Hide (Spain x Reader)Nowadays, he almost finds himself despising the sight of her face; the naive curl of her lips and the ways in which she’ll still make careful observances of his wearied condition, asking him where it all went wrong.Hide (Spain x Reader) by ~autumn--thunder
He has no idea of how to answer her whenever she should ask such questions, always murmured from her lips in the low, amiable note he’d once considered to be calming. In days gone by he may as well have taken her fingers loosely into his whenever the words slid from her lips, lingering in the searing heat of a July evening, and he’d look closely upon her in consideration of every crease of her brow and stitch of her clothing. Maybe he would pull her lightly, gingerly forwards into an embrace of heavy lids and quivering fingers, his eyes a glinting presence in the light of the lamp, and she’d answer with the same cautious dip of the head he had always found endearing. Now, whenever she asks questions of him, eyes fixated and so cer
Alive (Ghost!Canada x Reader)Every month, there were ghosts in the trees.Alive (Ghost!Canada x Reader) by ~autumn--thunder
They were always there – watching and waiting with their large, shining eyes, each of them differing from the next through traits varying from their often archaic clothing to the way their lips moved when they mimed inaudible, broken syllables. Several seemed only to be terrified of a world they had forgotten, and existed only in apprehension of reality itself and of a place they couldn’t leave, being attached to it by something far greater than blood. Others were excitable and always laughed in a strange sort of merriment and peculiar mirth, perhaps looking on to the lively faces of the living and wringing their hands as if in want, curious in their demeanour and even more so in their actions.
No less, every one was indecipherable.
It was every full moon that they were said to appear; to make themselves known and present in the world they didn’t belong. The idea seemed foolish, almost too generic and typical that they were
Death's Purity (Prince!Iceland x Reader)For many years, he was known only as the Cursed Prince.Death's Purity (Prince!Iceland x Reader) by ~autumn--thunder
Try as one might, it was difficult to get over the seemingly cliché tone behind the name. It was odd to the ear, and many people would shudder simply to hear it spoken in the darkness of lonely streets and homely cottages. What was the most peculiar about him, though, was that despite his name, he had odd tendencies; most nights of the week he could be seen on the streets, with a hood over his head and soft consolations on his tongue, often acting out his own small acts of philanthropy.
He was also said to be strange because of his apparent preoccupation with death and the life hereafter, enslaved to what appeared to be remorse and grief after the death of those near to him. Perhaps he had gone slightly mad, one might have presumed – although, it could not have been altogether surprising. He had lost his mother when he was young, his two brothers and sister before him having been stillborn and cold to the touch. His f
The world is always so dreadfully lonely and still when night falls.
For a time, it’s almost as though you are the only man left alive; although, perhaps that sort of reality would not be quite so surprising, after all the blood and death and fire you’ve paid witness to in such a short space of time. You’ve seen at least another thirteen or fourteen fall on both sides in three hours alone (perhaps more, you think, but you don’t have enough fingers to count, and it’s too cold to keep track otherwise when you’re too preoccupied keeping yourself breathing). You don’t even know why it is that you’ve ventured beyond the boundaries of No Man’s Land, but it’s quiet in the dead of night, when everyone is simply trying to take what few hours of sleep that they can. It’s quiet when there’s no gunshot lurching you back into reality, no gunpowder in your nostrils and no blood on your hands. It’s quiet without the crying and the yelling and the screaming; so absurdly silent it is almost otherworldly, and you have to fight to convince yourself no one has seen you and is about to drive another bullet into your arm or your leg. It would be a damn shame if they did, you know, because then you’d probably have to have that limb hacked off with a saw already coated with the blood of a dozen other men like you that you don’t know, and whom could be either dead or alive.
