you blush like an ocean in love.

𝘼 𝙥𝙚𝙧𝙨𝙤𝙣 𝙬𝙝𝙤 𝙘𝙖𝙣𝙣𝙤𝙩 𝙨𝙖𝙘𝙧𝙞𝙛𝙞𝙘𝙚 𝙚𝙫𝙚𝙧𝙮𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙣𝙜, 𝙘𝙖𝙣𝙣𝙤𝙩 𝙘𝙝𝙖𝙣𝙜𝙚 𝙖𝙣𝙮𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙣𝙜.. / indie Armin Arlert. — mobile.

[oceansvanidicus]

ᴛᴏ ᴇɴᴅᴜʀᴇ ʙᴇᴄᴏᴍɪɴɢ ᴀ ᴍᴏɴꜱᴛᴇʀ ʏᴏᴜ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ᴛᴏ ᴅɪꜱᴄᴀʀᴅ ʏᴏᴜʀ ʜᴜᴍᴀɴɪᴛʏ! — 𝐀𝐫𝐦𝐢𝐧 𝐀𝐫𝐥𝐞𝐫𝐭. indie aot muse. humanity’s narrator. — 𝙡𝙤𝙫𝙚𝙙 𝙗𝙮 H.

info. carrd. | rules | billy. | 18+ |☀️

[soulprompts]

i also wanna keep you lovely people updated about what i have in my prompt lists so here we go:

"not wanting to be alone" prompts.

"lines from social media that haven't left my brain in 2024" prompts.

"actions that make me softer than marshmallow fluff" prompts.

"quotes from irish culture that haven't left my brain in 2024" prompts.

"the revolution calls" prompts (i want to stress that this one was a request made like. we'll say two years ago but tragically it was closer to five--)

"dramatic and profound quotes out of context from social media" prompts.

"inspirational quotes out of context from social media" prompts.

"begging the morally grey/dark character not to do the bad thing" prompts.

"lines from media, social media and songs that have made me actually cry purely from emotions that defy description" prompts.

"asking for help/strong character becoming vulnerable" prompts.

"romantic lines from unexpected sources" prompts.

[soulprompts]

" WILL THEY, WON'T THEY? " A LIST OF PROMPTS:

first off, mega massive thanks to my lovely and brilliant friend @whatspoilers for the EXCELLENT title!! hi my loves! so this is a list of scenarios in which the receiver has an opportunity to look at the sender in a different light, resulting in... something. a kiss? a punch? a declaration? a confession? i know you guys, i know how spicy your brains are, so spice away! i do want to stress that the outcome of the "feelings" does NOT necessarily need to be a romantic one. it could be anger, it could be a sudden revelation, a betrayal, a heartbreaking plot twist, whatever you want! i insist on making this very clear: if you send this, there is NO expectation of the receiver to make it romantic UNLESS they want to. likewise, if the feelings ARE romantic, it's not force-shipping, this is just the receiver's muse getting a minute to evaluate their relationship with the sender and how they want it to continue! and ofc DO NOT ADD TO OR EDIT THIS LIST!

[ DANCE ]: while the sender and receiver are slow dancing together, their close proximity and the intimacy of the situation causes feelings to rise to the surface.

[ BED ]: while the sender is sleeping beside them, the receiver has a moment to watch them and consider their own feelings, resulting in clarity and a realization.

[ CONSTELLATION ]: as the pair lie down in a field and watch the stars overhead, the receiver turns to watch the sender gazing skywards, leading to them confronting their own feelings.

[ NURSE ]: after a battle gone wrong, the receiver begins to tend to the sender's wounds, fading adrenaline and rising fear causing them to realize their feelings.

[ OBSERVATION ]: when showing the sender something they've been working on, the receiver can't help but address their feelings as the sender gazes in wonder at their work.

[ ENTRANCED ]: while the sender works on something they're passionate about, the receiver has a chance to look at them properly and consider their own feelings for them.

[ DEFENCE ]: when the sender rushes to defend the receiver against a threat of any description, the receiver takes a moment to consider how they feel about the sender.

[ COLLABORATION ]: as they work together on a project, the receiver has a moment in which they contemplate their true feelings regarding the sender.

[ CONFLICT ]: during an argument with the sender, the receiver realizes there's an unspoken depth to their feelings, and takes a second to consider them closer.

[ DEFIANCE ]: after realizing there's a situation which could threaten one of their lives in order to protect a larger group, the receiver and sender have a fierce argument in private, leading to a realization of their real feelings.

