#I decided to update it for once
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saintobio · 7 months ago
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ALMOST ALWAYS YOURS :: the anthology
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desc. collection of heavy angst mini-series, pure hurt no comfort. set in the same universe.
notes. posting date tbd. target to start after sn/sy. only 5 episodes each.
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001. BARELY BELOVED
↳ ryomen sukuna/reader
following a one-night stand with renowned music producer ryomen sukuna, an accidental pregnancy leaves you grappling with the pain of being kept in secrecy as nothing more than an obligation for him. because in his world, the only people he truly cares about are his 4-year old daughter and his ex-fiancée.
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002. IN MEMORY OF YOU
↳ gojo satoru/reader (feat. geto suguru)
when gojo satoru wakes up from a coma with no memories of his own wife, you struggle to reconnect and remind him of the love you once shared. not when all he remembers is having that same love with someone from his past.
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gynandromorph · 8 months ago
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finally finished my animal crossing island. :3 it took 2 years and over 425 hours to complete, but i had a lot of fun. the dream address is 6841-0314-8099 if the text isn't legible. if i can inspire even one person to pick up the game again and start from scratch, my mission will be accomplished. feel free to steal any ideas or builds, i know i took a lot of inspiration from other people while making this.
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oneluckydragon · 3 months ago
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✨🌸 Sunshine on your skin, flowers in my soul 🌸✨
🌊🫧Summary → In the midst of his reconciliation with Team Wish, Dusknoir begins coughing up flowers. This unfortunate brand of bad luck should be a cosmic joke. A spiteful punishment that the world has brought down on him out of malice, out of vengeance for his past deeds. A cruel, agonizing curse manifested with the single unjustified purpose of preventing him from realizing happiness, ever seeking redemption, ever righting his multitudes of wrongs and moving on with his life. But that's not true, and he knows it deep down. Knows it in the very core of his soul like the flood of petals building in this throat.
This is his fault because he is a coward, and that's all he has ever been. A backstabbing, lonely coward.
And now he is going to die because of it.
[AO3]
[CH. I -- Word Count -- 13,290]
🌒💫 Return → the act of going back to a place, person, or memory
[CH. II -- TBA]
#(Momentarily comes back from hiatus just to drop this and then proceeds to immediately leave)#I didn't forget about my fic that I promised literally a year ago! Woo!#Here's the 1st chapter fellas!#I've been through misery and hell (still there tbh) but I'm hanging in there with my pencil and paper#(mutuals I did this for YOU)#(scribz once again THANK you for the art ilysm)#I gave up on trying to write everything coherently like a perfectionist before posting chapters#I've decided I'm just gonna post 'em as they're done instead of hoarding them all until I'm satisfied with the entire fic#It was unhealthy and hard to be motivated while writing all of this in my own little isolated box#Maybe with some feedback from readers I'll be more willing to focus on this and get it done rather than let it rot in my docs for months#Sunshine on your skin; flowers in my soul#my fic#Dusknoir/Grovyle#Dusknoir/Grovyle/Celebi#Hero/Partner#Echo/Sora#echo/umbreon#sora/lucario#pmd ocs#lots and LOTS of feelings in this fic be warned my friends#Must admit I am so nervous sharing this publicly cause it's like baring my whole heart to you guys#If you take a peek then I hope you end up enjoying it c:#pls leave me asks if you wanna share thoughts!!! I'd be so unbelievably happy to talk about this fic if anyone is interested#or maybe post a comment or kudos on AO3 instead!! anything pls I'd be indebted to you forever#No promises on a fic update schedule but I will TRY not to let it take months this time#pmd explorers#pmd eos#pmd sky#pokemon mystery dungeon#pmd fanfic
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front-facing-pokemon · 1 year ago
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#something is very obviously different about these two compared to my normal images on this blog. i acknowledge this#also the sv model is Really good. and since they always stare straight at the camera anyway… and no one pays attention to the background…#and the only high-quality phantump model i could find was so horribly shiny that its eyes were just white voids#in my defense‚ phantump always just stare straight at you in game#the lighting is different‚ yeah. that's probably the dead giveaway. beyond the background. but like. i'm the only being on the planet who#really likes phantump anyway. i feel like it's a generally forgettable pokémon to most folks#phantump#HELLO this one is a weird one. i have some explaining to do. so when i did this one i didn't know how to edit models really at all#and when i got the models for these‚ the xy models were super shiny. shiny to the point that it made their eyes fuckin invisible#and i decided that since you could barely tell it was phantump‚ i needed a different way to get these images#i remembered that in the SV dlc‚ every time you find a wild phantump‚ it just fucking. stares. at you. and i was like. aha#i kinda remembered because of the test stream that i did. tumblr user alligayytorr (am i getting the right amount of Ys) said#“haha i am getting a sneak peek” when i zoomed the camera in on a phantump. and i remembered that. and i was like. i can utilize this#and ended up using just an in-game screenshot of SV in replacement of the regular content. later on‚ after that#once we got into gen 7 and it became less and less reliable to find models‚ i had to learn how to edit them manually to remove the shine#i am a software dev. not a 3d modeler. this ended up coming down to editing the code of the models directly (which i ended up writing a#script to automate). now‚ today‚ january 22nd (the day of me writing these tags and updating this post)‚ i remembered this post was in the#queue and was not normal. so i went back‚ ran the script on the phantump and trevenant models‚ and unshinified them#then edited these two posts to be normal. i have left the original pictures i took under the cut for reference and as bonuses#because i really enjoy phantump. so that's why those images are there‚ and that's why these tags are here#just for posterity's sake‚ the folks who come here mostly for my commentary‚ i've left the ORIGINAL tags of the post when i initially#made it with the SV pictures up at the top (i wanted to rearrange them‚ but tumblr makes that Very difficult‚ so i left them as-is)#so if these tags are confusing to read i Apologize. but i hope now that you're at the bottom you understand what happened#i'm gonna go edit the trevenant post now
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genericpuff · 2 months ago
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Fighting off cold and flu has always been difficult for me and it's only getting harder as I get older. I find the transitioning from being "sick in bed" back to "functioning person" can often be the hardest part, especially when it comes to congestion which can take days if not weeks to clear up, so even if I'm able to walk around, do basic tasks, etc. I'm uncomfortable the whole way through. At least when it comes to my back pain, that's something that I'm used to and can predict and accommodate; getting sick is none of those things.
