#worstheir

[oncejaw]

@worstheir​ 

“It was me, you know.” A non-existent wind carries the sound of the voice of a dead boy, whose voice once only mattered to a band of ragtag children turned into war weapons. Not that it made a difference whatsoever. There was a time he had thought it would. Brotherly advice and care, encouragements, leadership and inspiration. Perhaps it had made a difference, for a short while. Since his death, Marcel can only ever come to one solitary conclusion: his voice had ever made the slightest shred of difference. Childishly, he thinks it is the same here. Whatever he whispers along the paths, whatever the breeze of his words may carry, will dissolve into the sand, that silvery, light sand from whence everything and nothing sprouts, from whence titans are scultped and come to die like elephants in their cemeteries.

Surely, whatever he may whisper to a queen in her slumber won’t make a shred of difference either. 

But eternity is very long, and very lonely, for a thirteen year-old little boy with too much to say, and no one to listen. The only visitors here are fleeting dead souls, old titans lumbering at the horizons; a little girl carrying a bucket and fallen kings. Eternity has a way of tripping you down to bare bones and quintessence. He, the child, has never been as selfish and capricious than since he’s died. 

Hollow orbs in lieu of eyes gaze over the small woman (small woman, great and golden soul, rotten to the core; not by her own design, only others and their rotten touch; do they have that in common or not? The boy can no longer tell the distinction). She’s not dead, that one; only asleep, only slipping through the cracks even when she’s not meant to. Marcel doesn’t question it (why should he?). He knows her, though; he’d seen her through the eyes of the other, every time he’d attach himself to Ymir’s soul like a jealous parasite. 

“It was me who asked her to go with them.” Asked her? Ordered her? Had he taken over for the briefest moment, or just implored her? Not even Marcel knows. Perhaps Ymir made her choice freely; but then again, is anyone ever really free in this wretched world already doomed? At his feet, a shadow born from no light or lack thereof stretches, in the shape of a many-teethed, sharp-clawed monster. He’s seen his titan erring in this wasteland before. Replaced by another... and then another. “Are you... angry?” He asks in a murmur. “That she left. That she went with them, instead of staying with you.”

[resurrged]

STARTER      :         @worstheir ​     /     𝙝𝙞𝙨𝙩𝙤𝙧𝙞𝙖   .

        ↳    send   ‘  💬  ’    for a  generated  dialogue starter .

𝐈𝐓'𝐒  𝐀𝐍  𝐀𝐂𝐇𝐄  𝐈𝐍  𝐇𝐄𝐑  𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐒𝐓       like none other :      the burn of flowers once blooming ,   festering through her ribs like disease .    Like mayhem .    Historia  /  heliotrope   —   she should've taken  heed  to the fear of darkness .   Instead she stands in the weeds of it ,   unable to gather the strength to leave them be .    Why she bothers ,   why she’s still   trying  ,   why she turns around when Historia offers her a   perfectly  good  out ,   rage in her eyes and hurry in her movements :

                               ❛     Are you  kidding me  ?     We’re not  ‘ fine ’   !    ❜

[witcr]

'let’s not talk about it, let’s just not talk.'      /        pretending  @worstheir​​  made a yennefer and has her shit together for valentines     :     richard siken   ( open )

𝐘𝐄𝐒 ,    𝐈𝐓'𝐒  𝐅𝐎𝐎𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐇  𝐓𝐎  𝐆𝐈𝐕𝐄  𝐈𝐍       this  quick .    it’s  reckless        to keep the rhythm they’ve built to satisfy neither by more than a surface scratch .    Yet Geralt sheathes to her plea ,   eyes shutting to a close .        ❛     Okay ,    ❜       he says ,   voice kept low despite knowing it’s only the two of them .    He brings himself forward ,   until he feels the cool of her forehead against his .    He opens his eyes again ,   meeting violet he daren’t think of as  tender .        ❛      We won’t talk .     ❜

Yes ,   he should argue .   He should try again ,   to make Yennefer see reason .   But he knows they never want to see it at the same time .   It’s how these things go :   a constant push and pull .   And so be it .   Maybe there’s benefit to letting it all die in his throat .   It sure as hell feels like it ,   like this .    With her legs over his and his hands painfully itching to dig even deeper in her skin  /   pushing on thighs and pulling in her lower back .       ❛      Stay the night ,    I’ll make it worth your time ,      ❜     Geralt tells her   —    and it’s a promise he expects to keep .   A promise he’ll be to the point of feverish fatigue and discomfort to uphold ,   to  upkeep .    

