smth about the concept of the chrysos heirs (both the twelve and the others through the ages) being the only ones with strong enough constitutions to carry the memories of all the cycles...
You forget that, sometimes. Perhaps you spent too much time dying, in the before. But you don't remember that. Not really. It's just the once—the thin dark gullet of the Black Tide swallowing you down.
It had been a quiet life before that. Humble, but painted with broad strokes of color, like clouds reflecting the setting sun. It had been enchanting; it had been fleeting. It had ended.
You hadn't.
Your father cries the first time he sees you in the Eternal Pages. He takes your face between his palms.
"All those times," he says. His fingers are trembling. "All those times."
You blink. "What?"
"The endings," he breathes. "The ending won't come again, my child. Not for many, many years. All those times we ended. It will be different now."
"Ending...s?"
His fingers sink into the softest part of your jawline, like a knife into the give of a peach. He turns you left, then right, then left again, searching your face. What he's searching for, you don't know, but the furrow in his brow opens a deep well of something in you. You think it tastes like sorrow.
He makes a decision. You can see it in his eyes, the choice unfolding like the orchard's spring buds. What it is, though—that is beyond you.
He pats your cheek. "Nevermind," he says. "Come, let's find your mother."
You do not think of it again, until the sun sets over the Eternal Pages that night.
Like your father, it bleeds gold.
—
"There you are!"
You blink, looking up from the half-smelted ore. There's sweat tracking down the side of your temple, a slow hot bead of it rolling honey-slow across your skin. Your shirt sticks to you, a second skin.
The man at the edge of your forge does not seem to mind.
Most look to your forge, to the starglow of the iron within its wide mouth, a white-hot kiss. Not him. He does not look away from you.
You know him, you realize. You have seen him from afar in the cycle-that-was, in the lifetime that came before this one. The one that is jagged, mirror-pieces that cut into your hands. There's a fragment with him, though, and it does not hurt to hold.
He had ridden through the streets of Okhema with the other Heirs, the Titan's chosen, his white hair like a crown of stars. His eyes must have been just as blue then, but you were too far to see.
"Deliverer," you say.
The man's—Phainon, you think they called him—smile falters. He draws closer. Too close, really, falling into your space like a moon pulled from orbit. You lean back without thinking.
He steps away quickly, but there is something wounded to him now. A reopened scar.
"You don't know me?"
"Do I?"
His fingers twitch. "I hope so."
You watch him. He watches you back, and you think of your father's searching gaze just days ago, how he looked at you like there was something more you had to give.
"I'm sorry," you say softly.
"I'll just have to reintroduce myself," he says cheerfully. He smiles at you, and it is warm and kind and a little bit sad. You think of your father and way he gazes into the distance sometimes, as if there is an entire world inside of him that you will never know. "I'm Phainon."
You tell him your name; when he repeats it, it's as if he's always known it. It fits into his mouth perfectly. Something in you sings, soft and quiet and immovable.
What it sings you do not know.
Phainon touches one of the small, specialized swords carefully balanced near him. No, you realize—not the sword. The engraving on it. Yours.
"Did you do this?" he asks. "Not bad."
It is a tease, you think, meant kindly, but it ruffles your feathers. From the look on his face, he enjoys it.
"Hands off," you tell him.
He laughs, holds up his hands like you have him at swordpoint.
"Sorry, sorry," he says, and though there is laughter on his tongue, you think there's something wistful lining it, cut silk. Something in you gleams, mirror-flash. It is gone before you can see what it reflects.
Phainon says something else, but you are not listening. He's nicked himself on the sword. It's small, but it bleeds, and you think of the rumors you've heard, of those who carry more lives than the rest. Of those who have lost, and lost, and lost.
i think we should be ridiculing them more for this. you don't get to try and go all "queer website" when your staff likes to go on nuking sprees targeting the trans fem users
would be remiss not to mention that the rainbow notably straight up just removed the trans flag colors from it. like they’re gone. it’s the progress flag minus the trans flag colors.
juni juni hope you're having a good day!! i almost forgot to ask - which platform/software do you prefer for writing? any features you like or think would be really cool?
hello birdie my birdie my day is good thus far!!! i am so so sleepy but we continue!!
i have moved almost entirely to ellipsus! the one exception is my big hsr wip (which is still in gdocs because of the tabs. there are currently *checks notes* 23 tabs in that doc and ellipsus's draft feature wasn't working for me on this front).
i like ellipsus for a variety of reasons (their stance on ai being a big one) but i also haven't experimented a ton with it! the draft feature is nice bc i like to keep the cut pieces and any notes i have in the same document so i can click between them! also the background color options are fun.
there may be other features that i'm just not using tbh but! it works for the basics i use it for.
i feel like these lines out of lbgtm rlly hone in on one of the things about soulmate aus that i think is so interesting to explore—the idea that no matter what, having a soulmate is a gift.
Something I really like about soulmate AUS is that if you spend just a couple of moments thinking about them you'll quickly be glad that the real world doesn't work like that hahaha
It's so much more beautiful that love irl is about choosing someone over and over and over again
honestly idk how much it comes across in how i write soulmate aus but to me they truly are like. a horror story lol. there's so much tied up in it and the idea of something like that being mandated by fate, the universe, whatever you want to call it just gives me the heebie jeebies. there's also a lot of options for varying horrific things that can be framed as "normal" within a concept of a soulmate au. i do think there's something interesting about playing it like an arranged marriage and all the varied reactions to that, because it kind of is an extension of that? in some ways, at least.
but yes, i think there is something very beautiful in choosing someone over and over again! that is part of why lbgtm went the way it did. i think soulmate aus can be very beautiful and very romantic! it just isn't what i'm interested in exploring and this is such a part of that! love as a choice even in a world where it shouldn't be a choice at all.
