permanent hiatus

     solicited harmonies and vigorous prompts of brightened selections; ah, the movement of his eyes as he registers isn’t as subtle as he would have wanted it to be.

           she wears expression of an individual liable of sin ( sin can commit to sin, in the end, after all ), however with it stands sweetness & purity woman should bear with her being, clashing traits world settles `pon their shoulders.

          ❛ – you are all repeating yourselves, as a gramophone. ❜

     paralyzed features are eroded with time’s neutral decay; it’s tattered and silently begs for redemption, striking argent piercing in torment. slaughtered oaths and promises for truth justify the endless oceans of blood and muted screams. all he can do is survive.

     his expression is glazed, saturated with irritation — no … it’s something more subtle. cue the flick of his wrist before he rests his hand on the table.

     ＂Right… ＂

Stance advances in a skyward motion, yet still, he is but a reptile, camouflaging with the surroundings that mark ENEMY’S TERRITORY. The very mind, stripped & held hostage from the humanity that makes them so– he cannot help but to take PITY on another’s existence.

Movement would surge through the legs that carry the weight of own life as he is expected to keep up to one of so much more experience than he has yet to grow accustomed to. Trembling, falling, the bones of feet are crushed beneath the weight of his whole as each rams into the surface that exists beneath them. They must escape– find life in an area of quarantine, if only just for now.

     ＂So… now that I know you’re you, and you know I’m me, 

                                                              why did you punch me ? ＂

An irritation lit within own tone as the crimson fire drips so hesitantly, as if fearful of its fall, from the nose in which experienced only the HARSH contact of a fist so familiar ( a nostalgia that burdens him with the years of CHILDHOOD– the years of peace ). Own knuckles currently covered in the dried liquid form, he smells only old copper as he wipes continuously at tender flesh, if only in attempt to ignore the flow that seeps from only one nostril. 

     he’s softened now, more solid, but solemnity only has room to expand. his fingers curl around eren’s arm again as they move; he’s terrified he will dissolve if his hand were to relinquish its hold. suspended above rationality but still forced to endure — how sinister. once they are able to properly pause, he finds safety in offering a response (it’s a hushed whisper, a silent torrent).

              ❛ i'm — sorry.

     slant the hearts bruised by destruction’s intolerance, salvation’s mercy has yet to offer resolution. it sits in silence, bends constrictions and permeates his torn face with something that can’t quite be named. there is no identification, there’s no taking time to think — grief nips at their feet as they move, conformity is ravaged, paralyzed features wear the crimson nectar of the fallen.

              ❛ i'm feeling a lot of different things                   right now and — it's hard to                   explain.

                               men of few words would oft give cause to mistrust, for they shroud in mystery as shadows do in darkness; just as difficult to be seen, to be analyzed and made of. men of little word bothered little, so the targaryen found, and while others may find this to be a thing of concern, she held otherwise. ‘there would be some to benefit from such a practice,’ daenerys thought, lips thinning ever so slowly, low the hum to have escaped her then by no cause. less was, at times, better than more… she herself was not one of great conversation less the correct subject be broached, though otherwise dany was no more talkative than this one here. in her own company, she much enjoyed the lack of conversation as opposed to her duties when at court or whatever other gatherings would be had of her. yes, she preferred this as it was… she would learn of him in bits and pieces.

                     ❛ Fortunate, then, that snowfall shall never grace these lands. ❜

                  no, he shall not come to know the touch of winter upon his flesh again, but that of the scorching sun and arid winds. that of sand, and the roll of sweat upon his brow. and if the gods are kind they may grace them with thunderous clouds to cue the coming of rain, and if they are just then it may remain so for a number of days. though the gods are not kind, nor are they just—- for they are gods and their whims are endless.

                    ❛ Mayhaps you may like it here, once you’ve grown accustomed. ❜

     silently giving off the imposing impression of solemnity, he knows his place and he knows it well; grief is a predator, creates the scars and phantoms those already marked, and it doesn’t lament the passage of resplendency. a harbinger of refined borders and silent whispers of spring’s subtle tendencies, he’s consistently borne back to promises he’s required to maintain. fluency carves her motion and he moves to construct his own -- she speaks and he hears, she creates drifts and he follows, thus it can be decided neither of them shall walk away unscathed. no, they are to be bonded by sun-kissed traditions and binding responsibility. a hollow thrum finding refuge in the caverns of solitude, his gaze finds hers.

