#and I've only been writing on tumblr

[deoidesign]

Thinking about vampires, death, life, and the space they occupy in between

[lemonisntreal]

BLINKY BLINKY BLINKY BLINKY BLINKY BLINKY BLINKY BLI

[flowercrowngods]

"Captain."

The quill scratches roughly along the page, too aggressive for the paper softened and hardened over time by wear and tear and seawater air. Ink spills, making a mess of the log's entry, splotching over fingers and staining them almost black in the cabin's dim light, a flame flickering in its hold to the right, unaware of the tension in the air. Unaware of the captain's rapidly beating heart and his hands clenching around the quill until he fears it might break.

Although the fear he feels is not on behalf of the quill in his hand.

"Captain."

His first mate is insistent on gaining his attention, but he refuses to acknowledge that she already has it. He knows it can only mean one thing if she comes to him at this hour, if she seeks him out despite clear orders – or, rather, because of them.

"Steve."

He looks up, his jaw clenched, and the quill breaks, spilling ink all over his palm where the sharp tip is cutting into his skin with a spark of pain that pales in comparison to what he can find in her features.

Robin nods, imperceptible to every other soul in this universe. Every soul that is not him, attuned to her every move, every twitch of a brow, every hint of a frown, and every gesture that she dares him to overlook if only to have an excuse later on.

But she nods. And Steve swallows.

"It's him. He's back."

It's the captain who nods now, incapable of doing anything else, and feeling as his sanity slips away from him, through the cracks in the floorboards and sinking down to the bottom of the ocean to join his heart and his conscience. All have long been lost at the cause of one man.

"Thank you," he says, though his voice does not feel like his own, and the candle beside him flickers once more as if to signal that, really, he shouldn't be sounding like that. He blinks, deliberately, because he has been staring for too long and she doesn't need to know that he has been losing himself since the second she appeared at the door.

"Steve–"

"That's Captain to you."

She swallows, defiant, but choosing her battles wisely. He is grateful, for he hasn't the strength to argue any more than he has the strength to stand upright in this moment.

"Captain," she says, deliberate but gentle, because she knows and she forgives. "Are you alright?"

"No," Steve says, and his voice remains remarkably steady in this confession. "I'll be out in a second. Make sure they do not to say a word to him. Shoot everyone who does, or throw them overboard. Nobody talks to The– to Munson but me. Understood?"

"Understood," she says, straightening her posture, though her eyes remain worried and wary. There is more she wants to say, but Steve dismisses her before leaning his fists on the table and breathing deeply. The tip of the quill buries deeper into his palm and he closes his fingers around it, hard, to keep himself anchored and distract from one pain with another.

Theo is back. Theodore Munson. Though he will have a new name, Steve knows. But those eyes... Those eyes never changed, not once in all this time, and Steve fears that he will break apart if he has to look at them again and find no ounce of recognition. No memory of words whispered in the dark, of gentle touches to roughest scars, of time spent together in different lifetimes.

Steve plucks the tip soiled in ink and blood from his palm and reaches for a book hidden underneath a false bottom in the first drawer of the desk. A book with the initials T M pressed into fine, deep red leather.

He writes, with blood and ink in unsteady hold,

27th March He came is back. I wish he weren't.

@vampeddie remember me talking about this before i disappeared? remember how you went insane? remember that you like me?

[necromeowncy]

♡♡♡

[defiledtomb]

hellooo, I hope you're feeling well! I was wondering however if ouroboros was still being worked on or if it's on hiatus. Hope I wasn't rude in asking

I don't feel it's rude, after all, I have been keeping the development close to my chest. It is still being worked on, edited and transferred into renpy with graphics and soundbytes galore! However, right now, since about three weeks back, I left my partner of 8 years in the middle of the night with just a change of clothes, my dog, and a laptop. I'm struggling hard but putting on a brave face-- right now I'm coming up with a concept of something else to work on until I get a proper apartment and can get my stationary PC back so I can get back to work on ouro. I'll make a proper post about it tomorrow, so keep an eye on this space!