What's making it even more difficult this time around, compared to every other time, is the fact that I went from being healthy and medicated to sick and unmedicated. So that transition back into "functioning" is being slowed further by my returning inability to focus, to push myself through the uncomfortable feeling of doing literally anything, to be at peace with boredom.
Every single time I want to do anything that isn't laying in bed, it's met with both "I don't know if I'm physically capable of doing that because I'm sick" and "I don't know if I'm mentally capable of doing that because I'm off my meds."
And it's incredibly exhausting.
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crimsonphantasmagoria · 3 months ago
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So let's talk height.
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(Image taken from gamibuzz.com)
So the average human height in our world is a little difficult to ascertain, but in 1996 was thought to be 5'7" for men, and 5'3" for women. Now, I don't think that the devs have coded in the gendered height difference to Veilguard, so let's just average that out to 5'5" and apply that to this image. (Very Scientific I know, I've not even accounted for the fact that human heights have increased over the last 200 years on average.) Assuming that all these characters are set to 50% in the character creator (very scientific) that means the human man here is 5'5". After doing a little screen measuring and maths, that means that the average height of a qunari is 6'2", elf average is 4'11", and dwarf average is 4'2". Obviously, these are averages, so there will be taller/shorter people. Also, I'm doing a lot of rounding and conversion because I hate the imperial system, so I may be a little off. What's the range of heights available in the character creator, though? Not sure, I'd need to be able to measure the difference. Expect a more accurate update when I get ahold of the character creator!
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whomeidontknowthem · 6 months ago
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Eyes on me – an interactive whump story. Part 2.
Previous part. Masterpost. Next part.
Content warning: institutionalized slavery, imprisonment, dehumanizing language, it/its for an unhuman whumpee, pet whump.
"In folklore, any mythical, magical creature is commonly called 'fey'," they book that Lord Teelo had ordered after returning to the inn room said. "It is, of course, a wide misconception that is not accepted in any theory that has even an ounce of respect for itself. Fey is not just another way to say "magical", but a registered phenomenon different from a spirit, a magic-infused animal or a demon, and especially has nothing to do with tiny folk with wings, whose existence is widely refuted…"
It went on and on, an irritatingly salty response siting some previous debates and calling out authors the lord had never heard about. It could be entertaining in its own right – Lord Teelo was anything but impartial to loud grudges and decades old arguments – if not for his lack of experience with the topic rendering the details tedious and the fact that it wasn't idle interest that led him to seeking out the book.
The papers had been signed in half an hour, the impressive sum of money changing hands as the decision had been finalized at the spot. The arrangements had been made immediately after to transport the creature to the lord's summer house. It was to spend its last night at the auction house, and then, in the morning, they would ride – Lord Teelo in his usual carriage and his new property in an impressive cage – towards its new home.
The thrill of the purchase was sure to keep the lord awake, and he decided to spend the time on research. Learning about the kind of thing that came into his possession was paramount – after all, he didn't want it to die before its time because of his ignorance.
"Fey is defined by any reputable source as an otherworldly creature. It does not come with as many defined characteristics as an unsoundly educated person would believe: a creature from another dimension does not have to have wings and three pairs of limbs, though it is not out of the realm of possibility. A fey can look exactly as your regular cattle. The one thing that makes it fey is that it is not from the reality we live in."
The text wasn't very useful. In the two chapters Lord Teelo had managed before throwing the book into his bag and settling in bed, there was an infuriatingly little amount of actual, useful advice. The further he read, the more sure he was: he would have to figure things out by himself.
It was the thrill that came with owning the never before seen creature, one he wasn't even sure was from the same world, one, if it wasn't, that would catch the interest and desire for experiments by mages all over the world.
Now that he thought about it, maybe he should get into contact with a few. Their insight would be valuable either way – the lord was doubtful that the rainbow marks on the creature's skin could be the result of anything but magic, and magic tended to come with complications he wasn't confident he could deal with by himself.
Getting in contact with the sailors who caught the thing was a good idea, too. He'd already asked for the name of their ship and drafted a letter to a good old acquaintance in Froien. She would get the information to him in no time, even if he'll definitely have to show the creature to her afterwards. Keya, as he knew her, was curious beyond all else. Lord Teelo couldn't wait to see her face and the faces of his other acquaintances when they saw the kind of prize he'd gotten. The images of their amazement and barely hidden jealousy made him giddy with anticipation.
He wanted to make the most out of the day, and so was up and in the back garden of the auction house barely an hour after sunrise, despite the morning chill finding its way to his very bones through the layers of fabrics and furs he'd donned. A cart made into a cage with thick iron bars – provided with the purchase, of course, and with how much he'd paid Lord Teelo would be personally offended if it wasn't – was hurriedly readied and brought to the doors of the building.
The sounds of clattering and clinging and human voices burst through the open door before the creature was dragged out. It was the size of a northern wolf, bound and twisted and carried by two cautious servants. It craned its neck and bared its teeth through the muzzle, a wild animal, a scared one, and if not for the lines running down its skin and the weirdly human-like hands – with thumbs even if they were too long to actually be human – Lord Teelo would have taken it for nothing more than a dumb beast. Then it opened its mouth as wide as it could and let out a whole string of sounds – low and guttural and constantly repeating in patterns that made the lord think that it was trying – no, saying something in an unfamiliar, alien language.
He felt his pulse high in his throat, watching the creature as it was pushed inside the cage, chains around its limbs secured and the door locked behind. It kicked and threw itself against the metal only to settle back a moment later, too smart to waste energy on a fight it couldn't win.
And then, it noticed him.
Lord Teelo thought it recognized him – or maybe it was a wishful thinking fueled by the way it stilled and stared and then craned its neck to the side and forward, baring fangs in a display that was chilling even despite the binds. The unblinking yellow of its eyes pierced right through him.
