memories.

We're all made up of memories.

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independent, semi-selective, mutuals only, multi-muse blog featuring original characters and characters from the series: bungou stray dogs, dgm, arcane, P5R, and more. - written with love by ether ♥

PERSONALS / NON RP BLOGS DNI UNLESS SIDEBLOG.

♥ rules/muses ♥ (wip) ♥ interest checker ♥ ♥ meme tag ♥ ♥ permanent starter call ♥ ;; coming soon ♥ credit ♥

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starter for kawabata @phasmascript

" You make me almost want to go burn outside. You're makin' it way too fuckin' cold in here. " The complaint is followed by a groan as he shudders, opting to set the controler in his lap while hugging his jacket tighter against himself. He knows the other isn't a fan of the heat. Neither was he, but, god if he didn't hate the freezing cold just as much.

" I know you hate the heat but you're gonna freeze me to death before we can even start the game. "

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"does he actually turn any food into cream puffs?" yes, yes he does. it is very much canon.

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starter for @ervaurem's lance

" ...Huh? "One hand holding a cream puff to his mouth as the other rests the knife against the cutting board with veggies half chopped on it. Looking between the various cream puffs and then looking back at Lance as he chews. Blinking slowly at him as he enjoys the divine food that's called a cream puff.

He wonders why he's staring at him so... offendedly? Bewildered? He doesn't really know at this point. Nor would he get why he is. He's just making cream puffs.

He reaches over to grab another cream puff, holding it out. Word muffled as the escape a mouth full of cream puff. " If ywou want owne, you cwan hwave owne. "

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tfw your muse pulls shit like this and you can't help but giggle

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starter call!

like this and i’ll make a starter, i’m trying to get myself back into writing gear. please specify which muse of mine you want a starter from! and if you’re also a multi, please also specify what muse you want the starter for.

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i’m sorry for how low activity i’ve been, i’m just in a constant low battery state currently but i am trying to be existent.

[inkpressedpetals]

[sylvioki]

Rimlaine doodle for my 3 rimlaine enjoyers

[ripheart]

THE REQUEST EARNS A QUIET PAUSE. tamsy does not answer immediately. fireside eyes were difficult to ignore ⸻ not because of their color, but the tension behind them. the small squirm of discomfort that rippled through her posture was noted just as easily as the object she revealed from behind her back. his gaze drops: the tulip, a curious sort of symmetry. " how ... thoughtful. "

the words are soft, but not warm. tokushin shifts faintly against his shoulder as he adjusts his grip, threads raveled tight against themselves on the wooden spool. for a moment he simply studies the flower in the vase, as though evaluating the strange little ritual she seemed determined to complete. " repayment is quite a curious instinct. " his head tilts slightly, another beat passes before he looks back to her. it's not a question he speaks, but an observation instead. " you intend to leave it for him even though he will not see you give it. " his eyes narrow just slightly. ( not unkindly, but, with the careful scrutiny of someone turning an unfamiliar mechanism over in his mind. ) then, after a moment longer, he gestures faintly down the expanse of the corridor with the end of his jinki. " this way. "

the distaff taps once against the floor as he begins to move, sparing a small glance back over his shoulder ... notably, only after he's put a couple feet of distance between them. " though I should warn you … hallways have a way of swallowing gifts before their intended recipient ever sees them. " the faintest curl of dry amusement touches his voice. it does not touch his eyes. tamsy pauses again, taking a moment to conjure the right words, to shake the subtle hint of irritation and disgust out of his shoulders. " if you are determined to attempt it anyway, however … i suppose i can show you where to start looking. "

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" You look at Amo like it's odd to do. " The comment passes by her lips without much of a thought. She doesn't particularly care for the look she's given, even if not unkind, she knows scrutiny when she sees it. Scrutiny was something that made a part of her hiss. A part of her wants to ask who he thinks he is to judge Amo.

But, she knows better than to do that. This is just a live test of tempering herself. Even if her eyes narrow for a brief moment at him in distaste. A quiet huff passes her lips as she shakes her head briefly, something that's followed by a nod.

The hall makes everything feel far more creepy than it should, especially with Tamsy here. But when he speaks? She feels the hair on the back of her neck standing up once more. " Amo is perfectly happy to do so. She'll ask Rudo if he got it in the morning. And if it went missing? Amo and Rudo can find it. But, is there a reason why they do? It's not exactly something that makes sense to Amo. The Cleaners don't have thieves around their rooms, right? "

Poking a bit more with that curious question, she has to get used to him eventually, so she guesses this is the best she can do for now. Get comfortable managing to hold conversation with him.

[frost-eyed-autumn]

He tips and falls backwards, but all of it is controlled. Gravity keeps him aloft long enough to get a single hand under him, and he swivels from vertical to horizontal and back up again, one leg leading long and the other following far behind like someone coming out of a handstand.

"Oh wow, I'm so scared..." He snorts a little, playfully mocking without any real condescension as he gives Shirase an easy smile. "Don't worry, I'll pay for your dry cleaning or whatever. It'll be better than new."

