#Wills Format

[housecow]

I'd pay so much money to hear you give a lesson on paleontolgy. Whenever you write about you seem so formal and passionate ✨️

this is sooooo sweet but i guarantee you don’t want this bc the first lesson would be on terminology and the geologic timeline, some of the most boring but fundamental shit 😭😭

or, hear me out—that but my feeder is stuffing me more and more. the lesson keeps getting interrupted by sips of weight gain shake and many belly rubs

[camelspit]

if i was dex i wouldntve forgiven the council the shit they did to him and sophie was RANCID

[ava-of-shenanigans]

Egyptian pharaoh names but I’ve turned them into ancient cat names

1. Tutankhbastet (Tutankhamun)

This is the most obvious name on this list because literally all I’ve done is change out the name of one god for another god. I’m not doing that for any of the others I promise.

King Tutankhamun is the one pharaoh everybody knows about, which is ironic since his birth name literally means “the living (ankh) image (tut) of the Hidden One (Amun).” (“Tut” can also be translated as “likeness” or “statue.”)

Amun was the Egyptian god of, uh… stuff (he’s hidden. His whole deal is that he’s hidden). Bastet was the Egyptian cat goddess. Sometimes she was portrayed as a lady with a cat head, but sometimes she was just a cat. If you switch Amun’s name out for Bastet’s, it becomes “the living (ankh) image (tut) of the Cat Goddess (Bastet).” Truly, a name that only the most dignified and elegant cats deserve.

Transliteration: twt-anx-bAstt

You could also say it “Tutankhbast” if you prefer.

2. Hatmiushepsyu (Hatshepsut)

Hatshepsut’s name means “the foremost (hat) of noblewomen (shepsut),” and it turned out to be really good name for her, since she became pharaoh and all. If you want to change it to “foremost of noble cats” it becomes Hat-miu-shepsyu, “miu” meaning “cats” and shepsyu meaning “noble.”

Transliteration: HAt-miww-Spsyw

3. Nedjestiti (Nefertiti)

I am aware that calling Nefertiti a pharaoh is controversial since there’s a chance that Neferneferuaten might have been her daughter and not her. But finding names of pharaohs that you can do this to and are also popular enough to be recognized is hard so shush.

Nefertiti was supposedly the most beautiful woman in the ancient world (although we can’t confirm that because Nefertiti and all the other ancient women are now dead). Her name fits this, because it means “the beautiful one (nefert) has come (iti).”

“Nedjes” is a word meaning “small,” so changing the name to Nedjest-iti makes it mean “the small one has come.”

This is a good name, because if your cat is bad then you can use it in a derogatory sense to call them a penniless little beggar. Unfortunately, it only really works for girl cats, because the masculine version is “Nedjesiu,” which loses the pun quite a bit.

Transliteration: nDst-ii.ti

4. Miumer (Narmer)

Narmer was the first pharaoh to rule over all of Egypt, and like other early pharaohs the only name used for himself was his Horus name instead of his throne name or birth name. (You know that TS Elliot poem about how cats have a bunch of different types of names? Pharaohs are like that too). Because Narmer was his Horus name, it was written inside an enclosure called a serekh instead of a cartouche.

The name itself means something like “striking (mer) catfish (nar)” or “fierce (mer) catfish (nar).” To change it to “striking cat” or “fierce cat,” you need to change nar to miu: Miu-mer. (Yeah the English translations of this one are stronger wordplay than the Egyptian versions, sorry.)

If your cat is a girl then the name should be Miutmer instead.

Transliteration: miw-mr

5. Bitokris (Netiqerti/“Nitokris”)

Queen Nitokris was either a cunning murderess, whose name lurks in the shadows of history… or she was a 3,000 year old transcription error. The only potential record we have of her name in hieroglyphs is the name of a pharaoh called “Netiqerti” on the Turin kings list. This could be Nitokris, or it could be a mistake made by a scribe while trying to copy the name of the name of another, completely different pharaoh.