He felt goosebumps creeping up his arms but refused to acknowledge it. He was safe, he reminded himself. It was tied up and helpless. No matter how it bared its teeth and tried to look scary, he was the master.
He stepped forward, lifting a hand up to place at the edge of the cart. The creature glanced at it, then continued staring. The lord smiled, "Hello there."
The creature growled and then said something. Lord Teelo continued soothingly, "No need to be so tense. We'll get to know each other -- you'll get used to me in no time."
In the light of the starting day, its skin didn't look like that startling black he saw in the dim cell. It was more grayish – still dark, though, and still unnatural. The pattern of colorful lines didn't look any less striking. His fingers ached to touch it, to feel if its skin was rough under his touch or as human-like as some of its features were. As the black short fur framing its face and ending in the middle of its back in a sort of haircut. Fey, Lord Teelo thought fervently. It had to be one. It was too strange in some ways and too familiar in others. It had to be a creature from another world. What other explanation could there be?
"Lord Teelo?" A voice came from his side and soon he was regrettably distracted, finishing the transaction and discussing the details. Servants pulled a thick piece of fabric covering the cage from view. Lord Teelo dismissed the pang of regret at their actions, reminding that he was going to have months worth of time to play around with the new toy.
He wondered what it'd be like. How it'd act. Would it be able to learn the human tongue, or prove to be too dumb for it?
He wondered where it would live. And – ah, this was an urgent question, was it not? He should send a letter to make sure it was all taken care of by the time he arrived.
Updates every 7-10 days (depending on how much time I have and how obvious the poll result is)
@isikedmyself878, @fraugustends, @otterfrost, @fuchstastisch, @3-2-whump, @the-lone-youth
Tell me to be tagged in the new parts!
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slaingelo · 9 months ago
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a quick cute green doodle for the lack of magical girl au'ing happening rn
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safety-pin-punk · 6 months ago
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yall Im so fucking tired. This month has been exhausting. I promise Im alive, just barely functional atm.
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myreia · 4 months ago
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Sketches of Times Lost
Day 18: Hackneyed
thancred attempts to confess his feelings. it does not go as planned. thancred x wol, pre-relationship. asexual wol. set during arr. written for ffxivwrite2024. rated: general 1868 words ao3 link
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There is a plan in mind, he’s not ashamed of that.
He has thought about it for weeks. Months, if he’s honest. Pulling and tugging on the threads of what if and when, imagined scenarios chasing themselves around his mind in varying shades of… well. Romantic, he would call it. He has never fully thought of himself as a romantic in earnest before, though some of his past lovers would have called him such. But there is a certain panache to the word, a sense, an atmosphere, that he finds compelling. Especially where Aureia is concerned.
It still surprises him that he is falling for her, his friend. Perhaps the closest friend he has ever allowed himself to have. She has witnessed him at his worst and at his best—the small triumphs, the overwhelming losses, pain and grief and joy. He has made a complete fool of himself in front of her more than once, sometimes in small trivial ways, other times less so. The time he spouted improvised poetry at a dancer in the Quicksand. How hard he tried to impress Yugiri Mistwalker when the shinobi joined their cause.
His butchering of the situation with Ifrit. His possession by an Ascian. Other moments he would rather not say.
He did not want to admit it at first. It would be easier for both of them if he did not feel the way he did. He knows better than anyone that romantic entanglements are best kept at arm’s length, far away from the goings on of the Scions. They are a weak spot. An exploit. A risk. He kept his distance from her after the Praetorium for this very reason, resisting the ache growing in his heart with every passing day by falling back on hold habits. Drinking more in the hopes of ignoring it. Distracting himself with a rather impressive list of paramours.
He has a sneaking suspicion Urianger has taken note and this will come back to bite him in the arse.
It took Moenbryda walloping him over the head—metaphorically, of course—with a disarming comment to make him realize how foolish he was being.
“You know what your problem is, Thancred? You’re too busy looking ten feet ahead for one problem or another to notice the blessing that is right in front of you.”
He never thanked her for that. It’s too late now.
Perhaps that’s why he has come to his decision. Moenbryda’s death sits heavy in their hearts, forcing them all to stare the fleetingness of life in the face. She seized hers with joy and fearlessness, hanging on to nothing. It’s time he did the same.
And so he has to do it right.
Aureia lets out a whoop as she springs up the rest of the stairs, racing him to the top. She reaches the battlements first, face flushed, hair a mess, ruby eyes sparkling, and spins around to face him as he follows suit. “Look at that,” she says, raising her hands in triumph. “I win.”
He chuckles, panting lightly, and sweeps his hair out of his eyes. “Was it a race?” he replies, leaning casually against the battlements. “I hadn’t noticed.”
She rolls her eyes and continues down the path, trailing her fingers across the coarse stonework. Mor Dhona stretches out before them, bright as the stars above. Lanterns float through the square, warming the aetheryte’s cool brilliance with their golden glow, illuminating the flowing crowds below. Further up the hill, the market bustles with activity, late night vendors selling trinkets and baubles, and people stumbling from Rowena’s café with drinks in hand. Adventurers loiter on the steps to the Seventh Heaven, carousing loudly. A group of dancers giggle with glee, moving merrily in rhythm to a drum as a trio of bards fill the plaza with their music.
All in all, it is a good night for festivities. Bright, clear, and only a hint of gloam.
Aureia hums to herself, folding her arms and leaning out over the parapet. She may be quiet in a crowd and shy away from the centre of attention, but she loves being around people. Immersing herself in the rhythms of a city, captivated by the pulse of life and the vibrancy of it all. It’s one of the things he finds endlessly fascinating about her, this paradox of extroversion and introversion.
“I wonder where Gerolt went,” she says after a moment, squinting as she scans the plaza. Her hair trails in the breeze and falls about her face. She pushes it back idly, twisting it around her finger, and knots it at the top of her head. Shorter pieces fall away, brushing across the nape of her neck. “He all but paled and ran for the hills when he saw Rowena earlier.”
“Perhaps he did run for the literal hills. I wouldn’t blame him if he did.”
She raises an eyebrow. “Oh? And here I thought you had no thoughts on the illustrious lady of the House of Splendours.”
