i’m committing to this break out of prison mission, follow me at @gnalliards for a bargain of only zero dollars per month.
AnasAbdin
No title available

Discoholic 🪩
wallacepolsom

if i look back, i am lost
Show & Tell

pixel skylines
d e v o n

ellievsbear
DEAR READER
Stranger Things
"I'm Dorothy Gale from Kansas"
he wasn't even looking at me and he found me
TVSTRANGERTHINGS
I'd rather be in outer space 🛸
we're not kids anymore.

#extradirty
PUT YOUR BEARD IN MY MOUTH
🪼

⁂

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@gnalliard-deactivated
i’m committing to this break out of prison mission, follow me at @gnalliards for a bargain of only zero dollars per month.
@knaverie:
Not buying it - not surprising. Nine years together, day in and day out, missions notwithstanding; he knows her by now. As much as anyone can, anyway. She’s not exactly an open book. Not secretive, not terribly anyway, but not as expressive and explosive as he is. Lackluster in life compared to his vibrancy; peaceful passion, a quiet sea, moved only by the winds weighty enough to whip her waves.
Not an open book but not a guarded gate either.
What she gets from most is slack-jawed reverence, kindness - undeserving but appreciated, a greedy hunger, need and reassurance. Life as a living weapon has its toils - regret, guilt, she feels the weight of the world on her spine, compressed and condemning.
He understands - now, possessing a devil of his own, but even before that, as kid learning to kill, striving to fight just for a chance to live on the back of an hourglass poured halfway empty already.
The world of Marley is hell and ash, the soot of their ancestors just dust in their lungs, their lives an existing condition in and of itself. Existing at all is a crime. He gets it, gets her. Knows despite the weight what she is behind it - not a devil but not an angel either.
A person. Dual-sided and dimensional in all her awful glory. It’s appreciated - she hopes, in turn, he knows she sees him similarly, finds him shimmering behind the prism of reality.
“Pff - you make it sound like I’m dangerous or something.” She is, he is, they both know; shewinks, relaxed and knowing. “What about the bastard that breaks your heart? Think I could lend out the panzer unit for a day or two.” Would probably pilot it herself, if it were possible. Not that he’d need it - titan roshambo means the accuracy of claws and teeth beat the crosshair shakiness of guns and a shield everytime. He’s capable, always has been.
Dangerous? Understatement. They all were, no exception—names signed in scarlet along the dotted line. Her wink, acceptance, she felt the weight they bore, ruthless and mortifying, as well as he did—if not better. "Ah," he exhaled, faint smile sprouting on his lips, "you underestimate me."
Bruised ego, narrowing eyes were set on her figure for a moment longer than it should, gaze averted along with a huff. Nine years together and still just as distracting, midnight eyes disrupting his thoughts at the slightest shift. Truly, in matters of heart, she had the upper hand—he was passionate, surely, but he found her name spelled on his bones ever since he first locked eyes with hers.
Childish weakness, at first, tainted by unfounded resentment at the curse she borne—just to mature into admiration, devotion, wanting. Not something he'd admit to, though knowing if one had the power to turn his heart to dust, it'd be her. The thought, revolting but lingering, infuriating truth and already part of his code—no matter his romantic endeavors, he was always back at the starting point; Pieck.
And so, the absurdity of her words was almost a tragic joke, as could be inferred to be the rest of their lives—even more at the mention of her ever so loyal Panzer unit. They were capable, and in all honesty, skilled at their positions—no matter, his jaw still clenched at their constant drooling for the fellow warrior.
"Ah, shit... might have to decline that one. Not sure they can balance on top of my head," he jested, brows flashing upwards.
In that casw might i suggest modern au starring pieck as turtle hunter pieck irwin and porco as a loveable but fiesty turtle (also tumblr keeps asking if im SURE i wanna come to this blog like half of my blog isnt composed of our threads icb)
kinda need a thread where all I write is [confused turtle noises] instead of dialogue JSNNSNSKS + when another day goes by and im still on tumblrs basement fml please don't give up on me
His name is Pock and he's a good looking turtle, actual canon Pikku dialogue thank u goodnight.
live footage of marleys warriors on their free time
@knaverie:
He moves so much - always in motion, small shifts and huffs - the stop-start poetry of his body is electric, a storm in every way. Contrasted to her he’s erratic, madness; she lays limp and lazy in his shadow, slow and steady, more of the tortoise herself if she were to be truly honest.
