#fhynite

@fhynite​ said:  ' you can forgive yourself now. ' (misc. quotes)

It’s the red, that surprised him the most. The one he wears at his arm, the one he used to wear at his arm, that he did not recall to be so bright, and vibrant, and vivid. It’s the red that catches his gaze when he lies awake at night, the armband resting on the back of his chair; it is the splash of crimson at the corner of his eye whenever he moves his arm, or Reiner or Zeke come into view. It cuts deep against the strict beige of his uniform, the dull greys and browns of the internment zone. It looks like an open, bleeding wound that never heals. 

Marcel sometimes thinks it is exactly what it is.

His frown burrows deeper between his brows - that typical Galliard scowl he and his brother sport in equal measure - as he lays the piece of fabric on his desk. In the faint reflection of the window, Frankie’s shock of red hair almost looks like an echo of it; he can feel the drill of her inquisitive gaze between his shoulderblades and keeps them straight and proud, proud Warrior who has finally reached his redemption. Deemed worthy by the highest authorities of Marley, his mistakes and shortcomings forgiven as altruistic reward for his recent successes on the field. 

Some would say Frankie is right. Some woul say he has paid the price for it all, maybe ten times over.

He would beg to disagree; even if rejecting his friend’s kindness and understanding hurts as much as refusing the warmth of a bonfire would a man dying in mortal frost. 

“We’ve had this conversation before, Frankie.” He sighs, unbuttoning the very top of his shirt - those collars always seem to strangle him, the rigid fabric to dig into the skin of his neck, and he has had enough sharp things digging into his neck for a lifetime, thank you very much. He turns around and allows himself to flop onto a chair, hand reaching for the cup of coffee he has elected in lieu of alcohol as his regular poison. His body is worn. The weight of that war will drag on for a while, even with the victory he can wear as a badge of honour. “You know it’s not that simple.” Yeah, she knows. All the pride he can bring his family pales in comparison to what he has done to his brother - and all the blood he has shed, guilty blood, innocent blood, will nevr wash off his hand. No matter how necessary it was to help his family and his home. 

" you saved my life. "      /        @fhynite​​​​​  :     richard siken   ( open )

𝐑𝐄𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐈𝐒𝐂𝐄𝐍𝐓  𝐀𝐒  𝐓𝐇𝐄  𝐌𝐎𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐒  𝐀𝐑𝐄 ,       the  familiarities  begin       and end there .     flora hits  humid  by his senses ,    the hands ,   wrapping tight ,   hinting richer tones .    the witcher opens his eyes in languid ,   heavy blinks ;   neck aching as it turns to the source .   while the thick of trees tell him nothing ,   the voice does .   soon his companion shapes more than shades of  copper  and interstices of light .    he doesn’t remember what he’d asked .    the little amounts of breath in his lungs are all that hint he’d spoken first .

✦   @fhynite​ said:  ❛ "👀" pls ❜  //  send me a "👀"

“‘Good bone structure’ sounds like a bullshit compliment, but in her case it’s true.”  Frankie was armed with an exquisite, doll-like face, her unblemished décolletage home to prominent clavicles, a crown atop the ivory cathedral of her ribcage.  Her beauty was a loaded firearm – she knew how to wield it, how to make it strike like a bullet in the throat.

“She has a nice figure…”  There was much to be admired in the curves and valleys of her slender silhouette, in the delicacy that did not translate to weakness.  Frankie might look like a rose, but she was made to weather the frost-fringed teeth of the coldest winter. 

He’ll never grow used to the lamps down here. In an effort to simulate a diurnal progression of light in these rooms, on account of being so deep underground that the whole tract can be crushed under tons of soil and steel at the push of a button, the engineers have opted for a strange yellow tint to the UV within the cells. That leaves everything else, however, with a sickly, unhealthy sheen. Balthazar resists the temptation of rubbing at his temples, pincered fingers mercifully pushed against his eyeballs until the pressure from without cancels the pressure from within. 

There is the usual hum and buzz outside the hydraulic door. Scientists and staff members go about their business, scuttling like so many ants in their sterile mine shafts. It is good to hear them, the many souls and bodies that power the juggernaut of his institute. Sometimes he forgets them. Sometimes he remains in his ivory tower until all brushes with society turn into unnecessary diversions. It is always more comforting that way, to imagine himself the sole arbiter, the sole scapegoat. A misguided benevolent impulse, thinking like that. Nobody is here because he is keeping them hostage. There is always a choice, even if the options aren’t all equally appealing. The nature of humanity’s survival instinct is none of his concern.

As of right now, he is relatively certain that is standing on the correct side of the glass wall. Balthazar glances over the rims of his reading glasses, looks up briefly from the status report in his hands. Subject #68-421FX has been more than unruly of late. Two guards have found their demise in her loving embrace in the last month. But the cynic in him would note that there are worse ends to meet than her. 

Pretty thing, fiery and restless, the widow stalks up and down her enclosure, pacing the room like some caged jungle cat. She is well constructed, well designed, with that domineering, demanding air that insecure men crave. Women, too, he corrects after a glance at the chart. She’s been a point of interest for some time now, baffling his researchers. A bonafide succubus, to use a Christian term, is not so easily tracked, let alone captured alive. They tend to gain the upper hand. But here she is, his personal little miracle, eagerly serving every cliche. Balthazar prefers not to reflect on his own fascination with this creature. She is easy to talk to. But he would bet that’s what they’d all say, if they could.

“Is that what you’re lacking, Francisca?” Balthazar slaps the back of his fingers against the notepad in his hand. It’s an accusation he need not define. “Distraction?” His voice is even, rarely given to coloration, but the displeasure rings through. The director steps closer to the glass wall, lets his eyes track her movements, the dance of veils she does for any audience. 

The day had dragged like any other day, finding himself watching the clock tick along second by agonising second. There’d been a few muttered Birthday wishes from co-workers that felt about as hollow as they were probably intended. He supposed that’s what happens when you never take the time of the day to learn anything about them above their first names, and that was out of nothing but convenience. So when his feet has dragged through the door and he got the instant smell of something having been baked in the oven, his honest first thought was concern. Frankie never baked, and when she did he made sure he had the fire department on speed-dial. God, what had she been up to? 

“Frankie?” Half mumbled before his eyes are snapping open as he’s been shoved and demanded to sit, his eyes darting from the present to the cake, to the mess of the kitchen to the distant italian takeout he could see on the bench. There was so much going on that he’d not even registered the smile that plastered itself upon his face. This was all too much, but he knew Frankie and knew it better not to argue the point. 

THE LOAMY SCENT OF UPTURNED EARTH hangs thick in the air. The wood is silent save for the infernal scratching as fingers scrape through half frozen dirt. Her nails are caked black with it, blood oozing from cuts in her skin to mix with it. Her name has yet to be carried on the wind, her husband still sleeping soundly in their bed, unaware of his wife’s absence.  Not for long though; her ever-faithful guard dog would scent her absence soon enough. She must hurry... Historia stares down at the hole she had dug, brows drawing together in confusion. ‘Not deep enough. . .’ She says to no one, and then someone as a woman spirits her way into her peripheral. Hair, red hair, like BLOOD in the argent light of the moon. Blood pouring down her head and across her shoulders. The young woman blinks again, staring at Frankie for a brief moment before her clawing continues. Her throat and lungs ache from cold and exertion. The swell of her belly shivers as the child inside shifts in the ever shrinking space. This was all for her after all. Wasn’t it? Historia couldn’t recall, only that she must keep digging.