He chokes. “No,” he says, a little strangled. “I don’t. Did you have to put it quite like that?”
“What? House of Splendours or illustrious lady?” She glances at him and grins. “If it’s the former, take it up with Rowena, she’s the one who named it.”
He catches her eye, regarding her in silence. His gaze lingers on her face, her hair, the way the silver studs in her upper ear catch the lanternlight. She hasn’t changed much since he met her. There is perhaps a touch of severity around her jaw and creases in the corners of her eyes, but she is still as vibrant as the spells she once cast. It seems so long ago that she stumbled into his life, and yet he has known many others for longer.
Much can happen over the course of two years.
“What?” Aureia says, eyes wide.
He says nothing, smiling quietly. If he could tell her now that she is beautiful, he would. He can’t remember when he first had that thought. Perhaps he’s always thought it.
Music wafts over them, slow and gentle.
Thancred pushes off the wall and gives her a mock little bow, extending his hand. “Would you have this dance, milady?” he says.
She pauses, a little laugh humming on her lips. “What are you doing?”
“Inviting you to dance.”
“Interesting.” She takes a step towards him, her chin raised archly. “You know I don’t dance.”
He straightens and steps into her. “I think you will tonight.”
“Do you remember what happened the last time you asked me to dance?”
“I’ve never asked you to.” His hand brushes his arm. She doesn’t move away. “I seem to remember that the dance I supposedly asked you to join me in was a sparring match where you routing me so thoroughly I don’t think my ego has recovered.”
She gazes at him, her eyes alight with joy. “Your poor ego.”
“Terribly bruised, you see.”
“If that’s so, why risk it again? I’ll only thrash you a second time.”
He chuckles and leans in, his lips a hair’s breath from her ear. “Because I am not asking you to spar, Aureia darling,” he says. The word slips out unexpectedly. He has never called her darling before. Too soon? Too late? He doesn’t care. Even a small deviation cannot ruin this night. “Dance with me.”
She hesitates, frozen for the briefest of moments. In the space between breaths, he wonders if she will pull away—it’s a delicate thing, this line they walk, and she has as much to lose as he does. But sometimes the risk is worth it. He can only hope she can see it, too.
Aureia slips her hand into his. “Fine,” she says at last. “One dance.”
“Only one?”
“Just one.”
He sweeps her into his arms and they dance.
The music washes over them and they move as one, fumbling their steps and knocking against each other. At last they find a compromise, gently swaying together as they turn on the spot, his hand on her waist, her head against his shoulder. Together they watch the plaza below, sparkling with light and life.
How is it that the simplest things are always the most difficult to say?
“Aur?” he murmurs.
She raises her head. “Yes?”
Her hair has untwisted from its knot, now falling loosely about her shoulders. Twelve above, she is gorgeous. If he is about to admit what he wants to—what he needs to—then there is no better time to do so than now.
Thancred presses a hand to her cheek and leans in close.
She inhales sharply and turns her head.
He pauses. “I…”
Aureia lets go of his hands and pulls away, staring determinedly at the plaza below, her jaw clenched. “I don’t know what you’re doing, Thancred, but I think you have a very, very wrong idea about me,” she says.
He frowns, too taken aback to feel the hurt he knows will come later. “I—Aureia. Are you… upset?”
“Hells, yes!” She rounds on him, red eyes blazing. “I am mad at you. I am so very, very mad at you—”
“I thought—”
“You thought what? You’ve barely spoken to me since Moenbryda’s death. I thought this was going to be a time for us to talk, not…” She makes a face. “You are trying to seduce me, aren’t you.”
He sighs, passing a hand across his face. “Assuredly not, no.”
“Then what is this? Bringing me up here on a pretty night, asking me to dance, staging this scene like some hackneyed plot you pulled out of a bard’s—ugh.” She rolls her eyes and storms across the battlements. “I’m not interested in all this. I thought you would have at least caught on to that by now.”
He follows her, keeping a careful distance as they tromp down the stairs. “On to what? My apologies, but I do not follow—”
“You’re going to make me come out and say it, aren’t you?” She hits the bottom landing and turns around, arms folded protectively across her chest. “I don’t… want that. Any of that. I never have. I never will.”
“Any of what?” To his surprise, the sting of rejection has not come yet. Perhaps because he doesn’t quite understand what she is rejecting him from. “Aureia, if I have done something so terribly offensive to you, please tell me. I will listen.”
“You’re not the first to have told me that, and yet I’ve yet to meet someone who understands.” She gives him a flat look, her mouth twisting as if she is trying to hold back tears. He has never seen her quite so furious yet vulnerable. “Tell me honestly, would you be happy being with me if I said I never wanted to sleep with you?”
He blinks. Of all the questions she could have asked, this is one he has never thought of.
She spreads her hands and drops them to her sides, as if his silence has proved a point he didn’t know he was making. “And there’s your answer,” she says and vanishes into the night.
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b1rdthieves · 1 month ago
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rooks
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allthegothihopgirls · 2 months ago
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my cat just tried to hiss at me, but it came out as the most pathetic little noise ever. he immediately backed down in shame of his weakness.
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hanafubukki · 2 months ago
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You know what really sucks?? When you’re really excited for something and then someone goes and makes unnecessary comments about it which taints your fun.
I’m so excited for this coming update and then someone has to say something that just…leaves a bad taste in my mouth??
I get having favorites and all that, me too. I am not any different.
But why ruin it for others??
Why be a sourpuss about it??
Just because you don’t like certain things or how the update went?? Because it didn’t meet your expectations??
Literally this update means so much to me and others and you have to what??
Be a jerk about it??? Because you can?? And ruin the fun??
It’s so dumb.
And unfortunately for them, I’m not one to back down.
Commentary like that just makes me more determined and makes me want to hype it up even more.
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shishiikura · 4 months ago
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One day I'll consistently tag all picos school/fnf/newgrounds content so its easy to find on my blog but today isn't that day. also once my bf and I come up with an official name for our gothpunks au (his art and my fics mostly fall under this) I'll make posts and tag them as such but again, today isn't the day
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lionbearfox · 6 months ago
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what's the vibe on natlan preview everybody
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vargaslovinghours · 2 years ago
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Fandom: Johnny the Homicidal Maniac (But really Vargas lol) Rating: Teen and up Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
What, exactly, did Scriabin take from Edgar when they separated?