Taking a glance back at the trench, your numb mind stirs over the idea of whether or not you will, in fact, make it back again. You don’t know why you’re wandering away to begin with – maybe it is that you’re simply too disturbed too sleep, or that you are all too desperate to do something as ordinary and homely as stretch your legs, but it’s hard to tell, when you find yourself still constantly reliving the same repeating, distracting thoughts in your head of bodies and shells. You already know your superior officers will have your skin if they catch you slacking off and neglecting your sleeping comrades (although, perhaps they’re merely dead, rather than sleeping. You don’t know). Yet, that doesn’t deter you. Words and threats can no longer have any place in your thoughts, when it’s difficult enough making sure the boy beside you, his hands against the collapsing mud walls and his large eyes on the barbed wire and red filth of the battlefield has a heart that’s still beating; and it’s difficult, having to assure yourself his dark eyes are dull not because he’s long dead, but because his mind itself is no longer on the battlefield but somewhere completely different. Maybe it’s a nice place there, although, without the noise and the blood. Maybe it’s warm there, and everyone eats half decent food.
Suddenly you realise that you’re still walking, not hesitating as you stumble through potholes and mud, narrowly missing what you assume to be other trenches, and for a moment it strikes you as odd. Shouldn’t you be dead already, as only another corpse on the ground? Shouldn’t you be sleeping, rewarding yourself with a few hasty and interrupted hours of nightmares?
Maybe that’s just it, you think; but no less, you don’t stop and turn back, running the risk of being seen by the enemy trenches that are less than a mile away from where you stand - far less than a mile, actually, and so if you manage to make a fool of yourself and give a hoarse cough, or otherwise tread into a shell crater, you’ll be heard and the guns will be out and you’ll be screwed. But God knows, maybe death is better than having water up to your shins and having to listen repeatedly to the sobbing and intermittent talk of men you know will be gone tomorrow. Perhaps you’ll be like them. Perhaps you’re just already a dead man, and you don’t know it because your brain is too numb too register the fact anything is happening at all.
No less, you keep walking. You’re sleepless, and you’re lonely, so you keep walking.
You don’t stop until you’ve gone at least a fair mile, you guess, looking up at the stars, feeling almost angered for a sheer moment in time. You know how far away those little pinpoints of light are, but some part of you is annoyed that they’re still so ignorant, completely separated from the world of men. They don’t know how much blood has been spilled in the last day alone, or how many men you’ve had to bury by yourself all because everyone else is wounded and moaning, clutching at their limbs and trying to neglect the reality that their pierced and mangled arms and legs will be stumps by nightfall.
The stars are still so bright, though, and so strangely beautiful to aching eyes. It’s foreign simply for you to consider something beautiful to begin with, you realise, but it’s difficult not to when you were raised in a city that glowed yellow every night, and you could never see the stars, not even as a child trapped in those foolish, boyish idealisms of youth. It’s not as though you’re not still a boy, hardly yet a man yourself, but you feel wearied enough that you could be sixty years old and you wouldn’t know the difference.
What truly would be the difference, if you were suddenly that little boy again? Would things be any different, or any more peaceful? The war would still have happened, after all. People would still die, and go mad, regardless of whether or not you’re warm and satisfied, or whether or not you can see the stars.
Your mind is very suddenly pulled from the sight of the sky and your own dull thoughts, however, when a dim, light sort of sound greets your ears, as accustomed as they are to screams and the sound of shrapnel flying and bullets embedding themselves into the flesh of men who would have only ten years ago been cradled by their mothers. The sound is so entirely strange, bewildering, and yet musical – is it that the angels are singing to you at last?
Lifting your head, you halt, your eyes wildly searching for the wings and beautiful eyes of a heavenly messenger, come to deliver you from Hell on Earth, but all you see is the same wide expanse of darkness and the moon - hanging low in a sky that still relentlessly pours down. You want to be disappointed; maybe shake your head and say to yourself, ‘I told you so’, but you’re stopped by the same sound from before, and suddenly you find that you are being drawn toward it against your will. Are the angels merely Sirens? You don’t know what to think, and so you mindlessly submit yourself to following the voice. You don’t fear death anymore. You can’t fear something that happens constantly.