Yes ,    maybe there’s something to be said of his character here .    Of  their  characters ,  together ,    in something as simple as this .   In the non - existent  urgency  they create for themselves .   In the moment they  could  be having ,   but refuse to .   Maybe they’re simply not cut out for any more .    Maybe he shouldn't succumb to self - pity  &  sorrow .    Maybe they should slow ,   and listen ,   for once .   Work through more than the satisfaction of the now .    Maybe ,    the world should have dealt them a better hand ,   and they wouldn’t chase it so .    That candied fervor had long since melted to something far more somber .    Forgive him ,    for cooling off in the dark .

[abritons]

🌸 uwu

𝐍𝐎𝐍𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐁𝐀𝐋 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐒   /   uwu   /   @worstheir  💕

   HER REVERIE IS INTERRUPTED.  a quick gleam of color / dappled in hues of pinks and white that blur together into the form of a carnation, quaintly nestled into the strands of hair she keeps tucked behind her ear.   ❝ oh ! ❞    elation tickles past her tongue, bronzed gaze eyeing historia as she settles down in the space beside her.   ❝ it’s beautiful. is it from the garden? ❞   the orphanage had occupied her time most days, and last she’d checked there had been only buds, not yet into bloom before the spring. she’ll have to visit again.   ❝ my mother used to braid flowers into my hair when i was a girl. it lasted for hours, i swear. i’d be happy to teach you — for sasha— i mean. ❞  she clarifies, but the words die on her tongue, an unspoken sadness of things she cannot have — of things she has already lost.  notions of childlike grandeur had once convinced her she’d have these skills to pass on to her own kin, a family of her own - but now she supposes she may as well share them with someone who might find use for them instead.  ❝ she’s a lovely girl, historia. you’ve done a wonderful job,  and you should be proud. ❞

[aendeiousa]

pale skin flushed by the rising heat, bubbles sticking to wet flush as they both settled in the club foot tub. it’s deep enough for the both of them to be covered, but still they stay close. the queen settled between the legs of a soldier. A moment of quiet as their toddler finally rests, trying to genuinely savor it. “ he never touched you like i did, hmm? “ her voice hummed, a soft echo against high tiles. they’ve never tasted such peace like this before. a wandering hand across pretty skin. it’s softer, less misshapen. she carried a different weight than that the war had given mikasa. 

mikasa felt the shudder, the twitch that makes hot water ripple at their appendages and how they peek from the bath. “ no. “ hisu murmured. a fine flush across the high of her cheeks. even at this angle mikasa could see and it’s so pretty. she’s still new to this, but it doesn’t stop her. hands moving down shoulder blades and her spine. they curl over the soft flesh of her stomach, moving up again to touch underneath her breast. she felt so compelled, but even she was still shy. 

“ i want you. “ the queen muttered, head falling back to meet a cold steel. honey warm even despite the shade. mikasa flushed, it spread down the milky expanse of her chest. “ you do? “ it’s a question not meant for an answer. she already knew. hisu had already taken her apart so many times and it was finally her turn to give the same favor. it was the look in her eyes that finally motivated her, that one hand finally cupped the soft and warm flesh, feeling the budding of her nipple. it’s trapped between the knuckles of her fingers and soon the tips. a careful pinch to coax such a sweet sound that makes her head buzz. she wanted to hear more.

her other hand wanders further, passing the flatness of her stomach and between legs. her hands rests there possessively, carefully. she could already feel the arching of hisu’s hips into the palm of her hand and she pressed back. it’s the signal she needed to finally let her fingers spread into the folds of velvet. they carefully trace their lips up until she finds thtt spot. the very one hisu had made her come undone with just a few nights ago. the feeling compelled her to explore further, letting her finger do half circles against the growing bud. “ good? “ she asks, searching for encouragement. but the queen’s mouth was parted and pressing kisses to the expanse of her neck. she heard a hum of excitement. it’s all she needed to continue, letting her finger flick over it carefully until they apply a gentle pressure. enough to let her settle some. 