Their differences are what make them, though: brawn and brain, fervor and logic, a tempest and the sea it moves over.
In hell it fits, sword and shield, bark and bite, but in the silence of their downtime she appreciates it more. Finds an infinite amount of ways to nest in his bones, crawl under his skin. He’s living amusement but more importantly he’s comfort, home - the shadow of a reminder of her purpose.
“You don’t think I’m the fairy tale type?” Offense takes over, ingenuity rampant; she folds both arms behind her head and dramatically fakes a sigh. “I thought I came across more feminine than that. Isn’t that what all little girls dream of?”
He’s right, though, albeit his assurance turns negative in her hands - they aren’t made for pretty stories, not about victory nor happily ever afters. Or maybe, more accurately, fairy tales aren’t made for them. The bitter types, the broken ones - the devils, as it were, not exactly the softest subjects for painted pastel happiness. They liken more to tragedies, maybe even a tragic comedy. A life so dreadful it’s almost funny.
Or it would be if she hadn’t found solace in him, in the people she’d fought with for years at a time.
He’s pinned in the peripheral of her gaze as silently wanting, pacing and prancing in a subtle attempt to make her move. She’s aware, knows exactly what he wants, but doesn’t budge at first, making a show instead of stretching out further, legs unfurled across the whole of the couch as she smirks to herself, quieting mocking, all for the chance at a front row seat to his tantrum.
Adorable, invigorating, and right on time - she feeds on his energy and on the way his brows pinch quizzically, nose upturned and scrunched at the bridge.
“You could have just asked,’ she hums, sing-song, pulling her legs up and under, clearing away space for him to eventually slump. She knows good and damn well he’d wanted to sit long before his exclamation. “And start over, Pock - the change from standing to sitting ruins my immersion in the story. I wanna hear the whole thing in one go.”
He's all moves, prances, scoffs and side-smiles; conductive touches to the energy coursing under the skin. He doesn't like stalling, finds comfort in busy hands—the wait is always torturous, lingering between joints like parasites chewing at cartilage. Terrifying would be, someday, waking up to find himself obsolete.
He grasps at straws, anything to keep moving—her, a figure of comfort, soothing hues always on his side. They share similar fates, after all—children turned weapons, flesh and bones taking on cold steel; machinery. And he told himself, over and over, expected it is to cling to certainty in a life so fickle.
Her words, plaguing, feeding to the scoff exiting his lips at the absurd implication. "All little girls," he mocked, "would have moved by now-" a quirked-up brow and cocky smile, but Galliard still towered over the couch in shallow yet resigned annoyance. She was teasing, venomous, tempting demise looking him in the eye.
No mind, though, for taking a bite would be glorious defeat—lethal yet sweet, addictively caustic.
Instead, though, they pulled and pushed, tangled existence. "What do you dream of, Pikku-chan?" He queried, tilting his head downwards as narrow eyes met her serene features. Her shifting, a challenge—met with rolling eyes and irked sighing. But she moves, at last—slow but steady, causing rough hands to curl into fists while fighting the instinct of hooking a hand under her knees and pulling it to the side.
That'd be ridiculous, though likely swifter than her erratic act. Narrow eyes at the subtle smirk, a low hum rang past his throat as a response to her antics, all but hesitance in slumping beside her sluggish frame. "Noted," he pointed, bitterly, forked fingers running through blonde hair.
Her request, ever so demanding, met with a huff and clenching jaw. "You're a pain the ass," he poked, all but serious while turning her way. "But that's old news, anyway. There was a cat, almost as big of a pain as you are, if that's even possible-" he paused, giving her a tight-lipped sharp smile, "poked and probed enough to lose a tongue, death by curiosity."
"Is that how it goes?"
a good lookin’ turtle
FREE PORCO 2019
getting arrested on main be like
@knaverie:
“Maybe you did.” Coy - of course he didn’t, probably couldn’t, definitely wouldn’t. There’s several years of mileage at their backs; they know each other too well, by now, have pinched and poked until no surface was left untouched.
