#memory writing asks

[cyanide-latte]

💬

Ilias knows he shouldn't touch the collapsed man, he should stand back and let the adults handle things. He's nine years old and perfectly obedient, and normally he would be focused on helping his oldest brother hold their youngest brother back. But something in him won't let him behave; there is an overwhelming compulsion that has seized him, causing him to break away from his brothers and move cautiously towards the man.

The adults around him are, of course, trying to tell him to stop and step back, with varying degrees of force and worry that all fade into background noise before ceasing entirely with a terrified hush. Ilias doesn't register this, and thus doesn't see the way his shadow splits into three, nor the way his eyes are beginning to glow with a cold, harsh light. His awareness has narrowed to nothing but the man on the floor, a sweating, pale S.T.Y.X. employee he doesn't even know by name.

“Ilias, don't!” his youngest brother calls.

Something inside Ilias is shaking, rattling the bars of a cage it's newly found itself in and wants out of. It's breaking free, and while he doesn't know what he is doing, he senses its inevitability and how much more than him it is. He stops trying to fight it quickly, realizing that though he is on some level frightened, he needs more than anything to find out what is about to happen.

One of his hands drifts over the man’s chest, the other over his sweating forehead. The last things Ilias is aware of are the thinness of his hands, the sudden length of his nails, and that his voice is now tripled as he speaks words both alien and yet known to some deeper, more secret part of him.

“Ilias, you—!!”

The world shatters around him in a kaleidoscope of color, dropping him into a void, and he is whipped by gusts of wind. The wind brings something with it, something pale and shining across what he now recognizes as a liminal space.

It is a thread.

No, that's not correct. It isn't just a thread.

It approaches initially with great rapidity, hesitating for only a moment, before snapping at him like some great snake and twisting itself around him before he can do much more than cry out. And though the thread doesn't cut him, he immediately feels what it carries begin to slice into him.

He glimpses the past and sees a boy who resembles the employee who collapsed. There is a barrage of vicious glares, stray hateful thoughts aimed at other children who mock his intellect and interests and his early desire for a career. Cold disdain weaves throughout, a sense he is better and smarter than his peers, that one day they'll be sorry. Then in adolescence, still marked by that disdain and condescension, there is a loneliness fiercely misdirected at peers and at girls who laugh at his interest in them, and a dark undercurrent of wishing everything would just stop, that sleep would subsume him forever. Ilias barely processes the frightening enormity of this before he sees the same teenager, a little older, devastated. The Jupiter family didn't think his ideas good enough, didn't even look at him when searching for new talent. Bound up in this is an icy, gut-churning sensation at realizing that the internship he was offered has a S.T.Y.X. seal; he is so unremarkable, so unimpressive, so not as special as he hoped that not only did the Jupiter family never acknowledge him, but their cousins, the Shroud family, are taking pity on him. Pity from a bunch of ghouls who live in isolation. He swallows his pride and dignity because a job is a job, but just when he thought his life couldn't get any worse, the Great Seven were practically laughing in his face.

Ilias is yanked to the present, but not back to himself. The man is sick. He is resigned to his job at S.T.Y.X. but to say he still loathes his circumstances is incorrect. He is listened to, he is respected. His work challenges him in ways that he enjoys and his coworkers are surprisingly collaborative. True, the Shrouds still frighten him on some level, but really, they're not so bad. Okay, so he's a little jealous that even their three sons seem to be tiny child geniuses far beyond himself, but it doesn't sting the way it would have when he was younger. And he's freer here, somehow. Despite himself, he likes his new life in the Island of Woe. But he feels like he's dying. He's sure he is. Everything is dark.

Something coaxes Ilias then, and he spins towards it, facing opposite the direction he did when he glimpsed the past. He knows something lies ahead, something final, and with it, the end of the thread of this man’s life.

He reaches for it, grasping with thin hands ending in claw-like nails and feels, both in this space and back where things remain real, the final word leave his mouth, the name of the spell he realizes he's cast.

“HARBINGER.”

The man’s future snaps into view, frames glimpsed here and there on the way to that finality he knows is waiting. Initially the negative following this moment stands out most starkly, and it's several frames before the positives become more prominent and vibrant, but these don't linger and dig beneath the skin the same way. They brush over Ilias with a warmth and tenderness, and don't sear him.

And then it all slows. The man is old now. He watches an adolescent Shroud boy with long, long hair storm away in frustration after an argument with a man wearing the uniform and helmet of the S.T.Y.X. director. It takes his physical expression of exasperation for Ilias to recognize this is his younger brother, grown up.

“Give him some time, sir,” the old man says, patience and kindness in his voice that were never there in the past, and are barely there in his present. “You can't push too hard with teenagers.”

This day moves well but slow, very slow. He finishes out his shift and returns home, greeted with an aged affection by his husband. The two eat, unaware this is their last meal together, and sometime after they retire for the night, peacefully asleep beside each other, the man exhales his last breath in a sigh. And the thread vanishes with a snipping sound.

Everything real rushes back at once, color and sound colliding like the shattered glass is crashing itself back together in an attempt to repair the world. The spell releases Ilias only seconds after he lets go, unaware he was holding it to begin with. Unconsciously, he clutches at his head, which feels both too light and too heavy, and curls up on his side on the floor, trying to push away the memories that aren't his from the ones that are.

They leave quickly, like they're fleeing back to their owner, but the one future-memory, the image of the last day, lingers.

At the very least, the man won't actually die for some time to come.

But in this moment that is a cold comfort, and it cannot conceal the magic that now is awake, living beneath the boy’s skin.

With a whimper, Ilias shuts his eyes.

—————

Taglist: @tixdixl @blithesharem @inmateofthemind @ramshacklerumble @simons-twsted-children

So there we have it, both an Ilias memory and a glimpse of the first time he discovers his Unique Magic. I've talked about it before somewhat to a few mutuals and friends (I can't recall who all I've told,) but Harbinger allows him to see a person's ultimate fate. Unfortunately, Ilias cannot control what other information about the person he receives in the process (and when he's young, he can't stem the flow of that information at all.) It often overwhelms him, and by the time he's a young adult in his early 20s, he's inclined to believe the worst of almost everyone and everything, because that's usually what his UM shows him when he tries to see someone's fate.

Also worth noting here that I did keep the details vague intentionally for the most part regarding this S.T.Y.X. employee's life and experiences. As this is meant to be a memory of Ilias's, the details of the man's life, thoughts, feelings have all faded somewhat with time from Ilias's perspective, as this is written to be his recollection. It would be quite different when experiencing them in real time.

@elenauaurs @thehollowwriter @theleechyskrunkly @distant-velleity @rainesol (message me if you want to be added to the taglist for my TWST OC stuff!)

[somnimagus]

My page for @sheikahzine; about Impaz's duty to her village, empty of people and full of memories.

[id in alt text]

[twentyfivemiceinatrenchcoat]

COME REST YOUR BONES NEXT TO ME ; SATORU GOJO, SUGURU GETO

synopsis; satoru shares the first snowfall of the year with the two people he loves most. 

word count; 4.6k

contents; satoru gojo/reader/suguru geto (poly relationship!!), gn!reader, you're all whipped, reader referred to as spouse, fluff fluff fluff!!, sickeningly domestic, just comfy vibes all around, mostly from satoru’s pov, suguru has a favorite (its you) (but also not really he just likes bullying toru <3), satoru gojo may or may not have unresolved mommy issues

a/n; happy satosugu holidays to those who celebrate <33 geto died today isnt that crazy. dont u think its fucked up how love figuratively and literally killed him. anyway! help urself to two very whipped husbands <33

”holy shit!”

the raspy tilt of satoru’s voice echoes throughout the bedroom, stirring you from your comfortable slumber. a soft groan spills from suguru’s lips, deep and husky, as he pulls you closer into his embrace — smoothing a warm palm down the back of your head. trying to soothe you back to sleep, muttering under his breath.