              ❛ maybe. i have no choice otherwise.

     he carts his fingers through his hair, warrants betrothed oblivion and dragged redemption; he only has so much time to adapt, to encompass what he has been given. time is perpetually neutral, it doesn’t cause destruction or salvation and it refuses to cater. a narrowed glimpse out the window before he flicks his wrist, an inadvertent exchange of air to follow, slight borders are subtle in practice; here he stands, and soon his presence will be permeated.

you’re so sweet oh goodness. i think you'll give me a cavity c;

              ❛ the hell —-

     muted melodies and crisp revelations of solidity, his eyes so subtle in motion as they narrow;

               ❛ you sure, you haven’t seen him ?

                  she didn’t want to push it ; but if she had to                   she would. she wasn’t afraid to. right now she                   was batgirl, not barbara gordon.

               batgirl wasn’t as nice as babs was.

               ❛ i won’t ask again.

     ah, the complacency of it all is so rich, is it not ?

              ❛ with the description you gave me,                  there's no missing that guy. i can                  promise you he was never here.

     his arms crossed to signify conformity but his expression bare, it’s only reasonable to be questioned; nonetheless, his response is satisfactory. at least, he thinks so.

              IN THE DREAMS FROM WHICH he usually wakes, he is swallowed by a hollow canyon, knee-deep in the dead and the dying. Their charcolic blood clings onto his skin, their bodies translucent and casting shadows on him, the walls, on each other. Their lungs; their beating hearts; the pulsing; the eyes as blind and sightless as the eggs of spiders as they claw and beg for that which they cannot see. Heads as dull glass bells. He knows not why he’s there or how the scene comes to be, but when he wakes from this, the boy rises in silence and leaves his bed and drowns his sweating skin in the icewater of a shower in the dark beyond darkness.           There is no waking from this. The crack of the canons’ blasts are real and they burst his eardrums when he stands too close and he’s never been scared of heights but right now he is terrified. It’s a humbling emotion, and his knees are weak. And when the last of the three of those things is so ripped apart by the canons and the gunfire that it can’t pull itself back together again, it falls. And he feels the boom of it in the shake of the stone at his feet as it does so. 

                    ❛   You do this every day.  ❜                 He says, when the suspension of his disbelief affords him a voice that won’t crack.                    ❛   Those Titans.. cannot be God’s creation.  ❜

     glances and crisp lines of iron solitude, cages for mankind’s hollowed redemption; little do they know that these borders act as the paralyzed structure of their solid tombs, the final resting place when there’s no more flesh left to tear into. solid and resolute, he stands immaculate above all the ruins of cataclysmic endorphins, paralyzed features caked with a kiss of perspiration and his clothes soaked with blood. stainless grief, ghostly remnants thrumming in lamented transparency. like a silent symphony, torrents whisper uncoordinated and despair plays a melody of dew drops and twilight martyrs, the song of the fallen.

     now, he is not a martyr; he walks among them, draped with their acceptance and slaughtered authority. harbors oaths and silently promises recompense, his statement drains the saturation from scarlet if only for a moment, muted argent analytical. he swallows grief (callous and heightened, but not fooled — he sees destruction for what it really is, for what it tears apart), throws it along boundless cliff faces but burns it into the stitches of his spine. there’s no avoiding what IT is to become, crusted shores and spectral sets of sharpened teeth — phantom shadows, fed with truth time can’t decay.

     doesn’t falter, doesn’t merge with the result of prowling within caverns of the inevitable;

most people seem to think that levi just randomly goes around beating on others? and i think this is because everyone keeps misinterpreting the courtroom scene. don’t forget that 1) if levi hadn’t, well, beat the shit out of eren -- eren would be dead and 2) ERWIN TOLD HIM TO DO IT and 3) it was not his suggestion and it was probably something he would have liked to avoid if he could.

levi ackerman will NEVER lay a hand on anyone without reason, and it sure as hell better be a good one. UNDER NO CIRCUMSTANCES WILL HE APPROACH SOMEONE AND KICK THEIR ASS UNLESS HE HAS TO.

acwnr levi was very quick to destroy and to ravage, but current levi is not that same, arrogant man. he’s grown from that and he’s grown to value human life. a man who genuinely cares for human life isn’t going to just go around beating the shit out of people. people seem to??? think he does this????? that he’s just really aggressive and that he even enjoys hurting people and. i’m not going to get into that, but i’m throwing it out there -- regardless of whether or not he finds pleasure in it, he’s not going to do it without a proper reason. PLEASE DO NOT approach me with your character going “please don’t hurt me” or anything like that, because i will be a little more than irritated.