#slate fanfiction

[callsigns-haze]

So you're the neighbour?

Pairing: Slate x shy!reader

YN, a quiet new tenant, meets Slate who isn't so much like her roommates said, charming but notorious neighbour, who seizes an excuse to walk her home, sparking curiosity and unexpected warmth in their budding connection.

Chapter Warning: Contains mild language and flirtation.

You're curled up on the corner of the couch, fingers wrapped around a mug of chamomile tea, listening as Rory and Quinn take turns venting to Reid about the new neighbours. The place feels so much like it did in those cozy shows— the three of you squished together in the mismatched furniture you all pooled money for, the warm tones of fairy lights draping the walls, and the faint scent of Rory's floral candles mingling with Quinn's citrusy hand sanitizer.

“Those idiots blocked our moving truck, Reid!” Rory huffs, crossing her arms and leaning forward as if the proximity makes her point stronger. She’s clearly the most riled up, her voice rising in indignant pitches. “Who even parks like that?”

“Definitely jerks,” Quinn jumps in, raising an eyebrow as she looks over at Rory, as if egging her on. “I mean, how self-centred do you have to be to not realize there’s a giant moving truck behind you?”

You weren’t outside to see the whole ordeal; you'd been buried inside your new bedroom, unpacking boxes and finding space for all your things in the tiny closet. Still, even though you’d missed the confrontation, you’re quietly enjoying the picture they’re painting — a dramatic scene of feisty glares, whispered insults, and exaggerated gestures toward the oblivious guys next door.

Reid, meanwhile, leans back on the armrest, trying and failing to suppress a smile. He's always been a little too amused by Rory and Quinn’s fiery personalities, and now isn’t any different. His gaze shifts to you as you sit, nibbling on the inside of your cheek, debating whether to say something. You want to stand by your friends’ annoyance, but you can't help but think there might be another side to it.

“I mean… maybe they didn’t notice?” you offer softly, looking down at your tea. “It could’ve just been a mistake.”

Quinn raises an eyebrow at you, playful but unconvinced. “You’re way too nice, you know that?”

Rory sighs dramatically, throwing her hands up. “Exactly! That’s why you weren’t out there with us. You’d have been like, ‘Oh no, I’m sure they’ll move it soon,’ and we’d be stuck waiting even longer.”

You blush, glancing over to Reid, who’s now grinning in earnest, clearly entertained by the way you’re trying to defuse things. “What? It’s… possible,” you mumble, feeling your cheeks warm under their teasing. “Maybe they’re just, you know… not used to sharing a driveway?”

Reid chuckles, his gaze softening. “You’re seriously too cute for this world, you know that?” He shakes his head, still smiling as if he can’t believe anyone would defend complete strangers who’d clearly disrupted the day.

The others laugh, too, albeit a little grudgingly, as if your gentleness and hope for the best might actually rub off on them despite themselves. Rory reaches over, patting your knee. “Fine, we’ll give them the benefit of the doubt, this time. But only because you’re too sweet to argue with.”

Rory stretches her arms overhead and glances at Quinn, who’s tapping her phone, probably searching for a new café to hit up. “Alright, who’s up for coffee?” she asks, her eyes sparkling with anticipation. “Reid’s buying!”

Quinn elbows him with a smirk. “You heard her, Mr. Moneybags. You’re treating.”

Reid rolls his eyes, but a smile plays at the corner of his mouth as he pulls his wallet out, flipping it open. “Lucky me,” he says dryly, though his tone has a playful warmth.

Rory turns to you, a hopeful grin on her face. “Come on, YN, get out of this cave with us.”

You hesitate, wrapping your hands tighter around your now-cold mug. “Oh, I… I actually need to study,” you say, doing your best to sound genuinely disappointed. But it’s only half-true. You do have some reading to catch up on, but really, you just need a little time to recharge after all the unpacking and the roommates' high-energy complaints.

Rory gives you a knowing look, but she just shrugs. “Suit yourself,” she says, though there’s a hint of motherly concern in her eyes, one you’re all too familiar with.

