#calcitration

[massensterben-a]

The wallpaper has started to peel off. It bloats and then spalls, tearing along every seam. There are trees who shed their bark like this. Planetrees, he believes they're called. But Bertholdt lacks the whimsy to imagine that he is living in the heart of some tree. The apartment has been hollowed out of the complex like a man was digging around for a bullet. Now there is the rot, the necrosis. Bertholdt sits for days on end, at the kitchen table, and stares at the wall as it peels off. He's been informed that this is called rest and relaxation.

He is in the process of lighting a cigarette when the rapping at his door disrupts his oily yellow evening. The sun has not yet sunken. It sets all the roofs aflame and chips off the spires of the internment wall. He looks for it, when he noisily pushes his chair back. He makes sure that it is still there, that he is still on the correct side of it. The cigarette is stubbed to death in a coffee mug that hasn't seen coffee in some time.

The last person he expected to find on the other side of his threshold is her. Annie arrives like a cold front. He can barely scrape the dust off his vocal chords to invite her in before she already slinks past him. Alley cat grace, vampiric customs.

"I—" His voice is a stillborn thing, arrives scaley and disjointed. He coughs to break through a layer of tar that's caked up his throat. "I wasn't expecting anyone. What's the occasion?"

@calcitration says: “  i’m here to raid your cupboards ‘cause my date went really bad and all i’ve had is lukewarm water and breadsticks.  ”

What constitutes his stomach these days sinks. That biting remark, grumbled as if the mere act of speaking is an inconvenience (and isn't it?), is enough to cut Bertholdt's tongue out. He watches Annie rummage through his meager rations of canned goods, sardines and pickled onions, a stray pack of hardtack, and his mouth fills up with blood.

"...Date? Like, a date?"

[mindsafe]

@calcitration || HITCH X ANNIE

❝ i'd love if you knew you were on my mind, constant like cicadas in the summertime; boys suck && girls i've never tried && we both know we're getting drunk tonight ❞

[jxwz]

@calcitration ♥'d the starter call.

Go get some air. That's what had pulled a young, sour-faced Porco away from the rest of the group. On his brother's orders, albeit thinly disguised as advice. There were eyes on them endlessly—scrutinized constantly—and in-fighting only gave the higher-ups something else to ridicule. Luckily for Reiner's face they'd been separated before things could escalate further than some shouting and shirt-pulling. Porco's still bristling about it though. Grit teeth and tense shoulders while he kicks along the rock he'd brought with him on the path around to the back of the building.

He notices Annie a bit farther off—by herself, as usual—and decidedly strays from his intended direction to find out what she's up to instead. Whatever it is, it had to be better than seething. Porco kicks the rock a bit harder so it travels up ahead of him and hits into the bush beside his fellow candidate ( forewarning her of his presence. )

"What are you doing?" He asks her, bluntly, because how else is he supposed to start a conversation? "You know they don't like it when we hang around by ourselves."

[massensterben]

✧

I would kill you. ✧ I would physically hurt you. ✧ I would attack you unprovoked. ✧ I would manipulate you. ✧ I dislike you. ✧ You annoy me. ✧ You scare me. ✧ You intimidate me. ✧ I hope I intimidate you. ✧ I pity you. ✧ You disgust me. ✧ I hate you. ✧ I’m indifferent toward you. ✧ I’d like to get to know you better. ✧   I’d like to spend more time with you. ✧ I’d like to be friends with you. ✧  I’m unsure what to think of you. ✧ I’m unsure how I feel about you. ✧ You are my friend. ✧ You are my best friend. ✧ You are my mentor. ✧ I look up to you. ✧ I respect you. ✧ You are my hero. ✧ You inspire me. ✧ You are my enemy. ✧ You make me happy. ✧ I want to protect you. ✧ I would fight by your side. ✧ I consider you an equal. ✧ I think you are beneath me. ✧ I think you are above me. ✧ I would lie for you. ✧ I would lie to you. ✧ I would sleep with you. ✧ I would sleep by your side. ✧ I would hug you. ✧ I would kiss you. ✧ You are family to me. ✧ I would die for you. ✧ I would kill for you. ✧ I would trust you with my life. ✧ I would trust you with my most precious belonging. ✧ I would trust you with a secret. ✧ I would trust you with my biggest / darkest secret. ✧ I love you (platonically). ✧ I love you (romantically).

