#ahhh I want to write something

[leafatlaw]

See the reason why Wifies getting chunk banned hurt so much is because how you don’t even realize how much of a constant he’s become for Parrot. He’s always right behind him, helping solve puzzles and making jokes. It’s Parrot and Wifies. Them. And when they’re pitted against eachother it’s different and frightening, but it’s still them, they still have a plan to win, together.

But then suddenly it’s Wifies vs A Secret. Versus the thing Parrot wants so bad, and he’s already begun to take Wifies presence for granted. See Parrots fatal flaw is he wants knowledge, he need to know. And sure sometimes it may be for good, to protect the server, or just himself, but he craves the knowledge. And he knows himself if he doesn’t get what he wants to know now, he’ll regret it.

“It’s all yours” and Parrot does regret it, even before he knows the Secret, he regret it as he stares blankly at the telescope. And in a way, it’s sort of ironic that there’s no secret, because it symbolizes what Parrot has realized too late- there is no secret that would have been worth Wifies. And it’s poetic that there is no secret after all. Parrot essentially killed his best friend for nothing. Because it is Parrots fault as much as it is Spokes. Parrot told Wifies that the secret was worth more than him, Parrot told Wifies to sacrifice himself, and he knew he would do it. It is Parrots fault Wifies is gone.

(And he knows it.)

[bogkeep]

saw some lego dinosaurs today :3

[mad-hunts]

barton giggling inside after threatening someone by telling them he'll 'eat them' has to be one of the most lowkey diabolical thing's that he has done. like, WHAT DO YOU MEANNN you're this emoji '🤭' when you see how scared you can make people with that, and then feel gross about eating people in the same stretch (JSJSJ i shouldn't be laughing at this, y'all, but i am)

[sainz100]

upcoming Carlos x chess content soon ❤️♟️✨

[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.

[sophiethewitch1]

me and what we want are going through a lovers spat rn because i desperately want to write more for it but i constantly feel like shit so its really getting in the way of our relationship. also if youve sent me any asks that i havent responded to i am geniunely so sorry about it i am in the trenches right now

[eyes-talks-ocs]

I want my writing to hit like a song that melts itself into your very soul. Like those songs that are almost a spiritual moment the first time you hear them and no matter how loud you turn up your volume, it just isn't loud enough? You know what I mean?

Or do I just experience music a little too intensely when it scratches the right itch. I really really admire artists that can crank out raw emotions and vibe that chills you to the core. But. THAT. That feeling. That's how hard I want my writing to slap. Leaves you with almost a haunting feeling.

Some examples of the flavor of emotions/vibe I want my current project to invoke as intensely as these songs hit.

--

Funeralopolis - Electric Wizard

The Last Riff - Beartooth (this song is magical live)

Lucky Us - Crown The Empire (Also highly recommend these guys live.)

Paradise Lost / S.C.A.V.A - Hollywood Undead (I lump these two songs together.)

My Understandings - Of Mice & Men

Feel Something - ILLENIUM, Excision, and I Prevail

Damage - RED

[vegaseatsass]

Be My Favorite is rewiring my entire brain istg... just unraveling those brain wrinkles and resculpting them in exciting new shapes and patterns

[heartpascal]

i wanted to ask if part five of your 'if the door wasn't shut' series was the final part? either way, i love that series. i think about it sometimes. and your writing in it (and in general) is so good. you're honestly one of the most special writers i've ever come across 💗

hi my love!!

i don’t want to say final because it feels too .. well. final i guess HAHDHAV but i do think it’s probably the last part to that MAIN series!! if i feel any inspiration strike there may be other parts / drabbles to do with that universe!! + if anybody sends in a request that i can imagine writing for that universe then i’ll for sure do it!!

but thank you so much :’) you’re too kind!!! i appreciate it!!! i’m glad you enjoyed & thank you for reading!!! <333

[sheila--e]

ohhh i cant wait for the new season to bring in more Sagwan fanssss..... That silly seal man.....

[the-lightning-strikes-again]

AlluraWeek 2023 Day 2 - Royalty

Allura turned the delicate gold crown in her hands, in awe of the bright blue gemstones that glowed with the power of Oriande. “This is for me?”

Across the room, Emperor Lotor of the Galra leaned against a pillar, crossing his arms. His expression softened. “You are to be the queen of New Altea. Is it not appropriate to indicate such with a physical manifestation of your role?”

Her eyes bubbled with tears as she ran her fingers along the stones. “Oh, but this is…” Her throat tightened up.  