“ i’m trying... “ she breathed out, hot in the face and between her own thighs. but her focus is on the pretty mess between her legs, how nice it felt to finally give historia all she’s given her already.  “ you’re so pretty. “ her free hand pulls from the water, brushing back the blonde locks that remain slick to her skin. she wanted to see more, the way her features would twist as she’d come on her fingers. “ you’re even prettier like this… “ her words soften, lips against the wet skin of her neck as fingers guide down her cunt until her finger can press inside. even with the water around them she could feel how wet she was. it’s slippery, adheres to her finger as she lets it inside. a careful curl of her digit before she’s adding another and finding a steady pace.

mikasa could already tell she’s overthinking, trying to mimic the way historia would work her fingers against her cunt late at night. how she’d make her twitch and moan. the thought only spurs her more, her own pussy desperate for touch. but it wasn’t about her, not when she had the queen in her lap and moaning. “ does it feel good? “ she has to ask, curling her fingers again to try and find that glorious spot. with the way historia twitched and gripped at the tub she could tell it was right there. “ i want you to cum. “ she breathed out, her arm grasping the queen tighter to her while the other worked faster. even her thumb works to tease the other’s clit to make it feel even better. the perfect circle or flick to make thighs twitch. the water is noisy, even slipping over as the queen finally starts to shake, a heavenly noise spilling passed pink lips that mikasa quickly captured with her own. swallowing the noise until she felt her settle. she pressed carefully onto her cunt, letting her enjoy the throb of it. when she settles finally, she lets her hand slip away, carefully brushing up and down her thigh to relax muscles. 

the water wasn’t as hot anymore, the floor a mess. they’d need to be careful when they step out. “ ready for bed? “ she asks against skin, but the queen shakes her head. clearly her mind was full of much more than dreaming in soft sheets. “ not even. “ and her coy reply is all she needed to bring a smile to the girl behind her.

[vvasilisa]

places a dead bird she found in the yard on top of Alma’s book. As a birthday present uwu.

ALACK IS WHAT VEILS A MAIDEN’S MIEN.  an outline,  a coat of wax,  pallor tinge framed with the company of those golden locks―  the sun’s hue,  such a porcelain complexion, such envy of women  /  lusting of man.  & there, such beauty still remains from years, adorn by seraphic details were features,   however,   even now,  restless regrets always seem to blemish such pride ―pride, & guilt & girlish delusion, for a fairy-tale daydream.  dreams always look so much better in the shape of slumber  /  how foolish to dream  ―――  you know now,  a promise, it will never last, no?   & nine months of believing that dream,   yeah,  it proved that. 

you are,   a lady left out in the coldest of winters.  once a lady of the summertide, how once you were warm / happy - you were borne of summer’s cruelty, a month of barbarity & heat, & grief led you through the night / an open cry of creation as your own daughter's birth, ah    ―  a daughter,  she came in the spring’s night,  & the blooming of being   /   how spring was so merry before  /  with a gentle rain you held a baby of yours   -   but spring,  it became the harshest season   /   & the drought sets in   /  the decay sets in   /  DECAYING of woman  /  a decaying of that warmth -- for all you held that day was shame & blood & flesh.  & man,  he cast you away.       historia.   [ historia,   a name declared   /  a name chosen from once a fondness.  now,  turned bitter  /  turned from fondness to an abhorrent guilt / ruined by a single heartbeat  /  ruined upon first breath.]  maybe once,  once upon a time,  you could have loved this child,  you could have felt some remnants of joy at her being   /   you could have given all of you  /  a mother’s love you, yourself, never felt  /   you could have been kind.    YOU COULD HAVE.      & you maybe if you did try, things would be different.          but you can’t.         no.   you can’t.   you can’t.   you can’t.   this is because of her.   what if you didn’t blindly trust a man―― historia did this.   historia did this.  SHE DID.    SHE DID. 