[centuricnis]

🚢 – for Eren, from Marco!

send 🚢 or ( 'SHIP' ) if you ever considered shipping our characters romantically and want me to fill out the following form for our muses.

do i ship our characters together?: yes | no | not yet but maybe soon 👀👀 i'm hella down

would i like to ship with you?: yes | maybe, i'm willing to try | no

type of relationship i could see: childhood or high school sweethearts | exes | engaged | married | long-term relationship | crushes | unrequited love | fling | long distance | online relationship | just dating | new relationship | toxic lovers | friends with benefits

tropes i'd enjoy writing for them: friends to lovers | enemies to lovers | exes to lovers | fake relationship / dating | forbidden love | grumpy and sunshine | star-crossed lovers | surprise pregnancy | second chance | soulmates | amnesia / mistaken identity | forced proximity | secret relationship | slow burn relationship

would i rather plot first or jump right in and see where it goes?: develop their relationship first | jump right in | something in between ( what specifically? )

what now?: let's plot something | send me shippy memes | i'll send you shippy memes | write me a random starter | i'll write you a random starter

anything else i want you to know about me / my character / my shipping habits: ( i am so down to plot something out! c: )

[lausticzt-a]

┊ ┊⋆ ┊ . 𝓬𝓸𝓵𝓭-𝓱𝓮𝓪𝓻𝓽𝓮𝓭 𝓹𝓸𝓮𝓽𝓲𝓬 𝓳𝓾𝓼𝓽𝓲𝓬𝓮 ◞ 𝖒𝖊𝖒𝖊 . ˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ @calcitration ⤸ Send a ★ and I will list some thread ideas / general plots I’d like to do between our muses.

Excuse me as I ramble and scream my thoughts because listen, LISTEN, I have a few! Before I do let me break it down! <3

Summary: New recruit to the Military Police and Laura is going to be hovering around because she lowkey begins to grow a fondness for them, hitch, marlo, etc. and Annie sticks out to her like a sore thumb. The betrayal of Stohess District. Helping to monitor Annie during those years she's crystalized before she moves more towards the Survey Corp (even though all factions begin to work together). The possible dynamics of that during the war.

Military Police Days (overall). I would love to explore and interact during this period especially given how opportunistic it is. Laura would watch her like a hawk and it's not even about suspicion, but the initial curiosity about Annie. She'd probably also grill her about Trost though. Just them finding that time together to interact during their duties and her inserting her own authoritative figure to oversee them (she doesn't have to, but ends up interrupting more and more) Military Events. I am a sucker for the classic nobility and military gathering / events and will always insert it into this canon. They can suffer together. She will tell her to suck it up, because she has to. Also just, the little bits of normality of day to day during this time.

Stohess District Incident. Thread ideas / General plot because Laura was already livid about what happened in Stohess. Also guilty that she didn't know about Annie (she wouldn't have known, but she needs to be perfect and be a step ahead everything so), so having that conversation either during the war or in another scenario would be, fuelling my angst.

[kerothi]

He rarely looks at Annie from any other perspective than that of Mikasa's adversary. The only other girl around that's even considered a worthwhile match against her fighting prowess, so of course they've been a heavy topic of debate among the boys. Of course some over-confident wagers have been made favoring them both from all sides. And of course Jean always bets his entire arm that Mikasa would come out on top. But there had never been any doubt that Annie was born to be a pocket-knife, small but more than plenty deadly enough in capable hands; more weapon than girl.

Jean's never perceived her as anything more than that before, in truth. Something sharp and pointy that ought to be avoided, kept at the safe distance that it seems to prefer and sticks to anyways. He's never had any problems abiding by that. That arm's length and then some with Annie Leonhardt has always been just fine with him.