If Netiqerti is Nitokris, then her name means “Neith (Net, a goddess) is excellent (iqerti).” Bit-iqerti/Bitokris would mean “honey (bit) is excellent (iqerti).”

Transliteration: bit-iqr.ti

[jewishcissiekj]

ughhhhh why can't I reblog posts with a video. anyway my Naboo Handmaidens guide so far btw. if you even care (very far from completion but idk i wanted to share my progress)

not planning for it to be a video in its final form, though i might also make it a video (it will be a PowerPoint presentation & pdf)

[bittergirlsworld]

My thoughts on Erwin Smith as a character (very badly elaborated, I fear) after reading again the Uprising Arc and RTS Arc

Been thinking and I don't believe he wanted to know if his father was right or not, because being killed by the government was an answer to this itself; he wanted to prove the "world" that his father was right therefore innocent, so his life was taken for nothing. It explains his mental state and the reason why he saw himself as a first class con man (Isym also describes him as a con man, so it was probably the true about his person) because you need to have insane manipulation skills and a very loose sense of attachment to ascend in a military hierarchy while keeping secret of something this heavy. It surprises no one how much of a mad man he was in his last months. This kind of guilty wouldn't scratch a second thought in a actual evil person but he was not evil at all. He was never flippant about the lives that died under his command; he single-handedly created the formation that cut human losses expedition after expedition, so the argument that he didn't cared about casualties does not stand for too long.

I think it's also never taken in consideration the setting where erwin was made commander: the reputation of the Survey Corps was in flames due Shadis bad admin + public outburst, Shadis was the first commander that left the chair before dies and in the day Erwin assumed, Wall Maria fell; short after, the government sent that mock expedition to "reclaim the wall" that was just population control and it was under his commandership but he didn't had a single say in this matter.

It was crucial to the Paradis rulers that the general public hated the scouts and saw them coming back every expedition dead and broken: it kept them compliant with living trapped within walls and every time someone questioned this (ex: Eren) was just use the scouts as an example of what happens when you venture outside the walls: you either get insane, broken or you die. The SC was part of the propaganda the government used to keep their population alienated and on a leash (also burning books, murder thinkers and revolutionaries; the conversation Kenny has with grandpa Ackerman where he says that they even killed their own to avoid questions on why existed diversity within people [implied in-walls genocide?])

Yes, he was a master manipulator, ruthless and a political genius, orchestrated a coup on his own with two or three allies, the man was brilliant through and through. But I think people get these traits and paint him as someone who slaughters and coerce and that's just not the truth. He was very honest with the adversities that the scouts faced it, from the casualties to the tight budget. Who did he coerced into staying? Erwin is portraited as someone who spent so much time lying to himself that he started to believe his own lies so they became his twisted truth. It was to prove his father, yes, but it wasn't for humanity too? Wouldn't humanity benefit of it? Wouldn't they all be as free as you can be? Wouldn't people stop to die over limited resources, Wouldn't the underground become pointless, Wouldn't land be available? Wouldn't humanity benefit?

Erwin was also a character created to serve a purpose in the story (a foil to the MC, a counterpart to the important captain, a political genius to establish the queen, a inspirational commander to follow, a reliable leader to expeditions, a good soldier when you need to see him fighting, a professional yapper when you need a speech) every appearance of his was very plot driven. He would be more of an inconvenience being alive, so he needed to go now he served his purpose: lead them to shinganshina. He was always meant to die in that roof. Having a presence that feels this large compromise a lot of the personhood of a character. More of a tool, less of a person. He was only humanised when people saw him through Levi's eyes (and this is not a "eruri" comment. See their relationship as soldiers, friends or lovers, the only time Erwin is human, it's when Levi decides to free him).

