#lots of words under the cut

[the-leftover-rice]

Gift art for @childlikegoblinqueen

✨💛 More art of the kid under the cut! 💚✨

1.‎ Art by frostpencil

2. Kidd by @smol-hibiscus

3. Found A Good Specimen! by @myshoeisonthewrongfoot

4. Kid by dragonfroit

5. The child by Maeve999

[turtleblogatlast]

Shockingly underrated thing about Leo is that he’s legitimately charming when he wants to be?

He’s the Faceman! He’s persuasive! That’s not just some random title he gave himself with no backing to it. People will listen to him. Even if they think he’s being annoying or if they’re upset at him, people listen to him anyway! There’s a reason his bros push him out front to talk to people, and when this happens, that talking nearly always works.

Moreover, Leo knows people. He looks at them and takes into account how they act and what they’re like as he makes his way through the conversations. It’s easy to forget this aspect of Leo’s character because he only brings it out when he really needs (read: wants) to, but it really is a notable part of him that always love to see.

And I say charm in particular because he has a knack for not only getting people to pay attention, but for getting people to stay and listen to what he has to say.

[just-null]

i've always wanted to try out this trend! i didnt think i drew him that different. i was wrong. very wrong.

hes so baby girl in my style what the fuck. oh i know, i was just drawing what gege meant to draw. dw, i got his telepathic brainwaves 👍

[time lapse + my headcanons for Noritoshi's appearance under the cut]

some headcanons i have while drawing him are semi obvious while others are bc i like it ahehahhaheha

cupid's bow lips! this was semi inspired by Mizuki Umetsu, the actor for Noritoshi in the jjk stage play! hes so. pretty. perfect guy for the role imo! i was captivated therefore my views changed.

longer hair! the thought that his bangs(? are the same length, or longer, as the rest of his hair is nice.. it also makes his inevitable haircut much more refreshing! i also just like long hair and its a fucking waste not to do whatever the i want.

thicker brows and visible eyelashes! i naturally draw thicker eyebrows because it looks pretty, but the eyelashes is so fucking canon bro. dont even fight me on this, you'll lose. i read a fic about Noritoshi where it said he took good care of himself and his appearance inspired jealousy. that fucked me up man, so now i draw him as beautiful as i can.

monolids! I've looked through the manga and i think its highly implied that Noritoshi has monolids? yk those lines in between the eye and eyebrow, he doesnt have them in the manga. i thought it was because of the expressions he had, but no. the others have them, except geto! so geto also having monolids is so fr in my head. i like that feature abt him.

loose hairs! the hairs that i draw on his face. they make him look so cute and a bit more relaxed. he's not trying to be perfect nor have a single strand out of place. he's just a bit more at ease... though if there's something important he has to go through, he sharpens up. becomes.. stiffer?

I UNINTENTIONALLY MADE HIS CHEST LOOK A BIT BIGGER IN MY STYLE AND I WANT TO APOLOGIZE, BUT I'D BE A LIAR. DOES THIS COUNT AS A HEADCANON??? I JUST THINK... SINCE. YK. HES AN ARCHER. AND DOES TRAINING. AND COMBAT. AND DOES ALL THOSE HIGH JUMPS... HIS CHEST. ITD BE A BIT BIGGER FOR HIS STATURE.. omfg. that'd imply that his legs are fucking insane. and his arms too, since he has to pull back all those arrows so quickly.. oh my fuck. this. this is a revelation. what are you hiding under those robes noritoshi...???? one day.. one day we'll see...

oh my fucking god i forgot that i wrote shit while drawing. please ignore my fucking stupid writings AND THE STUPID ASS THING IN THE MIDDLE I FORGOT ABT WHILE DRAWING..

[front-facing-pokemon]

[newvegascowboy]

hi

[forestfolke]

well hi everybody last artinreview i claimed every year i reach new highs as well as new lows. the thing is that i did only reach new lows this time

i had a sort of pseudo-theistic morality crisis thanks to some certain writeups i read in january, (really too perfectly timed for my cryophilia, but also unlucky.) their barefaced honesty made me blanch all the way down to my core and led me to revisiting and cultivating a lot of old trauma stuff and feeling more than ever before like my life was being controlled by it, and also by what i was doing to cope, and having to actually try to remember things and deal with them. i made some headway about halfway through. i view the last 12 months to be almost entirely worthless except for the progress i made with that, though i don’t know if the positive impact i made outweighs the negative. 

i also value the time i’ve spent with my family and friends and i’m very thankful for their company. my communication skills have been strained and i’m just grateful for everyone who has stayed despite me being what i perceived as quite hard to be around. i had a fear that i was going to come out of 2023 not having anyone.

i’m not mad at it for existing but i truly wish i had never read any of it and that these things meant nothing to me.