[ TRAINING ]: during a sparring session, the sender and receiver end up on the floor, leading one of them to seizing the upper hand and straddling the other. the receiver has an unexpected realization of their feelings regarding their sparring partner in the process.

[ FAMILY ]: watching the sender interacting fondly with others, the receiver (from afar) takes a moment to take a closer look at their relationship.

[ STORM ]: when the two of them get caught outside in a rainstorm, the receiver uses an umbrella/jacket as a shelter, which the sender shares with them, causing the receiver to be confronted with the truth of their relationship with the sender.

[beingharsh]

Red Desert (1964), dir. Michelangelo Antonioni

[oceansvanidicus]

Armin’s expression doesn’t change, the emotion in his eyes doesn’t shift — it’s almost eerie, really, the way he can so easily make himself unreachable.

“Billy,” He starts and then stops, like he’s trying to find a way to make his words cut a little less but his tone does very little to belay his thoughts, “I don’t think I could possibly be anymore disappointed than I am right now.”

It’s not said aloud but it’s there, whispered between his consonants and breaths — even the possibility of a severing, of a leaving, would not be enough to shake him further.

“I don’t beg, Billy, which is why I’m asking you directly.” He’s capable of being gentle, he’s got a degree in being gentle and calm and understanding but he finds it hard to make those feelings come to the surface, to settle himself.

Billy undoes him. He doesn’t want to say it, but he does and he feels as if that’s a testament to something but he sets the thought and the feeling aside to be picked apart and explored later on when he’s alone.

[v1ctimplagued]

　Billy finds it unnerving and uncomfortable. It’s like being put in front of a mirror to have all one’s mistakes, shortcomings and failures staring back. It’s evident as day he’s in the wrong. He is always in the fuckin’ wrong. And yet; even if he wanted to, he doesn’t know how to fix it.

‘Cause saying sorry feels like choking. Admitting he’s a fuck up feels all too permanent and he’s so damn stupid—always doing these self-destructive and implosive things. Will Armin even like anything he has to say? Would he even understand? Or would it just all sound like echoing bullshit?

His hand goes through blonde unruly hair and he sighs, eyes flickering to the ceiling because he can’t keep looking at Armin in the eyes and seeing that damn disappointment. It’s soul shattering but self inflicted and easily preventable if he could just keep it together for one fuckin’ second. His teeth sink into his bottom lip and his head shakes, the pressure accumulating in his chest and staying stuck there–deeply rooted and tragically snagged on something, like a part of him entwined in his hurt.

“I don’t even know how to begin–“ he mutters after a second, “I don’t know how to fuckin’ try. I do it all the time. Push, pull, twist everyone around me to see what fuckin’ shape they’ll make. I wait to see if they’ll leave—and they do, I get why; just reaffirms that thought. Everything- I get so mad. All the time. Over everything. Not being able to know what you’re thinkin’ it makes me feel sick. I want to know if you’ll leave, if you’ll stay, what’s going to happen next– do you understand? There isn’t a soul alive I’ve had the capacity to not hurt. Everything I do, everything I touch with these goddamn hands Armin; everything and everyone I cross paths with. I fuck it up.”

His eyes move back down, hands sliding to his sides and his back straightening. It feels like panic. Like something lodged in his throat and burrowed deep into his stomach– “I don’t know how to love you. I don’t know how to love anyone.”

[oceansvanidicus]

The blond is quiet, the itching need for a cigarette is behind his teeth — he used to bite when he was younger, sinking his teeth into his own hands, leaving teeth-print scars on his wrists and fingers. It was a compulsive self-harm, like he couldn’t think of anything better than swallowing blood and skin. It hadn’t felt good but it was repetitive and relaxing in its familiarity.

He outgrew it, with force, redirection and a few slaps from his father. He tries not to look at the lingering white scars on his hands.

“You aren’t going to use me to self-destruct.” Because he isn’t his father, even if his accent slips into his words a bit. He doesn’t hit, he could, but he won’t. It gains nothing — he knows what the bearing of a pink underbelly looks like.

“And I know it’s hard, and I know that you’ve already decided how this conversation will go but I am not going to be your razor, do you understand me? I won’t.” It’s not anger he’s feeling but some big emotion that is ugly and beautiful and somehow bitter.

“That was a lovely reason and an even better excuse. You’re aware of yourself, you’ve picked apart the reasons but you aren’t doing anything about it. I’m,” He pauses to inhale, force the building temper to settle.

“I’m happy you told me, really, I am. I’m proud of you for telling me but it’s undermined by the fact that you don’t have any idea how much you-“ He cuts himself off and looks down at his hands, at the scars, lets waves of blond hide his face.

