girlwhoplayswithfire

They are battle-hardened children, and you are one of them; a child with wide eyes and stained skin that could be white under the layer of dirt, and dried tears, and rainbow blood that is itchy and flaky on your palms. The world revolves around you, now, and it terrifies you. You’re ‘shit outta luck’, because the world is ending, and it’s all because of you; you and them, you and your friends, though you don’t know if you can call them that anymore. You can feel your world ending, pulverized by meteors and littered with lifeless cadavers, though that’s a bit redundant anyway; you can hear their screams, t

He licks his lips, and her eyes are drawn to it. He pulls her closer, and she doesn't resist. He sinks his fangs into her neck, right above her pulse where the blood flows the thickest, and she screams, but silently. He pushes her drained body away (she crumples, wide eyes reflecting the moon, and mouth frozen, twisted in terror), and wipes the last traces of her candied, cherry-laced blood from his lips. And then he stalks away, back into the night from which he was born, back into the memories of a time when things were much simpler, back into his element. He remembers a time before the night had claimed him, a time when he was called Dave

He's the exact opposite of you, and of what you expected, and maybe that's what makes him so damn fascinating. "Technically," he says, so matter-of-factly that it sends chills down your spine, "you're already dead." "Technically," you say, struggling to keep your voice steady, "you don't exist." He smiles, as if he's proud of you. As if you're worth something to him. As if he loves you. It hurts, because you know you can't feel anything for him in return. He smiles, and your heart burns, a dull ache in your chest cavity. You wonder what he looks like without his mask, where he'll hide. What he would do if you took those stupid pointed anime

You're the Knight of Time, and you're running out of it. He smiles at you, from across the world, and you scream; you open your mouth and yell all of the things you want to say. I'm sorry- I miss you- I love you. He smiles at you, as if he knows. As if he's always known. And it makes you want to reach across that void in front of you and slap him, then kiss him silly. Please- Please don't leave me- Not here, not now. He shakes his head, mournful eyes fixed on yours. He's better than you, he knows what needs to be done, what sacrifices need to be made. He'll make them, but not for your sake. You reach out your hand. He reaches out his. Miles a

You dream of strange constellations, new patterns across a familiar sky, and riddles written out in the stars for you to interpret as you will. You dream of someone who tastes like honey and tears, a boy with twin horns and dichromatic eyes; a memory you'd thought long forgotten, a hopeless dream of something mistaken and long ago. When you wake up, your face is wet, and you do not move for a long time, sobbing silently into your pillow. You are horribly alone, you realize. So, so alone; you always push people away before they have a chance to break your heart. You see the good in people, always have, and that hurts the most; that they al

They are battle-hardened children, and you are one of them; a child with wide eyes and stained skin that could be white under the layer of dirt, and dried tears, and rainbow blood that is itchy and flaky on your palms. The world revolves around you, now, and it terrifies you. You're 'shit outta luck', because the world is ending, and it's all because of you; you and them, you and your friends, though you don't know if you can call them that anymore. You can feel your world ending, pulverized by meteors and littered with lifeless cadavers, though that's a bit redundant anyway; you can hear their screams, taste their terror. You can't breath

   “Pancakes.”   “No.”   “Pancakes.”   “No.”   “Pancakes.”   “For the last time, no!”   “…Pancakes.”   Alfred slammed his head into the nearest object (which, just as a point of interest, happened to be a very hard, very solidly-built wall). He was already bored to death of Gilbert (who, as another point of interest, had gone on a ten-minute-long rant about how completely awesome Prussia was, how Prussian he was, when Yao had mistaken him as German, and about how completely awesome, by extension, he was).   Matthew didn’t look far off from

The moon glows alabaster against his skin, a bleached-out betrayal of his usual skin tone. Entranced, he watches. He watches the world die around him. He sees his friends wither away. He watches, and he learns. He is gold, gold, gold. He shines, bright, like the sun, like a star, effulgent and glowing. He is gold, gold, all gold, but green when the skies cry. He has blood like mobile acid, steel shards of brain; pain is constant. His smile is pinched, full of broken glass, and his cheekbones are razor blades. He drags his nails over skin, hears hitched breath, strangled words, words of undying love and terrible expletives, and knows they