Even so, nothing can prepare you for the sight of what it is that you find when the sound is right before you.
It’s a little boy.
What shocks you more, though, is your own thoughts, and the immediate conviction present somewhere within your mind that urges you to question why it is that he isn’t sleeping in a crumbling trench like all the others. After all, are your comrades any more than boys like him? How can it be that he is so carefree, and so unknowing, that he should waltz his way through a deserted, ruined battlefield, singing as he looks to the skies with eyes that still shine, his hands still clean, not now stained red and black by blood and dirt? What right has he to be happy?
Perhaps it is that you’re angry with him, angry at his innocence and his youth, but it’s hard to stay angry at a child when all he can do is sing out to the silent night, walking his way towards you, and all you can do is stand there and watch him, reminded distantly and bitterly of your own childhood (although, you still don’t know whether or not you used to sing, or whether you simply waited for when you were old enough to wear a uniform and hold a gun in your own hands). Briefly you wonder about his age, and how it can be that he is still so happy and so alive, when he is scarcely two miles from the guns and barbed wire. Or maybe it’s that you’ve only stumbled upon another battlefield, and any second you’ll both be shot. You don’t know.
You’re drawn to him enough, though, that you don’t turn back, instead waiting for him to notice you. He’s singing in an odd sort of language you don’t understand, but the tone and pitch of his child’s voice tells you enough; still, he is innocent enough that he has a voice to sing of childish dreams and dreaded optimism, inundated by the verses of rhymes and melodies you don’t recognise in all your delusion and confused wanderings.
Beginning to walk your way toward him, only can you dare yourself to see sense and stop in your tracks once he suddenly turns, seeing you there and looking at you with an expression you can’t decipher. Still, part of you expects him to shout and yell in his own protest, but he does nothing but pause as he looks over you, regarding your uniform as though he is deciding whether or not you will shoot him dead and whether he ought to get into a squealing panic over it. But then he sees you’re a Frenchman, and he starts talking and smiling, running toward you like you’ve known one another for a dozen years, and you are too stunned to answer him. You don’t understand a word of his language, knowing only small phrases and useless syllables from the other dead men in your trench and vague words you suppose your mother may once have fruitlessly taught you; none of it is any use to you, though, and he’s too excited to make a scrap of sense, anyhow. Is he German? English? You don’t know, but still, he grins at you, his eyes as bright and beautiful and ignorant as the stars above.
Maybe you ought to be irritated, to shoot him dead to stop him from following you home to No Man’s Land and joining the other bodies you’ve thrown into the frozen waters, but when your entire being is numb and wet and cold and you have a mind made for terror and fleeing, it’s hardly as though you can move your icy fingers to the barrel of your gun to begin with. Besides, your gunpowder is probably too damp to be of any use to you anymore (like everything else, no doubt, including your brain and throat and the food that went rotten half a week ago). Yet, suddenly you realise he’s trying to talk to you, and for a moment in time you feel a touch of guilt in your heart that you don’t understand him, and inevitably he won’t understand you, either, if you try to talk to him in return. All you can do is stare, your mind utterly bewildered as you think, but he doesn’t seem to care. Perhaps it is that he is desperate enough for someone to talk to him, no matter what side they’re on, and he simply doesn’t care at all that you’re still holding a gun and it’s the middle of the night. He looks at first glance to be no more than twelve, but he has a small and weak sort of body and you wander where he has come from, or whether he had a brother or a father who is long dead. Heaven knows, maybe you are the one who buried them, and you’re simply not aware of it.
Nonetheless, he doesn’t run; he doesn’t scream and panic like part of you expects him to. He just talks, and every part of his expression and his tone is so flooded by optimism and the excitement only a child can have that it makes you stop, and listen. His face is vivid in the darkness as he speaks to you; he seems so happy to have company, so happy to have notice, as though he has wandered the mud and the field for a hundred years in wait for someone to come and stand by him and stare at his profound, delighted air. His eyes are large and deep blue, shining from the dimness all about you, and for a moment you feel a strange sort of recognition looking over his face, as though you have met somewhere before – but not in a peaceful place. The thought is almost unnerving, and you have to struggle to contain it.