“Are you asking me for help?,” his voice is softer now, “I can help. I can’t do the heavy lifting for you. You’ve spent a lot of time.. hurting. I don’t want to see you hurt, Billy, and that’s the truth but,” He looks up to meet his eyes, lifting a finger, “you will not hurt me either, not on purpose, not like that if you expect to stay here.

“You can’t control the world around you. You can’t control me and if you ever do that again, Billy, I swear on Mother fucking Mary.” Armin’s accent is thick in his words but he can’t bite it back, he’s feeling too much.

“I can’t teach you how to love. There are no books or classes or movies about it. Love is quite painful.” He admits, but he thinks of the milk glass full of dandelions given to him by Christa and he says, “it can be quite pleasant too but it aches.” The wound Eren left it — it pulses.

“And I don’t expect you to learn this in a day. We are always learning to love but you won’t learn much of anything if you keep fucking pitying yourself. The past is gone. You can’t go back, you can’t change it, you can’t do anything to fix what you’ve done so it’s time to forgive yourself and it’s time to move on and it’s time to stop making everyone else the target, do you understand me?”

It feels like he’s trying to remind himself too.

[oceansvanidicus]

Armin’s brow curves in with an expression of — something sad and unsettled, that doesn’t quite fit on his delicate features. He doesn’t speak up or talk over Billy but the silence that follows is just as loaded as any words could have been.

Poignant.

“I want you to try. I’m tired of excuses.” His tone is short and to the point — not quite cutting but the blade is being sharpened on his tongue. “I’m tired of you using your anger at the world as a reason to be angry at me. You don’t think I know what the world looks like, is that it? Do you think I’m ignorant to it? Because I’m not, Billy. I know what the world is like and I know how it works but I’m not scared of it the same way you are. Your fear makes you.. harsh. Cruel.” His brow falls into a line and his lips are pursed, looking his age for once. Looking a little older.

“I’ve given you more chances than most but this is the last one you will ever get from me.” The firmness in his tone belays the truth in it — beneath the drinking and the drugs and the parties, Armin is strangely cold, absent is the quirky oddness that lingered in every interaction. The mask, it seems, has been taken off and what lies beneath it is as close to Armin’s real face, his real self, as possible.

“I understood that something was wrong, I just never asked. It’s not my place to pry you open while you’re still alive. I was hoping you’d come to me in your own time and tell me but this?,” he motions between vaguely, “I can’t do this. The.. the cruelty. The resentment.” The words are burning on his tongue, his eyes flickering with heat behind the tears but it burns out slowly.

“I want you to tell me why you won’t talk to me. Why you’re so quick to give up before even trying to fix it. But if you don’t want to, if you’d rather go, I’m not going to stop you.”

[v1ctimplagued]

　There is the slightest panic in Billy then. The worst part of all is Billy is not delusional enough to think he can spin this in any way where he isn’t acting as the antagonist. There is no scenario where his reactions hadn’t burned a bit of Armin’s patience with him. He was no victim and the self-righteous desire to defend himself doesn’t wane despite knowing he has no defensible actions.

You’d think for someone so passionate about every bit of bullshit he spewed he would be a lot better at choices, considerably more equipped to handle reality, and face his demons with the same grit. But he doesn’t, he isn’t that person. It was no revelation that Billy was cruel. He wore it like a second skin and damn was he so comfortable in it. And worst of all, he knows how unwarranted Armin’s chances are spent on him. How undeserving he’s been acting. And how it was all a long laundry list of Billy’s inexpiable sins.

Ultimatums, historically, have never worked on Billy. There were always another method to use as fuel to add to his steadily growing fire. But he’s shaken, his rage quenched, and something very unfamiliar replacing it. Billy can read the fuckin’ lines in the sand. He might not be as smart as Armin but he wasn’t a dipshit. If Armin wasn’t clear enough – Billy could read between the goddamn lines. 

How does he even begin to explain? The thought – baring himself naked to Armin makes his stomach flip in queasiness. His body reacts so strongly to the thought he is shaking his head haphazardly because he cannot. At least not with resurfacing the shame, the self-pity, and disgust along with it. Anger, he knows well. Anger he is intimate with. Anger he can handle. Everything else was what Billy was unable to grasp in his hands without burning himself in turn. 

“Armin,” His name is carefully spoken as if he is workin’ hard to hide it all. His struggle. The conflict and resistance to what he was asking. He would just have to go, wouldn’t he? But he also cannot bring himself to move his feet. ‘Cause he wasn’t ever the person to walk out. He had always put that on someone else making Billy justify his actions and misplaced feelings. 