Quinn’s already zipping up her jacket, rolling her eyes fondly. “Classic. Our little introvert needs her quiet time.” She taps the top of your head gently, an affectionate gesture that makes you smile despite yourself.

It’s a bit of a running joke in your apartment. Rory, ever organized and a little bossy, has long been deemed “the mom,” while Quinn, who often takes a rougher, more sarcastic approach, is dubbed “the dad.” Which, of course, makes you “the kid,” a label you don’t mind — at least not when it’s given with such obvious affection.

As the three of them head to the door, Rory calls out over her shoulder, “Alright, kiddo. Don’t cause any trouble while we’re gone.”

Quinn leans against the doorframe, giving you a mock-stern look. “No boys allowed. And definitely no hanging out with those awful neighbours.”

You roll your eyes, laughing despite yourself. “Promise, Dad,” you say, playing along.

Reid laughs as he gives you a small wave, a glimmer of amusement in his eyes. “See you later, YN.”

“Bye Reid.”

With that, they’re gone, and the apartment is quiet once again. You breathe a sigh of relief, settling into the silence. It's peaceful, comforting even, just you and the gentle hum of the fridge in the kitchen, the distant sounds of laughter and footsteps down the hall.

Finally, you can relax, letting the little escape of solitude settle over you like a blanket....

You sink back into the couch, legs stretched out over the cushions as you settle deeper under your blanket. The soft glow of the TV fills the room, the familiar characters and storyline offering a cozy sort of distraction. It’s one of those comfort shows you’ve seen a hundred times, the kind that lets you just relax without thinking too much. You pull your blanket up to your chin, feeling the quiet warmth of the empty apartment.

Just as you’re starting to drift into the story, your phone buzzes with a text from Rory.

Rory: “Hey, kiddo, can you take the trash out? Pretty please? :)”

You sigh, casting a glance toward the trash bag sitting beside the front door, already tied up and ready to go. Typical Rory — somehow managing to organize the place even when she’s not here. You sit up, reluctantly pulling yourself from the couch and shivering a little as the cool air hits you. Slipping into an oversized jumper, you tug the sleeves down over your hands, enjoying the extra warmth. Next come your trusty old Uggs, their plush lining cozy against your feet. You grab the trash bag and twist it in your hand, holding it at arm’s length as you make your way to the front door.

The hallway is quiet, and you’re grateful for it as you shuffle to the elevator at the end of the corridor. The trash bag swings lightly as you walk, its weight surprisingly heavy with the remnants of unpacking — empty boxes, crumpled paper, a few random food containers you’d forgotten about until today.

You press the button, waiting as the ancient elevator creaks its way up. The doors finally slide open with a reluctant groan, and you step inside, hitting the ground floor button. The elevator jolts to life, shuddering slightly as it descends, the fluorescent light overhead flickering ominously. You’ve never trusted this elevator; it feels like it’s one bad day away from breaking down entirely, and each ride is a gamble.

As you ride down, you lean against the wall, watching the floors tick by slowly, each number lighting up with a faint glow. The trash bag feels heavier with each floor, and you’re suddenly eager to be done with this task.

Finally, the doors open with a rusty whine, and you step out, making your way toward the large apartment bin outside. The night air is cool, a slight breeze tugging at your sleeves as you approach the bin.

As you toss the trash bag into the bin, you take a moment to breathe in the cool night air, letting the silence settle around you. Just as you’re about to turn and head back inside, a voice sounds behind you.

“Hey,” the voice says, low and casual.

You jump, spinning around, heart pounding as you clutch the front of your jumper. Standing just a few feet away is a tall guy with a relaxed smile, his hands shoved into the pockets of a well-worn hoodie. His dark hair falls messily over his forehead, and his eyes have a sharp but easy-going glint to them.

“Whoa, sorry! Didn’t mean to scare you,” he says, raising his hands in a placating gesture. His smile softens, a little apologetic but amused. “Didn’t think anyone else would be out here this late.”