My first multichapter fic for Vargas! :D Yay!
(Pls read Ch. 1 first - Ch. 2 is also recommended, but as long as you're caught up on the first, you're good to go!)
-----
Side B
What the fuck.
"It's, it's possible that if, maybe whatever happened earlier, whatever caused all that blood and for us to be knocked unconscious-"
What the fuck.
"-and if I suffered a head injury, then maybe-"
No. That's enough.
Scriabin pushed away from the closet door he'd defensively pressed himself up against and put his hands on Edgar's shoulders, which quieted him. He looked at him expectantly, with eyes that Scriabin somehow only just now realized were casually guarded, curious, uncertain in a way that denoted inexperience. That was so messed up, that was completely wrong. Edgar should've been on guard, absolutely, but only because he knew exactly what Scriabin was capable of. He really didn't want to look at him right now if this was what he was going to be seeing instead.
He spun him quickly and pushed him out the door before he could protest. He got one last look at those wide, confused eyes before he slammed the door behind him, bracing it shut with both hands for good measure.
What. The fuck. His head came forward, making a dull thud as his forehead connected with the door. He doesn't remember me? His fingers curled on the door. What does he mean he doesn't remember me?! How could he not know me?! One hand pushed through his hair; his scalp tingled and that was so weird, he felt it and it was so weird- We literally just- He literally just-! As if pulling him screaming into life wasn't bad enough, now he had decided to play some sick prank!
This can't be true. It's just like him to try and make jokes at the worst possible time, he has no tact.
There was a timid knock on the other side of the door. Scriabin jumped as it resonated through his skull, his elbow, pressed to the door with his hand buried in his hair, set his jaw. Then silence.
If he was really trying to get back in, clear things up, say he was only kidding, he'd actually try.
Nothing.
Scriabin's blood was ice as he went over it again. The way he'd said his name. The vacant look in his eyes as he said it, like his mouth knew its shape but none of the meaning. No fear, no realization, nothing that really felt like Edgar, just sound, just noise.
Maybe he really had-
Oh god. His knees gave out, and his arms had no practice at holding him upright, not yet. His hand slid down the door, his other hand guarding his head as his hair fluffed against the grain.
How could he do this
This is all his fault
Stupid, idiotic
He can't do this to me
I can't believe him
I can't believe this
How dare he leave me alone like this
Thoughts spiralling, and all he could do was hold himself down, press his fingers into the back of his neck, force his chest to his knees and maybe he wouldn't immolate under it all. He was shaking, from tension or fear he couldn't tell, his mind too hazardous and loud to cut through it all. He was shaking, dizzy, and if he moved, letting go would surely kill him.
He can't do this to me.
He breathed. And breathed. And swallowed. Eyes closed, heart pounding, sure. Confusion and dismay, whatever. Pain. Fine. So be it.
This isn't like me. A hand untethered from his vice grip in his hair, and he stayed attached to the floor. It connected with the carpet below him and became a new lifeline. He pushed up and away into a limp sit, arms already burning slightly from holding himself up after all that. He shook his head mildly. This isn't who I'm going to be in life. His body, this fear response be damned, he was in control now.
Regroup. Let's- a mental pause, barely a quarter of a second long as he turned the word in his head. Let's pretend it's all true- what does that mean?
He flopped over, leaned upright with his back against the door, heels of his fists pushed down into the carpet to scootch closer. Moving was so awkward still, very unfitting.
He was acting normal. Well, Edgar's baseline for "normal" had changed considerably, so maybe put an asterisk on that. Not that he was ever normal to begin with, but normal-for-Edgar, -ish. That means he has to have some memory.
Scriabin held out a hand, arm slung over his knee, one finger held out. He had recognized his glasses. One. The apartment. Two. Which key to use. Three. He had said Todd's name. Four.
His stuff can be discounted, he's had all that for a while. Back down to one. The kid is a new fixture. Which means he remembers the last couple months at least. He shook his head and brought his hand up to comb through his hair. Well...it's fuzzy for me, so it probably is for him, too. Scriabin remembered everything in as much clarity as the last couple months allowed, there was no way Edgar would know more even if he had all his memories.
Speaking of which, Scriabin could remember everything. He flipped through; the last two months and bringing Todd in, Edgar's parting words to Johnny, his and Devi's conversation - he grit his teeth - and further back, everything along the way, all the way back. False dreams, shared childhoods, everything that was once Edgar's alone, he still remembered it. Nothing was out of place which made it all the more strange!
This is so fucking weird, if I remember everything, then why would he-
He stopped short. His purported purpose had been to replace Edgar. Take him over completely. If he bought into the conceit for a moment, just to play in the space... He was alive now. That was not as intended; it shouldn't even have been possible.
Did he...give me his memories? Like, all the way? Not just to borrow, to shape him, give him legitimacy - he was alive now. His own person. Separate, embodied, and whole. Was this the price of life?
That's stupid. But possible, he couldn't discount. If this - he brought his hands up and looked down at them, watched himself touch his own chest and felt it beneath his coat, shirt, the nerves firing as his slid his fingers up himself - if this was possible, then...
He continued for a moment, curious and reverant, all of him new and privately exciting, to exist and to touch, to feel, smell, see, all of it clear and fresh and penetrated deeply into his mind, as if a layer of film had been lifted from his senses. The moment passed as the memories, unbidden but important, cluttered in around him again.
There were still a lot of questions, and most of them couldn't be answered without Edgar, ugh. If getting anything out of him before had been like pulling teeth, he was very sobered to think about how it might be now. Depending on how much Edgar remembered, maybe he could start piecing things together.
Did he do it on purpose? Did he know this would happen? There's no way he would have been willing to if he had- But he couldn't ask him things like that. Even if he did remember, admitting something like that...
He was just spinning his wheels at this point. Better to gather what he could from the man himself. He looked up, preparing to stand.
Ah-
The room was still in something of a state.