But of those miles is a history of teasing - they’re built on little wars like this, addicted, anything to pass the time. Did he know how much she enjoyed it? She suspected but had never asked, imagined (maybe a touch too hopefully - cynicality be damned) he did too.
“I’m sensitive, you know.” Feigned innocence, a sugar smile - not an ounce of her is innocent or sweet or sugary at all, all sharp edges and even sharper teeth. A body made to kill, a weapon tuned for war.
Anything you have to be, she figures, but she can still be soft. For him, for them, for the whole of people like her. Her father, lonely but healthy, his heartbroken by the hourglass of her life, her own soul sacrificed for his.
She’s cynical too, it’s true - he’s not wrong - but she wants more than anything for him to have hope. Faith.
In what or who she doesn’t know - their future is bleak as far as she can see.
Cynicism was their language, crystal clear to burnt tongues and battle-scarred bones—every inch of their bodies meant to fight, meant to die; kill in between. Sentiment played a small part on a big scheme, yet it turned his tide at whim—a pawn, merely, of both the roaring flame within and the blood-dripping hands of those who first dropped the match.
They differed, opposed, much like the contrast between her honeyed and yet derisive smile—a sweet tease, swallowed with delight; a sight for sore and yet naïve eyes. No mind, razoring thorns were but a heavy mask when reflected in his hues—he'd seen it, crushing, cold metal against bare skin; a weapon of means and ends. He peaked under it, or at least hoped so—whether he'd been making clouds into castles was still unknown.
Thoughts, not words. Words, instead, carried mockery threaded within, hoping to hide the truth & paint a playful facade over muffled feelings, whispers. "You're sensitive?" He repeated, halted pace, dripping off his tongue with a hint of mischief. "Woah, Pikku," airy speech, he wiped a feigned drip of sweat off his forehead; "almost got me on that one."
"Cursed is the bastard that breaks your heart-" for not all could heal a broken fist in a heartbeat, "right? Don't mess with Piku & her panzer unit."
For some reason my account was marked as sensitive so... guess i’ll appeal and die?
@knaverie:
Vulnerability is a shade ill-suited for her - it colors her all wrong, expression bleak, gaze averted. That she let it slip at all was a miracle, but betrayal quakes the foundation at her feet, causes her balance to slide a touch too much for comfort.
“You’re right - “
Her lips are pinched to the details, hush-hush sealed of minutiae, revealing just enough to peel from him his opinion - honest, always to the point, worded gracefully in that tell-tale way only Porco can.
“You know, Pock, you can be pretty wise when you want to be -” mumbled in jest midway through a flurry of movement as she slides onto the floor headfirst, upside down, sliding physically and metaphorically into a carefree facade. “Your delivery could use a little work, though - I mean, I love it, but hmmm - I don’t think you’re going to be headlining any big speeches anytime soon.”
Well - truth be told, she’d listen, but she imagines there’s a lot of bias on her end.
He was thunder, loud and roaring—boldness coursing through his veins in a burst of unthought, spilling words; always so fearless. His advice wasn't half bad, nor ill-meant—it was his truth, it was carved on the pit of his stomach and running within every fiber on his body. Truth be told, he was no mastermind, no chess player ready to deal a strategic blow—he relied on his guts, one way or another.
But he faltered, still, at the sight of her resigned frame—not like her, not at all. She was serene mischief and cheshire smiles, not slumped shoulders and defeated eyes. The confirmation came, but not as he had expected—it felt thin, frail, uncharacteristic agreement between two parties that knew nothing but to point ugly flaws at each other's prose while hoping to get under one's skin.
His right felt wrong.
He wasn't, though, and it shone all over—clear as glass, and just as piercing. Her words, soothing and yet jesting, tainted with an inner sense he could not quite point a finger at—nor did he have the time to. Brows shooting up in a dumbfounded expression of his thoughts, the holder of the jaws took a step to the side as Pieck flopped over, sliding to the ground in a way that should no longer surprise him, but still did.
"Oi, what are you-" he exclaimed, nearing her figure in bare and unfounded worry—they were titans, shifters, devils. His concern, contained, subsided halfway to the shore, lost between sand-made and what-if-riddled castles. He was left ashore—holding onto her jesting words as one holds onto a lifeboat.