But now he'd been forced to partner up with her, and after spending three long days in nobody else's company but her own, it had slowly become more and more apparent that there is, in fact, a girl somewhere underneath all that palpable malice. Some actual, person-like tendencies that do exist beyond Eat, Sleep and Freeze Over Hell.

It had been the motion of her arm that had drawn Jean's attention from the fire he doesn't yet trust to stay lit without his constant supervision, but it was her pose that had kept him there. Both her arms raised as she rakes her fingers through her hair and pulls the loose, dripping blonde lengths away from her neck. Shed of the signature sweatshirt that had kept the shape of her body beneath so inconspicuous until now — with nothing but the thin, wet, white tank-top sticking to her skin, pasted pale as tissue paper against her breasts, and leaving only so little left to Jean's imagination. He can't help but stare, stupefied, with his jaw only just off the floor.

"What is it, Kirstein?" Annie says, "Have you only just figured out I have tits?"

And suddenly the fire is no match for the heat that hits his cheeks. But Jean still scoffs up some sort of noise that's intended to come off as unbothered and dismissive, while at the same time darting his eyes right back down to the fire instead, where he raises up his palms.

"I mean kind of, yeah..." He rather admits with some snark than try and deny all together. Like he really could anyway. He dares back another brief glance, or a glare, although he's quicker to find her eyes this time around before he mumbles, "Usually drownin' in that big ol' sweatshirt of yours. 'Scuse me for bein' surprised."

[ CAUGHT ] receiver catches sending getting flushed because of something they are doing or wearing.

Their campfire was a paltry, feeble thing. Belching more black smoke than heat, its flames squirmed and struggled at the wet mouth of the cave, writhing unhappily on their bed of damp kindling. Annie was not convinced it would survive the night, but could not bring herself to coddle or coax its burning – just as she could not bring herself to coddle or coax its architect. If left to her own devices, she would have preferred to face this aptitude test alone. As it was, Jean had been assigned to her, slipped around her neck like a millstone by Commandant Shadis.

She was being unfair, of course. After all, he had been the one to set the fire, and its vapid heat was better than none in the face of such a drenching. Doused in rainwater, her features were made all the harsher, with her fine hair clinging to her skull and neck in a wet sheet. Annie understood that she was not easy on the eyes, that her edges were sharp, almost avian in their composition. Dagger of a girl, any careless glance in her direction could cut, could draw blood. Most chose not to look, or to overlook, yet she was aware of Jean’s gaze humming against her skin like moth wings, furtive and powdery and persistent.

A well-stuffed backpack leaned against the stone wall, her sodden jacket and hooded sweatshirt heaped on top. Everything was soaking and the cold already licked at her bones, washing away what pale colour she possessed, leaving her translucent. While in the process of fixing her wet hair, scraping it back and refastening the tie, Annie paused to look at her partner. In that moment, she was lit by a dazzling flash of lightning, framed by the beaded wall of torrential rain that had brought their three-day hike to a halt. Droplets hung like diamonds and, for the briefest instant, her eyes took on the subtle shine of an animal’s, of something primordial or predatory. Of something inhuman.

Blush had crawled up Jean’s cheeks and he scuffed a hand sheepishly against the back of his neck, his lips parted but his tongue wordless. Annie had seen that look before, although never directed at her. Only ever at her Titan, only ever at girls more appealing than she – girls who were soft in the right places, comely in their features. Annie was soft too, in places normally kept secret. Stripped of her layers, the teardrops of her breasts were apparent beneath the damp cling of a white vest. It ought to repulse her, this foreign sort of attention, the way the dark boreholes of Jean’s pupils damned themselves to the curved edges of her silhouette. Instead, it made her feel strangely powerful, and only a sliver self-conscious.

“What is it, Kirstein? Have you only just figured out I have tits?”

[literaryvein-reblogs]

Fighting

Any words related to fighting outside hit, punch, kick, cut, gut, slice?

