn​ (starter!)