His mouth closes. ‘Cause the words weren’t going to come. What the fuck could he even say? His mom left him, his dad beat him, Billy was so mad at everyone for failing him? For no one lookin’ past the facade to see what the fuck was up with him? That he learned to navigate everything with the same brand of rage he had been met with? He didn’t know how to touch gently, didn’t know how to bite back his words, and certainly didn’t know how to protect anyone else’s feelings other than his own. He was an adult now. How could he explain all these disappointments, abuse, and bad feelings add up and accumulate and manifest even decades later?

He cannot make excuses. He knew it was all wrong. Billy could only give perspective and he’s not quite certain he wants to. He doesn’t need his pity. Doesn’t want his fuckin’ sympathy. Doesn’t want him to point out it’s been years since he had last been hit in a way that he wasn’t paid for. That fighting now was a method of makin’ money since it was the one thing he could do well. And he’s never made room in his life for healing or growth or whatever bullshit people spew who have enough sense and money to get a therapist. “You’re only going to become more disappointed.” 

[oceansvanidicus]

Armin’s expression doesn’t change, the emotion in his eyes doesn’t shift — it’s almost eerie, really, the way he can so easily make himself unreachable.

“Billy,” He starts and then stops, like he’s trying to find a way to make his words cut a little less but his tone does very little to belay his thoughts, “I don’t think I could possibly be anymore disappointed than I am right now.”

It’s not said aloud but it’s there, whispered between his consonants and breaths — even the possibility of a severing, of a leaving, would not be enough to shake him further.

“I don’t beg, Billy, which is why I’m asking you directly.” He’s capable of being gentle, he’s got a degree in being gentle and calm and understanding but he finds it hard to make those feelings come to the surface, to settle himself.

Billy undoes him. He doesn’t want to say it, but he does and he feels as if that’s a testament to something but he sets the thought and the feeling aside to be picked apart and explored later on when he’s alone.

[slipng]

 ᭢ຶ⵿seashells. ̴̟̇

[oceansvanidicus]

— continued from x.

Armin stares at @v1ctimplagued as he speaks, expression carefully smoothed over, impossible to read further than the obvious disappointment that twitches his brow. It’s clear that he wants something.

He remembers comparing Billy to his wayward soldier before, privately in the safety of his mind, but he sees now the similarities are too hard to ignore. His nose still hurts from their last fight — he and Eren had rarely ever came to blows with each other but they didn’t shy away from it either.

Turning his eyes away from Billy, Armin isn’t surprised to find his vision blurring a bit through the tears filming over ocean blue. There’s no shame in them but he’s aware that he’s putting his hand into cage of a feral dog by being so visibly affected. It’s no revelation — he’s always been a crier.

“That hurts, Billy, it really does. I give a fuck about you, I thought that was obvious, I don’t why I did, I mean, I’ve gotten more emotional complexity from fucking children.” He grits the words out from between his teeth because he’s learned to be vicious but he’s never liked showing his teeth. He’s always preferred the shadowy work of manipulation, if he can help it, but he tries, really, not to be that way with those he cares about.

The world had not loved him, so his only weapon against it was kindness and that was a strength and rebellion all its own. Oftentimes, it proved never to be enough.

“You think any of this makes you strong? Makes you better? It doesn’t. You’re just going to keep ending up alone and with no-one to blame but your damn self.” There’s a frustration in his chest that is not aimed at the blond before him but feels like a close enough target anyway. Pushing his fingers through waves of blond, he smoothes his hair back from his face, eyeing Billy was something that wasn’t quite anger but lingered on the edges of it.

“Either you can put some effort into talking to me like an adult and fixing this or you can leave.” He says softly, “but I’m not opening that door for you again if you walk out it.”

The second time in his life he’s fallen short of arguing and settled on the ever painful ultimatum that will dog his steps if it all goes wrong. But he’s tired too, of things not going how they should.

[v1ctimplagued]

　The irony is Billy cares. It’s just infinitely easier to pretend he doesn’t–that he owes the world nothing, that he doesn’t have any fucks left to hand out–but it just wasn’t the truth. Perhaps it’s the knowledge that even if he amended his ways and learned to be better, who was going to buy it? Who was going to give Billy another chance? Who would see him any differently than him at his worst?

More pressing: how does someone navigate everything if not through anger and destruction?

If he’s learned anything it’s that he cannot rely on anyone but himself. That having sympathy was a one way ticket to gettin’ fucked over or hurt. Sometimes it’s easier to lick his wounds than avoid them altogether. ‘Cause there was no telling what might happen if Billy allowed himself to unravel one day. Tightly bound, knotted, and secure was the only method that had ever worked for him – anything else was a recipe for disaster.

