#if they do I'll update this with a new link

[isa-ghost]

✨️ The Philverse Lore Masterpost ✨️

So I planned on making this a while ago and forgot but now I'm doing it.

And the formatting of this post MAY change in the future (like me providing other reference links and such for each Phil), but for now I'm gonna keep it simple.

This post is an explanation of how the Philza Cinematic Universe(tm) works, along with some widely accepted fanon things. It will update as cc!Phil changes things or canonizes new ones.

"Main" rp!Phil

"Main" Phil is Hardcore (hc) Phil, SMP Earth (smpe) Phil, DSMP (c) Phil, and QSMP (q) Phil. This is also the Phil that The Beginning by MaepleTea features.

It's important to note here that rp!Phil is canonically immortal (this is probably true for ALL rp!Phils, not just "main" Phil, cc!Phil has said things along these lines on multiple occasions in the past).

cc!Phil has described rp!Phil has hundreds of years old, though we have no idea how many centuries he's been alive. What we've seen is more or less just the last decade of his life, unless cc!Phil chooses to construct a timeline that says otherwise.

The timeline goes something like this:

HCS2 -> SMPE -> HCS4 -> DSMP -> QSMP -> ???

Obviously it's not linear like that, HCS4 is simultaneously going on during SMPE, DSMP & QSMP. In roleplay, the canon explanation is that hc!Phil can travel to other universes through what is basically dreamwalking. This gets explicitly confirmed in QSMP lore.

In other words, the Hardcore World is rp!Phil's universe of origin. A common headcanon related to this is that all seasons of Hardcore are one universe, which resets itself each time rp!Phil dies. After each reset, rp!Phil retains his memories of the previous iteration and starts over again, but with new knowledge to avoid dying again.

A better way to visualize this timeline would be to refer to IRL dates, like this (click for better quality):

Note: I didn't include HCS3 because it lasted like two weeks. Consider it a blip in rp!Phil's long immortal lifespan, if anything. I also didn't include HCS1 because Phil basically never refers to it other than the way that it ended. Considering there wasn't really any lore about hc!Phil being a historian/explorer prior to HCS4 anyway, this is basically fine to assume.

All of the above being the same guy is canonically confirmed, either explicitly stated BY cc!Phil himself, or with undeniable implications within roleplay.

SMP Earth is the only one of these that gets a little iffy to call confirmed because it's never been explicitly stated and technically SMPE wasn't a roleplay server, BUT: Considering the references and parallels c!Emduo make when they move to the tundra to get away from the rest of the DSMP, it becomes pretty obvious it can be considered canon. There are also multiple occasions where c!Emduo refer to what they did during the Antarctic Empire times. Furthermore, and I'll reiterate this in a moment: q!Phil tells stories to Chayanne & Lullah of things he and rp!Techno did during SMPE.

HCS2 (more specifically Phil's death) obviously gets referred to constantly in and out of roleplay, making it canon whether cc!Phil wants/considers it to be or not. This is one of few deaths we know rp!Phil has experienced, if not the only one. I imply there may be multiple deaths here because I don't remember if cc!Phil confirmed that rp!Phil died at the end of The Beginning before being saved by Goddess of Death or not. If so, that means rp!Phil has died at least twice: then, and in HCS2.

QSMP is actually the key universe to all of these other Phils being connected, since that is where cc!Phil chose to do lore to confirm all of these are the same guy. Prior to QSMP, we only knew SMPE and DSMP were connected thanks to c!Emduo.

QSMP confirmed that q!Phil is hc!Phil formally via the dreamwalking lore. Additionally, prior to this lore being dropped, again: there were multiple instances in which q!Phil told Chayanne & Lullah stories from his time on SMPE. Obviously, if SMPE is canon to both DSMP and QSMP, then those two are also connected by default. These stories were not the only reference to DSMP made during QSMP either. Multiple previous DSMP members also canonized DSMP and QSMP being connected.

And during all of this, rp!Phil is dreamwalking from the Hardcore World to these other worlds.

Origins SMP Phil (o!Phil)

This version of Phil is his own separate guy with a fully unique story from "main" Phil.

While "main" Phil is an immortal historian and explorer from Hardcore that can travel to other worlds via his dreams, o!Phil is an even more avian-coded guy trying his hardest to be a villain but failing at it miserably /aff.