& this dead bird,  a  grotesque reflection   /   this creature is dead   /   wings collapsed against the fragile & sullied body  /  the feathers plucked from the wind  /  nature is so cruel.      do you see yourself?  do you see what this child will do to you?        you are trapped & dying   /    dying,   dying  /   she will be the death of you   /  you could try & flee  /  no   /  you would be shot down in your tracks  /  beaten till you find yourself lying in the yard too  /  & historia,  she would find you in a shallow hole.   will she put your book by your side?    

         you hope she knows,  that it would be her fault.   yeah.

you know.  you have so much to say,   but all these things,   they never seem to make it out of that mouth.  maybe if you were capable of love,  maybe you could tell her  maybe you would understand your own self hated.    maybe,   maybe.      ――      historia,   historia.  historia.  would you like to hear the story of when your mother first held you?   no. that is something to never tell you.   there was love.      ――            historia.  would you like to hear about how she cried rocking you to sleep  /  tears that were not your own, they were staining your cheeks.  those tears,  so carelessly falling  /  so empty  / empty  / empty again  / empty forever  /  she cried all her emotions out   /   all her love for you.  empty.   an empty woman.   hm, that one is far too boring  /  far to kind /  that kindness is long dead.               ――        so  historia.  would you like to hear about the day rod cast you both away?   away to this god awful farm.  how your mother,  how many threats she made,  so many promises made.     &  do you know,   how this mother,   how this mother of yours sat & plotted your murder.  [what is a life of a bastard.        this would be a favour.  that what you kept telling yourself.]    the promise of death, the kindest thing your mother could do.    historia.  do you want mother dearest to tell you of how she tried to drown you?      ah.    but she couldn’t?    some fragment,  some minuscule piece of that heart   /   it couldn’t.         why did you stop?   why did you bring her up all   /   why did you hold onto her  /   you hate her.   you hate?    HATE.   you are too weak   /   too soft    /   you couldn’t do it after all.     all the rage  /  all the pain  /  all the hate that you let brew  & grow,  & you still couldn’t do it.       there is still something,  maybe not love,  but there is some clinging, speck of care  /  attachment that you can’t cut.       & now,   more than ever,         you wish you gutted yourself during those nine months,    killed this parasite that grew in your womb   /  she took your life   /   she shouldn’t have been born   /   not to someone like you.    you can’t love an ugly thing like her.    you can’t  you can’t you can’t  you can’t you  won’t  can’t. 

      ‘  .... that child is so ill mannered.   ’      historia,  please hate me. 

〈 * random.  IT WAS ALMA BIRTHDAY  -/-  @worstheir

[austerulous-a]

✦  @worstheir​ asked:  ❛ what coping methods  ( healthy or unhealthy )  did your muse learn during their childhood? ❜  //  questions for muses who had a rough childhood 

Between her abusive father, the low social standing of Eldians (to put it mildly) and the punishing trials of the military program, Annie couldn’t physically escape the main stressors of her childhood.  Avoidance was never an option, neither was denial, and a painful lack of interpersonal skills meant she was incapable of actively seeking support from her peers.  Given this absence, she developed other largely maladaptive coping strategies.

The most obvious is in her subservience to (and dependency on) Gabriel Leonhardt, a man more god than father.  Desperate for his approval, for the reassurance that they were family – wanting, more than anything, to feel like she belongs – Annie learned to disconnect from her own emotions, and frequently suffered dissociate episodes.  Whatever goals or dreams she might have had were never able to manifest; instead she existed to fulfil her father’s purpose, she lived for his acceptance, her value was inextricably tied to her performance.

Surrendering to Gabe’s authority, Annie was able to vent some of her frustrations during combat training (exercise is a coping mechanism she carries with her into adulthood).  Relentless and exhausting, her father’s practices caused physical discomfort in the form of bruising, swelling, aching joints and broken toes.  Pain was almost a relief, and she exhibited self-injurious behaviours, as well as developed excoriation disorder, meaning she would scratch and pick at her skin, as well as pull out her hair and eyelashes.  These destructive habits were exacerbated by a sense of hopelessness and low self-esteem.  Hurting was a way of feeling something, and there is a part of Annie that believes she deserves to suffer. 