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" Yeah, you better pay for it. " Shifting to smack his shoulder with a grumble, but he can't help the smile that makes it's way to his face. Just letting it linger faintly as he closes his eyes. " In fact? think you should hand-wash it if you want me to forgive you for your transgression against my beautiful shirt. "

[ripheart]

" YEAH ... " the admission comes with a faint, sheepish huff of laughter, more breath than humor. atsushi's hand lingers at the back of his neck for another second before finally dropping to his side. there’s a little embarrassment in it: being known so well, having somebody look straight through all the hesitating and second guessing only to name it for exactly what it is. but kyoka's never been cruel about it. blunt, maybe. firm, definitely. but never cruel. ( and somehow that makes it easier to hear. ) his shoulders ease, if only a little. when he looks at her again there's still uncertainty there, but not enough to root him in place. " i'll work on it. really. i don't ... want to keep freezing up and making things harder for everyone else. " harder for her, for the agency. for the people depending on him. that old fear still claws at the inside of his ribs, that one wrong move of his could tip everything into disaster, but her voice cuts through the noise of it more cleanly than his own thoughts ever do.

she says he's more capable than he gives himself credit for, and for a moment some part of him ⸻ the part that still truly struggles to believe anything good about himself ⸻ wants to argue. another part, quieter and warmer, thinks maybe he can try trusting her judgment over his fear for once. ( atsushi often spirals this way. ) caught between fear, guilt, and the need to protect others: but he does care deeply and grows steadier when pushed to act. he straightens a little, small smile fading into something more focused, more determined. " you're right. if we stand here any longer, we're just giving them more time. " his eyes flick past her, toward the street ahead, and the hesitation that had softened him a moment ago begins to tighten into resolve instead. " so let's go. we’ll find them. " quieter and more earnest as he falls into step beside her.

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She’d always found his care for others to be admirable, but , she wasn’t blind as to how it was also his biggest detriment. It’s almost painful how little he seems to care about himself, to see how overly critical he can be toward himself. Even if it’s not verbal, he’s always been an expressive person.

Body language, the reflection in his eyes, mannerisms and more. She knows it well enough to find herself internally sighing when she spots it. Not out of annoyance, but out of concern for his well-being. There was only so much she could help him with, afterall.

“ It makes things easier for you as well. Don’t forget to think about yourself, you’re just as important as everyone else. “ Humming quietly after commenting that. As they walk, she remains vigilant for the criminal that’d managed to slip past them earlier but yet keeping herself engaged with the boy walking beside her.

It's a few moments of fast paced walking until they see the street market. Her eyes land on the mess of the market's goods on the ground and the disheveled stands. Stained food foot steps easily seen on the ground. " ...I think we have our guideline on finding them. "

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What’s your Tragic Love Story?

heathcliff & catherine

[wuthering heights by emily brontë] you’re intense, stormy, and more than a little bit dramatic. love, to you, isn’t soft or simple. it’s feral, consuming, an obsession that takes root in your bones and refuses to let go. you don’t do casual. you don’t do temporary. when you love someone, they become a part of you, for better or worse, and separation feels like losing a limb. people might call you possessive or too much, but for you, love is about recognition. love is about finding someone whose wildness mirrors your own. you thrive in chaos and passion, in emotions so raw they’re almost destructive. you’re not afraid of the dark sides of love, because you know that even in ruin, it’s real.

tagged by: @kyukicho tagging: anyone who wants to do it!

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it's canon in my heart.........

[encvgh]

{{ Please reblog this if you’re a mun who’s open for angst plotting. Death, pain, drug abuse, alcohol abuse, illness, misery, fighting, screaming, tears, hate, disgust, trauma, graphic gore, etc; I’m in need of threads. Thank you. }}

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what are you made of? (metaphorically duh)

feathers

Not the kind of feathers meant for flying, but for wrapping others in warmth when the cold finds them first. Your body bristles with the pale down of an angel, soft enough to soothe a storm. They come to you with trembling hands and hollow bellies, and you let them tear pieces from your shoulders, pluck warmth from your spine, until blood beads like rubies along your ribs, and still—still—you offer more. You were taught love is giving without end. But no one warned you what it would cost to be consumed. You’re so used to shivering, you’ve forgotten you were once whole. You should be furious. You should let the frost take them for once. You should say no. But the word lodges in your throat like a broken wing. And still, you reach out— because their comfort has always mattered more than your survival.

smoke

Not the fire. You are what comes after. What lingers in the rafters, long after the last ember has closed its eyes. Born of red-hot defiance, you fill lungs like a premature confession. You curl soft around fingers that try to hold you— defiant and cruel— but you cannot be cradled without consequence. You slip through locked doors, kiss the throat of every fool who inhales you, and still they wonder why they’re choking. Even when you love, you ruin. Even when you ache for gentleness, your touch sears. Your teeth were not made to bite, but to warn— a flash of white before the collapse, before the room fills with you... and they realize too late that it wasn’t the fire that killed them. It was the smoke, that whispered, "I never meant to hurt you", as it stole the last breath.

faith

Not the kind spoken in pulpits, not kneeling pews or memorized verses— but the quiet kind, the kind that lives in breath between heartbeats, in unseen fingers that catch you when you fall. They scoff at you, those who trust only what can be proven, who measure strength in metal. But there is a resilience in you that they will never let themselves understand. You rise not because you are unbroken, but because something within you insists that it all means something. Faith is not weakness. It is not blindness. It is standing barefoot in the storm with arms thrown wide— because somewhere in your chest, you know the rain will stop. You read omens in the sway of trees, in the rhythm of rain that murmurs where you should go next. You trust the timing of the moon. You believe the earth stood here waiting for your arrival just as planned. And that belief— that soul-deep certainty— protects you better than armor ever could. Your heartbreak was not meaningless. Your scars are not flaws. They are markings on a map that only you can read. Be proud, faithful one. Others chase proof. You walk with meaning. You are never alone— even when no one else walks beside you.

tagged by: @disgracedtwilight tagging: steal it!

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one downside to writing on mobile: you can’t trim