Galliard scoffed at the jab at his delivery, lifting both shoulders into a shrug as his lips curled downwards, followed by furrowed brows—merely a distraction to conceal his intentions, under thick skin. "I can leave those to the war-chief," he jested along, side-smile painted across his lips as he took a seat.
"Or you, since you’re always," and he cleared his throat, putting on the best Zeke impersonation he could muster: “Exactly right.”
i think you’re suffering from a lack of vitamin me
knaverie:
Hook, line, sinker - he plays into her hands every time.
He’s reactionary, emotional - passionate, to put it bluntly, but she admires it, finds as many ways as possible to push his buttons. Every expression is a tangle, a fray of what ifs - the nicknames, the comments, the way she digs consistently all a manner of subtle consumption, hungering, savoring in him what she finds so rarely in others, herself included.
In a world where despondency is rampant, Porco is a firestorm, bright and rampant, aggressive and wild but a reminder to fight.
“That’s more of a folk tale than a fairy tale, but it’s a good one Pocko - my favorite folk story is the tortoise and the hare, personally,’ she started, smirking sideways - a subtle shrug at the appearance of his titan, no doubt. “Or the puss in boots, that’s a good one too.”
A pause - by now she’s actually considering his question seriously, never the type for fairy tales, fiction too imaginary for a life like theirs. “I actually can’t think of many fairy tales… Hm. Ah - the one about the girl saving her homeland is nice, I guess.”’
Serious thought lifted, eventually he’s fitted in her half-lidded gaze again, lips split and tilted upwards. “Actually, since you’re such a big fan of the cat story, you should recite it for me. It’s been a while since I’ve heard it, so –”
Their back & forth was addicting, intoxicating—a game of wits to which he'd never claim victory, he knew. What he could muster, instead, was unspoken adoration hidden behind his best remarks and smug smiles; pulling her into the swirling winds while hoping she'd find the eye of the storm.
Little did it matter, though, for the dreamy look in her eyes and sly smirk on her lips were enough, in every sense of the word—for he craved it and no more, as long as she’d be within reach. A dangerous concept, for sure, as their souls were long sold and destinies treaded all but lightly.
And he might as well have thought friendship was but a tale told to appease souls and put hearts to rest, hadn't he ever locked eyes with hers.
Disrupted thoughts and an arched brow gave room for a sound 'tsk' as the fellow shifter corrected him on the fairy tale talk. "You didn't strike me as a specialist," Galliard stated, biting back yet another complaint about the use of his childhood nickname—visibly scrunched nose, though.
The tortoise comparison, albeit foreign at first, settled with as a hint of what lied between the lines, tightly-drawn brows and attentive eyes surveying her face until tempest eyes reached her lips: side smirk spilling over and causing a loud and dripping with annoyance scoff to sneak past the holder of the jaws. The worst? He could see it.
But maybe she'd forget about it if he just so happened not to acknowledge the absurd comparison. "I guess," Galliard agreed with a faint shrug of shoulders, moving from his corner near the wall to her couch and cocking his head to the side in hopes she'd scoot to the side. "Not that I think we need fairytales about that. Not us." He flashed both brows up, assuring but rushed words.
Pieck's request, though? Had him fumbling with thoughts, albeit positive he'd heard it before. Puzzlement flooded into his features all at once, eyes shooting up as if expecting the full tale to be transcribed on the ceiling. "It was, huh," he mused, clearing his throat in between words before looking back at her frame, sprawled across the couch. "Ei, give me room!" Galliard exclaimed, almost like a kid, huffing along before thrusting both hands down his pockets in a fit of disgrace.
And then it came back to him, sudden but welcome.
His demeanor changed at once, back on track as his lips curled upwards into the characteristic cocky smile. "Since bedtime stories seem to be your thing," the warrior teased, playful eyes her way and followed by a light shrug of shoulders. "Once upon a time," he cleared his throat, "there was a cat, curious one..."
"how could i presume to be worthy of their attention?"
Quiet & broken words fought their way to his ears through faint whispering, painting the surrounding walls a picture of doubt, hope, or even desperation—Porco couldn’t quite decipher whatever lingered underneath his question. Nor did he want to, though, lips that once parted in surprise turning into a scowl.