[coreene]

stuffed in her cavern

Pairing: Rugan x Fem!Tav

Rating: Explicit

Word count: 2.1k

Summary: Rugan fucks Tav in the gnoll cave, that's it. That's the plot.

Tags: Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Dirty Talk, Wall Sex, Vaginal Sex, Cunnilingus, Vaginal Fingering

Thank you @littleplasticrat for the beta! I fixed some stuff after her notes and any remaining mistakes are my own!

The name is purely @captainsigge and @dustdeepsea 's fault (ily)

I hope it is a worthy offering for Rugan fuckers 🥺👉👈

[cloudcountry]

its so weird to me how people will see us talking about reblogs and comments and how that supports people and they ignore it??? and i've even heard people telling content creators to "get over it" and its like...bro.

you are getting content for free. someone put so much love and care into something that you read and didn't even bother supporting. likes are equivalent to "hey i saw this, good job." while reblogs are "hey, i really liked this and i want other people to see it too!!"

you wonder why fanfic authors complain about engagement? it literally fuels us. i've also heard people say that authors wanting more feedback from readers is a "red flag" and i just know those people have never written a fic in their life.

we're not holding you hostage or anything man, we just want you to talk to us. tell us what you think. have fun with fics. show them to your friends and talk to the author about them and even if they don't respond, know that they saw your feedback and are holding it close to their heart.

its a give and take. all creators want is interaction. and i hate to say it but its literally the bare minimum. i actually stopped writing for a fandom entirely because nobody would comment on any of the oneshots i posted. they just read it and left. and then when i left the fandom and stopped writing for them entirely, people were saying they'd miss me. they acted disappointed that i was leaving. like, you didn't act like you'd miss me at all when i was still making content. so why should i stay?

[kaebedom-me]

in which gojo cant seem to get his shit together when he's in front of the person he likes

synopsis: gojo tries his best to impress a regular he's been crushing on, too bad he can't keep his shit together long enough to make a proper latte

cw: gojo x reader, the babygirlfication of gojo satoru, ooc!gojo, he's actually not ooc my personal hc is that he gets real flustered in front of the person he really likes that's why, equally flustered and shy!reader, fem!reader, fluff, slightly proofread but not really, this is part of @freyzrc's very cute very good cafe au series! so please support the original creator!

word count: 1544

a/n: im actually scheduled for another DisappearanceTM but i 🥺 anyway, if you've been wondering where I've been I'm actually neck deep in jjk hell hence! i present to you, tumblr, this fic!!! (more hcs and context after the fic if you're interested in my ramblings)

Gojo, despite his very pretty (self-proclaimed) appearance, actually prefers to work the morning shift during the times when the café was not a bar. It’s definitely not because he’s more of a morning person, it’s also definitely not because he hates alcohol. Also, it’s certainly absolutely positively NOT because of a pretty girl that comes in every once in a while, to grab a latte at a time where it (in his opinion) should be an inappropriate time to get coffee. But it’s favourite part of the day anyway, he always finds himself looking forward to it despite the irregularity of the girl’s visit.

“Ah! Welcome!” Itadori’s voice chimed in, snapping Gojo out of his daydreaming.

“Welcome!” Gojo exclaimed, too. He turned around just in time to catch sight of the girl he was daydreaming about coming to the counter.

To say he was a little excited was an understatement, because Gojo had almost dropped the cup that he was drying to the floor, earning a snort from Geto who’d been standing next to him the entire time. Gojo turned to glare at him for a split second before returning his attention to you.

“The usual, right?” Itadori asked cheerily.

“Actually, could I get it hot today?” you asked softly.

“Of course! That’ll be out to you in a jiffy!”

You gave Itadori a smile while tucking away your wallet. As you walked away, you glanced behind the counter to note who was on shift. Geto gave you a kind nod before whispering something to Itadori.

Before you could get too far away Itadori raised his voice a little to catch your attention. “Um! Miss! Excuse me! I’m so sorry to bother but we’re a little short staffed today, would you mind waiting here for your coffee?”