”satoru, it’s too early for this...”

”it’s snowing!” said man continues, unperturbed. unmistakably giddy. he’s standing by the window, hands pressed flush against the cold glass; entirely entranced by the sight in front of his cerulean eyes. 

your eyelids begin to flutter. a tiny tug of your subconscious, a pang of something excited flowing through your veins, an alert to your sleepy brain.

(snowing.)

with groggy movements, you wriggle out of suguru’s grasp — a displeased grumble leaves his throat, almost a whine — allowing you to scramble out of bed. ”really?” you chirp, rubbing the sleep from beneath your eyes. a raspy, meek little voice spilling into the air.

satoru grins, watching you move closer, watching as a tiny gasp pushes past your lips. watching as your droopy eyes widen — brightening, glittering, starlight and snowflakes painted on the interior of your iris. a breathtaking sight, he thinks. 

maybe even more breathtaking than the winter wonderland reflected in it; beyond the pure opaque frosting of the window’s glass, out into your backyard, buried beneath a thick layer of snow. soft and fluffy, covering the city, suguru’s long-frozen tulip garden, the bare branches of your apricot tree. every roof in sight. all of it dyed a pure white, glittering in the light of a morning sun yet to fully rise, tiny snowflakes descending down to earth. 

it’s beautiful. 

satoru loves winter. he always has, he thinks. it comes to him as a memory — blurred at the edges, gleaming even still, the first time he saw those snowflakes up close. someone held him in their arms, he recalls. a warmth long faded. 

all he can properly remember is that sight. one that knocked the breath from out his tiny lungs, all glitter and something almost other-worldly, something frightening in its majesty. like it broke through a rift in the stratosphere. 

the first snow of the year.

and he’s loved it ever since; the soft crunch of snow beneath his feet, an air heavy with the scent of cinnamon and candied apples, bouts of laughter to be heard from faraway apartments. red and green glimmers of artificial light, sweet frosting on the christmas cake he would always gobble up alone in his room. the cold wind, nipping at his bare fingers — a reminder of his capacity for ache.

there are lots of things to love. lots of memories to cherish. and every single year, he gets the chance to make more.

like this; the light in your eyes, the smile on your face, the excitement in how hurriedly you turn to meet his giddy gaze. a nostalgic kind of joy simmering in the space between you.

and before either of you know it, satoru’s pulling you towards the hallway, intent on dragging you outside to see it all up close. almost tripping over his agumon plush, lying unassumingly on the floor, kicked off the bed once again. 

(probably by satoru himself, though he’ll always insist it was suguru’s doing. overcome by his jealousy, surely, unable to stand the sight of his cute husband cuddling up to a plushie instead of him. satoru understands, he does — he feels the same when he sees you hug that 3’0 cat plushie of yours.

and, sure, maybe once or twice he’s been lucid enough to register the subconscious kick of his leg and agumon’s subsequent fall to the floor — but he’ll still blame suguru in the morning. if only to see the way said man rolls his eyes, clicks his tongue, maybe flicks his forehead if he’s really lucky.)

high on the spirit of christmas, spurred on by childlike elation and sleep-deprivation, you stumble towards the door. satoru pulls one of his jackets over your shoulders, delighting in the way your hands don’t fully reach through the sleeves. wrapping you up in a cozy scarf when suguru shouts at you both to dress warmly, barely awake and already tired of your antics.

and the moment you step through the door, satoru is engulfed by it. that mystical, mystical feeling. 

a little lonely, a little too satisfying to pass up. a cold breeze that nips at his fingertips, snowflakes that brush against his cheeks and stick to his white lashes. a warm hand in his, as you cling to his side, shuddering — but smiling, as you look up at the sky, putting a hand out just to feel the snowflakes melt against the skin of your palm.

he feels you let go of him, but doesn’t mention it. a little too mesmerized to tug you back. dipping his toes into the bittersweet nostalgia of it all, staring at the flurry of white all around you, the skeletal branches of your apricot tree. suguru’s poor tulips. humming a jolly tune, subconsciously. a little delighted.

— until something cold and wet hits the exposed skin of his neck.

satoru twitches, a chilling shudder trickling down his spine. the snowball just thrown at him begins to melt, droplets sticking to his nape, and he turns to you with a raise of his brow. a devilish grin on his lips, when he hears your muffled laughter, sees the crinkle of your eyes.

(you’re cute, he thinks. but you need to be humbled.)

”oh, so that’s how you wanna play?” he drawls, eyes gleaming with amusement. taking a step forward, reaching down to gather some snow in his palm. a wide grin on his glossy lips. ”fine by me.” 

he's fast, but you act quickly, running towards the apricot tree with laughter in your throat. feeling the pitter patter of your heartbeat resound in your ears, as the snowball misses its mark by just a hair — and you waste no time in making your own.

it’s a hard-fought duel. snowfall blocking your vision, nerves beginning to numb, red cheeks and runny noses as you chase each other with giddy breaths. unfortunately for you, satoru’s arms are unfairly long, fingers unfairly nimble, and his stamina never even seems to falter.

so before long, your energy begins to dwindle. chest heaving, hands too cold to form a proper snowball, while your husband seems like he hasn’t even broken a sweat. they just keep on coming, snowball after snowball colliding with the fabric of your jacket, and when one of them hits your collarbone you squeal — falling backwards, right into a fresh pile of snow.

satoru moves forward, a triumphant smirk on his handsome face. you’re out of breath, and your hands are red, and he’s fairly certain you’re gonna catch a cold. suguru’s going to scold him, but right now all he can think of is you. the frown you’re wearing, the little huff that slips from your lips.

”ready to admit defeat, sweetheart?” he practically purrs, standing above you with his hands on his hips. smug. and you grin right back.

”never.”

a hum. something glimmers in his eyes, a devious little glint, and you come to regret your decision when satoru gathers a heap of snow with his overgrown arms; only to drop it all on top of you. too tired to fight back, all you can do is shield your face, silently accepting your fate.

a shiver wracks through your body, and satoru almost feels bad. just a tiny bit. but then you finally relent, murmuring bitterly under your breath. ”fine, fine…” a soft pout forms on your lips. ”you win.”

and satoru smiles. crouching down to meet you at eye level, on his knees in front of you. there’s a teasing mirth in his eyes, when he reaches out to cup the fat of your cheek. ”that’s all i wanted to hear, sweet pea,” he drawls, trying not to giggle when you exaggeratedly roll your eyes.

his voice curls down an octave when he continues, leaning forward to brush his nose against yours. hot breath against your chilled skin. ”now, for my prize…”

his lips meet yours, sweet and chaste — a little cheeky. you scoff into the kiss, but satoru’s smile only grows. honeyed, a little bit adoring. his tongue flits out to lick at your cold bottom lip.

he lingers, for a bit. like he’s trying to savour the way you taste, faded strawberry chapstick sticking to his lips, smudged against your own. and you sigh, softly, melting a little, comforted by the fleeting warmth that blossoms on your face. 

when he's finally satisfied, having dragged his prize out to its completion, satoru helps you up. brushing snowflakes off your jacket, cradling your ice-cold hands in his. they’re not faring much better, but a worried tug of his heartstrings compels him to warm you up. bringing them to his lips, hot breath fanning over your skin, tender little kisses against the knots of your knuckles.

you can’t help but blush, and a raspy chuckle flows from out his lips. 

hazy morning sunshine licks at the branches of the apricot tree behind you, illuminating the contours of your face, the shine of his eyes. a blue smudge on a canvas painted white and gray. the air smells of pine cones and something smokey, crisp. it courses through his burning lungs when he inhales, exhales, a breath of vapour that scatters up into the sky.

satoru loves winter. always has. but now, he’s certain he loves it even more.

because now, he has two people to share it with. two people to drag out into the snow, two people whose hands he can tenderly warm up, two people who’ll laugh and sigh at his antics and still indulge him. two people to pelt with snowballs. 

what more could a man want?