“God speaks, spirits speak, computers speak. Oracular ambiguity or statistical probability provides loopholes, and discrepancies are expunged by Faith.” <-it’s been like this

i began to believe that some things were useful, and i did so with real forgiveness and empathy. i want to regret it. i wish i could have learned differently. but just like last time, i’ll try to use this knowledge to my advantage.

i wrote earlier, “it’s been a lot more useful to me to think of [art] as a tool to observe and express things inside me which honestly kind of translates to a lot of pages of chicken scratch on paper. and i’m just not mad at it anymore.“ and “[arts] value has changed from an 'external value' to more of an 'internal value.’” even if it is selfish, withdrawing in this way has become almost the only way i can enjoy drawing or painting or what have you anymore.

i did have a lot of genuine fun in-and-between the horrific nonsensical shitpit i stuck myself in, just staying up late and tuning in or getting numb and doing whatever i want, and not showing anyone, or only sharing with a few people. sharing my art remains difficult and it has been very healthy for me not to. i have become a neocities recluse, though.. i love neocities even if it scares me in other ways, but it really takes the anxiety out of it. i am still disgusted by trying to express myself. i’m grateful for anyone who’s said nice things to me.

(i talk big about not posting but like 60% of what i made this year is on there, https://forestfolke.neocities.org/art/directory. please utilize viewer discretion. it’s obviously public but this is where the things i actually care about go, and i’ve built up kind of a confusing backlog. it’s in a weird state because i’m in a weird state.)

i don’t like having to be this gentle and protective of myself, but it has been a hard road to walk these last couple years in reconciling with the fact my artistic priorities have been stripped away and having to rebuild something new and serviceable, and i am not apologetic for how sporadic i have become because of that, but i do miss you sometimes.

i’m unhappy with what i make, i’m happy with i make, 

i woke up and i wandered outside and walked the same circuit through the dead woods and dry grass and noticed how the weather is almost every day, and sometimes i’d do the same thing in the evening.

i dreamt so much every night i could not remember the events. in most the ones i do remember there was usually much harm. 

i am what i call fundamentally suicidal, and i veered closer to “making plans” than ever before this year, but to be frank i couldn’t find where they keep the rifle so i gave up, (i felt a little outsmarted,) and that fact hasn’t changed but it might still, (something else on the backburner,) and even if it doesn’t i have no other choice but to live, for now. off and on i’ve been convinced this is somehow my last year alive, but i think the clock will roll over without my consideration. it has just been unilaterally bleak. it’s so deafeningly quiet i can barely hear the hum of alive things anymore.

i wish i could die and that any good pure energy i have left be transmitted into someone else.

to sum it up: i can’t stop hurting myself, i’m healing, i’m doing worse, i’ve felt a certain latency threatening to destroy everything i care about at any time, i hate living, i love you, i’m not really a person and i can hardly try, but emotional apathy+feeling physically ok means we keep going! i was going to make a joke but i maybe feel like i deserve better. also i liked finishing naruto and rewatching land of waves arc over and over and drawing haku&zabuza 200+ times like way worse than any fixation in history and i can’t claim i don’t know how or why that happened. and i liked reading a lot of books and making pictures.

here's to another year of being pleasantly surprised by how gentle and kind and generous people are. people are angel-soft. thank you for being here with me.

[jamietarttsnorthernattitude]

Ooooh that coal snippet was amazing!!! Do you have anything else to share? I must have missed that one previously

<333333333333 This one is relatively new I've only posted a bit once. Full title is how the hell am i still coal. I've been trying to think of an AU for the @ficwip August AU challenge, where the fic has to be under 5k words. That is my struggle. This is my third attempt, lmao. The general idea is canon divergent, where James and friends visit Jamie after Wembley, and James breaks Jamie's hand (double-dipping with my hand stomp square for @badthingshappenbingo). He takes himself to A&E.

Roy, meanwhile, can't sleep, so he shows up at A&E under the guise of bringing food to his sister. Jamie tries to play off he hurt his hand punching his Dad, but Roy knows his hand didn't look like that when he dropped Jamie off. Another clip under the cut:

Jamie made eye contact with Roy, and he awkwardly signed the piece of paper the kid’s mom offered to him with his left hand. Roy rushed to him like he was heading for an opposing player on the pitch: head down, determined. Furious.   “Jamie, what the fuck are you doing here?”  “Oh. Um–thought I should get this checked out,” Jamie nodded at his ice-pack-covered hand. “I fucked it up when I–” He trailed off, but Roy didn’t need him to finish as he sat beside him.  “Why the fuck didn’t you say anything? I would’ve brought you.” “Jamie Tartt?” the nurse interrupted. “This way.” “Didn’t think it was that bad,” Jamie shrugged as he followed. “Then I couldn’t sleep, started hurting once the adrenaline wore off, I guess.” “You should’ve fucking called me.” “What’re you doing here anyway? I didn’t ask anyone to call you or nothing.” Jamie trailed after the nurse as Roy followed him, and Jamie inwardly sighed when Roy continued after him into the exam room.