Bastinado - to subject to repeated blows

Batter - to beat with successive blows so as to bruise, shatter, or demolish

Bludgeon - to hit with heavy impact

Calcitrate - archaic: kick

Clobber - to pound mercilessly; to hit with force

Combat - to fight with; battle

Cudgel - to beat with or as if with a short heavy club

Drub - to beat severely

Flog - to beat with or as if with a rod or whip

Fracas - a noisy quarrel; brawl

Grapple - to grasp with the hands; wrestle

Hector - to intimidate or harass by bluster or personal pressure

Incise - to cut into

Lambaste - to assault violently; beat, whip

Larrup - to flog soundly; whip

Maim - to mutilate, disfigure or wound seriously

Mangle - to injure with deep disfiguring wounds by cutting, tearing, or crushing

M��lée - a confused struggle; especially: a hand-to-hand fight among several people

Mutilation - an act or instance of destroying, removing, or severely damaging a limb or other body part of a person or animal

Oppugn - to fight against

Pummel - pound, beat

Rive - to wrench open or tear apart or to pieces; rend; to split with force or violence

Ruckus - a noisy fight or disturbance : row, commotion

Scrimmage - a confused fight; scuffle

Scuffle - to struggle at close quarters with disorder and confusion

Spar - skirmish, wrangle; a movement of offense or defense in boxing

Stamp - to strike or beat forcibly with the bottom of the foot

Thump - to strike or beat with or as if with something thick or heavy so as to cause a dull sound

Thwack - to strike with or as if with something flat or heavy; whack

Tussle - to struggle roughly; scuffle

Hope this helps with your writing. Do tag me, or send me a link. I'd love to read your work!

More: Word Lists ⚜ Words for your Fight Scenes

[massensterben-a]

They stagger out of Trost like survivors out of a shipwreck. Here they come, the stragglers, the starved few who cannibalized their fallen many; those fortunate souls that drew longer straws. Washed out, empty eyes on the ground, the children stumble barrack-bound. Each one is a scribble in the distance, a shape that has been smudged and scratched out by the furious hand of the artist. None should be afforded detail, lest they attract attention. Any glance could be the death knell.

Bertholdt is among them, bone-tired, falling in step with his chain gang, shackled by the throat to the two turned backs that forge a path he can follow. He’s comfortably taken leave of his senses, here, in his silence where such lapses are permissible. He steps out of his head for a breath of fresh air, he lets something else move in. Whatever it is, it’s more productive than him. It moves his body, it operates his joints, when he cannot. He walks because he must. He nods when he is spoken to. He listens but he does not speak. 

Sounds are treacherous. Noise is pollution. It rises in his throat like smog, like dirty water. If he lets it out, if he breaks the dam, the screaming will be unbearable. If he keeps his mouth shut, the screaming will be unbearable, too. Ghostly hands tighten the noose around his neck, cut all anguish off at the pass. It’s poison, for someone this young to know how he would kill himself. To think about it like a gently glowing exit sign in the corner of his mind. He rather thinks about ropes than about the teeth. But he sees them, everywhere. 

The ranks are so thin, they look like derelict fences guarding abandoned houses. Bertholdt counts bodies, counts the absence of bodies. (—Mina, Hannah, Franz, Thomas, Nick, Samuel, Klara, Unna, Ferdinand, Marco.) His mind contracts like a wounded animal, curls around the bleeding gash, the festering incision. He cowers, but only briefly. Bertholdt’s eyes cut to the backs of their heads. Blond hair, platinum and gold. He can’t look away. He can’t see anything but the bleeding. Annie with a hole in her chest and Reiner with a hole in his head. And Bertholdt, trailing them like a discarded memory. Already gone.  

He thinks if he speaks to them, all that will come out of his mouth is steam. It will burn them. They will not want to hear it. He cannot spin this into a victory. It isn’t. It is failure, violent and all-consuming. He doesn’t know what to do either, about any of it. About the deaths that Reiner tries to enlist to their cause, tries to pretend were not meaningless. About the state of their mission, the confusion they stumble through. The blind are leading the blind, and he keeps quiet. 