”hey, idiots!” 

the voice that echoes throughout the air is exasperated, a little teasing. yet fond. suguru’s got his hair tied into a messy half done bun, black turtleneck sweater enunciating his broad chest and the curve of his waist. there’s a fatigue in his eyes, the creases of his face, but a lazy smile is playing at his lips.

”i’m making breakfast,” he shouts, voice deep and smokey and soft even still. ”come in and warm up before you catch a cold.”

”is that any way to speak to your husband and spouse?” satoru chimes back, a melodic lilt to his sugarsweet voice. something satisfied. pleased.

suguru shoots him an unimpressed look, but his eyes soften. melting a little, at the words that spill from satoru’s lips, as if they were always meant to be there. 

(husband. spouse. suguru wills himself not to smile.)

with matching grins on your faces, the two of you stumble back towards the door. snow crunching beneath your feet, a happy noise pushing past your lips when you collide with the warmth of your husband’s chest.

”look, suguru. isn’t it pretty?” you chirp, smiling brightly. an expression he mirrors — brushing some snow from the top of your head, warm palms caressing your cold skin, setting a mental reminder to scold satoru later. sparing a brief glance at the snowy veil over reality.

then he exhales. a fond hum. ”it is.”

satoru joins you both by the door, stretching out his lanky limbs. tousled hair, wet strands sticking to his skin, reddened cheeks and a signature pout. ”suguru, my hands are cold,” he whines. ”warm ’em up for me?”

a click of his tongue. ”should’ve put some gloves on, satoru.”

a hum buzzes in your throat, and you put your hands out. itchy, a little dry. a sad frown tugs at your lips when you speak. ”my hands are also cold.”

and, like clockwork, suguru’s eyes soften. a coo tiptoeing on his tongue, engulfing your hands in his larger ones. ”aw, c’mere, my love…” his breath fans over your frozen fingertips. ”let’s get you warmed up, hm?”

satoru gasps, a hand on his chest, and you stifle a giggle. he’s acting, you both know, being a little drama queen. he knows you’re just exaggerating suguru’s double standard as a bit, that your husband would probably set himself on fire to warm either of you up.

despite that, his voice comes out thoroughly offended. ”oh, i see how it is,” he huffs, walking past the both of you. pouting deeply. ”you hate me. you hate me, and you want me to die. i understand.”

”satoru,” you coo. he hmphs, but stills, waiting for you to wrap your arms around him. and you do — a little too eager to appease your giant baby of a husband.

”we’re just joking around,” you assure him, holding back a humorous chuckle. squeezing his waist with palpable fondness. ”love you sooo much. you know that.”

satoru stays silent. but he cranes his neck, to meet suguru’s gaze, standing just behind him. narrowing his cobalt eyes — a meaningful look.

suguru sighs.

”yes, yes. we love you oh so much.” he takes a step forward, ruffling the white head of hair by the door. a lazy smile on his lips. ”now behave and go change out of your pyjamas. they’re soaked.”

his voice is teasing. exasperated, more than a little condescending. but it’s suguru, so satoru accepts it — following you both into the warmth of your home. the scent of cinnamon and vanilla hangs heavy in the air, a hint of espresso and firewood, lulling him into a sweet state of tranquility. rich with comfort, safety.

he changes out of his wet clothes, pulling a black hoodie over his head before waltzing into the kitchen. and you do the same, emerging from your bedroom in one of suguru’s cozy sweaters, knitted and smelling of bergamot. 

when suguru notices, his gaze shifts into something fond. palpable. a look satoru always finds in the scope of those warm eyes, amber and cedar bleeding into something sweet, only ever directed at the two of you. a look said man assumes goes unnoticed. he’s not as slick as he thinks.

the kitchen simmers with hazy sunlight and gentle movements, something sleepy and kind. satoru is a little bit enamored with it; from bowls of cat food by the corner, to camellias by the windowsill, cookie jars and dried lemon slices, the fading scent of baked goods and wishlists stuck to the fridge.

(yours and satoru’s are filled with scribbles, new ideas popping up daily, while suguru’s is almost entirely blank; mostly necessities, one or two things he’d like for himself.

and then, of course, the same thing he writes at the top of his wishlist every year; some peace and quiet.)

suguru shuffles around the kitchen, long strands of black hair cascading down his back, swaying with his movements. he sends you both an affectionate glance when you step in, already in the process of making satoru his cup of hot chocolate — topped with marshmallows and whipped cream, colorful sprinkles in the shape of tiny stars, a touch of cinnamon. satoru licks his lips.

when it's finished, the cup is promptly handed to him, paired with a tender kiss to his forehead. and suguru starts the meticulous brewing of your coffee, steady hands, finely chosen coffee beans, the low purring of the espresso machine. soothing.

that’s when you attach yourself to his back. wrapping your arms around his waist, a sleepy yawn muffled into the fabric of his turtleneck. he places a big palm on your hand, thumb smoothing over your knuckle, and you nuzzle into him silently. suguru smiles.

”still sleepy, baby?” he questions, a coo on the tip of his tongue. his voice is soft, palpably so, buzzing with warmth and safety and something that makes you want to stay cuddled up to him forever.

satoru senses an opportunity to insert himself into the conversation, and forces out a yawn of his own. stretching his limbs like a big cat, blinking drowsily, eyelashes fluttering. hoping it’ll come off as endearing. ”mhm.” 

but suguru shoots him an unimpressed look. ”not you,” he tuts, patting your arm, ”this baby. i wasn’t asking you.”

a pout. ”why are you so mean to me?” he whines, shooting you a doe-eyed look. bottom lip jutting out slightly, a feigned glassiness to his eyes. ”sweetie, tell your husband to stop being so mean to me.”

you smile. indulgent, as always. ”don't be so mean to him, suguru. you know he’s sensitive.”

a sigh. deep, tinged with exhaustion. satoru shares an amused look with you — stifling a shared chuckle at suguru’s exasperation.

and suddenly, he feels something warm flutter in his ribcage. a sunkissed butterfly, wings brushing against his ribs, coaxing his lips into curling up. unmistakable fondness, almost too much to bear. the need to reach out and touch you creeps up on him, a hunger he can’t deny, but he holds back; you look comfy like that, curled up against suguru’s spine. so he only inches closer, without a word. 

his husband casts him a glance, but satoru stays silent. lips pursed, waiting for something. patient.

and suguru relents. he reaches a hand out, to tuck a stray strand of white hair behind his ear — an excuse to touch him. a silent apology. 