The Marleyan military lingering in the corners had sharp eyes and trained ears, albeit being no more than a reminder as to who held his loyalty with an iron fist. Erwin’s figure, unwhole, was but a red-tarnished prize—advisor of Eldia, failed commander; golden trophy carrying the tale of Marley’s victory ( soon to ensue ) over an island of devils with feeble shoulders.
“Islanders are only worthy of their knife, if even;“ he assured, loudly, gaze averted from the shadow of a man living off of crumbles—disgusting. He could hear the muffled laughter of those around them, bringing a faint smirk onto his lips. “And whatever advice you plan on offering,” Galliard started, much quieter than before, words nearly fading and mixing with the background chatter as he jabbed at the previous commander’s position.
”Lost cause.“
i wonder how different things would’ve been if i hadn’t left. [ annie! ]
The glass that stood between the two was thin, mirrored—cracked at the base and barely standing. Her guilt was dense, burning at the touch and impossible to ignore, much like his—they were opposites at heart, but Porco knew guilt like the palm of his hand. So, as words of remorse were disguised beneath a web of utopic thoughts, wishes, Galliard for once wasn’t the one wallowing in the abrasiveness of scrubbing-salt on open wounds.
No, he was the sturdy figure standing on the other side of the glass, yearning to punch it to pieces and yet scared of what might come out once the shards meet his fist. He had enough hurt of his own, embedded in his skin like the zig-zagging lines on his cheeks. Who didn’t, in a world like theirs, in shoes like theirs? Taught to thrive on blood-soaked soil at the cost of their souls.
“Who fucking knows,” he responded, harshly, hoping furrowed brows and tight lips were enough of a warning not to bring his brother up.
could you just for one second turn off that cynical brain of yours? [ pieck! ]
The interception of her soft prose & sharp words had him ambushed, backed against a wall—astonished hues darting her way as if expecting anything other than the dark-haired & lazy-eyed warrior. Breathing her in was minty, sweet jabs and stolen glances digging at his lungs with every inhale—addicting, the kind that sends chills down your spine but compels you to always crave more anyway.
“Tsk,” he scoffed, averting gaze aiming far from her small and mischief-prone frame. “Look who’s talking,” Galliard mused, once wide eyes hardening as he held onto his smug and stone-built facade with two rows of gnashing teeth—as if it were to work around her; it never did.
“Don’t tell me I hurt your feelings,” he queried, a devilish smile tainting the corners of his lips as he glanced, teasingly, back at his comrade.
— sentence starters : the umbrella academy, episode 01.06, the day that wasn’t.
get this man operational.
you got mud in your ears, boy?
war’s not gonna wait for you to get pretty.
the world’s ending in three days.
wait a tick, wait a tick, wait a tick.
what are you not telling us? come on, big boy, spit it out.
we died.
in all the time that i’ve been here, i’ve never met anyone quite like you.
your spunk, your enterprising spirit, well, it reminds me a great deal of myself, if i may be so vainglorious.
we’ve got all the time in the world.
i suspect you like a challenge, ___.
i just feel like every time i see them, i come away feeling like there’s less of me.
you got me. the sonny to your cher, the, um, peanut butter to your jelly.
you couldn’t bother to include me.
that’s not fair? there’s nothing fair about being your sister.
i have been left out of everything for as long as i can remember. and i used to think it was dad’s fault, but he’s dead. so it turns out you’re the assholes.
if i’m gonna die, i need to know i killed those bastards first.
so, what? you’re giving up on the world, too?
i can’t believe i was stupid enough to go back there.
how could i presume to be worthy of their attention?
look at you. deadly little thing.
you have proven to be as adept with a pen as you were with a sword.
can i ask you a cuckoo bananas question?
is this about conjuring the one you lost?
well, ___ must have been a very special person to put up with your weird-ass shit.
everyone i like is already dead.
that wasn’t me. i’m so sorry to disappoint you.
if you did do this, if it was you, that’s beautiful - it’s powerful.
ordinary is not a word i’d use to describe you.
could you just for one second turn off that cynical brain of yours?
i wonder what the weather is like today. it would be nice to go to the park.
all the what-ifs start to haunt you, you know?
i wonder how different things would’ve been if i hadn’t left.
i think maybe you’re the only person who really knows who i am and still likes me anyway.
i don’t belong anywhere, thanks to you. you made me a killer.
you were always a killer.