He asked you so nicely you weren’t able to say no, it’s not like you would’ve in the first place, though. You approached the end of the counter, where they usually put the drinks before serving.

Geto gave you an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry, Megumi-kun’s out with the dogs and I’m just about to take my break, so I really hope you don’t mind.”

You nodded; you understood you told him.

“Thank you so much, hun’! It’s nice seeing you again.” Geto beamed, and right there you swear you died while you were on your way here because this can’t be happening.

Geto quickly excused himself and went to the back, leaving you flustered.

Gojo was by the machines pulling a shot when Geto so kindly passed by him to pat him on the butt. The daggers he had been glaring at him had Geto trying not to laugh the entire time.

When you noticed it was your favourite white-haired barista making your coffee today you nearly choked on your own spit. Surely, you definitely died on the way here today, that was the only reason why the stars had aligned so perfectly today.

By the time you snapped back to your senses, Gojo was practically right in front of you assembling the drinks. You were way too nervous to look directly at him but you felt it would’ve been rude to look away considering you just made eye contact with him.

You awkwardly gave him a smile, and he returned it stiffly. “Uh, nice weather, huh?”

“Yeah!” You answered.

Curses! “Nice weather”??? That’s all he could come up with??? The only time he gets to talk to you outside of the usual short conversation while you ordered and he had to mess it up??? A disgrace! He’s The Gojo Satoru! How could he have been so-!!

It was then Gojo slightly slipped up and spilled some of the milk from the pitcher. “Shit,” he cursed.

He shouldn’t have looked up. But he did, and he made direct eye contact with you. GOD! STUPID! How did he mess it up this badly! Gojo wanted to curl into a ball and hide under the stupid cabinets right now.

“I usually don’t fuck up this badly-”

“Oh!!! Um! It’s ok! Take your time,” you tried and offered him your best smile.

Huh? HUH???? Did he seriously, seriously accidentally say that out loud? In front of you??? Of all people?????

Gojo cleared his throat as he felt the heat rush up into his cheeks. He has to save this somehow. “I, uh- Erm, is there any particular latte art you like?”

Taken off guard, you shook your head. “Anything’s good really!”

FUCK. What now?? He just kind of made conversation with you, should he continue?? Should he give you some options? A heart? What?! No! That’s too obvious! A swan? A rose? C’mon, Gojo, think! You can do better than those basic fucking starter latte art. Maybe he should drop dead and die, there’s no saving this interaction at this point.

“Maybe?” You quietly piped in. “Those plant looking ones? I think they look nice.”

A tulip? A tulip! Gojo’s got this! This is easy! Tulips are so easy! And he’s the best latte art maker in this whole damn café!

“Sure!” He puffed up his chest and answered as cheerily as he can, trying to hype himself up. If this goes well, maybe, MAYBE, he’d deem himself worth enough to ask for your number.

A tulip, a tulip, a tulip. A very simple and easy design. Yes, Gojo can make it with his eyes closed. He can even make it more complicated and intricate, that’ll surely impress you enough to want to give him your number. Super simple tulips are, he’s been making them since forever.

So why, why, WHY, is his hand shaking so badly. No!! No!!!! He has to do this perfectly! Oh, God, he can feel you looking at him and waiting. You’ve been waiting for a while too, he knows this! But God damn it, Megumi didn’t have to come in at this time to remind him that you’ve been waiting for a while. No! Focus! He can do this! Make good latte art, get pretty girl’s number!

Gojo ignored Itadori calling Megumi over to the back. He breathed in and let his hands worked his magic. This was easy! It’s practically muscle memory at this point! He’s got this!

Make good latte art, get pretty girl’s number!

Gojo must’ve been too excited because he fucking accidentally poured too much of the stupid milk into the damn cup too quickly and royally fucked whatever art he was about to make.

Gojo wanted to scream.

“Oh, um, I can still take that,” you piped in.

Oh, fucking fuck, you were watching him the entire time too. Gojo wanted to cry.