It feels like hours as you stand there in a moment of separation from the rest of the world looking at him in wonder and trying to process his words. It’s an otherworldly, entirely unbelievable sense of silence, and despite the fact you are still in shock at being spoken to so eagerly by a boy you don’t know, some part of you is knowing of the fact you will soon have to return before the firing starts and you’re seen, and that he – this strange boy – could well be dead by tomorrow. Part of the conviction of it all is confronting, and partly worrisome, but what can possibly be done to prevent it? There’s no use in fighting the definite, you know.
Turning to look at him, you feel yourself still, blood turned cold.
Glancing about the grey earth around you, you stumble slightly, almost calling for him, but he’s completely wiped from existence, disappeared into the night.
Could it be that he was no more than a ghost, a spirit – lost and wandering on a battlefield piled with dead men, searching for meaning? Did he ever exist at all? Do you exist, or are you merely wandering the battlefield in your own restless nightmares and hallucinations, waiting for when morning dawns?
Although, you think, despite the feeling it leaves you as you thoughtlessly scurry your way back to the trenches, slipping on mud and bones and blood... perhaps it would not be quite so surprising if that were the truth of it.
You begin slowly to believe you’re losing your mind after that.
You already know it’s going to happen eventually, but the fact you think you’re going insane like all those other hopeless souls is constantly accentuated when the strange boy begins to appear every night, rushing his way about the darkness and calling out to you with peculiar words. You don’t know how it is that he finds you, or why it is that he’s there, but still he talks and sings with the same childish energy. He is in love with danger, you realise – he wanders that battlefield not because he is naïve, but because he knows what he is facing, and because he’s prepared for hasty deliverance. He visits you each agonising week because he’s lonely and it gives him an excuse to feel that someone in the cold world of death and cruelty he lives in actually cares him, child that he is; a boy of strange words and stranger resolve.
You are terrified of him; terrified of the way he slips in the mud and walks around with such reckless idiocy. After all, isn’t it your duty to protect? Even if you can’t protect your friends and your acquaintances, shouldn’t you be able to protect him?
But the foolish part of you still humours him. It still tells him your name when he finds the words to ask, and listens to him when he’s cold and alone. You feel yourself be fascinated by his very presence, and on the rare nights sneak away to find him, and hear his voice again to escape the ringing echoes in the corners of your mind. Yet, when you attempt to tell him to leave he never listens to you, in turn; he only shakes his head, and grins.
He’s a rascal, you begin to understand. A child and a fool, oblivious to danger and gunfire. He talks and laughs, despite your threats and your fears. He comes back as consistently as any other night, regardless of whether you’ve yelled at him or otherwise smiled in his wake.
It’s a month before he tells you his own name, his eyes shining, clearly feeling accomplished at being able to speak your language, as complicated as he says it is.
His name is Peter.
But the speaking of his name brings you no satisfaction or peace. All it does is make you realise that you once knew a man with the same name; for a second you are profoundly angered with yourself when you can’t remember how it was that he died.
But this boy is far different – he’s not on the battlefield because he was called or because he came by will, spurred by lies. He’s just a lost child, and a wanderer.
You don’t understand why, but he says he wants to help. He wants to do something for the war, and for his country. He wants meaning. He wants a purpose, beyond wandering a deathly landscape with nothing but his memories.
For a time, you think he is an angel. Not a ghost, but an angel.
Maybe he is – not in so many years have you seen another with eyes so alive, or a voice so eager. It’s the living men that are the ghosts. He is so happy with himself; so pleased when he brings back another man, and so solemn when he has to watch their eyes die. You regard him as a Godsend, come to give you a sliver of hope, and a reason to go on, and live rather than offer yourself to the guns if it will take you to a kinder place.
