abyss @mystieres - Tumblr Blog

but yeah. gomen for being really inactive and disappearing, people of my kind tend to do that and create urban legends

my personality might be different (i’m snarkier than i used to be or at least that’s what i think) and my interests have expanded. i don’t do srs art anymore and prefer to do it for fun now

also if u don’t remember me that’s better bc i did a lot of weird stuff then

#personal

are any of my mutuals still here lol. i suddenly disappeared from this blog bc i forgot my login details and just remembered today x.x i also thought time off tumblr would be good but didn’t expect months to turn into years

i have a new blog (not that active) and twt acct, pls send a dm if u’re still active and want to be mutuals there but mind what i write on my carrd

royai

a valediction

a/n i would say i posted this prematurely but after chipping away at it for half a year i decided i didnt wanna spend the energy on it anymore. so here we are.

this is a fic where roy knows how to alter memories, and he alters riza’s. sort of against her will, sort of not. thats kinda up to the readers to decide, i guess. also, the title is from this poem which i love and the fic is very loosely based off @viria’s amazing royai art

I.

He watched her sleep and dreamed of sunlight. It streamed through the blinds in ribbons, cutting her scars and her skin into lines made of yellow.

He watched her sleep and dreamed of memories. They were always there at the edge of his mind. Her, in a backdrop of green. Her, curled on the couch. Her, hands stained purple from berries picked from the bushes behind her father’s house.

He took a pen and paper from his bedside table. He wrote down everything he loved about her. He filled the page.

II.

Rummaging through someone’s memories for snippets of yourself was like running your fingers over every book in a library searching for all the titles with a ‘Q’ in them. There was working memory, short-term and long; semantic and episodic and procedural. Roy had to be careful with them. Sometimes short-term and working seemed similar on the surface and deciding which one to cull was like cutting the red wire while colorblind. Procedural memory was fun. With the right tools Roy could make a man forget the steps to tying his tie, though he would still remember having done it many times before. Semantic memory rarely, if at all, needed to be meddled with. If Roy traveled too far into that proverbial wolves’ den, well, entire laws and histories might be forgotten.

Minds were as pliable as putty. You could, as someone who manipulates memories, plant your fingerprints into the wet, wrinkled folds, imprinting pieces of yourself into someone else’s head. The truth was that memories could be fabricated as easily as they were wiped away. It was terrifying, really. Memories were not infallible. They were quite often the most unreliable source of information. Retrospective. They could be molded and shrouded; cut and pasted over. The notion that memory was to be trusted had been dying slowly for decades, especially in police circles, where witness testimonies were becoming more useless by the day. Alchemists had been saying for decades that memory was perceived, not absolute. Bias threw shade over everything a person knew until even their most long-standing beliefs were caught under that dark umbrella of personal truth which might not even be a truth at all.

Roy had been poring over memories for as long as he could remember. He used to rent great big tomes from libraries out east and stack them high in his room at the Hawkeye’s. He’d sit cross-crossed on his bed and use his knees as a table, the lamp flicking firelight over the pages and the small, almost imperceptible text. It was all quite beautiful, the drawings of synapses and neurons and neural connections that looked like lighted roadways or connecting stars. The human brain was a galaxy, as infinite as it was mysterious, and Roy was obsessed with it.

Fast-forward to nearly a decade-and-a-half later and Roy has expanded his repertoire to include decimation of the physical kind. He was as adept at disintegrating the human body as he was at dismembering the human mind. It was a secret, though, this ability of his to scramble memories like eggs. Why did anyone need to know, anyhow? It was his precious thing, his failsafe, his guarded heart.

And it would ruin him.

continue on ao3

#<3

mystieres

ok but i saw pineapple socks at a mall and thought, hey avilio would wear those

boobytraped

actually, he’d buy Nero a pair and make him wear them and makes fun of him like he’s got no shame cause it’s true

paradoxmimzy

Near is straight up laying on a massive 3D printer. The bed of which is commonly heated to 60C or 140F. It’s colder when it’s not in use, but what I’m saying is it’s totally within Near’s character to remotely adjust the Bed temp just so he has a warm place to nap while it’s uncomfortably hot for literally anyone else.

#i love him so much