Evening sneaks up on him. The smoke tints the sky, carries up the glow of fires. It smells like char and meat. Bertholdt’s mouth waters. Some ancient instinct in him, transplanted by syringes and white-gloved hands, slavers for the kills he tore. He has never felt so monstered, so senselessly removed from humanity. Around him, all faces grow wan and streaked with grief, and he stands apart, hollowed out by blame. He still feels the weight of body parts in his hands. He cannot relax his fists. He cannot let go. Reiner has disappeared on him in the aftermath. He snapped something about duty, something about camaraderie, and then he ran.

Bertholdt sits still, his unbloodied hand curled against his face as he stares blankly at the dust. He watches it grow fat and solid with shadows. He killed them all. He killed every single one. Their death rattles, the aborted cries for a mother, all that noise has carved him out. Bertholdt is only an outline, filled to the brim with screams. He has to hold still, lest he bursts open. Lest all that noise comes swarming out like a cloud of flies. He is sick with it. A fist is balling up in his stomach, ready to punch upward. He has been sick with it since this morning. Belatedly he thinks about how impossible it was, what he did at the Wall. He has never done anything like that before. He shouldn’t have been able to. Belatedly he realizes that he is about to collapse. Perhaps he is just waiting for permission.

@calcitration says: “  so are we gonna talk about it or are we gonna pretend nothing’s wrong here?  ”

Annie’s voice rings through him like a bell, airy but brooking no dissent. He flinches from his trance and finds that his comrade is standing over him, water-cool eyes chilling him where they slice into his flesh. He lifts his heavy head like a dog expecting a kick. He still hasn’t cried. Everybody’s been crying, Annie and Reiner too, but not him. Death crowds out any possibility of tears. He stares at her, bewildered, shellshock sitting deep in his bones.

That numbness, that absence of grief, that noise buzzing evilly in his skull, is what keeps him from flinching. She doesn’t speak to him directly. She throws her words out like she’s tossing gristle to the pigs. Has she perhaps decided that he is no longer deserving of direct address? For his failure to be present, his failure to take another fall? His heart rattles once and then is quiet again. Dead. It’ll scare him tomorrow, the absence of his heart. He will want it resurrected. For now its death is a merciful anesthetic.

All that aside, she is not talking about kill counts. She’s not even talking about Marco. Bertholdt knows that Annie knows that it was too late for him. Wrong time, wrong place. Or maybe Bertholdt should’ve kept his damn mouth shut. Maybe he should’ve stitched it up, wired it shut. Maybe if he hadn’t given in to impulse, Marco would still be alive now. Or maybe another monster would’ve eaten him. — But Annie isn’t talking about Marco. He can tell by the way she isn’t looking at him. This is about Reiner.

Everyone else functioned as planned. Everyone else didn’t break. It harrows him, that Reiner did. A silver coin’s been spinning in mid-air until that very moment. And then it landed.

Fuck.

“I don’t know. I’ve never seen that before.” He says, ducks away. Coward. Everything is dead because of him and it meant nothing at all. Cowardice is his right. He, too, would like to cry for a mother. He, too, has none available. “Maybe it was just… a lapse.” He offers, a weak-tongued defense. He knows Annie won’t go for it. He hopes she won’t. “We can’t afford to waste any more time. You said so yourself. Whatever that was, we… We will handle it. Just like we’re gonna handle Eren, and… And everything. We just need to get home. Whatever is wrong with him, it’ll be okay once we’re home. What else can we do?”

[mindsafe]

I followed for your delectable roster of SnK characters and your beautiful prose! I've stayed for both of those reasons, and also because you're an absolute gem and a delight to chit-chat with ooc. Mwah. ♡

from [ X ] || ACCEPTING

so first of all you are an absolute angel && a beautiful soul! you're an absolute joy in the classroom on my dash <3 all of our IC + OOC interactions have a way of bringing a smile to my face, && here's to many more smiles in the future. BIG MUAH PUFFIN

[massensterben]

for @calcitration

It does something to you, to arrive at the end of the tunnel and find that the light you've been running towards was just a figment of your imagination. Was never light at all. Just glass.

