Bluebird - Pilot!America x Sucidal!Reader
← ϐluɛbird → Pilot!America x Sucidal!Reader
Warming: May be triggering, and is very sad.
[This pair of wings worn and rusted,
from too many years by my side
They can carry me, swear to be
sturdy and strong…]
She inhales, sharply drawing a breath through her cracked lips as a breeze brushes her hollowed cheeks. Her fingers flutter, tempted to wrench the locks of snarled hair out of her face. [Name]’s skin, once soft and healthy, is now a sickly color and seems almost translucent. Glowing lights fill every part of her vision, sprinkled with arching bridges and the edges of buildings. The sky is painted a shade of dark blue, almost black. The moon isn’t quite full, but it’s close.
The city is beautiful beneath her feet.
Too bad it’s her last time seeing it.
She can hear laughter from the floor below her, and the clinking of bottles and glasses. [Name] doesn’t seem to remember the last time she had laughed. But the promises se
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
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
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