[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.

[mouse-drawings]

Alien Home

You visit a home that isn’t yours. Your friend claims it’s theirs. This family claims it’s your friend’s. Even though nothing here fits your friend. Even though your friend is a lion and the house is a box that could only fit kittens. Your friend says it’s their box. This family says it’s your friend’s box.

You want to burn down the box and those who own it.

A story about the one time Zabava took Roseline to visit Zabava's home colony.

Zabava's return to her home colony was big news. It was clear the moment the guard let her and Roseline in that a simple short visit would turn into several days worth of celebrations. As soon as they set foot on the colony grounds, they were met by the ever growing group of ants hurrying to welcome Zabava back with hugs and kisses.

And she returned every single one. Every greeting she would let go of the carriage she pulled forward and lower herself to an ant's level. Then, while still lowered, she would introduce Roseline. 

Roseline was offered a different kind of greeting. An ant would either give her a hand to shake or a head to press hers against. She accepted every gesture at Zabava's instructions. 

“It's to remember you. Also, it's polite,” Zabava had explained before. 

They were led though the city by an ant of unknown relation. Every second ant introduced itself and it was always one of six names, so Roseline simply couldn't remember if this specific ant did and which name it was. Zabava seemed to know exactly who it was, so Roseline didn't care to ask. But to make it easier for herself, she started referring to the ant as Guide. 

Guide showed them around while catching Zabava up to speed with all the colony news.

“I'm sure you’ve noticed that we’ve made the second ring,” Guide commented, having to hold its head up to look at Zabava's face. 

“Yes. It is nice to see the outcity grow.” Zabava replied, keeping her gaze on the road. She spoke quieter than usual. Her volume seemed to lower every time an ant's antennae twitched at her voice until finally she spoke so soft that the twitching stopped. 

Roseline thought it was ridiculous and so spoke at her normal volume. “What's a ring?” She watched Guide's antennae twitch with great delight. She wished she could scream loud enough to deafen anyone who dared twitch their antennae at Zabava.

“It's what we call a road that makes a complete circle around the Hill.” Zabava explained, looking at Roseline, voice still small. “Before I left, there was only one ring. They talked about making the second one to open space for outsiders.”

“And now it's complete!” Guide added proudly, “If you were any regular outsiders, you would be staying at one of the inns by the second ring. But, since you are with Zabava, you will be staying in the Hill's living chambers, free of charge!”

“I like free stuff!”

“Ah…” Zabava didn’t share Guide’s and Roseline’s excitement by the looks of it. The way she hunched down, the way her antennae drooped… It was not a look of nostalgia. “Are the living chambers the same?”

“Yes!” Guide continued with its excited tone, before seemingly noticing Zabava’s mood and  carrying on more apologetic, “Unfortunately… The Queens put focus on developing the outcity, so the incity has been in mundane maintenance mode for some time now. It’s clean and cared for.” It added the last part as if it was any reassurance.

If that was considered comforting here, it was no wonder Zabava struggled making friends with other bugs.

Zabava sighed, but accepted the poor excuse of consolation. “I’m glad to hear that.”

“In any case,” Guide changed topics, much to Roseline's displeasure, and gestured at a big gate made out of red stone that they were approaching. “I'm sure you remember the Big Gate.”

Zabava perked up immediately. “The name stuck?”

“Yes. It is a big gate.”

“It is.” Zabava clicked her mandibles amused. 

“Once you go in, a guard will escort you to the living chambers.”

“Hol’up. Where are we supposed to put this thing?” Roseline gestured at the carriage behind Zabava. It was full of freshly hunted game and curious souvenirs, all caught and chosen by Zabava. Roseline was sure it was at least part of the reason they were welcomed so warmly.

“We will bring it to the warehouse,” Zabava answered for Guide and then turned to it for confirmation, “That is why we are at the Big Gate. Correct?”

“Correct! The Big Gate is this big to allow supplies of any size to pass and the tunnel it is connected to leads to the warehouse. Then from the warehouse you can go to other parts of the Hill.”

Roseline considered the information, hands on her hips. It didn’t sit right with her. She didn’t feel like leaving their things with these bugs, especially after that talk about the living chambers. In fact, she prayed for the Hill to collapse on all of them, so Zabava didn’t have to stay there. But Roseline doubted it would make the grasshopper happy.

She concluded her thoughts aloud, “I don’t really trust anyone I don’t pay with my things, but I trust Zabava.”

“Thank you,” Zabava said in a tone so warm, Roseline wanted to knit a blanket out of it and cocoon in it until the end of time. Then the grasshopper turned to Guide. “Thank you, too. Queen Antoinette should be proud.”