Now here he stands, and the emptiness in his body will go on forever. The crystal sings in silence, encases her body in horrific stasis. When he was very young, his father (Was it his father? No, it must have been Zeke.)— Zeke showed him a piece of amber, smoothed over by the ocean waves. Inside of it there was an insect, its thin legs spread out in futile defiance. It was stuck in the honeyed glass and yet so perfectly preserved, he thought if only someone would break its cage, it would come back to life and fly away.

Annie is that insect.

She is suspended in her final refuge, a glass coffin of her own design. Bertholdt stands on the other side, four years too late. She cannot even see him. Her eyes are closed. She wouldn’t even wake to watch him rot. Too late. Too late, because she has opted to save herself in this grotesque death rattle of resistance. Too late, because he could not free her if he tried. As if he does not know what she has made of herself, the material like diamond. There is only one creature that could break her out, and he is not that. He can’t breathe for all the hopelessness that washes over him, the way it burns him through and stings his hollow eyes to tears.

It is a pitiful, stillborn noise. It crawls out of his mouth like a revenant out of its grave. Mongrel son of sob and laugh, it flowers into hysteria. How it distorts his face, this noise, how it tears his mouth at the edges. He knows he needs to be silent, he needs to not be here. The uniform he's stolen sits awkwardly, spans his back and threatens to tear. Whoever it was that he so cruelly replaced, who went to work today and won't come home, he's a size too small. Bertholdt, trapped in this mad mimicry, claws at his mouth to muffle the sounds he makes. The animal sounds of horror and grief.

The last pillar of his will crumbles to dust. He sees it topple. He moves with it, hands reaching, grasping at nothing. The warrior, what was once a warrior and is now just another lowlife in stolen clothes, tries to catch himself, to keep his mind from splitting his skull with its escape.

"Goddammit..." He gasps through a throat that slowly closes up. His trembling eyes slide back to the girl in the crystal, still, good as dead. She does not look peaceful. She looks frozen over. She looks like she died of hypothermia. His sweltering could not thaw her now and yet he presses his palms to the sheen of ice. First his palms, then the impact of a futile fist.

He is not crying but his body does not seem to know that. He struggles for air with every shudder and shake that rattles his chest. She is here. She is right here. It's not fair!

His shoulders sag as he stares at her, at the perennial distance of hers. It dwarfs him as it did when they were children. What was ashes in him at last turns to dirt. He can taste it. There is no one now to tell him what to do and Annie's silence moves at the same glacial pace as always.

"You can't do this," He mutters balefully. Why not drop off into madness? Who will know but the frozen girl? The frozen girl he could never ever thaw. "I know you can hear me. You can't do this! Not now, not like this. Annie! We're going home now. You hear? We gotta go home now. I can't do this alone, please... Annie, please. I need you here with me. I was- I've been looking everywhere for you. I need you, I'm sorry I'm so late, but I need you to come out now. Can you please just look at me for once!"

[kerothi]

character headcanon generator — 10 headcanons! Generate 10 headcanons and share whether they're true or not. Repost, don't reblog.

Jean's favorite color is pink. — False. Not that he hates it or anything, but his favorite is blue.

Jean steals other peoples clothes. — True. Applies to men only (t-shirts and hoodies) and is definitely a good sign that he fancies said man.

Jean is very good at using chopsticks. — True. He's just good with most fiddly things in general. Boy got those piano fingers.

If the source media was a musical, Jean would be the one character that asks why everyone is singing. — True... While also singing.

Jean doesn't own a single pair of matching socks. — False. All that needs to be said there, really lol.

Jean reads Ao3. — True. He absolutely would though. Jean would have ships for all his favorite shows and do not look in his bookmarks. ">_>

Jean has a pet dog. — True... Eren counts, right??