(i'm sorry, you big baby.)

satoru grins.

you shift from foot to foot, leaning over to see what suguru is doing, pressing buttons and taking two ceramic cups out from a wall cabinet. your eyes zero in on a particular shelf, narrowing in suspicion, before flitting over to meet your husband’s gaze.

”satoru, did you use up all my peppermint sweeteners again?”

he stiffens. just a tad, before swallowing a gulp — followed by a silly chuckle, sheepish and performative, eager to wiggle his way out of your cold gaze. ”… which sweeteners do you mean, honey?”

”don’t pull the ’honey’ card.”

”and don’t play dumb, either.”

a pout crosses his lips. betrayed. ”suguru, who’s side are you even on?”

said man gives him a look. that one look, characteristically suguru, the same one he always sends satoru’s way. one so thoroughly unimpressed it makes him feel like the world’s biggest clown. 

and satoru plays along. your dutiful, beloved clown, his posture wilting like a sad flower. suguru exhales through his nose.

”don’t steal their sweeteners.” he smooths a thumb over your knuckle, absentminded, meeting the cold metal of the ring on your finger. smiling a little at the sensation. ”buy your own.”

satoru huffs, drawn out and childish. crossing his arms, leaning against the kitchen counter. ”ah, i see how it is. leaving your sweet husband to buy his own sweeteners?” he clicks his tongue. ”chivalry is dead.”

you bite back a little chuckle — satoru recognizes the cute noise you make when you do — and suguru rolls his eyes. fondly, always. ”remind me next time i go to the store and i’ll consider it.”

”hmph.”

suguru is smiling. it’s small, but genuine, worth a thousand words. and you are, too, the vague crinkle of your eyes giving you away. even as you bury your face in the curve of suguru’s back.

and ah, satoru thinks. there it is again. 

that sickeningly sweet sense of deja vu; the sensation of a certain something flourishing deep inside his chest. warming him up, trickling through his frost-bitten veins. that one little itch he never manages to satisfy, that never goes away, something that took root inside his heart years ago — watered by the sweet looks on your faces.

this everyday slice of heaven, right in front of him, that he’s been greedily partaking in ever since he moved in with you. since he married you.

(married.)

sometimes he still can’t believe it. 

”it’ll be done in a minute,” suguru hums, and satoru blinks. broken out of his syrupy stupor. ”you two go wait by the kotatsu, okay? must be cold, poor babies.” 

and, as always, his voice is a little teasing. a tiny bit condescending, if you really strain your ears, in typical suguru fashion. but it’s laced with a touch of sweetness; one that would be too much for either of you to stomach, if it were to drip out of his lips with nothing to water it down. so satoru accepts it. welcomes it, even.

and you follow his suggestion. making your way towards the living room, satoru trailing behind you, continuously enamored by every little thing he sees. every little piece of the home you’ve built for yourselves.

your living room is cozy. several potted plants seated here and there, a thick quilt to cover the kotatsu, a bowl of satsumas on top of it. a sleepy cat on your couch, golden sunshine ruffling her fur. a santa hat lies beside her, and satoru snags it without much thought. pulling it over his head.

his gaze shifts to the christmas tree over in the corner, eyes filling with a childlike kind of wonder. it’s decorated to completion, weighed down by colourful ornaments and lights, a star at the very top. suguru cut it himself, bringing the biggest and prettiest one he could find back home.

(satoru had gone with him. partially to help carry it back, mostly to get a glimpse of suguru's biceps flexing with the swing of the axe. he’s a simple man.)

and beneath it, presents are already beginning to pile up. carefully wrapped, in bows and silken paper, growing more each day. shattering suguru’s hopes of maybe having a more lowkey christmas this year — but satoru couldn’t be more relieved. this is the only time of year you let him get away with pampering you both to his heart’s content.

a smile blooms on his lips. he plops down on the floor, crossing his legs, right as suguru walks in with a coffee pot in hand. their gazes overlapping.

and something mischievous begins to brew within the blue of his eyes, something that makes suguru narrow his own. satoru pats his thigh, twice, a coo on the tip of his tongue. santa hat sitting pointedly on top of his head, fluffing up his hair.

”c’mere, suguru! sit on santa’s lap.”

”— you’re disgusting.”

the words are playful, but a pout still slips into the curve of satoru’s lips, and he huffs out a displeased little breath. his husband pretends not to hear it, so satoru turns to you — sitting so prettily to his right, already anticipating his next move. puppy dog eyes on full display, he gives you a soft tilt of his head, snowy tufts of hair falling over his eyes.

and you sigh, in what he knows is resignation. his faux pout turning into a satisfied grin.

you curl up in satoru’s lap without much of a fuss, letting him circle his arms around you. an indulgent smile rests on your lips, but he knows you love this; his broad chest against your back, the heat of the kotatsu warming your feet. breathing in the fading scent of your shampoo, he leaves a peck on the sensitive spot right behind your ear, and you try not to shudder.

then satoru smiles. squeezing you, lightly, sweetly, eyes rich with honeyed affection. voice dripping with playful endearment. ”there we go,” he coos. ”what does my angel want for christmas, hm?” 

”i want you to stop stealing my peppermint sweeteners,” comes your answer. instantaneous.

silence fills the room. a moment passes. outside your frosted windows, a bird takes flight from the branches of your apricot tree. and satoru clicks his tongue.

”… santa can only do so much, baby.”

two deep scoffs fill the air, heavy and bemused. one from you, one from suguru. satoru only giggles.

”just kidding!” he chirps, planting a kiss on the top of your head. ”don’t you worry. santa’ll give you all the peppermint sweeteners you could ever want.” 

you raise a brow, exhaling amusedly. craning your head to meet his gaze. ”and he won’t end up using them all himself?”

”of course not! blasphemy.” 

a moment passes.

”… maybe one or two. as a treat.”

a string of protests slips from your lips, and satoru tries not to burst into a fit of giggles. suguru just watches, silently, smiling lightly as he pours hot coffee into two ceramic cups. steam wafting up to the ceiling, a cat jumping down from the couch to curl up in his lap. he places one in front of you, not taking a single sip of his own until he hears you hum blissfully at the taste — pink lips against white ceramic. a bitter taste on his tongue, sweetened by your approval.

then he starts peeling three satsumas, absentmindedly, and satoru swallows down the love-ridden honey choking up the back of his throat. pretending the domesticity of such a simple action doesn’t melt his heart down to the marrow. 

he turns his attention towards the window. frost sticking to the glass like spider-woven webs, soon to be melted by the glow of the mellow winter sunrays. flitting in through the curtains, cascading over the room, splattering across the floorboards. framing the hue of your hair, the smile on suguru’s lips.

and a memory comes to him. sudden, hazy, faded at the edges. ghosting his subconscious.

he remembers the frost, the biting wind, the frightening majesty of the snow that fell that day. breaking into his world through a rift in the stratosphere. he remembers the contrasting warmth of the person who held him, who cradled him close; the soft lull of a woman’s voice. 

for a moment, satoru thinks he can almost, almost see it before him. hear those gentle words, see her tired smile. why was she always so tired?

(look, satoru. isn’t it pretty?)

