aph: pru/hun - Take me away from time and season Far, far away we'll sing with reason This is one of the moments that I begin to think that hope is nonexistent; a memory from better days, a light at the end of a tunnel that I am not even halfway through. My bones are stiff as if my physical body matches that of my true age, every century I have lived through taking their toll on me all at once. My eyes are blurred, stinging as much as the sores on my body. And although I haven't yet broken for real, it's utterly pathetic. We have been through things that a human could not even bear a fifth of. We have seen tens of wars, been in tens of war

America x chromesthetic!reader The tattoo beneath her collarbone is stark and sharp against her skin; small birds in flight. Free -- to take to the blue, blue sky and escape the miserable stew of city life. He runs his fingers over them again and again, tracing outlines and ghosting softly, until she still feels it when he's drawn back and no longer doing so. It kind of tickles, she whispers, and the chuckle he responds with is a mellow, bouncing wave of pale lavender. They spend their days in the narrow wire balcony at the back, where they do not face the endless stream of trafficked vehicles, and she does not deal with the vehement assuag

The writing on the pale inside of his wrist has turned stagnant, the horizontal line that indicates null thin and dark and mocking, almost, but he does not think he should care anymore. Maybe it had stopped during another lock down, a riot of some sort, a shooting -- but it doesn't matter. Armin has lived twenty-two years without a soul mate, he is sure he can live decades more, and besides, he has other people that care for him, albeit not in a romantic way. But still. And with work occupying his mind over half the time he is awake (sometimes it finds its way into his dreams, too, but nobody has to know because "you should take a break" doe

The first time Jean shows him his art is the last. It’s a sketch of him, a portrait of his face down to below his chest, smudged around the edges and creased down the middle and it’s enough to tell him that Jean is a good artist, because he wants to think so and Jean is so passionate about it and when one is passionate about something — doesn’t it always turn out beautiful? The dock is creaking underneath his feet and in the late afternoon, the sun becomes the color of Jean’s eyes — rich and gold like a bottle of honey in the light. He’s breathless, wishes he smells Jean more than he smells the salt

On some days, Feliciano was the stroke of midnight on New Year’s; like fireworks, explosive and loud and vibrant. He was the noise that ricocheted down the cold hallways and the contagious laughter of a hundred people. Zipping to and fro, bouncing with life and color, dazzling to the eyes. Ludwig would listen, not to his words, but to his voice. Those were days he would not shut up, and Ludwig didn’t mind half the time. On some days, he was a homely art studio bathed in sunlight, smelling of paint and newsprint and other things. Fixated to his canvas, making figures and colors bloom across rough white cloth with every flick of hi