But nothing prepares Billy to be faced with the consequences of his own actions, his own callousness. How jarringly familiar it is to stare at someone’s eyes welling with tears and know that he’s caused it—to know he’s turned everyone into a replica of him as a child, tear stricken and disappointed because they’re constantly being failed. Was it not some goddamn irony? How uglily that twists his insides when he cannot turn away from the shattered blue. Soured, confused and frustrated.

The fight deflates then. It’s no coincidence. The imposing threat of a firmly shut door. Billy wouldn’t blame him as he’s acted like a complete and utter ass. He’s foolish, impulsive and so quick to his own doom. There was no fight standing in front of him but all the telltale signs are there. Locked joints, clenched fists and an electric gaze. Stupid, stupid, stupid Billy couldn’t see he was just fighting himself.

“I didn’t ask for you to care–“ it's a losing game, isn’t it? Psychological warfare against the other is next to impossible. Billy’s not fuckin’ smart. At least not in the way that matters. Deflated and broken, he sighs. It was a cheap blow, he thinks. The one thing that really gets under his skin. The insufferable ache of someone leaving and being done with him. (Again, he doesn’t even blame them.) But there is something unsettling about it that makes him desperate to cling, to really dig his fingers in, and never let go.

What does Armin know about being strong? He won’t ask it because he knows it’s crossing a line. He’s already crossed one. But words can’t be taken back. The truth is Billy doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t have the same emotional fortitude and everything he wants to say will cut. He doesn’t get as much satisfaction from making Armin as he thought he might – it just feels like shit. More reasons to load on the self-loathing. “What is there left to talk about?” He demands, voice losing much spark it had moments prior. A verbal white flag. Understanding he doesn’t want to walk out that door ‘cause he’s never been able to handle things shutting him out. “What more can I even do?”

[oceansvanidicus]

Armin’s brow curves in with an expression of — something sad and unsettled, that doesn’t quite fit on his delicate features. He doesn’t speak up or talk over Billy but the silence that follows is just as loaded as any words could have been.

Poignant.

“I want you to try. I’m tired of excuses.” His tone is short and to the point — not quite cutting but the blade is being sharpened on his tongue. “I’m tired of you using your anger at the world as a reason to be angry at me. You don’t think I know what the world looks like, is that it? Do you think I’m ignorant to it? Because I’m not, Billy. I know what the world is like and I know how it works but I’m not scared of it the same way you are. Your fear makes you.. harsh. Cruel.” His brow falls into a line and his lips are pursed, looking his age for once. Looking a little older.

“I’ve given you more chances than most but this is the last one you will ever get from me.” The firmness in his tone belays the truth in it — beneath the drinking and the drugs and the parties, Armin is strangely cold, absent is the quirky oddness that lingered in every interaction. The mask, it seems, has been taken off and what lies beneath it is as close to Armin’s real face, his real self, as possible.

“I understood that something was wrong, I just never asked. It’s not my place to pry you open while you’re still alive. I was hoping you’d come to me in your own time and tell me but this?,” he motions between vaguely, “I can’t do this. The.. the cruelty. The resentment.” The words are burning on his tongue, his eyes flickering with heat behind the tears but it burns out slowly.

“I want you to tell me why you won’t talk to me. Why you’re so quick to give up before even trying to fix it. But if you don’t want to, if you’d rather go, I’m not going to stop you.”

[lilyrosedeepdiscomfort]

[oceansvanidicus]

— continued from x.

Armin stares at @v1ctimplagued as he speaks, expression carefully smoothed over, impossible to read further than the obvious disappointment that twitches his brow. It’s clear that he wants something.

He remembers comparing Billy to his wayward soldier before, privately in the safety of his mind, but he sees now the similarities are too hard to ignore. His nose still hurts from their last fight — he and Eren had rarely ever came to blows with each other but they didn’t shy away from it either.

Turning his eyes away from Billy, Armin isn’t surprised to find his vision blurring a bit through the tears filming over ocean blue. There’s no shame in them but he’s aware that he’s putting his hand into cage of a feral dog by being so visibly affected. It’s no revelation — he’s always been a crier.

“That hurts, Billy, it really does. I give a fuck about you, I thought that was obvious, I don’t why I did, I mean, I’ve gotten more emotional complexity from fucking children.” He grits the words out from between his teeth because he’s learned to be vicious but he’s never liked showing his teeth. He’s always preferred the shadowy work of manipulation, if he can help it, but he tries, really, not to be that way with those he cares about.