— he can’t recall how it sounded. if it was melodic and soft, or raspy and broken, happy or sad. but he does recall that it made him feel safe. safe enough to find comfort in a sight so other-worldly, so very foreign.

it should’ve been frightening, but it wasn’t. the first snowfall satoru ever saw knocked the breath from out his lungs, stole his heart with cold hands, left him with a suffocating nostalgia. but the memory is precious.

and now, he feels that sense of other-worldliness in this; a kotatsu for three, a warm house, peeled satsumas and promises of a christmas cake soon to be baked. one lovely spouse in his lap, the other gazing at him with that fond look he always assumes goes unnoticed. a cocoon of safety — a ghost he doesn’t need to chase anymore.

warmth. enough warmth to make up for the snow and frost outside your home, all the experiences he missed out on as a child. warmth, warmth, warmth. funny, how that happens to be satoru’s favorite thing about winter. 

he looks at the two of you, hoping you won’t pay any mind to his silence. for once, he hopes you’ll stay wrapped up in your awful, awful coffee, so bitter that just looking at it makes his throat feel dry. just so he can get away with admiring you for a little longer. from the contours of suguru’s face, to the skin of your collarbone, to the rings on your fingers. ones he put there himself. 

and ah, satoru thinks, there it is again. again and again, as always, forever. that warm, warm feeling flourishing in the depths of his chest. 

he hopes it never goes away.

[writergeekrhw]

I heard some Trekkies are planning to donate to charities that aid those experiencing homelessness to celebrate The Bell Riots in dedication to Gabriel Bell or under the name of Gabriel Bell!

Yes! This is a good plan, and I did it myself.

[arttsuka]

Some past fiddlestan? (Like Ford just went through the portal. He gone now. Past. Yk?)

The mystery misery yaoi

[rendevok]

your narumitsu art made me weep with joy and I heard you want more requests 👀

idk if this is the right place to put them but I think phoenix coming with miles to try on his glasses for the first time would be sweet :,) miles asking how they look and phoenix being just smitten. the good stuff

Dear anon… you sure know how to pick em! Things got very out of hand very quickly while drawing, and well. You inspired me to draft a comic! I didn’t want to make you wait long, so here are the sketches for the pages relevant to your request <3

Thanks so much, and hope you enjoy~! 💜

[trans-axolotl]

content note: discussion of suicide.

this next monday will be the six year anniversary of losing one of my friends to suicide.

when he died, my high school barely mentioned his death, even though for other students who died by things like car crashes or illness, there were so many public expressions of grief. they believed that having any memorials for a student who died by suicide would encourage other people to die the same way. in their rush to erase the circumstances of his death, they erased the memory of his life.

there are so many things i am angry at that high school about in terms of how they treated mental health (mandatory reporting and collaborating with cops, their refusal to recognize the ways in which that system led to peer-to-peer crisis support, their refusal to recognize the ways that trying to keep each other alive through trial and error was scary and exhausting, carceral disciplinary policies, etc etc etc). but i think one of the things i am still angriest about is the way they enforced shame around his death. it felt like they were retroactively blaming him for the constellation of circumstances that made suicide an option in his life. it felt like they were blaming those of us who missed him and cared about him and wanted to grieve him. it made those of us still there who were actively suicidal feel even more scared about the reaction if we did reach out for help from one of those mythical safe adults.

as an adult now involved in psych abolition/mad liberation work, it makes me so fucking mad to see the ways in which he was discarded by people in authority positions. and the older i get, the more options i have found in my life for making sense of the world and finding healing and community and support which were never available to him because he died when he was 16 and the only things offered to him were a carceral psychiatric system that blamed him for his own fucking death. it feels so incredibly unfair.

i miss him and i think i always will; i can't remember his laugh or the sound of his voice or his favorite color any more and that aches. this grief is so heavy and it feels harder in a new way each year, when i become older than he will ever be. sometimes meeting new comrades or seeing new anticarceral suicide support models hurts because i wish so fucking bad that we had that back then. i remember how close we came to losing even more people that year and i know it is simple fucking luck that i'm still here when he's not.

i remember another letter (never sent) that i wrote to a friend while they were in an ICU bed after a suicide attempt when i didn't know if they would live or not. i have spent so much time in the past 10 years begging for anything to keep me and my friends alive, but even in that letter i knew that there is so much fucking violence that is hidden beneath psychiatric logics of cure and safety that promise a "solution" to suicide. I knew that institutionalization, coercion, and shame would not have helped build a life more liveable for him or **** or any of the people i've loved and lost since.

there needs to be more fucking options for care and support that aren't so incredibly cruel to suicidal people. i know so many people doing incredible work in alternatives, peer respite, a million different frameworks for healing and liberation. but it makes me so mad every day i have to live in a world where there are still people restrained, locked up in psych wards, having all autonomy and personhood taken away from them. knowing there are dozens of people every day getting blamed for their deaths the same way he was blamed for his.

i miss him. i cared so fucking much for him. and he died by suicide, and all of those things are true. he has been dead for 6 years and he lived before that and the people who loved him want to remember all of him; our celebrations of his life should not require hiding the way that he died.

Image description: [1000 origami cranes in all different colors and patterns that are tied together in strings of 25]

(these were the 1000 cranes we made to give to his parents, in memorial and recognition of how much he meant to us.)

[wasabi-gumdrop]

First base is comedic miscommunication. Second base is holding each other when wounded. Third base is being their royal advisor.

wow that’s crazy if you zoom in to Kabru’s notes that’s exactly what he wrote as his grand master plan

[medievalthymes]

me explaining to anyone that will listen my headcanon that rote is a time loop. we’re reading fitz’ story but his story is his memories that he put into the stone wolf so the reader IS the stone wolf as we store his memories in us and they just keep going every time we pick up the book again for a reread. that’s why it’s so cathartic to go back to the start when you finish the series. It’s an old song. It’s a sad song. A tale from way back when. It’s a tragedy. And we’re gonna sing it again—

[mistfallengw2]

Feel free to be more specific in comments/notes if you want! If you want to elaborate further, how do you organize them? By role, species, age, alphabetical order, vibes or something else?

[sysig]

Experimentation (Patreon)

[cyanide-latte]

💬

He wakes, suddenly and without knowing why. He is already up and moving, sliding out of his bed and crossing his room as fast as he can without running, trying to discern what could have woken him and with such a sense of urgency coursing through his limbs and his rapidly beating heart.

Was it a sound? But if so, what sound? If anything, the house seems a little too quiet. And it certainly isn't the excitement for the weekend and his inevitable twelfth birthday celebration. A quick glance at a digital clock on one of the small ornamental tables, backlit without being too bright, indicates it is barely fifteen minutes until the turn of the hour to two in the morning. So…what woke him?

Troubled, Ren walks faster and faster through the house, and his question is answered in moments as he stumbles upon the open front door, blowing in icy air. His heart speeds up further as he sees the figure of his father standing at the end of the house’s stone walk in his sleepwear, looking around outside.

“Dad?” Ren calls out to him.

No response.

Hesitating, worrying that to step out of the house entirely while the door is open is to invite dire trouble, Ren tries again to call his father. But this time he forces himself to move forward, to step outside and approach him.

Wei Shun continues to glance around, and as Ren draws close, he can see his father's gaze is half-lidded, unfocused. Sleepwalking? His father doesn't have a history of sleepwalking, though. And even if he’s asleep, his expression is strange. He looks like he’s searching for something.