Edgar would be annoying, or at least distracted by trying to pick up the clothes and uncarefully unpacked items strewn about the floor from Scriabin's very successful excavation of his old glasses. The clutter would have to go if he wanted his full attention.
He grumbled as he pushed off the door to pick up the first few things. First day of life and I'm already his maid. Figures. He's always needed me to clean up after him.
Silence.
Somehow it only just hit him. Thinking alone in the late hours, planning things behind Edgar's back, it was nothing new. But a barb unsunk into his mental flesh was left out in the wide emptiness, poised to stab whoever happened upon it next, and he was the only one here.
He felt very small all of a sudden, and he didn't like it at all.
His eyes blankly scanned the room, looking for nothing, until they settled on the toy at Edgar's bedside. His toy.
He dropped the items he'd bundled into his arms and made his way over. He picked up the small simulacrum, turned it over in his hands once, and stared at it.
He wouldn't know this. Not really. He brushed a thumb up and over the little mouth, the contours of its small face. Retroactively, I've never been this at all.
I'm no one to him.
Does this mean we can start over? The thought struck him like lightning, freezing his heart in his chest. He was fixed solid, staring down at the small figure in his hands.
Before he could even think, he'd already thrown it through the open closet door, landing noisily in the box he'd dug through with a clatter. He grabbed up the fallen clothes and items and stuffed them back in the box, burying the toy in mundane detritus, then closed the cardboard flaps and slammed the door of the closet for good measure.
His breath was laboured and he glared, like wishing it gone would make the closet itself disappear.
Answers. He needed answers, more than anything.
He ripped the door open, and there was Edgar who looked up, staring dumbly back at him and carrying the clothes he'd shed earlier over his arm. Something in his mind clicked over, and he didn't think about it.
"Alright," he caught his breath for half a second, "what do you remember?"
Edgar just kept on staring, mouth open, eyes unconfident behind weak glasses. Scriabin huffed irritably, I don't have time for this, and moved towards him, arm outstretched.
"Come on." Edgar gave a small startled sound behind him as he grabbed his collar and dragged him through the doorway. He threw him across the room, not bothering to watch his arc as he closed the door behind him. The bed was that way, he'd be fine.
When he turned back, Edgar had managed to catch himself, though already halfway on the bed. Scriabin stood with his back to the door, feet planted and he crossed his arms. No more speculating around impossibilities, tangible and present as they might be, it was time for a proper interrogation. It was at least preferable to-
Edgar made a face at him and scooted back, offering a seat next to him on the bed. Equal footing briefly flashed through his mind and while he wouldn't consider it ideal, nothing today was really going his way. He sighed, then made his way over and sat across from Edgar, who was eyeing him with a certain degree of caution. At least the feeling was mutual.
"Spill." He re-crossed his arms and leaned towards Edgar. "What do you know?"
Edgar hesitated, apparently thinking, his hands laced and fingers agitatedly if quietly rubbing the backs of his hands.
"I want to verify some things first."
Scriabin snorted dismissively. Where had Edgar's overly-trusting nature gone? A serial killer, well he's an honoured guest, but Scriabin? He didn't even distrust him for the right reasons.
He gestured with an open hand, Go ahead, then tucked his arm back in.
"Todd's last name?"
Pfsh. At least it was proof enough that anything Edgar knew, Scriabin did as well. As expected.
"Casil. His stupid bear's called Shmee in case you forgot that too." Edgar shook his head. No he hadn't? If only he could just check!
"Do you know our phone number?" Obviously he did, so he rattled it off quickly, Edgar nodding in turn. He flipped his hair in time with the last digit, careful to keep his eyes covered. It was a bit of a timid attempt, being the first in this body, which was a minor blessing he supposed.
Edgar mulled over what he'd given him for a moment, then a moment longer, then a moment even longer. His eyes searched absently, gazing down into his own hand, his other on his chin, lightly thumbing his goatee. He was focused on names and numbers, but those were child's play compared to everything, everything Scriabin still wanted to know. It was frustrating on a visceral level, watching him struggle with such simple innocuous nothings while the most important person in his life was sitting right in front of him.
He was supposed to be the most important.
It was frustrating.
"You really don't remember anything, do you?" He didn't hide the sneer as it shaped his voice - odd the way his body just did that now, did things without him actively thinking them into being. Even things like the little waver that made its way in that he pushed back down and under. He was frustrated, angry, tired - any emotionality could be attributed to those, nothing else.
Edgar didn't answer, just kept his gaze locked to his face. That was almost worse. Watching him fumble through things, it wasn't fun, but at least he wasn't trying to pry. He could see him try to look past his bangs, and the fact that he didn't know better...
Scriabin looked away for a moment, then thought better of it. Best defense is a good offense.
He reached for Edgar's face, for those damn scars, ever-present reminders. Edgar shied away, not wanting to be touched suddenly by someone he didn't know. As if Scriabin had ever cared about that.
Well, things were different now. Maybe he didn't really want to touch him anyway. Not yet.
"Do you remember these...?" Instead he framed his face with his hands less than an inch from his skin, and even there he could feel the heat coming off him. Edgar reached for his face, looking away from Scriabin as he touched the angry red marks. He winced minutely, then glanced back at Scriabin, searching him, his expression guarded again. Scriabin could hear his own pulse in his ears.
"...Johnny?"
"Fuck." Fuck! "Of course you'd remember him but not me." God damn it! It wasn't right, it wasn't fair, just because Johnny came first by a hair's breadth, just because he wasn't in Edgar's head, with Edgar's fucked up little obsession with the murderous stick figure- It limited what he could get away with too, if he remembered that far back. Absolutely nothing was going in his favour.
"I'm sorry..." He sounded genuinely remorseful, and it stuck in his throat. Disgusting. "So you know Johnny, too."
"Unfortunately." Scriabin tucked his chin to his chest, arms crossed again in close proximity. This sucks. Edgar just kept rambling, unaware as ever. His excuses held this time at least, one point in his favour, no points for bringing his annoying habits with him despite everything.
"I don't think I've seen him for a couple months now? Everything's awfully..." He gave a vague gesture and Scriabin uncurled slightly. He was giving him room to contribute. He shook his head.