As confirmed by cc!Phil: o!Phil comes from a dirt poor family who didn't want him to suffer the horrific reality of living in poverty, so his parents spoiled him rotten to the point of making themselves suffer. They later mysteriously disappeared (and are likely now dead). o!Phil's story in-rp (eventually) begins with him searching for them.

o!Phil has no idea he's not actually the entitled royalty he thinks he is. He eventually bonds with o!Sneeg, who chooses to be a "villain" with him, and they have a whole riveting, silly, weird ass codependent besties thing going on for the rest of Origin's multiple reboots. Their friendship in OSMP is what inspired 1/3 of the current theories for tr!Phil, who I'll get to momentarily.

o!Phil also canonically appeared in Rats SMP as a guest, as did o!Sneeg. They were searching for each other in the wake of OSMP "ending" (read: dying, again), and this intensified the fandom's interpretation that they're inseparable/codependent. This cameo also confirmed that both o!Phil and o!Sneeg can travel universes like "main" Phil.

Another important note: Some Crows consider cc!Phil's cameo in Aimsey SMP (ASMP) to be o!Phil because they share very similar attitudes and penchants for material goods, especially "shiny things."

Squidcraft Phil (sc!Phil)

The easiest rp!Phil to explain. cc!Phil himself said that sc!Phil is an alternate timeline version of "main" Phil, specifically q!Phil.

This is probably only due to the fact that Missa and several other QSMP members were in 2023's Squidcraft event, and cc!Phil couldn't resist being an angsty little shit with Missa throughout the event until his elimination.

The Realm SMP Phil (tr!Phil)

As of early 2025 when I'm making this post, we have no idea how tr!Phil fits into the Philverse. cc!Phil explicitly states he has no plans or intentions whatsoever to do lore on TRSMP, even if he does roleplay with other players like Sneeg or Fit. Assuming he doesn't change his mind on that, the following is ENTIRELY what the fandom headcanons/theorizes is true.

There are 3 main interpretations for tr!Phil's origin and I explain those in depth in this post here!

If or when we get more to go off of, I will update this section of the post. :)

Bonus Note(s)

MCC

The MCYT fandom widely headcanons MCC as a weird multiverse Hunger Games type thing where Noxcrew and Scott Smajor, whatever kind of higher power they may be, drag MCYTs across several universes into their little liminal space/pocket universe type place and have them to compete in the championship.

There have been references to MCC in SMPs during moments of varying degrees of roleplay were occurring. In rp!Phil's case, it's safe to consider "main" Phil is the one who gets put into MCC.

None of this, to my memory, is considered canon by cc!Phil, just silly popular fanon.

(If/when we get more versions of rp!Phil, I'll add them wherever they belong in this post!)

[garthyobsessed]

I'm irrationally obsessed with Garthy O'Brien, especially their voice, so I made a compilation of literally every word they speak in FHSY and PiroL. Enjoy!

@d20fuckability

[cubbihue]

So.... why'd Peri get assigned Dev as his first godchild?

Jorgen’s usually not the one in charge of assigning godchildren. There’s an entire department that weighs and classifies potentail Godkids to the right Fairy. Although it’s on strike at the moment.

So Jorgen has to do it by hand, until the union negotiations are resolved. Turns out trying to use paperclips is very hard. Itty bitty paperclips. Big muscular biceps. Not a good combo.

Bitties Series: [Start] > [Previous] > [Next]

Peri's Assignment: [Previous] > [Next]

[crimeboys]

happybee45 streaming schedule

2/5: ace attorney at 6pm est (repeats every wednesday)

[ghostly-cabbage]

I have officially edited and updated my DP fic recommendation document

I've so far only used it for friends but now I'm wondering if any of you guys would be interested...

[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.

[prosebushpatch]

So I decided to restart my animal crossing new leaf for the 3ds file completely but I didn't know that Tom Nook would OFFER TO BUY the entire town and let you carry over the money to the new town and it's hysterical because the mayor basically peaces out, cashes in on 30 million bells, changes entire identity, and accidentally becomes the mayor in a new town. There's a fanfic there but I'm too lazy to write it.

[grineerios]

Chapters: 2/? Fandom: Warframe Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Characters: Original Tenno Character(s) (Warframe), Gauss (Warframe), Alad V Additional Tags: Harm to Children, Flashbacks, POV Alternating, Independent Warframe Summary:

After a near-death event catapults a young Tenno from the grasp of the Second Dream, Rufus and his Gauss warframe are forced to remember their pasts and come to terms with their current selves.

