#witheringecho

                       ❝... Crona.❞

       Kidds stare is sharp; Focused and intense. A twitch of        his brow portrays annoyance, or perhaps anger-                The young reaper sucked in a breath, closing his               eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose.

                       ❝…You have a strand of hair sticking up. Please                           allow me to fix it. ❞

          he knows this child; he knows from the moment they cross loew’s threshold, though it’s not like he’d ever forget. his regrets linger like old ghosts, their welcomes long overstayed. people always remember a good haunting. he’s no different. 

           the question of what to do next, though; that... he’s not as sure about that. odds are they’ve already caught sight of him ( the way he holds himself like a crumbling building, the screw through his head and the scars on his face; he’s hard to miss, he knows it ), so here’s what he asks himself — who’s going to make the first move?  

           god, this poor, fucked-up kid. this pathetic lab rat. they deserve whatever vengeance they choose to mete out. as in, he deserves what’s coming to him. 

AHAHAHAHAHAHAHA I HATE THAT ICON IM DYIINHNNHNNHNNH

w HY DO YOU ALWAYS EXPOSE ME

this is true i was the egg of a god

take your time, nobody is rushing you!

      --it came as a cold blow into her ear, then came lukewarm breaths between Piglatin and Shakespearean drag. Jeeli Beeli, Pettay, Rattay. It was an occult’s incantation; it wasn’t, but it might as well be, with their severely pitched voice and Muppet shlump.

you dared me && im no pussy my dude