"You haven't."
"Have you?"
He returned to his tight coil of sulking. Not like he was keen to meet up and chat, but he couldn't explain why he hadn't had the opportunity to either.
"I remember he called, too."
"Ugh," barely above breath. Enough about Johnny! Again, Edgar continued obliviously.
"Although I don't really recall what we talked about, not for a while..."
Of course not. I took over for half of those.
He perked a bit, and Edgar focused more on him, patiently setting his hands in his lap.
"You know."
He could play this to his advantage. Give Johnny some well-deserved karmic justice for fucking him over so many times. It was almost better that Edgar didn't know - Scriabin had been trying to get him away from Johnny all this time, and if he really had forgotten everything, not just the moments when Scriabin took over but every moment they had shared, then that meant it coincided almost perfectly with his first meeting with Johnny. Blank spot after blank spot after blank spot, all lined up immediately after getting his face slashed.
He could work with that.
"It's probably trauma." Edgar startled and his hand shot to his temple, lightly touching his hair.
"Like, head trauma?" Scriabing almost laughed. Yeah, probably that too. But that wouldn't help his case.
"No." He leaned in, taking a more intimate, secretive tone. "Think about it. When did things start getting fuzzy?" If he was right on this - which of course he was, but not being able to verify, not being able to see that he was right, it was disconcerting - but if he was, Edgar's memories of Scriabin should start with that first fateful encounter, give or take. A bit of reframing here, a touch of implication there... It probably wasn't even an outright lie; if Edgar's memory were perfect after experiencing everything Johnny had put them through, that would be some kind of twisted miracle.
His only real concern was their "childhood" - how much had Scriabin pulled with him? Would that throw off his story? But that was so far back, there was no way Scriabin or Johnny could be implicated in that. As long as Edgar didn't bring it up before he thought his way around it...
Edgar stayed quiet for a long while. His eyes raced behind closed eyelids, searching, scanning, retracing - Scriabin could almost see the moments where he hesitated, stopped and went back, then starting recollecting again. He wished he could see it for real, watch him unfold himself, touch those memories again, hold up his own in contrast. Even just hear Edgar's thoughts as they went by, feel the emotions he felt. But he couldn't, so he just stared as unblinkingly as this new body would allow, just watched as Edgar went over everything on his own.
He finally opened his eyes, staring back into Scriabin's though he was sure they were still hidden. He felt naked and awkward and Edgar still hadn't said anything. If he could just see like he was supposed to, or if Edgar would just tell him, he wouldn't have to ask. I have to do everything around here.
"It was after you met him, wasn't it?"
"You think it's...mental trauma?" An unspoken 'yes.' Relief flooded him, and he pushed ahead.
"Edgar. He stabbed you." Edgar gripped his shoulder, his eyes closing again and he looked to be in pain. That was a very effective reminder at least. "Do you even know why?" He shook his head and spoke throught half-grit teeth.
"I must have made him mad, but I don't remember-" Of course not, I did that.
"Your mind is trying to protect you." Not. But one of us has to with your inexhaustable deathwish. Scriabin reached out to touch him properly, but Edgar pulled away. He didn't follow, still not yet. Play up the pity. "He messed you up so bad," with a curl in his tone, an I told you so that barely made it to words even privately; how long had he been holding that in? "Surely you must've felt like you wanted, you needed to get away from him, that he wasn't good for you, that you-" He'd told him so many times, some it must have stuck, some of it had to have-
"Then-!" Edgar's eyes shot open, wide and desperate with an edge of disbelief. A strangled gasp escaped him, half-choking him as he tried to speak. "Then why can't I remember you?!"
He almost began rolling off the cuff, but really, he still didn't know for sure. And it definitely wasn't like he could tell the truth even if he wanted to; who, who hadn't lived it, would believe him? Edgar certainly wouldn't, not with his lack of imagination. He had to dress this up, weave a narrative that was plausible, had the perfect mix of truth and falsehood to stand up to scrutiny.
Huh. Ironic.
"I..." No. Some of this was Edgar's fault too. "We...argued."
"Argued?"
"I... Mng." He wanted to aim for some kind of levity, but his throat had tightened on him. He just wanted to tell this stupid inside joke and not have it affect him, not have it mean anything, and here he was getting emotional? He'd say it and fucking mean it. "It's not like I'm in your head, so-" spat out in a rush, there, he'd said it. Haha, isn't that so funny. He swallowed harshly, pushing down everything he felt into his stomach acid. He was in control. He was fine. This didn't shake him. "I can't know for sure," another humourless laugh inside, "but I was against your relationship with Johnny. Maybe you shut me out so you could keep seeing him with no pushback."
It certainly wasn't outside the realm of possibilities of what Edgar would do to avoid taking Scriabin's extremely basic advice about fraternizing with serial killers. How many times had he been ignored up to this point, only to culminate in the ultimate 'I don't know what you're talking about.' Pfeh. I bet he wishes he'd thought of this sooner. It did nothing for his painfully stuttered pulse.
"You know, I've been trying to convince you to stop going back to him for a while, but, well..." He waved his hand at Edgar's hand still death gripped into his shoulder, and Edgar averted his eyes guiltily. At least he showed some remorse. Better than his nigh constant apologia.
He stayed quiet a moment longer, and just before Scriabin made to fill the silence again, Edgar struck him with an intense look.
"What are you to me?" Ugh. Of course. There was not a single good answer for that. Even if he told him everything- no, especially if he told him everything, there was no way Edgar would believe him. But coming up with a convincing lie on the spot, when they were so clearly something to each other - even he needed time to come up with something workable. How could he have ever prepared for a situation like this? It was never meant to happen, so many things were never meant to happen!
He continued at Scriabin's silence. "You know Nny," Ugh! Even his awful nickname. "And Todd. And...me." He couldn't refute it, so he nodded tightly. "Do you live here?"
Technically he had, and technically he hadn't. Still, going forward, it would be easier to let Edgar assume that he did. It wasn't like he had anywhere else to go at the moment anyway.
"Yes."