The world had not loved him, so his only weapon against it was kindness and that was a strength and rebellion all its own. Oftentimes, it proved never to be enough.

“You think any of this makes you strong? Makes you better? It doesn’t. You’re just going to keep ending up alone and with no-one to blame but your damn self.” There’s a frustration in his chest that is not aimed at the blond before him but feels like a close enough target anyway. Pushing his fingers through waves of blond, he smoothes his hair back from his face, eyeing Billy was something that wasn’t quite anger but lingered on the edges of it.

“Either you can put some effort into talking to me like an adult and fixing this or you can leave.” He says softly, “but I’m not opening that door for you again if you walk out it.”

The second time in his life he’s fallen short of arguing and settled on the ever painful ultimatum that will dog his steps if it all goes wrong. But he’s tired too, of things not going how they should.

[mabellonghetti]

Monica Vitti in "Fai in fretta ad uccidermi… ho freddo!" (dir. Francesco Maselli - 1967).

[oceansvanidicus]

Armin nods to show he’s listening, plating the food and humming every now and then — a practiced sort of attentiveness that gentled some of his more jagged edges.

“Gigs, huh? You a musician or something else?” He’s turning to face Billy after sitting the plated food aside, leaning the small of his back against the counter to face the other. His words settle Armin, they make sense. There is a feeling to Billy he rivals to drifting storms, never staying where it ought to for long.

“Oh, it’s a tale. I used to live in Italy, born and raised, but my folks moved around a lot. From France to Denmark to Canada.. America, eventually.” He pauses, frowning a little.

“I’m here because a friend of mine ran headfirst into the war, stupid boy, but what can I do?” There’s something stubborn in the line of his brow that he smoothes out with ease, following up with: “I’m a mortician,” He waves a hand around the kitchen and smiles cattily, “dying pays the bills.”

“Don’t worry,” His eyes trail over Billy’s form clinically, pushing off from the counter with plate and bowl in hand, and lightly jostling him aside with his hip as he walks past, “you look healthy enough.”

He’s only in the dining room for a moment, back to grab plates and mug, nodding to the press, “bring that along, there’s fixings for it on the table.”

“It’s not a bad place,” He says after a few moments, “there are worse places to be, worse company to have. But what do I know? I spend my time with cadavers, starving artists and Beatniks. Not exactly the picture of respectable society.”

[v1ctimplagued]

　A musician? Billy chuckles at that. When he was younger he had been really into music (specifically metal) and had fancied the idea of being in a band. However, that dream had been uprooted fairly earlier because it wasn’t the respectable type of work that his father would have accepted. It had been merely a childish dream because Billy wasn’t exactly musically inclined either. It made much more sense he leaned into violence instead. He had always been good with his fists and initially, his father had approved — probably single handedly nurturing it in Billy.

“No, not a musician.” His own eyes drift to his patchwork knuckles: bruising, bruised, and healed over so many times he didn’t know what scar was from what. His lips are cracked up in a small smile. “Fights. Boxing. You know, cockfights? Well humans instead. Not gonna lie it’s pretty gnarly at times but it’s what I am good at and what pays the bills. I go all over to kinda get my name out there.”

Armin’s own life sounded considerably more interesting than Billy’s. Billy had spent a long time in mostly two places until he finally got the nerve to get up and leave as soon as he turned eighteen leaving that shithole of a town behind him, forgetting the shit he didn’t have the strength to take with him, and figurin’ out all his own bullshit along the way. And it was only him — but maybe after his next two fights that would change and he’d finally have an agent to handle all the shit he didn’t have the patience for.

Billy grabs the press and follows Armin, moving to slide into the table seat, and nods slightly. He agrees with that, at least. There were definitely fuckin’ worse places to be, worse people to be around, and so on. But how Armin does what he does, he doesn’t know. Billy doesn’t think he has the stomach for that. Despite his own profession and the level of steel that Billy ended up getting into a ring… it’s different. Everyone’s alive, for starters. 

“How did you end up in that profession?” He asks after a moment since he doubts it was the sort of thing Armin just fell into. But perhaps he was wrong.

[oceansvanidicus]

“You remind me of my Eren.” He chirps, perking up at the boy’s name. His lips curve into a smile and it’s obvious that he loves him — but in what way, it’s unclear. “I met him when I was 17, he was fresh from Germany, he spoke with his fists and not his words. He was a protector.” He looks up, a question in his eyes that he doesn’t voice.

Are you a protector? But it’s too early for that, too forward of a question.