“Happy to help.” Guide didn’t react in any way to the last part. It took the last steps to the Big Gate with the duo, gave Zabava a goodbye hug once a guard walked up to them, and left.

Roseline silently wished it to find the dirtiest puddle to faceplant into.

This incity guard also gave Zabava a hug, but didn’t introduce itself. It also didn’t speak much. Roseline didn’t mind.

“What was that about a queen being proud?” She took the opportunity to ask Zabava.

“Hm? Ah. It’s a way of thanking a colony mate. Telling them that they did well. You usually know their birthqueen, so you tell them that she should be proud.”

“And if you don’t know that?”

“You could instead name the current branch they work at. ‘Scouts should be proud.’ But it’s weird if they did something unrelated to their job. You could say ‘The colony should be proud.’ But it’s saved for truly monumental tasks. Usually, you just don’t say it.”

“Oh, interesting. And what do you say when…”

The conversation continued until they reached the warehouse, where Zabava needed to sign a few things before leaving the carriage there. She also took one special box of souvenirs with her.

Once they were on the path to the living chambers, they picked up where they left off.

“I get it now.” Roseline nodded. “You have five queens and each queen has a name and each ant has the name of its birthqueen.”

“Six queens.” Zabava corrected. Though the hall they walked down was tall enough to fit her, she still hunched down. Probably afraid of her antennae constantly brushing against the ceiling. “Five queens and one grandqueen.”

“Six queens… six names… It all makes sense now.” Roseline nodded again, with confidence. 

“Speaking of the Queens.” The incity guard spoke up, making Roseline jump. She had almost forgotten about it! “The Queens will probably want to see you soon to plan the celebration with you. So, please, don’t wander too far from your room.”

“Thank you for the information,” Zabava replied just as the guard slowly stopped in front of a door. Zabava stopped as well. “And thank you for escorting us.”

The guard nodded and promptly left.

Though it felt like they were finally alone, Roseline had seen more guards along the way and assumed they were patrolling the hall. Moreover, both walls had endless doors along them, which probably hid many sleeping ants behind them. They looked the same, except for a symbol carved and painted in them. Roseline had never seen symbols exactly like these, but she had done enough counting all over the world to guess that those were numbers. She knew a few inns, or “hotels”, that were just like that. 

“They gave me a different room.”

“Huh?” Roseline's attention snapped back to Zabava. 

“I used to live in a different room,” the grasshopper explained, setting down her box of souvenirs and opening one of the doors, “It doesn't matter. They are all the same.” She picked up the box and held the door open with her leg, waiting. 

Roseline happily took the unspoken invitation and walked past Zabava into the room. The grasshopper soon followed, having to hunch down even more to avoid hitting her head on the door frame.

Maybe if this hill did collapse, they’d build a new one with taller ceilings and doors.

The room did not impress with its size or furnishing. The ceiling was as tall as in the hall, meaning Zabava remained slouched. It was big enough to have a two-bug bed, bed tables and shelves on two walls without it feeling too cramped. It really was like a hotel room. But it was free and it didn't give the feel of a prison cell, so Roseline didn't mind. 

What Roseline did mind was the bed. For her, it was big. She could lay in the middle and unfold her wings and she would still fit. 

However.

Roseline wasn't a big bug. Every ant in this colony was taller than her. This bed was probably comfortably long for them as well. Which meant that for Zabava it was too small. Which was a crime. It was one that was committed quite often, unfortunately, but even in Zabava's home colony? It should be punishable by death. 

“We should ask for a bigger room,” Roseline said, folding arms on her chest. 

“It's okay. I fit there,” Zabava reassured, setting her box down beside the bedside table. 

“And I fit in my own cocoon, but I crawled out anyway!”

“There is no point. I said, all rooms are the same.”

“Surely not all of them. I betcha the Queens sleep in queen-appropriate rooms with queen-appropriate beds.”

“We are not asking to live in the Queen chambers. The drone chambers are connected to them.” Zabava sighed and gave her antennae a couple nervous strokes. “We live here for free. It feels inappropriate to ask for more.”

Roseline paused, hands on her hips.

She could say many things. 

She could say that free stuff didn't have to be aphidshit quality. That they weren't poor no matter the currency. That if they didn't like the free thing, they could buy a better one. 

She could say that this free room is a requirement, not a gift. That if everyone wanted to play family with Zabava, they should accommodate her like one would. That a comfortable bed was the least her colony should provide.

Roseline could say many things. 

But what were those words worth? Zabava wasn’t one to buy whatever you throw at her. Forcing her to accept what she didn’t want was as useless as trying to feed a pupa.

Roseline wished she could do something, instead of just talking. Killing a queen and all the drones to make space for Zabava, for example. But alas.

“If that’s what you say, ‘Bav,” she said with a shrug and sat on the bed, “I trust you.”