"Are we..." He searched him, looked him over as much as he could and he wasn't subtle about it. If only Scriabin had his proper glasses, he'd let him look as much he wanted, behold his spectacle! As it was, he just felt self-conscious and it was very unbefitting. "...family?"
The baggage on that. He did not feel like opening that particular can of worms in either of their current states. He turned his head and flipped through any number of halfway decent ways to phrase it until he hit on something Edgar would remember. Better not to contradict for now.
"You told Johnny you have no family when you met."
"That's true..." Edgar blinked, processing. "Wait, did I tell you that?" Scriabin startled. Even after he'd accounted for his memory! Of course he had to pick his story apart now, he never knew when to leave well enough alone.
"When you-" No, he had to be involved. "When we bandaged your face."
Edgar mulled on that for a few seconds, taking on a thoughtful pose. "I only remember being alone."
"You don't remember me at all. What do you want from me?" He huffed.
"No, sorry, you're right."
"Thank you." He was right!
Where had Edgar expected him to be? There was something weird about how he'd said it. He filed the thought away for later.
"So, if you've been living here, where..." Edgar looked around the room, then back to Scriabin. "Where have you been sleeping? Todd's already on the couch..."
Scriabin couldn't help as a smile sprung to his face. If he was going to present him with such a perfect opportunity, well, he'd better take it. He even had the decency to look nervous in response! This was too good.
"Would you believe me if I said right here, in bed?" He again tucked his chin, playfully this time, his hair falling further in his eyes. Even through the dark tangles he could make out Edgar's face immediately bristling with heat.
Ooh. That's such a fetching shade on you, my dear.
"But-! I, I haven't been sleeping on the floor!" He was visibly sweating!
"Correct." His smile grew. This was too easy, and he needed an easy win right about now.
"W-" He leaned forward on his legs, though refused to get any closer. When he spoke it was a harsh whisper. "Why...?"
Scriabin shrugged easily, not bothering to reign in his smile in the least. "I mean, where else, right?" He leaned in since Edgar refused to, and oh. He was blushing all the way up to his scalp. Hilarious. "You certainly didn't seem to mind." He couldn't hold back the slightly musical tone or his eyebrows inclination to move on their own. His body knew what he was getting at, and he could see it only increased Edgar's fluster. All the better.
"Well I do now!" Edgar darted up and away, stumbling in his hasty retreat. "If you'll excuse me!" though he was already practically in the hallway by the time he said it. What a display, and Scriabin's laugh was loud and natural.
Finally, something positive. He'd managed to fumble his way through, not his best work in lying or manipulation, but he'd set some important groundwork. He'd gotten some answers, and he could start to shape some more believable stories around them.
The biggest hurdles were Johnny and Devi. As long as Edgar didn't meet with them too soon - or well, at all would be preferable, but he doubted he could just keep him locked up, as much as the idea appealed to him. There were so many things that were possible now, things that he had the ability to do, given the right circumstances... All of that in due time. For now he had a yarn to spin.
He listened as Edgar fumbled in the hall, the sheer sound of cloth being pulled and folded over an arm barely perceptable. Was he really going to try to sleep on what little was left over? Maybe he'd give up once he realized the pickings were thin and beg Scriabin to let him sleep with him. Hah.
While he was out, Scriabin made his way over to the pajamas drawer. They were all old and soft, even just to his hand. They'd do for now, until he could get his own. It wasn't like he hadn't worn all this before anyway.
By the time he'd finished dressing, his clothes discarded on the opposite side of the bed to where Edgar had set up his little nest, Edgar had finally gotten himself a set of pajamas. He wondered for a moment if he'd dress with Scriabin in the room again, though maybe his intense stare drove him off. Who could say. He patted the bed with a wide grin when he returned and was dutifully ignored. He settled down to the side, and Scriabin laid on his arms to look down at him.
"Ugh, lame."
"I don't-"
"Yeah, whatever." He'd heard it all before. At least he could literally look down on him like this. He folded his hands and leaned just a bit further, looking him over. A desire he hadn't realized he had surfaced in the dark and quiet. "Give me your hand."
"Sorry?" Scriabin held out his hand expectantly.
"I used to hear your heart beat every day." Edgar looked at him incredulously, but Scriabin was unperturbed. "Let me hear it again."
He hesitated but eventually slowly offered his arm. "...Okay."
He pulled his arm up and placed his thumb against his wrist. He felt a strange mismatch - where he'd been expecting one heartbeat, there were two. He covered his surprise, near shock at the realization that of course he had his own body now, by pulling harder on Edgar's arm, directing him up to his ear.
"Wh-"
"Shh." Quietly. He had wanted this, wanted this body, this separation, this freedom for so long, and now... He spoke quietly, his voice betraying nothing. "I'm listening."
Edgar's pulse was erratic, but he hardly paid attention to it. His own fingers on Edgar's skin, warm and pliant, and Edgar's fingers twitching in his hair, he could feel it, he was trying not to touch him- This hesitation was killing him, every jerky movement away not from fear of what Scriabin could do to him, just uncertainty, like he was still a stranger- He pressed him harder to his head, and he could feel goosebumps under his fingers. He wanted to just hold him there until all the memories they'd shared poured back through him, into his blood, into his breath.
Where are you?
But he replied in that same uncertain, guarded tone that indicated he didn't know, not really.
"C...can I have my arm back now?"
He pushed him away. "Fine." Edgar curled his hand protectively against his chest, and he noticed he rubbed it slightly, he probably hadn't even realized.
He mumbled out a harried "Good night," and it was almost enough to make Scriabin smile. Almost. He could still affect him but this wasn't enough, it wasn't right.
He laid his head on the pillow, not bothering to pull his arm up over the side of the bed. If he twitched in the night and touched Edgar, well, that could mean anything. Maybe he was dreaming. Maybe he did it on purpose. Plausible deniability was one of his greatest assets.
As it was, he was just tired. Maybe he didn't pull it back because he hated the thought of sleeping alone, pushed out and forgotten, and hated it more that he was even thinking something like that. How pathetic. He didn't need anyone, especially not Edgar.
But he was tired. Not in his right mind.
Does this mean we can start over...?
The thought echoed and died, and he slept.
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