Jean is a horrible liar. — False. But debatable, it depends who he's lying to and why. He's good at blagging though. Can and will rob most people (but especially strangers) blind at the poker table. Cannot bullshit a friend when it comes to something too deep or serious.

Jean tells dad jokes. — False. Jean tells jokes that are bad, but I wouldn't necessarily call them dad jokes. He's not quite there yet lmao.

Jean is very willing to eat inedible things. — False. He is the one trying so hard to wrestle it out of the daring one's mouth because don't be stupid, your body can't digest that, how are you not dead yet already, oh my god.

Tagged by: @polishedforsurvival (tysm!! ♥)

Tagging: @praesidi | @calcitration | @naitfall | @worldhell & anyone that wants to!

[alectoperdita]

i wish joukai had more mystery/case fics where like kaiba is accused of a murder and he won’t say what his alibi is until mokuba begs him to at least talk to his lawyer and the lawyer has to hear “i was getting railed by a blond guy i used to bully in high school. i could not have killed my business rival last tuesday.”

Anon, you're speaking my language. 🙏

I adore situations where Kaiba's calcitrant nature makes him his own worst enemy. And case fics where Kaiba is accused of a crime are a great setup for exploring that. He knows he didn't do it. Why should he have to explain himself otherwise because the truth is he's innocent (at least innocent of what he's being accused of here)?

To have his actual alibi then also be a clandestine hookup/relationship with Jounouchi is chef's kiss.

[silentknives]

character headcanon generator — 10 headcanons, true or false.

Emily is a theatre kid. — TRUE and FALSE ? She isn't a theatre kid per se, not much into acting herself, but she does take delight in watching a show. It's not so much of a guilty pleasure either, this is just how she takes time for herself and unwind.

If Emily likes someone, they will give them a pretty rock. — TRUE A pretty rock, a wildflower or two, even a pouch of herbs. She's an outdoorsy gal, and rather awkward in her affections, but she'll gift someone she likes with a trinket from mother nature that reminds her of them.

Emily's least favourite subject in school was Social Studies. — FALSE Her whole thing is learning about humanity and how society works! She's very inquisitive and questions everything. Social Studies would be her favorite, if not #1, subject.

Emily always has a sword on them. — TRUE-ish? Swords are not her style, but knives? She's got at least two strapped on her.

Emily is very good at walking in platform heels. — FALSE NO. She detests heels or anything remotely constricting to her mobility. She can adapt, yes, but she'd rather do anything else than walk in heels.

If someone they knew committed a crime, Emily would cover for them. — TRUE-ish? It definitely depends on the closeness of their relationship, but because Emily only has a handful of people she knows, she'll likely cover for them. She doesn't have many friends, but she's pretty ride-or-die for the ones she does have.

Emily likes being alone. — TRUE HAHAHA, yes. She's notoriously an introvert through and through.

Emily hacks their stats in every video game they play. — FALSE She doesn't even need hacks to be good at playing video games. She's a chronic pattern seeker. That's a skill issue otherwise.

If the source media was a musical, Emily would be the one character that asks why everyone is singing. — TRUE While she is (somewhat) a theatre kid, there is such thing as too much singing in a musical. To her! She's aware how ironic that is, and that a musical is exactly what it entails: full of songs. Her only gripe is that musicals take too long to get the point.

Emily is aro ace. — TRUE-ish? She's on the ace spectrum. She's biromantic + demisexual; she's got to have a solid friendship/relationship with someone before she could even think of doing sinful things to them. If the conditions are right, she wouldn't shy away from sex.

———————————— tagged by: @calcitration <3 tagging: @backedagainstthewall, @rogaire, @sharp-teeth-and-wide-grins (muse of your choosing!), @invarietas (ardyn!), aaaaand anyone else who wants to participate can't think of anyone else to tag lmao

[thecommanderzoe]

what does your heart look like?

a compass that doesn’t waver You are someone who is certain of what you want. Maybe you always have been, or maybe you made a discovery that you haven’t been able to tear your eyes away from. Your heart is set and certain. You fight endlessly for your goals. Above all else, you know who you are and what you are trying to achieve. Just be careful not to tear yourself or others apart in pursuit of your ideals.