“Thank you,” Zabava nodded and clicked her mandibles, like a chuckle. “I know it’s hard. You wanted to say more.”

“Nuh-uh. How’d you figure?”

“You do this–” Zabava put her hands on her hips– “when there’s much to say.”

“Nuh-uh!” Roseline crossed her arms.

“When you disagree–” Zabava mirrored her moth friend– “it’s this.”

“Why, you–!” The moth put hands on her hips again.

Zabava cackled. Loud and clear. Louder than she had been all day.

Roseline let her arms fall by her sides as she let the wonderful sound pass through every part of her body, from her antennae to her claws.

This was what Zabava was supposed to be. Big and loud. Towering. Like the sun at its zenith. Not whatever this colony made her act. Sad and small. Sun covered by the clouds.

The moment got rudely interrupted by a knock on the door.

The clouds came back.

Zabava went to open the door. She should burn them all with her sunlight.

“Yes?” She asked hushed and soft instead.

A guard stood on the other side. Beside it stood a different ant. This one was bigger and seemed much older. Either that was a soldier or…

“Grandqueen Antoinette!” Zabava gasped.

Roseline silently cursed as she hurried off the bed and to Zabava’s side.

One thing Roseline noticed about this colony was that they all wear some sort of cloth of the same pale magenta color, like a dried up purple flower. Zabava wore a similar cloth over her wings and armor, though it looked way better on her.

The grandqueen wore an outfit made from the same cloth, except with deep blue accents, though not deeper than the night sky. The outfit was a shirt tied just above the abdomen with long sleeves, widening at the hand, and a cape. Way fancier than what a worker or a guard wore.

It would suit Zabava very well.

Roseline should ask around for the cloth, since robbing the grandqueen would be too troublesome. Besides, though the grandqueen was half a head taller than the guard, Zabava was still taller. Whatever outfits she had wouldn’t sit on Zabava as well as they do on the queen.

“It has been a long time, Zabava,” the grandqueen spoke. Calm. Quiet. Yet very commanding. Stern. The tone reminded Roseline of Granny. Though, Granny’s voice was much softer and lacked the clicking of an ant mandible.

“It has.” Zabava’s own voice was even quieter. It was bordering on a whisper. The grandqueen’s antennae still twitched like there was something wrong with it.

Roseline wanted to tear off those antennae.

The grandqueen remained unaware of Roseline’s thoughts and maybe even her very presence. She opened her arms and gave Zabava a nod. This resulted in the grasshopper kneeling down and pulling her in a greeting hug.

“Welcome home.” The grandqueen patted Zabava’s head and gave her antennae a couple strokes.

“It’s good to visit.” Zabava pulled away and, still kneeled, gestured at Roseline. “My friend and employer. Roseline.”

“Hello!” Roseline’s voice caused all other bugs to flinch. She only felt bad for one of them. She offered the queen a handshake, which the other reluctantly accepted. “Honored to meet you!” The other bugs flinched again, though Roseline failed to understand it this time. She got her hand back and looked at Zabava. “Did I say something wrong?”

“You cannot refer to Grandqueen Antoinette as ‘you’. It’s impolite.” The grasshopper explained before anyone else could. “Nothing you’d know. It’s okay.”

“Ah.” The moth looked back at the grandqueen. “Sorry about that.” Roseline didn’t like unwittingly insulting others. She preferred to do so knowingly and with expressed intent.

“You are pardoned.” The grandqueen nodded. “As Zabava noticed, you would not know that. Many outsiders make the same mistake. It is not a common practice. Now, stand up, Zabava, I want to introduce you to someone, before other queens summon you for themselves.”

The grandqueen and her guard led Zabava and Roseline through the endless halls of the Hill. Roseline guessed they were going deeper in, since they didn’t go through the warehouse again. Although, there really was no way of knowing, since the incity had many exits and entrances. 

The walk was almost completely devoid of conversation. Occasionally, the grandqueen would ask if Zabava remembered this part of the Hill and Zabava would reply with ‘Of course, it’s a’ and name of it. Roseline didn’t feel like starting anything herself due to the grandqueen’s presence. An ant guard was easy to ignore, but the grandqueen? She had a weight to her. She commanded the space around her.

Envy poisoned the well of feelings that Roseline tried to keep shut. Something too close to fear was brewing in that well. It called Roseline to stomp at every and to spread her wings as far as possible.

Thankfully, she managed to hold on until they arrived before another door. The ceiling had gotten taller and all other doors were replaced with beautiful paintings on the walls. They told some kind of story about eggs and ants.

“Do you remember this place, Zabava?” The grandqueen asked yet again.

But Zabava didn’t reply right away. She looked around, at the door and the walls. She looked at the guards by the door and at the ceiling. Her antennae moved quickly, trying to pick up on a familiar scent. 

“I don’t,” she confessed shamefully, “We passed the nursery on the way here and it smells similar.”