“No, no, I’ll remake it-”

“No! It’s ok! I don’t mind,” you said again. “I really don’t mind.”

You were truly an angel sent from heaven. How are you so forgiving and cute?? He can never show his face again the next time you come in.

“Ah, at least let me draw something on it to make up for it,” Gojo meekly offered.

Too shy to say no, you let and then watched him shuffle a little to the side to reach for the chocolate syrup.

Gojo made quick work of drawing Shiro into the latte you ordered. It wasn’t something too impressive but he knew at least you’d like it considering how much time you spend with Megumi’s dog whenever you came in.

“Enjoy,” he sheepishly muttered to you while he slid the coffee towards you.

Curse that stupid!!! Suguru!!!! For making you, of all people, stand by the counter to watch him work.

He watched as your eyes lit up at the little doodle he made. “Sorry I’m kinda off my game today,” he lamely excused himself. “It’s not the tulip you wanted but I hope it’s enough, I swear I’m a killer with latte art.”

You nodded, still eyeing the little Shiro on your cup, absent-mindedly you said, “It’s ok, maybe next time!”

Gojo perked up at that. The fact that you were still willing to come back!!! Ah, that almost brought tears to his eyes. “Next time for sure,” he promised.

Realising what you had just heard you snapped back to look at him. He was smiling gently down at you now and your heart almost burst out of your chest right there. You nodded and offered him another smile before scuttering away to find a seat.

おまけ

“Oh my God, that was so painful to watch,” Geto could hardly contain his laughter.

“Hey!!! Whose fault was it, huh!! I could’ve made the best damn art in my entire career!! And you!!! You fucked me over,” Gojo whisper shouted at Geto while the other staff slowly made their way back to the front.

“You screwed it up yourself,” muttered Megumi. “It was funny to watch though, I’m glad we took the shorter route back today.”

“Yeah, the Gojo Satoru fumbling so badly,” chimed Geto.

Itadori walked over to where Gojo was and offered him the cloth by the sink. “Aw, I think you did your best, senpai! Next time! You’ll make the best damn latter art in your entire career, I’m cheering for you!”

Gojo snatched the cloth from Itadori and glared at his friends before wiping down the mess he made. 

so as mentioned, my personal hc is that gojo gets really flustered and shy when he's in front of the person his likes that's why he's like that in the fic uwu

it's just a simple cafe au with your favourite jjk boys

according to @freyzrc the bar becomes a bar after hours so your faves are able to pick and choose what shifts they prefer to work and when

i say your faves but really its up to you (read: me) if i want to see who at when and where lMAO

in my head, if i were to make this into a series it'd be like a dating sim with different routes depending on your fave that you're after

but also, there's no particular order in which events happen because I'm really writing this as a one off HAHAHA

if you're curious though, you can read it as a "best moments compilation" thing, but if you're on the other routes, the events of this route then not something that happened? it's basically kind of like the timeline branches out and there's multiple different universes within this universe

this route is gojo x reader + geto x reader with a hint of satosugu

this was intended to be a gift to the original artist so uwu reader is the way they are because of that

gojo does crush on geto here in this route but his brain actually doesn't process his feelings for geto because he dug himself a very deep friendzone hole. it's very tragic :/

[ragewrites]

last poems of 2023, both holiday gifts meant for the same friend.

[jazajas]

catholic/christian guilt, bi-denial, daddy issues, self-sacrificial to a fault (for those he cares deeply for) dean winchester is something that can be so personal, and the showrunners are cowards for never writing him to his full potential

[ahogedetective]

I don't even remember the exact year I really started roleplaying for real... I think maybe around the 2014-2016 range, and I was a BIIIG Ace Attorney fan at the time, HEHEHE. I wrote sooo many different characters from the games, wouldn't you believe!!

Then around 2018, I made this Shuichi blog! And never left; though my interest in Ace Attorney had lowered so much, and the AA muses I used to write, wellll!!! 😃 Been QUITE a while since I've last been on those blogs, haha!!! DR and this stupit wet cat never left my brain and never will!!!