Tagged by: @naevose <3

Tagging: @polishedforsurvival @desolxte @praesidi @arrowablaze @calcitration (for annie) @littlequeens (Aelin)

[mindsafe]

hitch wears her mother's glamour like a favourite perfume. she emulates elegance in the way she coifs her hair, applies her makeup, && ( when given an opportunity ) chooses brightly coloured dresses that accentuate her natural charms ― expressive almond eyes, framed by long lashes; a rounded, slightly upturned nose; chin length tresses of liquid honey; && curves in all the right places. when she preens, she makes a habit of pressing wine-stained kisses into the glass. . .

&& then there's her darling roommate.

annie NEVER preens. split ends are held in place with hairpins, && a titan's maw has more colour than the gray rags that swallow her.

the afternoon is ripe. behind closed doors && drawn curtains, roles are reversed. bare legs dangle over the side of her bed. woodwork groans when struck by sun kissed calves. hitch grows restless, but keeps her mouth shut ― after all, this was her idea. she had even gone so far as to handpick the dress from her personal wardrobe. but the wait is agonizing. it doesn't help that annie hasn't said a word to her since she was presented with the garment. if hitch knew nothing of the girl's sullen disposition, she'd be worried that she had done something to genuinely cause upset.

❝ --well, there's a first time for everything! && if you hate it that much, then it can just live in my wardrobe with its friends. god knows, yours is probably collecting cobwebs. . . ❞

when she finally turns around, legs go limp at the sight. honest eyes betray a myriad of emotion; && roseate lips curve into a self-satisfied smile. looking down from her little nest, with what modicum of light was allowed in their quarters for this occasion, hitch sees a rendering of the gentle transition from winter into spring; hitch also sees familiar ( if not horribly misplaced ) insecurities.

❝ --don't be stupid. why would i laugh? ❞ she cocks her head to the side, confused at the assumption. she isn't that catty. usually. ❝ you look beautiful, annie. ❞

⬩ @mindsafe

Flesh cloaked in skin so pale it was almost translucent, her head crowned with fine hair that ran through parted fingers like silk, but was inclined to vicious tangles. That was to say nothing of the severity of her features – the pronounced hook of her nose, the jut of her lower jaw, together formed a facial harmony shared with the sickle-shape moon. Annie understood she could not be considered beautiful.

It had been a mercy in the days of her youth, when she toddled into the heart of the internment zone, a wicker basket balanced in the crook of her elbow. To be pretty, and Eldian, could invite terrible violence from leering Marleyan soldiers.

Standing now in front of the claw-footed mirror, she felt for the first time a strange longing, paired with a shame that bubbled thick and cloying. It stained her, sent her teetering on the edge of disgust. It demanded she turn her hoarfrost gaze on herself, raking harshly over the dress that hung from her frame. Simple in its cut and design, its neckline fell off-shoulder, revealing the tilted columns of her collarbones. While the bodice was not particularly tight, it was still fitted to her silhouette, fabric of the palest lilac smoothing over breasts and waist to flare outward at the hips. Her short stature was her saving grace, the flowing hem modestly kissing the narrowest part of her calves.

“This is stupid. I don’t wear dresses.”

Not entirely true. When she prowled the labyrinthine streets of the Interior, she draped and disguised herself in skirts and shawls unbecoming of Warrior Leonhardt. Perhaps therein lay the issue – she was less a person, less a girl, and more a weapon, more a means to a selfish end. Anything beyond the strike of fist, elbow or heel was superfluous.

Unimpressed with her reflection, Annie turned to her roommate. Her defeated expression was immediately confronted by Hitch’s self-satisfied smile, by eyes that twinkled girlishly in their triumph.

“If you laugh, I’ll leave.”