Ren hesitates again. He knows you shouldn't try to wake a sleepwalker, but he’s nervous and he doesn't want his dad to get hurt. He tries to look around, to see if he can get any idea of what brought Wei Shun out here, but to no avail. Just the other houses and buildings, their small street, the quiet, thick blanket of white snow. It looks innocent and peaceful, the same as any other night in the winter in Upper Bàoyìng.

Though he does feel an itch between his shoulder blades, like they're being watched. Ren doesn't like it. It kicks something inside him into action, and he gently places a hand on his father's upper arm.

“Dad,” he says again, firmly and loud enough it seems to echo among the snow. “Dad? It's Ren.”

There is a tense eternity as he watches his father blink rapidly and frown, like he's trying to process something muffled and distant. After a moment, Wei Shun groans and presses a hand to his forehead, curling in on himself slightly like he's struggling with an abrupt migraine.

When he blinks again, his eyes are clearer and they clear further when he looks down at Ren. Recognition sets in and he offers him a tired, fond smile.

“My little phoenix…” he says, removing his hand from his forehead to squeeze Ren’s shoulder. But the next second he's looking around with a troubled frown again. “Why are we…outside? In the middle of the night?”

“I think you were sleepwalking,” Ren answers, uncertainty creeping into his voice. “Were you having a dream?”

Wei Shun’s next words chill him worse than the cold outside: “I'm not sure. I thought I heard something calling to me.”

Ren doesn't know what to make of that, but he wants to get inside immediately. He can feel the sensation of eyes watching them again, and he gingerly pulls on his father's arm to get him to go back into the house. Thankfully, his dad comes along without argument or issue, and once inside he locks the door behind them, tight.

“I'm sorry for troubling you, my phoenix. Go back to sleep. It's alright. You did well.”

Trying to get back to sleep is difficult, and when he does, his dreams are troubled.

Five days later, only a day or two after his birthday, Ren wakes in the night again. This time he feels pure panic, and he makes no effort to stay quiet or calm as he finds himself racing through the house, propelled by fear.

But he's too late this time. The door stands wide open, and his father's footprints are already getting covered by the falling snow.

Frightened, truly frightened for one of the only moments in his memory, Ren bolts back inside, racing to find his mother still asleep in his parent's bed. Desperately he shakes Wei Yawen awake, frantically explaining the situation to her.

An alarm is raised throughout Upper Bàoyìng. His youngest uncle, Wei Gang, the current leader of their people, organizes a search with a troubled vengeance. Several family members come to talk to them, many to comfort Wei Yawen and keep vigil with her, and Ren’s cousin, Wei Xinyi, sits with him until the adrenaline leaves him exhausted and he passes out next to them, murmuring in his sleep that he still feels like something unfriendly is watching them.

He never sees his father again.

—————

Thank you, Anon! I've been wanting to write this memory of Wei Renqiao's for quite a while, especially since it plants a long-term seed for the events that lead to his eventual Overblot.

Taglist: @blithesharem @tixdixl @ramshacklerumble @inmateofthemind @simons-twsted-children

@rainesol @distant-velleity @elenauaurs @theleechyskrunkly @thehollowwriter (message me if you want to be added to the taglist for my TWST OC stuff!)

[otomes-world]

Some things never change

no trigger warnings except yandere themes, 2,7k words and as we all love barely edited text

Probably, running away from home wasn't the smartest decision in life. In any case. The reason for such act depended on the questioner. If it was one of the friendly, elderly aunts, then you modestly told them about the desire to achieve recognition for the family. For younger acquaintances, the version acquired more dreamy shades in the form of recognition for yourself. For someone less meticulous, the desire to see the world was enough.

In the end you couldn't change the past, however, you were not eager to return home and beg for forgiveness, as most casual people painted a picture for themselves. Therefore, you always kept silent about the interesting beginning of the journey, preferring to tell stories of a later period. About how, by pure chance, you met a traveling troupe of artists and joined them. Did you know how to sing, dance, play a role? At an average level, yes.

Was it hard at first? Definitely.

Nevertheless, the stubborn decision to live your own life, leaving all the unpleasantness behind, won out and you, convincing and sometimes negotiating with yourself, swallowed the complaints. The meaningful glances from the other performers were safely ignored. They could think whatever they wanted, as long as they didn’t start leaving comments and sticking their noses into things that weren’t their business. Sounded like passive aggression? Touché.

Be that as it may, after a couple of months of involuntary life together and shared stories, the distance between you decreased to comfortable evening conversations and jokes in a whisper.

Has a small troupe of the same lost souls as you become a family in the full sense of the word? You always answered something vague and tried to change topic to something else. If others noticed, they preferred to tactfully remain silent and intercept the conversation. Everyone had their own reason for wandering, which meant that you were in for a maximum of understanding and a minimum of interference.

At least, these were the thoughts that always visited you at the beginning of autumn. To be more precise, when warm weather started dropping hints of cold wind and a rare drizzle of rain. No, you had no complaints about the season itself, only about your own melancholic mood, which was becoming part of everyday life. For performer, the beginning of autumn marked the end of the working season. Of course, there were occasions when you were invited to brighten up the evening of this or that eccentric nobleman, but they were incredibly rare. If you managed to count them on the fingers of one hand, it was considered lucky.

Winter served as a break for most. For agriculture, for trade, for travel… for you. In winter, finding something to do, a job, became more difficult. It was harder to distract yourself. There were no nights whose sky was painted with hundreds of lights. Noisy companies of people, in the flow of which it was so easy to forget and let yourself be led anywhere.

Inazuma - the nation of eternity, was supposed to be the last major stop this year. To be honest, even as a child you listened with apprehension to stories about this country. About visions. However, the gods did not consider you worthy of their gift. The bitterness of disappointment was felt as an unpleasant aftertaste even at a conscious age. Now you were watching life and the changing emotions on the faces of the townspeople from the window of a small ryokan's room with detachment. An unfinished mask for the next outfit rested on your lap.

It seemed that all the nightmares were left behind, it seemed that they were not afraid of the imminent onset of cold weather. The thoughts of both old and young were occupied only with the upcoming farewell to summer - you preferred to tactfully remain silent about the fact that it was already over.

The needle fell out of your hands with a barely audible ringing sound, falling to the floor. Looking down at your hands, you immediately clenched and unclenched them several times, trying to stop the trembling. This was clearly not the first and not the last winter in your life. Why doesn't the feeling of anxiety leave you? So noticeable that if the needle hadn't fallen out, you could have cut the air with it. Your "friends" wrote it all off as autumn dismals and for a moment you really wanted to sincerely believe their words.

It all started with crossing the border, as if the velvety purple skies were warning you about something in advance, carefully forgetting to specify what exactly. You decided that it was all because of the noticeable change in the weather. After the warm Sumeru, Inazuma seemed cold and unfriendly.

The meeting with Commissioner Yashiro took even the most experienced and seasoned performer, your unofficial leader, by surprise. You remembered how someone briefly mentioned a family whose responsibilities included organizing festivals. However, discussing and obtaining permission from the leader still shook you to the depths of your soul.

Despite the obligatory nature of some moments brought by the new life, you still did not like meeting with nobles, especially tete-a-tete. They reminded you of a time you wanted to leave behind. Memories you wanted to rewrite, erase, bury under a pile of new ones and never think about again. Whether it was a defensive reaction or a personal dislike, no one asked. As long as you performed without causing problems, no one was going to pry into your soul.

Tremble in your hands became stronger, as well as your heart beat faster in your chest.