Armin begins fixing a cup of coffee — two sugars, drowning it in creamer — and nods a little as if to encourage himself to keep talking.

“You should take care, that’s not an easy life.” He pauses and smiles then, “easy lives are the hardest ones to manage.” The question perks him up a bit — he’s more used to people asking about if he’s ever seen a ghost or what it’s like having to cut someone open.

“Eren’s father, he was a doctor, he practically raised me when my grandfather passed. I wasn’t a very healthy child, not by any means, so I spent my time reading his books.” He frowns a little then. “I was… eight, yes, eight when I left Italy. There was an earthquake a few months prior, it destroyed the whole town.” Armin takes a small sip of his coffee. “There was nowhere to bury the dead.” A small pause as he calculates where he wants to go with the story, considers the setting and skips over something.

“I was going to be a doctor, that had been the plan, initially, but I wasn’t good at it. Too cold, my professors said, not personable enough.” Armin looks up at Billy and smiles, but his eyes aren’t warm underneath the memories, “they were right. Cadavers don’t mind though. It’s a privilege too, to be with someone when they’re most vulnerable. You think you’re most vulnerable when you’re alive, when you’re sleeping, but it’s when you’re dead that you know true vulnerability. You lose the twenty-one grams, your soul leaves your body, but it’s still your body, you know? That takes more trust than you can imagine.

“It’s also nice to.. give the families something back. Trauma deaths are the hardest because you’re trying to remake a person, and there’s a beauty in that too, but mostly, it’s just sad. But it must be done.”

He pokes lightly at his bowl of salad. “Most morticians don’t make it through training, the cadavers move, ya know? And there’s some things you.. can’t unsee. It’s hard to take work off, the mindset necessary to stay sane is hard to explain, and there’s always worry that a familiar face will cross my table, but for the time being, it’s.. not horrible.”

Smiling softly after, his shoulders relax from the tension they’d unknowingly gathered. “That was a lot. We can talk about something far less morbid than my work.”

[oceansvanidicus]

“It’s simple,” Armin is already filling a kettle with water to settle onto the stove. At the mention of names and other pleasantries, the blond smiles a little.

“Oh, love, I’m Armin. You are?” He doesn’t seem the least bit concerned about not knowing the name of the man who he slept, quite comfortably if he had to say, beside. He’s moving like someone with a routine, grabbing a jar of coffee beans labeled “from Mika” in tight and neat cursive, humming softly to himself as he got the hand grinder.

“Now, here’s what you do. When that water starts boiling, taking it off the heat and let it sit — about thirty seconds is perfect. Can’t be too hot. Next,” He motions to the ground coffee he’d prepared, “a few tablespoons of this. Six should do it if you’re making yourself a cup, just three if not. Add the water after, stir till it’s foaming and then let it sit for a few minutes.” He smiles a little after, “simple, right?”

He sets everything aside for Billy as he goes about rinsing off the fruit and salad, humming softly to himself.

Despite the lack of awkwardness, Armin doesn’t really know what to say — he talks to plenty of cadavers but those never talk back. Most of the time.

He peels and slices the grapefruit with care, glancing at Billy and then back. The fruit bleeds pink juice down his fingers and drips leisurely onto the cutting board.

“Don’t mind me asking, but you don’t seem like you’re from around here.” He considers toasting the bread for something warm to offset the salad’s coolness and dips down to find a pan under the cabinet, rinsing and drying it before setting it on the stove.

“Not really from around here myself, so there’s no shame in it.” Armin likes to think he pretends very well, being something he inherently is not, calm and confident and an aesthete. Where it counts, he is those things — he also prefers jazz clubs and bars and drugs when he isn’t staring into forever silent bodies. He is as much privileged as he was that little orphaned boy who could barely afford books, let alone an entire house where he can make space for himself.

He’s careful not to burn the bread — it was expensive.

[v1ctimplagued]

　It’s a series of unforeseeable circumstances that even brought him to the area. For the last couple of years Billy has been moving from place to place following the work and the fights that line up for him. It suited his desires for the time being and truthfully, he had no desire to put down any real roots any time soon.Despite that, Billy feels far from fitting for the glitz and glamor of the bigger cities. He misses his ocean side home and the quaintness that followed that. But there was no denying the experiences he got moving from place to place was probably something that was long overdue in his life up until that point.

Armin. Definitely not a name he had ever come across before but these particular circumstances were even more unique than any before. He’s very far from home. “Billy, it’s Billy.” He says and turns his attention to the instructions determined to not fuck the other’s coffee up too much. Or at least he would attempt.