(On a side note: Erwin was extremely suicidal on his last months alive. He had little regard for his life and physical integrity, going as far as to say "I am replaceable" and "Use me as a bait". Of course, plot wise was crucial that he was present on Shinganshina, he needed to die and also the mission as it was projected would not succeed without him. His last speech, as a iconic as it is, sounds pretty much as a depressed person telling you life is meaningless. He recovers himself, barely, in the second part of said speech when he talks about the fallen comrades, even then, it's a man burdened by guilty talking. When he loses his arm, he doesn't allow himself the pain of it. His answer is that he deserves it.

Doesn't escapes me that in all the manga, almost every interaction Erwin has, people make sure to remark how evil he is, how ruthless and inhuman and cruel, for things he had absolutely no control over. Added with the guilt he already had since a child, his mind was in a state of decaying for decades when the main events of AOT happen.

It hurts more because (and I am aware that's an unpopular opinion) he had absolutely no fault on what happened to his father. Who gives knowledge that can get both of you killed to a child and doesn't even instruct them to keep it shut? His father failed him. He would be offended if people point this, tho. Pixys' reaction to his story shows a bit how outsiders react to it when he tells him.

The most heartbreaking line is when he smiles after Connie tells about his family (which wasn't right of him at all, but then again, he wasn't in his right mind) and Levi says he makes him sick and his answer is a sigh and a "I've been told this since I was a child". That man had such a twisted sense of self that he was miles away to even be considered a shell of a person.)

In a way, I'm glad his character ended as it did. I'm genuinely glad he never reached that cellar. The truth of it all was not only disappointing but cruel and staying alive he would be the one leading them into this unknown hell and the one burdening the blame for all these things out of his control. Prove his father right would be the most pyrric victory ever. As they say, thank you, Levi.

[milliesfishes]

Hi Millie! So sorry to bother you but I wanted to ask you what program/app do you use when you make your dividers and the cute pics you put in your fics? They always look so cute 🥰

Hello sweetheart!! never a bother at all, I love questions like this! and also thank you for complimenting my dividers, I feel like they're a hot mess sometimes <3 <3 <3

To find the pictures I usually go to pinterest and find widget icons which makes things easier because the backdrops are the same color. Also there's sooooo many options for icons and I have a pinterest board for them, will link here

The app I use is called piccrew! It's free and I use the etsy banner option when you click on 'blank canvas' because it is just thin enough for the sizing I think. If I want a shorter banner I just put in the images I want and screenshot 🫶🫶

[under-the-ladder]

After the 1st semi one question remains: who the hell greenlit those postcards

[vargaslovinghours]

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.

[mikkeneko]

me reading fics in the epistolary style: he would not fucking put that in writing

[dearmyloveleys]

just curious, do yall still want/are interested in another translated version of the mdzs original text? I’m fully fluent in English, love books, write fiction myself (graduated with a minor in creative writing as well), and 80% fluent in written and spoken Chinese. If I may, I can offer a more writerly/authorly + detailed (definitely not in the way of more embellished) interpretation and formatting translation of the og text which I feel that the Seven Seas ver is lacking. But I will probably need one or two others’ help in proofreading and cross checking translations!

[stormlit]

here we go again (hand pain flare up time, i already have some written replies in my queue, but anything else will be replied to very slowly until they decide to fix themselves)

[k-i-l-l-e-r-b-e-e-6-9]

Whitesnake - Carry Your Load

[areacode516]

list of audio boots i have collected from DMV area this year:

-hair (signature, high quality) -american psycho act 1 only (monumental) -DEH (two separate performances with diff. evans, current 2024 tour) -putnam county (kennedy, noah galvin) -renee elise goldsberry concert (low quality)

[flameleads]

This Roy isn't good or evil. He's just buried in paperwork.

[randoandro]

havent rly seen anyone talking about the wild card this session, so i just wanted to say that the time gimmick was pretty neat. love how dramatic the reveal was at the start with the rain and all that, and the slow transition into high speed at the end of the session