“It is expected, since you have never been here. Only a few selected caregivers are allowed here.” The grandqueen’s words made Zabava sigh in relief. 

Grandqueen Antoinette walked up to the door and the guards opened it for her. She kept walking and gestured to follow her.

Zabava passed the guards with ease, but when Roseline tried to do the same, she was stopped by their spears in her face.

Unfair!

Before she could complain, the grandqueen’s guard, who had also stayed behind, pulled Roseline by the shoulder to itself. It kept its hand there, its claws digging into her shoulder.

Roseline hissed and crossed arms on her chest, but didn’t do much else. 

She wished she was coated in poison. She imagined becoming a spider and killing all three guards in an instant and then the queen. She prayed for any nearby deities to curse every ant in this colony.

Then she realized that the door to the room was still open. Probably so the guards could keep watch of what was happening inside. Whatever. It meant Roseline could watch as well.

Almost right across from the doorway, in a dimly lit room filled with all sorts of pillows and foods, sat an ant larva. Zabava sat beside it, giving it rubs and feeding it a mushroom from a nearby plate. Grandqueen Antoinette stood beside her with a hand on her head.

The grub was pretty big for ant larvae. Not that Roseline had seen many, but those few she had seen were definitely smaller. And those never got their own nursery. Nor that much food…

“I see Grandqueen Antoinette is showing Zabava our new queen,” a voice whispered behind Roseline.

The moth jumped.

And hissed. The claws in her shoulder hurt.

She slowly, carefully, looked at the voice’s owner.

The voice belonged to an ant. Unsurprisingly. Not a guard, judging by the lack of weapons. It looked as old as the grandqueen, but was notably smaller than her guard. Its clothes also lacked the complexity and the deep blue accents of the queen’s robes. Perhaps it was one of those ‘few selected’ caregivers?

“I’m not surprised,” replied the grandqueen’s guard to the said carevier, “I was there when the queens argued about the name.”

Gossip? Royal drama? Suddenly Roseline didn’t feel like killing everyone around her right this instant.

“Some queens were against it?” The caregiver sounded surprised.

“Just one. The youngest queen thought it was ridiculous to name a new queen after an...” The guard glanced at Roseline. “...you know.”

“Oh, silly girl.” The caregiver clicked her mandibles in disappointment. “But I assume the grandqueen resolved it?”

“Of course. Grandqueen Antoinette wouldn’t let anyone disrespect Zabava like that. The young queen didn’t like it, but had to accept it in the end.”

“Oh, silly, silly girl.” The caregiver clicked her mandibles again. “The new queen was always going to be Zabava. Not only that, but Zabava the Second has a nice ring to it. It has a proper weight for a queen.”

“Agreed. Though, the other options…”

The whispering between the two ants continued, but Roseline no longer cared.

They named that grub after Zabava? Sure. What an honor for that larva. To be named after the brightest bug in the whole world by a bunch of blind ants. Because, what was it they said? That grandqueen would never let anyone disrespect Zabava like that? Oh, but she would let the entire colony disrespect Zabava every other way. She’d let Zabava be put in the same box as everybody else, even though she had outgrown the box many moons ago. The grandqueen was as blind as the rest of them. A colony of blind idiots. Able to appreciate the sun’s warmth, but unable to see its light, disallowing it to shine, putting it into a box where it wouldn’t shine.

Roseline wished she was a powerful witch. She would curse the queen-to-be to grow up exactly like Zabava. She would grow up to be taller than every other queen, unable to fit anywhere, unable to fit with anyone. She would need to run away to find a place for herself. She would never find it.

“Oh. Grand Caregiver, we meet again.” The grandqueen’s voice pulled Roseline out of her thoughts.

Zabava and the grandqueen walked out of the royal nursery, Zabava closing the door behind herself. The grandqueen’s guard let go of Roseline’s shoulder and went to take its place beside the grandqueen.

Zabava looked so happy. Her wings fluttered occasionally, her mandibles clicked excitedly, and she couldn’t stop grooming her antennae. She quickly walked to Roseline and took her hands.

“They are naming the new queen after me!” She whispered, like it was her most precious secret that she couldn’t wait to share with the world. 

“No way!” Roseline pretended like it was news to her. 

“They are! Zabava the Second. It’ll be in the history books. I’ll be in history books. They’ll remember me. They love me!”

“That’s so cool!”

That was sad. So pathetic. They didn’t know how to love her. They didn’t know how to love the sun.

Too bad the sun thought that was enough.

“Zabava,” the grandqueen called out, “I’m told the other queens are already looking for you. Allow me to accompany you to them.”

Zabava let go of Roseline’s hands and the moth was quick to hide them behind her back. Zabava didn’t need to know her actual feelings.

“Of course,” the grasshopper replied. Quiet. Polite. Happy. 