Only one person could have re-entered Oriande to gather the gems for the creation of such a work of art.

Lotor tilted his head, his expression carefully schooled. “Are you displeased with this gift?”

She glanced up, breaking with emotion. “Not at all,” she said. “Truly, it’s the most beautiful crown I’ve ever seen. I simply did not expect such a gift for my coronation, much less that you would forge anything yourself, in the middle of your own trials with ruling.”

He raised a hand to his chest, puffing up in pride. “I am an artist, above all.” He then flicked his long hair over his broad shoulder, walking toward her. “It is my privilege to use such skills in the service of your reign.”

Allura watched him, her face heating as he neared. “How can I repay you?”

Lotor quirked a brow with merriment, daring to reach out. He gently curled her fingers around the crown. “Come visit me upon New Daibazaal, once your affairs are in order. I would gladly entertain the Queen of our neighboring planet.”

“Affairs?” she repeated, voice catching on the word. A tease worked its way up. “Is this in reference to my royal duties or to the many suitors that now seek my hand?”

His fingers ticked against her own, and he playfully set his forehead against hers. “The former, I hope, for I should like to be your only affair, Queen Allura.”

And then he swept her up into a sweet kiss, and she giggled against him before offering him a stolen kiss in return, while they yet had a tick to themselves. 

[hendolish]

back again!! any hendolish fluff when the other notices they’re having a bad day with no one else really noticing and gives them a hug!! my weakness is actually fluff.

jack grealish/jordan henderson | making a bad day better ♡

“Hey.”

Jordan says softly as though not to scare Jack as he speeds up to walk alongside him in between drills, “You okay?”

“Hmm?” Jack takes a moment to reply, as if his mind has wondered away elsewhere, then he seems to blink himself back onto the pitch, his smile only half-filling his face.

“I’m fine,“ He tells Jordan rather unconvincingly, going on when he raises a doubtful eyebrow at him with a laugh, “Don’t worry about it.”

That’s better.

Jordan thinks as he allows the joyful sound to wash over him, but as he watches Jack run ahead of him to start the drill again he knows something’s still not quite right.

He doesn’t manage to catch him again until the end of training, purposely walking slowly back towards the locker room as to allow Jack to catch up. When Trent notices what he’s doing, he just gives him a knowing grin and a pat on the shoulder before speeding off to catch up with Jude and the others.

“Alright?” He greets as Jack reaches him, having trailed behind after helping Steve collect some of the equipment they’d been using.

Jack offers a smile at him, almost as if he hadn’t realised Jordan was there, as they fall into step walking side by side, but it’s still weak and makes Jordan’s heart clench.

“Yeah. It’s just freezin’ innit?”

Nodding as he agrees, Jordan clutches his hands to his chest, glad he had remembered his gloves and extra layers today. Glancing over to the younger, Jordan soon notices Jack’s hands are bare and near-white where they’re bitten with cold. He hurries them through the last paces back inside then.

Jordan rips his own gloves off as he feels the warmth of SGP envelop him and immediately begins to feel the blood rushing back to his fingertips. When his senses have returned, he’s quick to grab onto one of Jack’s hands and is shocked to find it almost painfully cold to touch.

“Fuck.”

He mutters under his breath as his eyes dart across Jack’s face in concern, wondering how the younger can possibly look so fine.

“Uh, I can’t really feel ‘em at the moment so…”

“Here.” Jordan decides immediately, needing to do something about this so desperately as he grabs a hold of Jack’s other hand and slips both under his jumper to press against the warm skin at his sides.

The cold sensation makes him jump and his abs tense, but Jordan decides it’s all worth it when Jack seems to visibly relax. And when Jordan finally lets the younger’s hands go they stay exactly where they are, pressed up against Jordan’s skin, until they’re curling around his waist to find the heat in his lower back.

Jack’s closer now, smiling up at him with his teeth and his perfect hair spilling over his headband. Then he plants a kiss to Jordan’s lips that helps restore his warmth even further.

“Thank you.” He says softly, hands still curling against Jordan’s skin and making him grin like an idiot.

[star-gamerxox]

The Wind Stopped

I remember the way the wind ripped around me, but I loved it. I loved the way it pushed through clothes as a kid and I could just watch the world move with the wind. How the wind moved around the world.

I became like the wind, bending around you and your world until she came into our lives. Slowly but surely she built walls and trapped the wind where it couldn’t blow.

The only wind needed to stop.