[seaoftales]

.

[briar--rising]

Rosh Hashanah is next week. It's always been my favorite holiday, and every year I prepare for it and look forward to it. But this year I've been dreading it, and until this past week I couldn't figure out why.

I haven't been to synagogue much in the past year. I've gone a handful of times, but much less than any other year since graduating college. And I thought of going, my therapist tried to encourage me to go because she knows it often makes me feel better, but there was just this inner resistance that I couldn't figure out and wasn't ready to look at closely enough to decipher anyway. And then as the High Holy Days got closer and closer I started to notice that I was really dreading them, which is not how I usually feel. And so I brought it up in therapy on Tuesday, and came to some really important realizations.

I've been doing a lot of very serious grief work and trauma work this fall. My most serious trauma anniversaries are almost all in the fall, and it's a season of great grief and usually highly elevated symptoms for me. My first serious psychotic break was in the fall, four of my five hospitalizations have been in the fall, etc. Until this year I spent every autumn of the past decade pretty severely psychotic. I could not face the trauma and grief that this time of year brings up for me, I could not process those feelings and memories without losing my mind in defense so that I wouldn't have to truly experience them. I've always known this, and for a few years have tried very hard to truly experience my grief and not retreat into psychosis, but I never managed it until this year.

This autumn has been different. I've still struggled with psychosis much more than in the summer, I still have to fight it most days. But I'm winning most of those fights. And I'm grieving. I'm mourning, I'm crying, I'm sitting with my feelings for as long as I can bear and then distracting myself from them when they get too much instead of retreating into symptoms most of the time. I'm genuinely experiencing the thoughts and feelings I need to be experiencing. I'm reading about death, about grief, about loss, I'm talking about these things in therapy. It's often incredibly painful, though sometimes it is simply a peaceful kind of sorrow. I'm getting in touch with a lot of the feelings I've found so difficult to face from some of the hardest times of my life, and I'm experiencing some of them again.

And some of those feelings that I was really quite blindsided by and that I've been largely repressing for 15 years are incredibly complicated feelings about G-d. When I was 11 years old I was just like any other religious and traumatized kid: I prayed to G-d to fix it. I did that thing kids do, I tried to make bargains with Him. "Dear G-d, if I clean my room will You save my mommy? If I'm perfect, will You fix my family?" You know. Things like that.

I was desperate for anything, anyone to save me. I talk sometimes about the particular traumas of that year, about my brother's birth, about my mother's hospitalizations, about her suicide attempt. But I have no words to express the year as a whole, except to say that terrible thing after terrible thing after terrible thing happened, and throughout all of it I was neglected and left at sea. My mom was sick, my dad was trying to keep his head above water, no one was there for me. So I tried to turn to G-d. And when He wasn't there for me either, I felt incredibly abandoned and betrayed, both by Him but also because I was taking my feelings about my family neglecting me during severe trauma and putting them onto Him. It's hard for me to express the levels of hurt and rage I felt at G-d during that time period.

And then my memory cuts out. I remember approximately nothing from shortly after my twelfth birthday (in June) until November over a year later. I have a handful of memories of specific events that took place at school or at camp, but absolutely zero memories of my internal feelings or anything that ever took place at home during seventh grade. It's just. Gone. Always has been, probably always will be.

The next significant things I remember in terms of my relationship to G-d and my religion are all about Hebrew High School, which I loved (I got to start it early bc I was being bullied in normal Hebrew School), and preparing for my Bat Mitzvah, which I also loved. My memory goes from intense feelings of betrayal and abandonment and agony to instantaneously a relatively low conflict, positive relationship with G-d and Judaism (with Jewish-appropriate amounts of questioning of course and moments of anger, but no true rage and despair like I once felt). And I stayed in that space of Judaism-as-comfort-with-minimal-internal-conflict for the next 10+ years. I have no idea how that transition happened, but it certainly didn't occur because I slowly and naturally dealt with all of my complicated feelings and embraced religion after processing.

