memories.

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.

" 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.

" ...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.

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.

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.