Between The Lines.- France x Reader
[Too late, two choices, to stay or to leave
Mine was so easy to uncover—he’d already left with the other
So I learned to listen through silence…]
A stab of irritation jolts through you after you open your eyes. Why is it so ugly and bright? It should be dark and painful.
And there’s the most annoying throbbing in the left part of your chest. It’s like the beat of a drum, echoing up and down what should be hollow space. The sound fills your ears and you scowl. You turn to lie on your side, feeling strangely exhauste—where are your wings?
You feel panicked and furious at the same time. You reach back to your bare shoulder blades and find only the trace of two slanted scars. Oh Devil. Oh Devil.
Why were they taken away? What sort of good thing had you done to deserve this? Oh, yeah, that one angel Franci--his cerulean eyes his graceful accent his white wings his lips his kiss.
You feel utterly disgusted with yourself for
Masquerade.- Hetalia x Reader
Plain curves, smeared with dazzling colors and made into temporary beauty. Bright eyes are framed by bold, heavy mascara and light eyeshadow. Suits are worn like armor, and gowns drape themselves across bare skin. Everyone wears a mask, whether basic or glittery or adorned with feathers and jewels.
The bottoms of the azure and indigo dress brushes against your ankles as you twirl and twist. Soft, loose ringlets graze your flushed cheeks as you dance. You waltz with a quiet man with violet eyes and a white mask sprinkled with red. You tango with a stranger with dark hair and smiling eyes, and you do the foxtrot with a tall, silent man who is surprisingly graceful for his size.
Your hand is kissed by a green-eyed gentleman with a British accent, along with a blue-eyed stranger who gives you a rose and tells you you’re beautiful. A man with a cowlick and a spangled mask asks you to dance. When everyone is dancing the Charleston, a man with a strange curl on the side of his head admi
Poet.- Germany x Dying!Reader
I do not know if this is a letter or a poem
but you always said I was a poet
so poet I will
You know I don’t believe
and you are too smart
for hollow comfort,
so I will try my best to avoid that.
I think that the problem with
is that fate mixed us up.
I think I was supposed to be the one
leaving this world
and you just got in the way.
For that, I am
The people in green scrubs
say I can’t visit anymore
so this is my last letter.
But always know
that I won’t forget
the way you smelled like spring
and the way you looked like summer.
I will remember
your expression when you laugh
and say I’m too serious
now I have something
to be serious about).
I hope there’s an afterlife
just so we can meet again,
even if I do find somebody else.
We both know
you will die
so let’s not sugarcoat anything.
I am running out of spare wishes,
and a wish can’t stop something like death,
I can’t say I h
Intangible.- England x Reader
It was something that Arthur didn't quite know how to describe. The feeling was fleeting and corporeal, like the ends of a butterfly's wings skimming the tips of his snatching fingers.
His fingers were always snatching.
Arthur felt it in the confines of his chest when he was looking at your closed eyes, limbs entwined and sheltered in the soft heat of bed sheets. He fumbled with it for a few moments, but by the time your eyes were open, the feeling was almost gone, and little more than an aftertaste. It was never raw and powerful, the way Arthur imagined it to be. Instead, it was sneaking and saccharine, gliding beneath his ribcage when he was looking the other way. Although it was pleasant and more than enough to make Arthur stay, it felt like only a diluted taste of the real thing.
Arthur felt guilty about it, but he had never thought you were beautiful. He had seen much more attractive women, but he preferred the endearment of your familiarity. He became accustomed to the easy curve
Marcescent.- Romano x Reader
WARNING: CONTAINS POSSIBLE TRIGGERING MATERIAL AND PROFANITY. PROCEED AT YOUR OWN RISK.
1. Withered; weak
2. Withering but not falling off, as a blossom that persist on a twig after flowering.
Etymology: from Latin marcescere - to grow weak, from marcere – to wither
She had always been a messy sort of person.
The tangles of her hair brushed his skin in a way that he couldn’t describe. Smudges of charcoal stained her fingertips, and her clothes were often splattered with paint. She was strange in her own way—she loved herself even with the full bottle of sleeping pills under her bed, and she said she liked the way she looked but she hated mirrors.
She was beautiful.
He, on the other hand, wasn’t so sure of himself. Her lips were lightning, but his were rubber. The emotions flickering between them were deflected, and she would always pull back frustrated, an expression on her face he never wanted to see. There
Watercolor Apples.- Spain x Reader
Full lips slowly drag across the smooth peel, with teeth sinking into the watery, almost too-sweet center. Summer squirms and distills itself into the hot beads of sweat, the faint tinkling of an old ice cream truck.
The humid air seems to stifle the snapping crunches of apple. The vivid shades of red and yellow subdue themselves into muted colors of pink and orange. The fruit feels heavy in her hand, but the substance is transparent, and seeping through her fingers fast.
A soft sigh caresses his mouth.
He runs a caramel hand through his hair again, looking at her. His green eyes are half closed; she can see the outline of every dark eyelash. Even his vivid gaze seems tamed, made fuzzy by the fading season. He exhales and lets his hand fall back onto the cheap lawn chair, with its plastic white frames and a colorful pillow behind him.
“You know, I think I love you.” he murmurs.
She doesn’t know what to make of this.
“Hm,” she says.
He doesn’t reply,