And then this year, well. I guess the processing came due. I'd like to be very very clear that being Jewish always has been and always will be incredibly important to me, and nothing about any of this changes that. I am struggling, though. I'm re-experiencing a lot of those childhood feelings of betrayal and abandonment and confusion and rage. And not being ready to face those feelings is why I've been subconsciously avoiding synagogue for the past year, and is why I've been dreading the holidays. At least now I'm aware of what's happening, so that's a step in the right direction. And in the long term this is a good and important step not only in my trauma recovery but in my relationship with Judaism and with G-d; I can't have as deep of a relationship as I want without this kind of struggle. To quote my therapist, "your relationship with Judaism is too important to you to be easy." Thankfully in Judaism struggling like this is not only allowed but expected. But it is a struggle, right now. A painful one.

I leave you all with a song I've been listening to on repeat that is helping me confront and think about a lot of these feelings:

[im-an-anthusiast]

For Once

I can say, for once – for what my heart hunts 

Let me write, for once – about things ideal 

Let me show, for once – what it is I feel 

I can say, for once – what I meant for months 

I can’t believe that – we’ve only just met 

You make me love that – for which I don’t live 

You make me trust that – which I don’t believe 

I can’t believe that – this, I’ve never felt 

Get it off my chest – the love I’ve amassed 

I am not obsessed – with you anymore 

I am not obsessed – still, I love you so 

Get it off my chest – the love we detest 

I do my best to – be worthy of you 

And all that I do – you accompany 

And all that you do – all thrills, so many 

I do my best to – love and cherish you 

I want, so badly – to hold you gently 

I love, how sadly – from pleasure I flinch 

I love, so madly – of you, every inch 

I want, so badly – to kiss you madly 

I want, so badly – to kiss you gently 

I love, so madly – I love all things yours 

I love, how sadly – I can’t not be yours 

I want, so badly – to hold you madly 

I do my best to – always comfort you 

And all that you do – makes me love you more 

And all that I do – you are who it’s for 

I do my best to – be cherished by you 

Get it off my chest – the love without rest 

I am not obsessed – still, you’re far too sweet 

I am not obsessed – still, I act like it 

Get it off my chest – the love I’ve confessed 

I can’t believe that – this, I’ve just now felt 

You make me trust that – which I never would 

You make me love that – which I really should 

I can’t believe that – this late, we have met 

I can say, for once – I’ve loved you for months 

Let me show, for once – how happy I am 

Let me write, for once – a happy poem 

I can say, for once – what all of me wants 

[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.

[taradactyls]

Trying to Tread Water: Chapter Thirty

The Elizabeth/Darcy Marriage of Convenience fic no one asked for

Chapter Thirty: Elizabeth's first ball in town - and the first official dance she is attending as Mrs Darcy - has arrived. As have the Darcy family's collection of jewellery, which Mr Darcy sent for. Of course, despite that their marriage was made to secure her safety, his love for Elizabeth means he wants none but her to wear them. They stay close to each other during the ball, and he cannot keep his eyes off her. Especially when they dance.

Read on Ao3 here

First reviews of Chapter Thirty: "Honestly when I get the email this story has updated I get very excited and it’s a proper treat! I made a coffee and sat down to read it as soon as possible." "Loved this update! Oh man the vibes during that dance were just perfect." "I'm literally so unreasonably happy that they had a nice night out😭😭 grinning in public like a lunatic rn..." "I really loved the ball in its entirety, honestly. The descriptions of the room and atmosphere, and especially the last dance, all speaks to your writing prowess. 12/10, would recommend." "This story is my absolute favorite notification and I seriously enjoy reading it so much! The characters, the world building, just so incredibly well done!"

Story updates on Ao3 fortnightly, with Chapter Thirty-One coming out on the 17th May.

Story tags: Elizabeth/Darcy, Marriage of Convenience, Unrequited Love, Not Really Unrequited Love, Slow Burn, Pining, Pining Despite Being Married, Mr Darcy thinks his worst enemy is Wickham but maybe it's himself.