The Kamisato family estate was amazing, causing admiring whispers from the troupe and anxiety in you. The ceilings were too high, reminding you of a beautiful cage, one of which you had so carefully left. You tried to avoid such talent display in front of the nobles: you wanted to show off as little as possible. Even though you understood in your mind that the probability of meeting a familiar face in a foreign country was extremely small, you could never calm your paranoia.

Hope died last, so you prayed that there would be some urgent matter, any really, that did not require delay and a trusted person would conduct the meeting. However, fate rarely took into account someone's wishes, since the quiet voices and greetings of the servants in the corridor became a sufficiently clear sign.

In such grand mansions, your body acted on its own, straightening your back and wiping all emotion from your face, leaving a neutral smile. Despite all your attempts to imitate your new acquaintances, some habits seemed to be engraved on your bones. Whether it was luck or not, was another question. The singer, who for some reason was treating you like a younger relative, winked to you encouragingly, while your insides turned cold.

You didn’t like the look of the Commissioner. He was pleasant, behaved appropriately, flashing his knowledge of the fine arts, without putting himself in an bad light. Looking at the man from under your lowered eyelashes, for a second you felt a pang of envy. About what your life could have been if you had followed the beaten path, instead of jumping off a cliff with the unknown at its very bottom. Suppressing a moment of weakness, you smiled charmingly when the conversation turned to you, playing the role of a silly person who was passionate about arts.

You stood up, forcing yourself to take deep breaths, ignoring the darkening in your eyes. As soon as your gaze cleared, you tiredly sank down again, reaching for the fallen mask, to which you had been sewing feathers a few minutes ago. The quick and sharp pain made you pull your hand back in panic, while the voice of reason reminded you of the needle that had fallen. Shaking your head a couple of times, as if it could throw out unpleasant emotions and restore your calm, you grabbed the mask in one movement and casually threw it on the bed, or as it was called here a futon. The needle and a bag of colored feathers were carefully put away in the nightstand.

For some incomprehensible, twisted reason, you were the one deciding the organizational issues. To be more precise, this was the wish expressed by the Commissioner, and the kind "head" of the troupe did not object. Words about a pleasant impression, an interesting, new look at the performances and compliments from the servants of the estate - like a porcelain doll - were drowned in the general monotonous noise, while the body still refused to move.

The need to end everything as quickly as possible became sufficient motivation. Visit the estate, solve a few pressing issues and return to your room, lock yourself in and hide from the world until the moment when you would have to go out again. Repeating this phrase like a mantra, you sat in the familiar interior and tried to fight the desire to jump out of the window.

"Are you okay?" A sympathetic voice asks, for a second you even believed in sincerity which it hold.

"Yes, Monsieur Kamisato," the answer bursts out on its own, and then, as if realizing your mistake, you lowered your head in a bow. "I'm sorry, I meant Kamisato-sama."

Some habits are unchangeable.

The man just laughed softly, "You may address me as you prefer. I suppose the language barrier is sometimes difficult to overcome?"

"Thank you, I hope my Fontaine's accent does not offend you. I try to fill in the gaps in the cultural peculiarities of the languages ​​of different corners of Teyvat." You answered, reading between the lines of his question.

You tried to ignore the man as much as etiquette allowed, whose eyes narrowed in satisfaction, like a cat, that had been watching a canary for a long time. Reaching for the papers on which the rough plan of the event was sketched, you were about to change the topic, but he was beat you to it.

"I hope that your stay in Inazuma is going smoothly and nothing has marred the first impression." Slightly tilting your head to the side, you looked at the nobleman, waiting for him to continue. "I assume you know about Tri-Commisions, Yashiro, let me clarify."

Closing your eyes for a moment, you tried to answer as close to textbook as possible, "It's one of the organizations in Inazuma. They, you, are in charge of managing shrines, festivals, and cultural events."

"With such a well-known history, it's rather surprising that we don't have a permanent troupe of performers. Perhaps we should entertain the idea." The softness in his voice, the pleasant, inviting atmosphere, and the innocently asked question made you genuinely disgusted.

"If you think so," perhaps not the best answer, but short enough not to ruin the conversation or make yourself seem rude. You didn't have to be a prophet to not guess what the other side was hinting at. "Would you allow me to ask your opinion on the event's plan?"

As if he had already achieved his goal, the man kindly allowed the conversation to return back to work, which you were grateful for.

You couldn't flash much experience in small talk. Each meeting with the Commissioner made you remember everything that they had so diligently tried to hammer into you, to mold the version that should correspond to the norms.

He had it all. Soft pressure, skill of confidently inclining the dialogue in a favorable direction. Man never showed open aggression, did not give you anything that you could latch on to. Smoothly and gracefully dropped small hints on where he could press if you decided to act differently from the path he had already planned.

"Thank you, I will take your wishes into account and make the necessary changes," politely ending the meeting, you slowly began to collect the papers you had brought and the sheet of notes.

"Have you ever thought about settling down?" The question catches you off guard, the papers almost falling out of your hands, scattering across the table and the floor. Instead, a smile appears on your face and your body moves on its own again.

"You are very kind. Will you allow me to pass on your generous offer to hire our troupe to the others? I do not have the authority to make such a decision on my own."

"Ah, yes, of course," his eyes narrow slightly again, letting you know that trying to play on the meaning of his words would not work. "Your unity is admirable," the implied 'considering your type of work' hangs in the air.

"I will pass on your praise, Kamisato-sama," another bow. "Please, excuse me."

To your great happiness, he made no attempt to stop you. He let you reach the shoji, push it aside, but just before you could close it, he added, "I hope you'll consider the offer personally."

The sound of the door closing ringed louder in your ears than it actually was.

Hope, such a fragile, unreliable thing, had let you down more often than anyone else in your life. Each time, burning and burying another piece of yourself, you thought about home. If a place from the past could be called like that. About too many expectations and too few opportunities for self-realization. About a ready-made life plan, presented on a silver platter, all you had to do was reach out.

Something wet falls into your palm. The unexpected screams of passersby, escaping from the rain, were barely discernible through the veil of white noise. Focusing your gaze on the window frame of the same empty room in the ryokan, you touched your own face with your other hand.

It was dry.

You wiped your palm on the fabric of your clothes and held back a sigh. Although the Commissioner had not specified a deadline for making a decision, your intuition told you that the day of the festival was the maximum you could hope for.

The troupe took the news ambiguously. Some liked the prospect of a permanent job. Some lived for travel.

Some were… you. A rabbit trying to outrun the clock. Or a bud that, instead of falling and brightly flaring up in the flames of the stove, fell off with the wind. Flower that didn't want to become part of someone's herbarium and was now soaking in a puddle, hoping to dissolve in it and disappear as if it had never existed. No one looked at their feet, hurrying about their business in the hustle and bustle of days.

Almost no one.

A beviolent person stopped and carefully unfolded his own album. You just had to reach out. The voice of a familiar singer breaks through the noise of the rain, like the thunder of Her Excellency. Would you be able to say "Yes" once and keep a right to say "No"? Unfortunately, the strength to answer this question was becoming less and less. As was the time until the event.

The trees had already managed to change into different shades of colors, dappled with orange, red and even purple leaves, attracting the gaze of everyone who was ready to look. Despite the feeling of cold, the sun was still warming the earth, giving the last days of trancility. Could the electro Archon take pity and bless her people, waiting for the festivities with them?

"Opportunities to bask in the sunlight like this are few and far between."