Billy takes care to follow the instructions. It doesn’t seem too difficult as Armin had said since it was relatively simple. Boiling the water, adding the coffee, and then allowing it to sit and the water to turn murky and bitter. Perhaps one day he would enjoy it, but he doubts it would be any time soon. If he was pushed into a corner he might make due with coffee but until he preferred his eight hours of rest when the nights allowed.

Billy hums at Armin’s question, gaze turning. “You’re right, I am not from around here.” It’s probably obvious with how starkly he felt in contrast. Those years in Hawkins had ruined him, he thinks. The countryside air stuck to him like a second cologne. Far from a country bumpkin though - he preferred to think he was an ocean baby, born into the shores and the tides. He avoided home nowadays but he knew inevitably he would have to return.

“I was born in California. But I’ve lived all over since then. I go where the gig is, stick around for a bit, then go again.” It’s nice in its own way. Pleasant and full of experiences. But lonely. Lonely enough he was okay sleeping next to a complete stranger for any semblance of companionship. Pathetic but manageable like this. “And where are you from if you do not mind me askin’ and what brings you here?” 

[oceansvanidicus]

Armin nods to show he’s listening, plating the food and humming every now and then — a practiced sort of attentiveness that gentled some of his more jagged edges.

“Gigs, huh? You a musician or something else?” He’s turning to face Billy after sitting the plated food aside, leaning the small of his back against the counter to face the other. His words settle Armin, they make sense. There is a feeling to Billy he rivals to drifting storms, never staying where it ought to for long.

“Oh, it’s a tale. I used to live in Italy, born and raised, but my folks moved around a lot. From France to Denmark to Canada.. America, eventually.” He pauses, frowning a little.

“I’m here because a friend of mine ran headfirst into the war, stupid boy, but what can I do?” There’s something stubborn in the line of his brow that he smoothes out with ease, following up with: “I’m a mortician,” He waves a hand around the kitchen and smiles cattily, “dying pays the bills.”

“Don’t worry,” His eyes trail over Billy’s form clinically, pushing off from the counter with plate and bowl in hand, and lightly jostling him aside with his hip as he walks past, “you look healthy enough.”

He’s only in the dining room for a moment, back to grab plates and mug, nodding to the press, “bring that along, there’s fixings for it on the table.”

“It’s not a bad place,” He says after a few moments, “there are worse places to be, worse company to have. But what do I know? I spend my time with cadavers, starving artists and Beatniks. Not exactly the picture of respectable society.”

[oceansvanidicus]

[ 𝐛𝐥𝐞𝐞𝐝 ] : sender has made the receiver bleed. / r u still taking these because 👀 — @usurpcr

Armin drags his tongue over his bottom lip, swallows a mouth full of blood before raising his eyes to meet Eren’s — always him, it seems, always the one doing the most hurting. His own knuckles ache, they’ve never fought like this before. Armin had always just been too fragile, more likely to burst a lung than he was to get even a glancing hit in.

I’m not a runt anymore, he wants to say, but he keeps the words to himself because he isn’t sure Eren would even listen. Besides, he’s the one on the floor, cradling an arm to his chest and Eren is not.

“You gonna hit me again?” He asks softly, shakily climbing up his feet, managing to look both unimpressed and hurt, emotionally, by Eren. His mouth tastes like iron and salt, there is a divide between his mind and heart that he doesn’t want to acknowledge while the very reason for it is close enough to touch.

“Everyone missed you. I missed you.” Missed him enough to try and bash his head in on against the heavy, mahogany table but if asked, Armin will deny that death was the end goal —if anything, he will say his emotions took hold of him and they are many and they are like a wildfire.

“Did you miss me?”

[oceansvanidicus]

what kind of love are you?

Love as Religion

Devotion, that is the name of your love. Your love is an act of worship. Your love is like witnessing the birth of Venus, like seeing the sun come alive, or the stars fall. When you love, it is because you have found God in a lover. You have found the meaning of life itself in the heart of the one you adore. They are everything to you; they are your Maker, and you are their lamb, their flock, their first and holiest worshipper. When you fall in love, it is as a baptism. You are born anew, made a believer in the divinity of the one you love most. Being loved by you is an ascension; it is holy and golden. It is all-consuming, and all-faithful, loyal as the dog. You will never, ever bite back.

tagged by: @v1ctimplagued <3

tagging: @massensterben @micsmasmuses @usurpcr @gcldensnflwr and you!

[oceansvanidicus]

*poke*

HELLO

[your-embalmer]

Sorry I smell like formaldehyde can we still make out