I am not, inherently, a liar. I am not, inherently, one who hates. But inherency is delicate -- it can be broken by the easiest of means:

A word.
A touch.
A suggestion.
A tragedy.
A fire.

I am a liar when it suits me to be, and I hate with more passion than I have ever loved.

| S E M I -- H I A T U S |

{Indie Ciel Phantomhive Roleplay Blog.}

I track the tag: pantyhive.

{{ — + i just came into existence here to pop in & say that i am excited as shit for the kuro circus arc being animated & shit that i could explode. once it makes a comeback i am fer sure making a bad-ass, spectacular, blow-your-fucking-britches-off comeback HOLLA. 

“I used to think the worst thing in life was to end up all alone. It’s not. The worst thing in life, is to end up with people who make you feel all alone.”

Robin Williams 

“I hate and I love. Why, you may ask?
I don’t know. But it happens and I burn.”

Catullus, The Complete Poems (26)


                                           [ dead is d-e-a-d.

                                       there’s no such THING

                                            as a good way to 

                                                   GO. ]


   don’t   [ pick up ]  the gun 

            if you can’t 

  p u l l      the      t r i g g e r  




           ”Mr. Grinch? Is that what I am now; a grumpy green haired man that goes around ruining Christmas traditions, Freckles?"

      Which, with their noses brushes, he’s close enough to see them in all their (powdered) glory. His tone is teasing, light, and unable to focus on anything but the sinking feeling he gets whenever Alois grabs a hold of him.

      It’s like he’s drowning. It’s been like this the entire year and several months he’s known the boy and Ciel—bright as he is—has yet to decipher whether that twisting sensation in his gut is good or not. It’s woozy, unpredictable, or perhaps that’s what boys with hair as blonde and eyes as bright as Alois does to him: each peppered kiss makes his nerves stir and he lets it happen. He just lets it happen.

     ”Mm,” He murmurs, Alois’s lips soft and tender against his jaw and neck. Heat pools there, mildly, like a slow burning fire, but it’s not the sexual sort. “Enjoying yourself there?” 

Mmmhm, that’s exactly what you are.”

Alois hummed those words against Ciel’s soft, near-flawless skin and glanced up to meet dark eyes. A grin curled at the corners of his occupied mouth and the hand that had caught his shirt flattened out, fingers splaying to rest against his chest. Alois had a habit of always trying to seek out Ciel’s heartbeat when they were close, to see if the rate increased the way his did. 

Perhaps he was a little lovesick.

But this boy made him happy, had made him happy almost consistently for almost a year and a half; that was huge for Alois, who was never happy with anything, never satisfied, always seeking out more. There were things he was hanging out to hear from Ciel, but getting to close his lips over his skin as much as he pleased was pretty good by itself. Met with no resistance.

The blond nuzzles right in against the crook of his neck, parting his lips to settle them over Ciel’s pulse to suck, tug on the skin just enough to leave it red. “Yes I am. I’m gonna’ eat you up.”

            “Well, he did have quite a penchant for brilliant cynicism…”

     Ciel’s lips widen; a shaky shallow breath exalted. Alois’s mouth is sweet against the flesh of his neck, and his fingers splayed—searching—but what for? The soft fabric of his shirt? Or the swollen thing in his chest, rattling away like an unsteady drum beat? One second he’s hot, and then he’s cold and—he might be a little sick.

     Words escaped him. He’s learned not to speak in these moments. Just feel—a terrifying thing for such an apathetic boy, used to folding himself away in a manner of protection. Self preservation.

     It’s an uncanny thing. To be like this; with his hands wrapped around the lithe waist of a person he would have never thought he’d be. Sharing kisses like mingled secrets and inside jokes. Ciel has spent ages wondering how he never would have never thought of this; believed, that things would be this way. And happen as they did, how they would get here, with someone such a polar opposite; though unique and highly intriguing. He has no footing in these endless questions; no answers to be told.

     So he sighs. A breathy, indulgent sound at moving lips and pressure, sweet pressure. He nudges with his nose for the other to lift his chin; kissing his mouth. He ought to give himself more permission for this. He’s rather affectionate when he allows himself to be. A rare, but beautiful thing.

            “Careful there, I’m not all that sweet. I hope you don’t mind.” 

“Home is in my hair, my lips, my arms, my thighs, my feet and my hands. I am my own home. And when I wake up crying in the morning, thinking of how lonely I am, I pinch my skin, tug at my hair, remind myself that I am alive. Remind myself to step outside and greet the morning. Remind myself that it’s all about forward motion. It’s all about change. It’s all about that elusive state.

Diriye Osman, Fairytales for Lost Children