«Так написано, и так надлежало пострадать Христу, и воскреснуть из мертвых в третий день, и проповедану быть во имя Его покаянию и прощению грехов во всех народах.»
push-up 'til failure trend with satoru, except you get aired an entire morning after your request, only to find out he cheated by using RCT when you get sent a 3-hour-long video of him doing push-ups with a smarmy grin because he knew exactly what game you were playing at
You: can u send me a vid of u doing push ups until failure
Satoru: Ask nicely
You: please and thank you
𖣐
A few minutes later and still no reply. You huff, letting your phone drop to your chest.
Hopefully Satoru is doing what you've asked. There's nothing that screams wet dream more than your own personal stash of exerted grunts and groans in that stupidly smooth, syrupy voice of his.
Either way—nothing to do but wait.
𖣐
With a wince, you yank a bundle of wet clothes from the machine and stare at them listlessly.
Tucked between your clothes is the offender: a red, lacy thong.
"Fuck me," you groan, pinching it in two fingers as you fight the urge to fling it at the wall. You don't win, and the panties fall to the floor with a sodden splat.
Your clothes are all pink.
Not bright fuchsia at least, if small miracles are to be appreciated, but a consistent dusty rose that makes it look like you've bought your clothes straight from Barbie's dream house.
Maybe if you glare at them long enough, you can bleach them back to normality.
Bzzt.
A muscle jumps in your jaw and you slide your gaze around the room in search of your phone. As you lean over to grab it, flicking open the notification from Satoru, the issue of your newly pink wardrobe vanishes in an instant.
Satoru: [video attachment]
You: satoru...
You: why the fuck is this video 3 hours
Satoru: And 27 minutes. Enjoy (˶˃ ᵕ ˂˶)
You: you cheating asshole
Satoru: Say that to the way u were eyefucking Shoko yesterday
You: i was not
You: whatever
You: i'm talking about you using rct
Satoru: Nuh uhhhhhhh
You: ur not even breaking a sweat!!!!
Satoru: Like I ever do
You: you are so irritating has anyone ever told you that :)
Satoru: Only u ♡〰♡
You: wipe that stupid smirk off ur face
You: if you weren't literally moving i would say this is a freeze frame
You: happy with yourself?
Satoru: Oh very
You drag your finger across your screen, scrubbing through three hours of footage in a moment. There's virtually no difference between minute one and minute two hundred and seven. Hell, you're sure he could've carried on past the cutoff, and you don't doubt the only reason he stopped was that he merely got bored with the lack of challenge.
What a dickhead.
His self-satisfied smirk burns into you, and you hate the way your gaze strays over his shoulders, over the muscles shifting beneath his uniform. Even if he isn't visibly affected, there's something about the fact Satoru sent you a three-fucking-hour long video of him doing push-ups that has you squeezing your thighs together.
You know he has high stamina, high endurance. Have witnessed it first hand—seen the sheer scale of his RCT's power from healing a paper cut to bringing Satoru back from the brink of death—yet still, you can feel traitorous arousal pooling in your core at further evidence of such fact.
Of course, even Satoru being the biggest smartass in the world would turn you on. Why wouldn't it? You have no self-respect, clearly.
Satoru: If u wanted to hear me moan, u can just ask baby
Scoffing, your fingers fly over your keyboard indignantly.
You: you couldn't just play along?
Satoru: Boringgggg!!
You: next time you ask for a nude, i'm throwing a bed sheet over my head, cutting out eyeholes, and snapping a pic of that
Satoru: Let's not be too hasty now... (ᵕ • ᴗ •)
You: uh huh...
You: say goodbye to phone sex privileges
Satoru: Hold on
You: i held on for 3 hrs and got some bullshit in return
Satoru: I can give u a demonstrate tonight
Satoru: In person
Satoru: Hands on
also now that we know getou was the first to move in to jujutsu tech i am thinking of the senpai who also moves in early just down the hall.
you're something of a ghost, just a glimpse of your clothing disappearing around a corner, a flutter of a bird's wing. he can feel you, sometimes, the pulse of your cursed energy thrumming.
even once the others move in, you're still hard to pin down.
until he rounds a corner, gojo at his side, and finds you blinking at the two of them like a startled deer.
you're cute. skittish in a way that makes him want to take a bite. he opens his mouth, but his voice isn't the one to echo through the hallway.
"oh! suguru's little cryptid!" gojo says, grinning as he leans closer to you, until you're almost nose to nose. "you're cute."
you flinch. your eyes widen as you take a half-step back. gojo starts to follow, still grinning, but with a snap of cursed energy—you disappear.
"woah," gojo says. "neat."
"you're so annoying," getou grumbles.
"hey!"
"i wanted to meet them."
gojo glances at him, his blue eyes gleaming, the sea beneath the sun.
"i don't know what you're complaining about," he says. "you love a chase."
actually suna is too nonchalant to do the angel numbers thing. he will text you when he feels like it. atsumu on the other hand is doing all sorts of subliminal shit to try and convince you that you’re soulmates
osamu is such a teach me guy. teach me how to make that childhood dish of yours. teach me how your name is written. teach me that term of endearment in your language. teach me all those little habits of yours. teach me how to kiss you so your mouth will know no other name than mine. teach me where to touch you to make you feel so good. teach me where your body and your heart aches. teach me, teach me, teach me.