[risingsunresistance]

admins are allergic to patch notes

[izzy-b-hands]

The PP IT guy admitting he's the only one available to help prep and do chart work for telehealth appts is. Something. Makes me feel for everyone working there rn even more than usual

(did also gently say to him to maybe not mention that to anyone else bc like. That's not necessarily on with good practices re: chart work in my experience at the old clinic job, but also I personally don't care bc he's v nice and I trust him with my info. Others might not tho when they're expecting a nurse or a nurse tech/etc role to be calling ahead of the appt instead)

[frozenambiguity]

Very long Initial thoughts and first impressions on the Caribert Archon Quest in the tags. Spoiler alert!! Part 2!

[an-aura-about-you]

so I'm a mean fanfic author and I'm about to be hilarious about it.

[sybxritiic]

tumblr deleted my gif blog, so i'm gonna have to host my gifs elsewhere. stay tuned. rip @gifhqs 🕊️

[kaleidoscopiclights]

I collected links I've seen across sites for donating in the US, and abroad.

Links to help survivors in the DRC:

Pads for Sudan:

Other funds for Sudan, and a general information link:

Abortion fund, mutual aid and mask funding in the US:

[jeremiahthefroge]

literally obsessed w writing fanfic. So glad I decided to pick it back up. I'm not ready to like, announce it on the actual fic bc I don't want to ACTUALLY get anybody's hopes up, bc I literally can't stick to a project for more than 2 minutes, but I've been slowly going back over my old ATLA fic And You Saved Me, Maybe, in which Zuko joins the Gaang way early in season 1 after the Blue Spirit episode, bc I wrote like 60k words and it blew the hell up on Ao3, like that shit was my Magnum Opus in high school, and I've made a lot of progress as a writer since then. It's always kinda haunted me that I didn't ever finish it, but I just can't work with the fic as it is now, so I'm like, COMPLETELY reworking it. The other day, I reread it, and took 10 pages of notes on the exact plot/character beats that I introduced. That fic is a MESS. I wanna fix it up, finish it, and release it.

I love trying to accurately nail Zuko and Aang's characters as I've come to understand them as an adult. Zuko's sort of prideful defiance in season 1 is something that I totally skipped right over in the fic. I was working with an understanding of Zuko that I had after the entire show was over and it just didn't work for season 1 Zuko, which made his whole arc totally whatever.

And also now I can smoke pot and I know how to write a story outline. So we know this shit will be inherently better. I'm seriously hoping I can actually get this going properly, and I'm encouraged because I've written a bit of it a night for like a week, so we'll see what's up with all that.

[dlxxv-vetted-donations]

Urgent: @fahedshehab-new

Vetted, vetted, ButterflyEffect Project #764 | Paypal (proof of legitimacy here)

Old gfm campaign closed (more details here and under the cut), new gfm going through issues (DON'T DONATE HERE RIGHT NOW, I'll keep you updated). Do NOT ask for a refund yet, they're still trying to get the funds out!

Fahed endangered himself to get to a place with a good enough internet connection to send this video of his children to me so I can share it with everyone. Please watch it.

He needs CAD $5,055 in his campaign (includes additional fees) to rent a safe shelter to protect his children from the winter cold. This value may be subject to change. Roughly $1,000 - $2,000 in donations will be spent on living necessities such as food.

Slightly more details and updates:

Nov 16: There are some problems with the new campaign. Fahed and the campaign manager are currently trying to resolve it, so don't donate but also don't request a refund yet. They're currently taking donations in this Paypal (proof of legitimacy here).

Nov 10: Don't request a refund from the old campaign yet, the campaign manager is appealing the bank to lift the ban and get the funds out!

[ID in alt text]

Nov 9:

The old campaign was closed and its description links to the new one here. Read more about it here. At the time of closing, the campaign only needed €3,338 to reach its short-term goal. This is CAD $4,968, which is a goal of $87 + $4,968 = $5,055 in the new campaign.

Nov 5:

The children catch colds living in tents, which are difficult to treat. My note: Medications are expensive, in demand, and difficult to find at times.

Priority: Fahed wants to rent an apartment to protect his family for ~€1,700 a month for at least 3 months. This would cost ~€5,000.

Food prices have spiked and even flour for making bread is not available. Milk for baby Yahya is expensive and difficult to find. The children are suffering from malnutrition.

Fahed has set a goal of €82,000 in his campaign to pay rent and feed his children. This amount accounts for extra fees.