And now I’ve torn the walls down and climbed out and the wind is blowing again, but it’s weak, it bends too easily and it doesn’t blow through my clothes like it did when I was a kid.

It’s like I lost part of that strength even though I’ve escaped.

And every few months you come with bricks, rebuilding a wall she insisted she put to protect us.

I can’t survive without the wind, and you can’t seem to live without the walls to stop it.

But if I don’t miss the days where the wind could flow around you too.

I wonder if you miss the wind, or just the way the wind was trapped within the walls…

I wonder if you remember the wind, and the way it was before you put that ring on her finger, before the world changed forever.

Before my wind stopped.

Do you miss that version of me? The wildness, the beauty?

Or do you still just miss the way I pushed against the walls?

The wind won’t stop again, no matter how many attempts at a brick wall that you attempt.

[writeouswriter]

Me sobbing @ my brain as I run through the house narrowly avoiding bizarre traps and jump scares: You're writing a normal mystery slasher book, you're writing a normal mystery slasher book

My brain @ me, holding up a note paper on psychic powers, monsters and prophetic dreams, brandishing it like a knife in my direction: Am I though, am I?

[x-xhiro]

I've only been drawing pieces that I want to share because I fear that if I don't, I'll just fall into irrelevance. Now everything I've been doing just looks so bad

[handgiven]

💔 19 :')

fucked up kisses / @shilohgreen 19. a kiss with tears

there's a stillness to the moment, like the earth had stopped turning, and came to such sudden halt that the sheer momentum of this phantom movement could tear it apart. he has come to know the feeling, and intimately so, an angel who has been a witness to births and deaths of various universa, young and old – but he is not that anymore. he is no longer connected to the eternal hum of the universe, nor does he pick up on the wisps in the red thread of existence. he sees what the eyes see, he feels only where the tips of his fingers hit the air. that's how he realises that the sudden yet lingering feeling of wrogness, of a lapse in reality, comes from that much closer, within an arm's reach, within a single man he has come to know as a universe of his own.

there's a stillness to will. as if scalded by a revelation or another, except the room is also so completely still, with no life to it, no change, besides the concern born in the depths of emmanuel's eye. a hand reaches out as if half-blind already, and lips open and close without a sound. it's alright, whispers the fallen's soul as he reaches gently to cover will's hand with his own. and he knows that there is no way to tell him. not now. even if the anxiety of anticipation did not choke him up.

it feels like emmanuel guides will and himself to sit down, more by memory than by sight and as they do settle on the couch he tries gently to settle the other against himself over the stillness of the armrest. here is warm, here is present, here is alive. that's all he can give. the angel that he was, such an episode would mean nothing to him. he could touch will's temple and burn it all away, instantly. but could he ever touch him that way? would he ever dare to? and besides, what good would it do, to wipe a single episode off the face of earth and then leave will to the wolves of his mind, anyway? here is warm, here is present, here is alive. that's what he can give, and in a way it is so much more than he could have ever given in the past.

he gives him what he can. gentle words muttered under his breath, for even a whisper feels too harsh, the arm settled gently around will, the hand that ended up holding will's own hand, as it shakes, as it trembles. patience, eyes shuttering closed because it feels painful to witness something whose dread he can feel in the marrow of his bones. he waits with him, as much as he waits for him. and the relief when something about will's stillness cracks, when something hard falls into pieces that linger in em's palm, that relief is tangible, as he pulls will even closer to himself, voice just a little louder, a little more convincing.

"it's alright... you're right here, with me. it's alright." a hand does move up to greet will's face, when the blue eyes seem to spill. "look... look around, what a world we have. a world of... of fragrance, quietness... and trees, and flowers... it's alright," gentle voice, rambling away with bits of poetry left behind by centuries. eyes as old as the moon that regard the other with tenderness and melancholy-tinted hope. "it's alright." the terror of being an animal, fighting and fleeing, in the dark is misplaced by the moth-like need to follow into a light that gives semblance of marking the only path possible. and so it spills out of him, the need, the fight, the stiffness, and the lack of control all together, merging and overwhelming and stealing the air out of his lungs. he cries, but the tears are free and they are his own and they are caught in the back of emmanuel's palm as he wipes them away, still so tender, still so intent, leaning close.

it's then that will breaks the sliver of space between them, and takes it for himself, the air hitched in a breath on his lips as he pulls em closer by the shoulder, as one grasping at straws to find something real. something to touch. something to hold onto. and, shaken and bewildered, emmanuel realises that perhaps for the first time in his existence – he is just that.