MARTYRDOM.

STEADY SEA TREMBLES JUST A FRACTION; ONE WAVE TO CRASH AGAINST THE SHORE IN ONE SUDDEN BUT BRIEF ROLL OF CONSEQUENTIAL HURRY, from that other’s so short question. The cheek of it demanded PUNISHMENT almost though once more this was a thought that flickered as a brief flame, some sudden twist to the calm demeanour of his internal dialogue to flash something impure for the fraction of a second ( how lewd are these thought that is almost humorous, those brief instances were the businessman finds his old habits bubbling beneath HOT SKIN though such things go unvoiced, always. ) before he returns to his controlled, steady manner of speaking.

                  “I exercise control in all things, Eren Jaeger.”

It is with the tease of a smile, the PROMISE of one without so much as quivering the lip that he speaks, that he utters such a seductive blandness of a line. It is both informative by the THOUSANDS yet it also says quite next to nothing at all; control in all things to be a vague but accurate portrayal of what it was to be that ACKERMAN. Were he a more painted canvas he might have laughed, or even SMILED after making such a comment however in the place of such obvious brands of emotions he continued to roll a steely gaze across that of Eren’s form, as if eternally meant to do throughout the interview. Were he able to protest himself? Never. How could he not? A man in CONTROL OF EVERYTHING unable to control his own prying gaze? How frightfully ironic, how cruelly hideous.  

The longer question settles the atmosphere back into some dull drawl of a conversation, the businessman lifting his frame from the desk at his back to move and stand once more at the window. Despite the bland picture which those huddling forests of grey did conjure he appeared illuminated somewhat, that fixed expression somehow outlined by that backdrop of grey as if it were some inverted halo. NOT that he is some angelic prodigy by any means, the mere suggestion a laughable feat. He appeared as those watercolour men may do upon the field of a ruthless battle; features delicate though not without their horrific strength dripping from those lifeless eyes. THERE IS TO BE BEAUTY IN THIS STORM, NEVERTHELESS. 

                  “It’s smart business.” 

A HEART OF PURE GOLD was to be gift wrapped in such a tight and protected manner that not even that crisp bubble wrap would show beneath the guise, for Levi Ackerman cared GREATLY for what was to be titled as Humanity. He cared intensely for those who both rubbed shoulders with him and those who had no idea that he existed. Though used to the FAME of the Ackerman title, perhaps what was less known in relation to the cold-fronted man was that he was indeed quietly passionate. Protective, was he, over his kind and indeed the Earth that he laboured within. Of course, such a truth was extinct from the obvious, removed from the books, ABSENT from the interviews.

                  “You don’t agree?”

A BRIEF GLIMPSE OF EMBERS SET ABLAZE AMONGST BLEAK DULL GREY ILLUMINATES A SUDDEN HEAT UPON STEELY HUES WITH A HINT OF PERVERSITY, and it does not go undiscovered, unearthed, but not quite knowing the infernal intent concocted with depravity. It is a mere breath of fire that grazes him, scourges a heart made prey and he finds himself stumbling into nefarious palms;; would he have known the tantalizing turmoil of flames he would have weeped for his falling heart.

There is little exertion in cascading fervor that fills silken baritones, loads him with a craving to know the meaning behind such a phrase, but felt an underlying understanding, blooming scarlet petals upon his gardens, crimson, the color of SIN reign supreme. He mingles between loss and comprehension, with an invisible reality offered, dancing with perilous ghosts, on the edge of something so alluring, so corrupted it would BLACKEN the innocence he holds. Such a divine obscurity, and ethereal wickedness, he’d willingly dance in coal and bathe in fire, stain himself, playing with the idea briefly in his head, what it would be like to lay BENEATH that man- MR. ACKERMAN. There was something so damn dreadfully marvelous to feel so naked beneath that gaze.  It derives teeth sinking to his bottom lip, pulling, tugging, and then gone.

❛ ╾ .....❜

Like any thrill, it was bound to end, crash into an oblivion, leaving an emptiness to settle, to mingle with a longing that he dare not satiate twice. ( or so he’d tell himself. ) An answer lacking true depth to prior curiosity leaves him unsatisfied, with a lingering disbelief, convinced there were graveyards of secrets that he wandered through, tombstones with names that covered veracity, that the elder would choose to leave them BURIED from him, from other’s, that no one really knew this man at all. They simply walked through a torrent of melancholy and were drenched in winter’s sting amongst the journey. Though he does not voice this much so blatantly, a slight hesitation on his tongue, he offers a softened observation.

❛i...i don’t know enough about it....but, i just wondered....perhaps your heart...may be a bit bigger than you let on ?? ❜

THE BREATH OF A STORM, and he marches – left, right, left, right – towards the waiting subordinate, arms folded neatly as if the chaos of existence could not graze him here, now. Although lacking what the other had gained due to fortunate youth perhaps, and other supposed involvements of conjured elements maybe, he was tall in more ways than one. It was a tall glance he extended to graze Eren so intensely, one which dragged painfully, deliberately, for the time being at least. 