"That's how," hearing a voice right next to your ear, you didn't even take your eyes off the waves. Or to be more precise, their barely noticeable echoes, now and then disappearing from sight due to the wind and tree crowns.

What exactly you were hoping to see in the distance, and whether were you hoping, was a moot point. One of those that tensed up the atmosphere from the first words spoken. You didn't want to take responsibility and get caught in the crossfire.

"The Shogun's mood is extremely favorable these days," it seemed someone decided to take pity and throw you a bone. For this, you ignored the light touch on your shoulder. "Thoma conveyed that the fishermen whose boats safely returned to port do not cease to thank her."

You stayed still for a moment, considering something you couldn't give a name. Expectedly, Commissioner was fine with your lack of reaction most of the time, as long as you were where he wanted you to be.

"Winter will come soon"

Was there any meaning in this phrase or did it mean something completely different. Was it spoken for those who could hear, or did you voice it for yourself. You didn't know anymore.

A drop fell on the windowsill and purely by instinct you touched your cheek again, but, unfortunately, the sound of the rain that began once again reminded you how stupid it was to hope for anything.

He lied after all.

[teecupangel]

Idea: Desmond is reborn as someone’s kid, let’s say Ezio this time for fun. He’s reborn like just after Monteriggioni is destroyed and his mother gives him to Ezio and fucks off (or dies). But here’s where it gets interesting. Desmond only remembers part of his future life. Specifically, he remembers approximately 7 years ahead. So as an infant he has the knowledge of a 7 year old from the 20th (21st? I don’t remember his birth year off the top of my head) century. When he’s five he has the knowledge of a 12 year old. Maybe the life he lived as Desmond Miles comes to him in his dreams.

If you really want to hammer in the angst, his mother had been waiting in Monteriggioni for weeks when Ezio returned after retrieving the Apple so she had, in some way, endeared herself to Maria Auditore.

There’s no more bath flirting with Caterina and it will be replaced by Ezio talking to Desmond’s mother about how she doesn’t really expect Ezio to love her but she knows he’s a good man who would care of their child.

Ezio actually promises to marry her so Desmond wouldn’t be a bastard and for her to have a stable place in Monteriggioni.

Maybe love will blossom later on or maybe they’d get a divorce and remain friends, both of them are willing to try at the very least.

But then, Monteriggioni was destroyed and Ezio was too late. Desmond’s mother died shielding her son from falling debris and Ezio barely managed to get Desmond to his mother and sister before they escaped.

The next time he meets Desmond was in the brothel his mother and sister were staying. He starts to become busy trying to take Roma away from the Borgia.

But he tries his best to be with his son, to show that he loves him and cares for him.

That’s why he knows that Desmond has dreams. Strange dreams that he could barely remember. The older he gets, the clearer the dreams become.

Ezio starts to believe that his son is living 2 different lives. When he is awake, he lives the life of Desmond Auditore da Venezia. When he sleeps, he lives the life of Desmond Miles.

Ezio believes that this is the goddess’ way of showing Ezio that everything his family had lost and sacrificed had not been in vain.

Until Desmond starts to tell him how he’s treated as Desmond Miles.

The militaristic way he was being raised…

The isolation…

Desmond Auditore experiences Desmond Miles’ life, an older kid who was being raised to grow into an adult far too early and he feels the pain.

He’s too young for such pain and sadness that he comes to his father for comfort.

And all Ezio could do is comfort his son and feeling powerless because there was no way for him to comfort Desmond Miles as well.

.

(You want Desmond to have the knowledge of an older Desmond and here I am adding angst with the idea of a younger Desmond having to 'remember' Desmond's memories every day sorry not sorry XD)

[itsdefinitely]

LOVING YOUR LORDS IN BLACK ART!!! ESPECIALLY TINKYYY, HE LOOKS VERY SKRUNKLY <333

he's so insane <3

[alwayshere195]

I wish we got Diego and Five in the timeline subway instead of Lila and Five. The deep desire for us getting the same premise but with a different execution.

Imagine Diego going and asking why Five can't blink only to end up in the subway with him. Five reluctantly, explaining everything he knows. Something Diego isn't fully comprehending but understands.

The silly idea of Diego coming up with the timeline travel and getting stuck in the subway with Five. The possibilities of their interactions.

The idea of Apocalypse Five shooting at them, causing Diego to ask who's that. "Me, of course, who else was in the apocalypses?!" Five responds, heading back down into the subway. Diego follows, "Well, sorrrry! I thought you had better aim than that!" Five shoots him a look.

The idea of when they realized they're trapped, we hear dialog. Diego shouting that this is EXACTLY what Five wanted. Klaus was right! He is a chaos junkie!

Five, throwing his hands up: I don't know why everyone says that! I'm not. This isn't what I wanted.

Diego: You appear in your element!

Five: Of course I do! This is all I know, Diego! I got stuck in an apocalypse at 13! 13! I was trapped for 45 years in it! Besides living in it, need I remind that I witnessed it again and again and again?! But that doesn't mean I want it!

Diego: Then what do you want? Because (mocking) Need I remind, you went off to join the CIA. You barely kept in contact for the past 6 years. You-

Five: I want peace! I want silence! I want to not worry about you idiots! I want... Forget it. Let's keep looking to get out of here.

How it finally pushes these two to talk. Their relationship has been rocky but there's always trust between them. Plus, Five doesn't really open up. So for the day to come where Diego once again pushes Fives buttons but the correct ones this time to get a

Five: I'm tired, ok? I have seen you all die again and again and again. I'm tired. I tried time traveling, I tried talking, I tried murder, I've tried, and it all keeps going to hell. There's only so much before it feels impossible or that I'm the problem. Sure, Viktor caused the first three apocalypse but not those after that. Not all this (refering to the subway). Only I could come here...

Diego, sighing after hearing all this for the first time: Yeah, you are a problem. A problematic piece of shit like the rest of us. And for holding all this in like a secret to take to the grave. But you're not to blame for everything. If anyone's to blame, it's Dad.

How they grow closer and Diego realizes just how tired Five is. He's exhausted and barely holding on. It doesn't help that no one in the family ever truly thanked him. So he does. Gives Five a genuine "Thanks by the way. For spending 45 years and some figuring out how to save us. I appreciate it. I like being alive." And how Five gets quiet as thats all he ever truly wanted. A thank you.

How Diego opens up about his relationship issues and how his rants turn into frustration about it all. Him voicing how he'd LOVE "bookclub" because FUCK MAN he needs a "bookclub" too! He'd be in full support! And he wished she was more vocal about things like he is instead of playing the guessing game. And how it turns into all the things he wants to do when he sees her again. Tell her everything. Open up. Hold her. Kiss her. Be in the same love he always really had for her. Fives there supporting him.

Five finds the journal and ponders it. Keeps the information hidden from Diego for a day or two before he's caught reading it. Diego's rightfully upset but Five brings up points.

Five: I was reading it. Making sure I understood what to do before we had a talk.

Diego: A talk? What is there to talk about?

Five: What if it went to shit out there and everyone's died? What if-

Diego: No, Five. There is no ifs here. We're going back and we're going to see how things are. Worst case scenario, we go back in time and save their lousy asses. Together. Best case scenario, we see our family again. I get to see Lila and my kids again.

Five: Right...

They go back and they find out that Luther and Lila ended up going to the CIA because "My husband always talks about this place, and my brother-in-law works here. So maybe there's information." And it makes Diego's hesrt flutter.

Just... what we could have had.