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Leviathan - Verräter

Original painting by Zdzisław Beksiński.

#depressive black metal #black metal #atmospheric black metal #dark #metal #heavy metal #wrest #heavy #leviathan #usbm #real metal #black #verrater

█⋮▌&—♕; It's silent, the near whisper that parts on her tongue to pour from the stitching of healed flesh gnarled and knotted betwixt vocal chords who sung no heavenly course in the wake of man, yet she says it all the same, the kindly word foreign on her lips. She figures he cannot hear her, enraptured by the simplistic nature that is their taller blond friend, raucous and boisterous in giant behavior, though if only for a sparse moment neither of them look completely war trodden. No flashes of horror to slip along youthful visages, no trembling finger tips that flash with spilt life, caked dirtied under nails. Those two, they look... Happy if only for a little awhile and delicate shoulders shrug while palms tug against the sooted material of her hoodie.

Ocean filled eyes drink him in and she smiles ever so faintly, just at the soft trickle of his chuckles and the smile that hardly looks strained at all today. December 30th, was it? Huh, who knew a day could mean so much.

"-- Happy Birthday, Bertholdt."

#verrater #anxiousforhome #bloodstainedhandsbertl #bertfu #ic #[ and all my other bertl's that i see on my dash ]#[ Happy Birthday to your muses!!! Xoxoxo ]

You lied to me.

Paw prints leave markings of animalistic intent upon her ivory hips, beneath the taut leather and cloth coating over flesh broken over and over again, whether by blade, bruise, or nails themselves. It’s the insistent press of fingertips that she can feel, talons digging into her, fending off an urge to rip her apart in similar fashion to the maws that had fastened to her skin not even a day ago.

Phantom markings cloud her skin and she feels no concern for personal carelessness, but there isn’t an urge to face the wrath that swirls behind her, heat pressing against a bowed back in palpable rage. He’s angry with her, a manifestation of his distress for her rambunctious attitude towards the incident amongst towering canopies. Undoubtedly, she knows that he can still hear the echoes of her cry ringing in eardrums blistered by the sound of her behemoth roar. Only he is permissible to devour her, to cut her open, and to know of her inside and out and yet she so vigorously leapt openly through her wails to the gnashing teeth of asinine beasts that linger outside towering walls.

❝— I said I’d handle it. Never that I’d be okay.❞ Excuses, she knows, that he hisses against her hair, hands once marring against her lithe form now encompass, quieting a bubbling ire into an affectionate spiral. It’s an ebb and flow, a damning calm that she forces to instill upon his manic person. Not so sweet, not so kind. That face he wears, her awareness is heightened outside of it.

Posture shifts and she leans against his body, shoulder-blades resting along the concave of his chest, memorizing each thundering beat of his race heart as long arms cross along her middle. Keeping close. Keeping caged. ❝I made a mistake, Bertholdt. I’m… Sorry.❞

She doesn’t dare move for a moment, not until he simmers that worrisome rage to delicate shudder of misread adoration, and feels the press of lips against the back of her skull, a nuzzle of a broad-ridged nose in straw-hued hair. And she knows now that he’s alright.

#bertannie #annie leonhardt #bertholdt fubar #verrater #[ using the semi-canons we talked about bertholdt's personality from last night]#drabbles #drabble

Where were you?

❝-- Does it matter?❞ A droll beginning but one all the same, fracture form of a girl made monster slipping between the cracking crags of the wooden door, fingers tapping along the fine edges sanded down over time.

Meetings like this were commonplace amongst their ranks, a homesick excuse of warrant and want between old friends yet devious intent flooded through their veins in surges instead of kindliness. And it's with momentary disgust that she looks upon her companions, noting the stalwart silence of the bulwark and the fidgeting countenance of the pillar, averting guise and gaze alike.

Their situation had become terse since the revelation of a certain new poker chip in their orders as wolves amongst humanity's sheep. A boy pariah revealed and showered with adoration and hate alike, something neither of them would ever know of despite the cloying affection ebbing from fingertips and mutilated whimpers. In that motion, she had taken it upon herself to see to it personally, despite the protests and cries of her brethren. But fears still had a need to be assuaged, and a plan put in place.

A snarl breaches her lips, a roll of eyes before it feels like her bones settle beneath sinew, a gnawing marrow of musculature and shivering isles of ideals. ❝ So, you two had something to tell me about your Legions next expedition? Idiots going outside the Wall for a boy who has no control... Tch, whatever. Doesn't matter, I'll handle it. ❞

#prompt;meme #verrater #drabble

“— ignore is a HARSH word, I didn’t—”

The rest of his garbled yet eloquently hushed speech is fizzled out to a pathetic whisper, the olives of his cheeks lighting a bland rose. It was a staring contest he’d already resigned himself to losing indefinitely. Crystal oceans take over his cowled greens like a cakewalk. “That kind of hurt…" He lazily proclaims it without so much as a tender wipe with the tips of his fingers, all of which dropping back down to fold in his lap.

I missed you too, Annie. That’s what the stinging means. Why can’t you ever… say nice things. He debates verbalizing it tirelessly but decides, again, it’s both better left unsaid and unanswered— the pecks in haste being more broad a sentiment than words could ever be in their unique situation to begin with. What’s even less prideful is that shitty smile he wears if only briefly hugged along tight-pressed lips.

A lapse of conscious behavior swims simply behind ebony eyelashes, a flutter of notable tan that she drinks in slowly before the urge to satiate sweeps up the invoking tide in the pit of her churning stomach. Drift and press of the flesh of her lips again against the taut side of his mouth she gives again, nicer without the biting growl and harbored irritation that normally floods every fractured action the petite behemoth provides. "-- Don't be a baby."

It's not my nature, would you have it any other way? The cracking bone of fingers far smaller than his own pop, uncoiling from now wrinkled shirt-cloth in her personal unhinging, tugging backwards to fall upon heels worn down. It's a silent allowance for the pillar to straighten his back, to waver in place per the usual and fumble between sentences as she's so endearingly come to understand. Scrunching the broad bridge of a nose broken too many times that the fathomable count had been lost ages ago, the petite blonde averts an ocean drunken gaze beyond the point of his shoulder, just above and into the horizon.

"And it may be harsh but it's suitable. Don't do it again."

#verrater