             “Oi—”

A brutal flurry of speech, a vicious stormy cloud to rupture the pleasant afternoon sunshine. Yet to shift those stern eyes from any gaze other than narrowed slits of impending critique. And thus it came, the typical run of his mouth no stranger to the other’s ears as he honestly grated the state of the youth before him. Posture strong. Tone unshaken.

            “You look disgusting. Take a shower – you stink of shit.”

AN EXQUISITE BEAUTY WAS FOUND IN THE INTERVALS OF WORN INTENSITY, but he dares not don confessions upon his shores, wavering, tangling to the demands of typhoons. He felt himself nether hungry eyes scrutiny, torn asunder, voluntarily, with the rare genius of knowing— knowing that is exactly how his Captain’s clocks ticked, turned, twisted, with a weighted pendulum swinging with grace yet dictated by profanity. For no storm meant harm, made unintentionally destructive, constructed of carnage with a silken melancholy hidden behind the wreckage.       && so his attention is pulled, soft, beneath the neutral curiosity. 

❛ eh ?? ❜

Immersed in fog and inevitable clouds the sun still shines, luminescent behind it’s veil, intense and eternal. His bones are endless chambers filled with acceptance toward rigid analysis so nonchalantly poured into him and he does not falter, and lips part with a soft albeit awkward laugh. 

AND IT IS A ROSE GARDEN THAT FLUSHES THE OTHERS FEATURES WHILST THE CONTINUING MARBLE DOES PAINT HIS OWN, for whilst the world about his feet trembles and quakes, Levi Ackerman is still. He is both the tempting rage of an incoming storm ( though, this is a secrecy known to a selective breed ) and the still of a lake, unblemished by tide nor moonlit guide. He is uncharted; unpredictable though written to be quite the reserve by tabloid upon tabloid which SCREAM the name ACKERMAN as a cliché of the elegance so often tied to a ruling class. He is no wealthy aristocrat, nor is he the common FACELESS man who dons a suit and is instantly a prince of a fashioned company. He is the KING – his court in agreement of that fact when he conquers what is his, when he takes what he deserves. 

ALAS, there is something there not quite typical of that mentioned guise, something alien to even his knowing heart of supposed STEEL. For as lashes do sweep that youth’s cheek as his gaze flickers on and off from his own consistent stare, he finds himself stolen almost instantly, wondering so briefly how much akin to painted glass those eyes might seem should they leak precious saps of TEARS. Honest was the label of it being brief for as quickly as it flashes, such a vision fades and he is left with nought but the still-nervous presence of the waiting journalist, curled fingers about the length of a pen enough to draw his gaze from those DAMN EYES to his fingers, his own vision gliding to and fro across the young man’s physique as if preparing to devour him whole.

“Seriously?” A ‘ TCH ‘ might have followed, had he not quirked a brow in its place and merely studied Eren’s expression for the moment. “Business – it’s about people. I know enough about people.” A pause is taken. Such a comment seems laughable for many a reason yet the room occupies a certain necessity for silence. “What motivates them, what inspires them.” Spoken with a tongue AS IF BRED TO KNOW he speaks matter of factly, as if this response was obvious perhaps. “And no, it isn’t luck. Luck is something that results from hard work. My success derives from harnessing the skill and qualities of others. Got that? Since you didn’t bother to turn that damn recorder on, you’d better had.”

RIVETING BARITONES THAT HOLD THE CHORUS OF CONDEMNATION IN THEIR NOTES HUM DEGRADATION, grasps concrete severity betwixt warnings heeded, with another blunder under his belt realized, breeding crippling hesitation upon an already tangible trepidation, but he does not falter. The capacity of an unwavering resolve fills hollow bones, bubbling eternal in his pith, perhaps foolishly brave for someone so anxious to wear razors upon his tongue, soft, smooth, and fatal;; he’ll sink deep into you with disarming efforts of retorted ferocity.

❛yes, mr. ackerman, i got that. let me just...❜       && with a click his recorder came to life. ❛so you’re a control freak ??❜A vast and hideous curiosity takes him, he speaks his own intrigue concocted into devised questions and this time, he does not dither, silently demands, screams for those arctic optics to meet his own brimming, illuminating by a FIERY will. Plagued by jittery nerves, maybe, but cured with an emphasized tenacity, dictated by brazen essence and a brash cadence to match. It is with unrelenting emeralds that present the challenge, the refusal to BREAK. Just like the sun, like the luminosity that advocates him, such grit dissipates as soon as it came. A clear of his throat mimicking the sound of a broken record echos so faintly, a trivial attempt to veil sudden insolence.