Roseline prayed for her sun to wake up one day and burn all those blind idiots. And if the gods didn’t care? She would just make it happen herself.

“‘Bav!” She leaned into Zabava’s side as they followed the grandqueen and her guard. “That guard hurt me.”

“What?!”

[socksandbuttons]

I HEARD WE’RE TALKING ABOUT KC USED AS CHARACTER HERE CUZ BOI FO I HAVE LOT IN MY MIND ABOUT THAT (a bit of a rant so uh yeah)

I feel like such, and I mean SUCH a wasted opportunity and potential for KC as a character. Multiple times where I felt like it just so off about how he’s been handle and how it ended. You mean to tell me, this man right here has just gotten his redemption to being good, gone for a few months away from us to see how he’s doing only for us to see one last time before he got straight kill by his own Bloody Son? I mean yeah sure, Im driven for angst but the way they did it for his death just felt not earn, i dont know how to explain it. Im glad that KC at least acknowledge about Bloodmoon’s whole issue but to just die afterwards?? And that’s it?? Yeah ok, he’s a pacifist now and a good guy, but he’s still can defend himself. Maybe came out injured from the fight but still alive. But no…. He just die. Thats it

I cant help but feel like they have been just like, throwing KC’s character around. They either dont know what to do or have other plans for him, but just the way it’s been handle it just. I dont know I gotten a whole rant about this.

I remember when they said that Moon will give KC a proper body but apparently Moon never made that happen. Now, I wanna give the showrunner the benefit of a doubt and cut them some slack cuz Im sure they have other things to do beside the show to even remember that

Idk what else to say. I know for sure there are a lot more in my mind abt this but I cant type it all out atm so take it as you will

Oh yeah no I do feel they didn't know what to do with him other than have him come in once a while and felt the death necessary rather than use him more. (The two voice actors for Sun and Moon have like three channels.) I do feel they haven't been too consistent anyway with KC (the rush of a redemption, no seeming closure for somethings, etc. I could be missing something but yeah) They could've had him for the current astral plot (Given he has star knowledge and *harnessing its power*) PLUS Earth's situation about her feelings about the Creator (I'll keep bringing it up, but Deliberately MADE to be a killing machine is right in her face. I know she has Forgor but once again her whole Need to know and uncomfortable with being out of loop. Her entire encounter with KC would be such a haze to her it'd definitely bother her enough.) KC isn't the first example of not using a character to its full (Solar Flare and Even first Bloodmoon. Literally... literally was taught magic and thats never brought up again). It's also just how numbers work on the channel too. They take most review from youtube and discord from what I understand and from what I see there is a difference with majority and what we're saying most of the time. Lunar was brought back cause he was rather popular already (also he wasn't fully killed either in the same episode).

[husband]

Hi, im a beginner horror enjoyer and im really disturbed by a lot of gore but i wanna understand the Texas Chainsaw Massacre movies bc ive heard theyre hugely influential on the genre (rightly so too)

I figured with all this id ask the foremost texas chainsaw scholar i am aware of

Could you tell me the basics, if its gross (im really bad at tolerating gross out horror and gore played realistic), and any fun tidbits?

If not i thank you for reading and hope you have a good day ^-^

The Texas Chain Saw Massacre was hugely influential on the genre and set the standard for low budget horror and inspired future filmmakers to rely more on psychological terror over gore & violence! It was also seemingly the birth of a lot of horror tropes, like big, masked killers and using power tools for weapons.

Texas Chainsaw's story is inspired by serial killers like Ed Gein and Elmer Wayne Henley. The movie’s director, Tobe Hooper, was inspired by the graphic coverage of violence by San Antonio news outlets and based elements of the plot on murderer Ed Gein, who was a notorious serial killer who made furniture out of human body parts and created a mask made of human skin. The movie’s underlying themes are mostly the horrors of isolation, and the dangers of unchecked capitalism. The movie is also a metaphor for the Nixon-era mayhem and the government’s deceit toward the public during the 1970s. Hooper intentionally misled audiences by claiming that the movie was based on a true story to attract a wider audience.

I honestly don't know how to give you the basics aside from a plot synopsis because I would, hand to God, be sitting here for about 12 hours minimum going into every weird little detail, like the intricacies of bubba's mental issues and being forced to take on a female role for his abusive older brothers, or all the absolutely insane shit that happened during filming. And that'd just be me talking about the FIRST film.

But if you want to ask me more questions or see more Texas chainsaw related stuff you can ask/look over at my blog @chainsawhouse. I just hate to gum up my main blog with this particular interest.

Also, my fun tidbit is that they've recently confirmed that there is a new Texas Chainsaw Massacre in the works, under the title 'Texas Chainsaw Legacy'! Very fun imo.