Aggression was not only directed inwards, but projected outwards, towards her peers, albeit most often within the context of military drills.  Only once did she physically retaliate against her father, when she reached a breaking point and exploded in an outburst of violence that saw her savagely beat – and cripple – Mr. Leonhardt.  After this, she reverted to absolute obedience, coming to the conclusion that the chains that bind her cannot be broken, only endured.  

Astute though she is, Annie has also attempted to rationalise her father’s treatment of her.  The abuse is born out of desperation, out of his desire for a more comfortable life – that is the sole reason he adopted her, after all – and when he lashes out it is because she has disappointed or infuriated him.  Annie believes there is something in her, something lacking, that invites his violence.

[spentfaith-moved]

                      @worstheir​ said : after love, no one is what they were before.

 Despite  how  cold  the  nights  may  have  been  on  the  temperature  gage,  Armin  was  still  numb  to  it  all.  There  were  times  where  days  bled  into  the  next  and  he  remained  rooted  in  the  same  spot.  Hoping  to  whatever  gods  there  may  have  been  that  the  soil  would  take  to  his  own  body,  bury  him  within  the  ground  and  sprout  life  from  his  own  corpse.   Armin  knew  better  than  to  think  he’d  be  granted  such  a  gift  in  a  life  as  sinful  as  his  had  been.   He  thought  he’d  find  joy  in  coming  home  to  where  it  had  all  begun,  thought  he’d  find  ghosts  dancing  through  the  streets,  ones  that  would  be  friendly  and  offer  their  hands  for  Armin  to  join  them.  He’d  been  so  wrong. 

 Shiganshina  was  certainly  a  ghost  town,  there  was  no  denying  that,  though  the  ghosts  that  lived  here  only  wanted  to  haunt.  Armin  didn’t  feel  comfortable  here,  but  he  did  feel  he  was  among  the  same  kind.  Soon,   Armin  would  take  the  plunge  to  become  one  of  the  ghosts  that  would  drag  their  feet  around  these  streets,  find  something  tall  and  strong  enough  to  take  his  weight  while  he  swung  against  the  wind.  But  every  time  he  thought  his  time  may  have  been  nearing,  an  old  ghost  would  appear.  One  that  had  blonde  hair  and  a  child  on  it’s  hip.  The  only  one  who  seemed  to  curl  itself  around  Armin  as  he  said  at  the  base  of  the  tree. 

 Historia  was  certainly  a  ghost  of  her  own  unfortunate  life,   but  she  was  the  most  real  thing  he  had  left.  Even  if  it  had  taken  him  months  to  even  look  her  in  the  eyes.  They  had  a  shared  grievance.   A  love  never  properly  formed  that  had  been  destroyed  before  it  was  given  the  gift  of  finding  new  life.  Those  first  few  weeks,  Armin  could  hardly  stand  the  sight  of  her.  But  now  he  allowed  himself  to  be  held  by  her,  to  rest  the  top  of  his  head  against  her  own  as  they  both  pretended  the  warmth  of  their  bodies  belonged  to  the  one  buried  beneath  that  tree. 

 “  Love  ruined  us,  Historia.  ”   His  thumb  stroked  against  her  forearm  as  it  wrapped  around  the  back  of  her,  eyes  focusing  on  nothing  but  the  base  of  that  damn  tree.  Armin  often  wondered  what  else  was  left  for  the  two  of  them,  if  they  would  set  aside  their  differences  to  raise  the  baby  to  a  life  she  deserved.  He  knew  that  wasn’t  his  reality.  Not  while  she  still  had  her  name  signed  at  the  bottom  of  a  marriage  certificate.   Not  while  he  refused  to  leave  this  ghost  town.  “  The  only  thing  I  love  is  Sasha.  ”  It  took  him  months  to  even  be  able  to  look  at  the  baby,  even  longer  for  him  to  love  her.  It  was  the  only  thing  he  had  left  in  this  world  of  Eren,  he’d  forever  hold  her  close  to  his  heart. 

 “  If  we  were  better  people,  I  would  say  we  deserve  something  better  than  to   be  burdened  with  love  again.  ”  But  they  weren’t  better  people  and  their  burden  would  never  be  lifted.  Finally  they  were  living  out  their  penance.  Armin  blinks,  he’s  finally  growing  tired.  “  But  we  both  know  we  will  never  be  gifted  such  a  thing.  ”