Your heart is too embittered and hardened to admit to him that you’re terrified for his sake, but he won’t listen. He never listens. He only darts his way about the field, and sings in his grotesque waltz of fate around a field of death and bodies. His feet quake when the shells fall, and he wrings his hands when the bullets fly over his head, but he doesn’t stop. For a second you don’t know why they’re shooting, but his age makes no difference when all the other pale faced men back in your trench are boys, anyway, with vacant eyes and garbled words. It would be difficult for anyone on either side to tell the difference – especially when no one has a scrap of feeling to begin with.
He is small enough to be of use, he says. He has a body made for scurrying about and dodging bayonets, clambering over the parapets with clumsy, white hands and looking for the glint of a rifle across the expanse of the field. He can make his way about the loops of wire and bring back dying men, collecting bullets and predicting shells. Lord! Of what concern is it that he doesn’t know his way around a gun?
You still fear for him, though – your fear is greater than you will admit. Every second you grit your teeth, and want to dishonour yourself and cry when he returns with a bleeding leg. You know there’s no chance of him listening to you if you try and tell him to stop, so you let him be and bite your lip, keeping back your shameful tears when you watch him leave at dawn and return by the dimmed light of a blood red dusk, his own thin body bloodied and his smile still painfully bright.
Does God still watch over him, you wonder?
You ask him whether he believes in God, but all his answer is is an unsatisfactory shrug, and soft words that make your heart stop for a moment, stilling for one of few times in the length of the war. It has hurried before, pounding in your chest at the sight of blood, but never has it stopped like it does when he talks.
“I don’t know,” he says to you. “But I believe in good people. I think everyone has a heart.”
Is he right, you wonder? Is he right, and if so, does that mean that yours is still alive, not powered by the same machine commanding your gun and your mind? Do the people lingering in their own trench over the expanse of No Man’s Land have hearts, and if they do, do they have feelings, as well? Do they have families and hopes, and dreams for something better?
Does the man who shoots Peter have a heart?
Do they think for a moment to themselves as he stumbles over the blood and dirt, and tries to wrap his thin arms around those of a dying boy? Do their hands falter at the trigger and shake as the bullet fires and Peter crumples to the earth?
Do they hear your screams, and your crying?
You don’t know, but as you bury him and sing to him for the last time, putting him to a peaceful rest beneath the soiled mud, you stop and think. You put your gun against the wall of the trench and think, and you pray, pondering for the dead boy you once felt human emotion for. You don’t let yourself shed a single, dreaded tear until midnight comes and you climb over the parapets and wander out into the rain, calling his name.
But for a moment, you are sure he is still singing, a ghost somewhere out in the gunfire. He sings not only for himself but for you, and for the dozens of men you know are already dying or dead, crowned with flowers and sentimental pity. He sings for the enemy, and for the agony of the war.
[War of the World's] (P1) England x Reader[War of the World's] (P1) England x Reader by ~KibaRoark
England x Reader [War of the Worlds] (P1)
Hetalia x Reader
England (Arthur) x Reader
Chapter 1: Eve of War
~*~Arthur’s Point of View~*~
I picked up my notepad and pen slowly, wirily and tiredly. I put the nib to the paper and started to recount a story. A story that changed my life and the way I view life and the universe. With sore eyes and shaky hands. I began to write…
No one would have believed, in the last years of the nineteenth century, that human affairs were being watched from the timeless worlds of space.
No one could have dreamed we were being scrutinized, as someone with a microscope studies creatures that swarm and multiply in a drop of water. Few men even considered the possibility of life on other planets and yet, across the gulf of space, minds immeasurably superior to ours regarded this Earth with envious eyes, and slowly and surely, they drew their plans against us.
I looked up at t
stars only die from drug overdoses.there's a boy i knowstars only die from drug overdoses. by ~MadamWoe
who used to swallow coins
like hard candy;
stuck to his chin
from my own hands,
lucid in our lungs
and the road
a blur from our sadistic words.
he doesn't believe in hell
neither do i.
but i believe in the stars
and i want to know what happens to them
when they die.