[nexus-nebulae]

got myself a little pocket radio bc you never know when severe weather might knock out the power or cell towers but apparently there aren't any weather radio stations i can pick up :/

[orcelito]

UAUAHAHJFJGJG

Watched episode 375 of shippuden. I am losing my MIND!!!!!!!!

The kakashi vs obito fight was so fucking good. SO fucking good. So beautifully animated, wonderful fight choreography (I've been fed up with the endless OP ninja magic battles, so some good old taijutsu was SO good), AND interspersed with clips of them sparring as kids just to really drive home how sad this all is. SO cool, bur SO sad. I watched the scene like 3 times in full and kept rewatching key bits of fight choreo (my favorite is when the kunai is knocked into the air, then kakashi flips to kick it with his heel into another attack. SO!!!!! fucking COOL!!!!!!) I probably will end up rewatching it even more later too bc wow. Wowowowowow I'm losing my MIND it's so good

AND!!!! BACK TO THE BIG BATTLE!!!!! Minato teleporting in bc he had Obito marked from all the way back when Naruto was born!!! Minato attacking him, dealing (what should've been) a killing blow. But as he does it, he realizes this is *Obito*, which Holy Shit. Madara is unfairly attractive in a lot of this hfkshfks his faces during all this were. Well. He is an Uchiha. 😂

Then Plot Twist, obito is becoming the ten tails jinchuuriki (which is a little weird. I figured the process would require a lot more Uhhh fine tuned sealing and such, but nope he's just doing it. Okay) lots going on, also Where's Kakashi?!?!? In the alternate dimension still I guess but also COME ON OUT KAKASHI!!! YOURE MISSING A LOT!!!!! I want Minato to see Kakashi too before he has to go back into the ether 🥺 pspspsp come on out kakashi you've got a stab wound anyways. Why don't you let sakura look at that.

Anyways yet again, just one episode but it was a fucking BIG ONE. And then the next episode preview being for a filler episode hfkshfmsjx I'll probably still watch it tho bc it looks funny. Might as well check it out!!!!

[alyona11]

I truly think some people in the internet need to log out and talk to an actual real human person irl. If every message you send regardless of context looks like a Twitter callout/discourse starter post it's NOT normal and I can't empathize it enough. You shouldn't talk to people this way??? It's incredibly rude and uncalled for.

I think Twitter in particular has permanently damaged people's brains because I started noticing more and more people acting like they are in a ratioed hit tweet outside Twitter. I even started to see that when I spend too much time scrolling through Twitter, I myself start to formulate my messages in a more provocative manner like I have the intention to hurt someone's feelings to get a reaction. And surprise-surprise! It's not cool, guys! Not just in relation to other people but it's toxic to yourself, first a foremost.

Do yourself a favor: do outside, take a walk, talk to actual people, hang out with friends. Delete Twitter at least temporarily to detox. Literally touch grass.

[front-facing-pokemon]

[king-wens-king]

To me, there is such a deep vindication I feel with this.

"You and Mr. Fell don't ever talk to each other. You never say what you're really thinking."

Because its acknowledging every interaction and dialogue they had beforehand saying that yes, this is what they've been saying in hidden words for the entire time and you're not crazy for seeing it as such.

But its not just that either. It is also saying that regardless of how romantic those lines and interactions are even without having to put it explicitly-

You go too fast for me, Crowley

I lost my best friend.

To the world.

- those same lines and interactions alone are not enough. Crowley and Aziraphale have been speaking to each other in hidden meaning out of necessity for their entire existence so as to keep each other safe, but often they omit and they keep things ouy and end up just miscommunicating and falling out. They end up pushing each other away. No, it is not enough that they say these things, we see it as peak romance, and we leave it at that. It is not enough that we dance around it for thousands of years without putting what we actually feel into words. Subtext is not enough anymore.

And that was so amazing to me!!! Its what changed my mind with my complicated feelings with the series. I am tired of clapping creators on the back for the bare minimum! Yes, those interactions, those double-meaning dialogues are delicious and rich, but we can't have it be something dismissed as 'up to interpretation' anymore! I am done with that!

The fact that Nina and Maggies advice are given the narrative importance of it being the solution to Aziraphale and Crowley's issues - the need to put subtext to text and actually say what they mean (what they want and what they have felt for the last millenia) and actually communicate? It was so vindicating. They need to be vulnerable enough and get whats out of their heads and actually have a conversation with the other clearly. It is powerfully speaking to the need for Crowley and Aziraphale to actually be vulnerable and honest this time, along with the metatextual nature of acknowledging past writing.

We end the season on a very rough patch - they are both on completely different wave lengths and neither really given the proper chance to say what they want. But at the very least, we know now that in order to fix it, the both of them are DEMANDED by the narrative to have a long talk where they are on the same page, and speak plainly about what they want and feel.

Next season is courting and long talk and reconciliation baby- mr darcy open shirt moment. Only then can they take on the forces of heaven and hell and save the world.