You offer a small, awkward laugh, still catching your breath. “No, it’s… it’s fine. Just, um, wasn’t expecting anyone.”

He nods, giving you a quick once-over. “I don’t think I’ve seen you around before. New here?”

You nod, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “Yeah, I, uh, just moved in.”

He nods, taking that in with a thoughtful look. “Nice. I’m Slate, by the way,” he says, holding out a hand. His voice has an easy warmth to it, and you find yourself relaxing a bit.

You give a small smile as you take his hand, his grip warm and surprisingly gentle. “YN.”

“YN,” he repeats, as if testing the name. “Cool. So, you’re the new neighbour, then?”

It takes you a second, but realization dawns slowly. He’s one of them — the infamous boys your roommates have been complaining about nonstop since you moved in. The ones who blocked the moving truck and left your friends fuming. You blink, a little taken aback, and can’t help a flicker of curiosity as you study him a bit more closely. His expression is friendly, almost inviting, and he seems far too laid-back to match the image your roommates painted.

“You… you live on my floor?” you ask, a little wary.

Slate’s face lights up in recognition, and he lets out a low laugh. “Ahh, so you’re the one with the roommates who were throwing death glares at us the other day?”

You bite back a smile, nodding. “Yeah… they weren’t too happy about the whole moving truck thing.”

He rubs the back of his neck, a sheepish grin crossing his face. “Yeah, I figured Knoxie might’ve been in the way, but… well, sorry about that. He's sorta moody.”

You shrug, feeling a little of your earlier apprehension melt away. “It’s okay. They, um… they just tend to get a little intense about stuff.”

Slate laughs, nodding. “Good to know.” He pauses, glancing back toward the building. “Well, welcome to the building, YN. Guess we’re neighbours.” He flashes you a grin, and you can’t help but smile back, feeling a strange mix of nerves and intrigue.

As Slate starts to walk away, he pauses, glancing back over his shoulder. “Hey, are you heading back in?”

You nod, feeling the slight chill of the night air sinking in and grateful for the thought. “Yeah. Just… finished up with the trash,” you say, gesturing vaguely toward the bin.

“Well, come on, then.” He falls into step beside you, hands in his hoodie pockets, a relaxed smile on his face as you walk toward the building’s entrance.

The two of you step into the quiet lobby, and you press the button for the elevator, feeling the lingering warmth of his presence beside you. The silence between you is oddly comfortable, and you catch yourself stealing glances at him from the corner of your eye, trying to piece together the neighbour your friends have built up into a villain. He looks nothing like the “jerk” they made him out to be. In fact, there’s a boyish charm to his expression, something almost disarming. He look...cute.

As you both wait, an older woman approaches from down the hall, pulling a small cart loaded with grocery bags behind her. Slate notices her at the same moment you do, and, without warning, he reaches out, his hand warm and firm as he grabs your arm and tugs you gently but insistently toward the stairwell door.

“Uh—what are you doing?” you ask, trying to keep up as he guides you to the stairs, his grip firm yet careful.

He just chuckles, pulling open the door to the stairwell. “Trust me, I don’t think we’d survive that elevator ride.”

You glance over your shoulder toward the elevator, watching the woman slowly approach, and it clicks. It’s an old elevator, slow and cramped; it’s likely you’d end up stuck in a painfully long, silent ride with a stranger if you’d waited.

You narrow your eyes at him, intrigued and slightly amused. “So that’s it? You just don’t like crowded elevators?”

He shakes his head, a glint of something mischievous in his eyes as he gestures for you to go first down the stairs. “Honestly? It’s just an excuse,” he says, his voice soft but playful as he follows behind you. “Figured if I took the stairs, I’d get a bit more time talking to a pretty face.”

You feel your cheeks warm, caught off guard by his words. A smile tugs at your lips, and you glance back at him as you descend the first few steps. “Is that so?”

He shrugs, the same easy-going smile on his face. “What can I say? I’m not about to pass up an excuse to walk a neighbour home.”

@azsazz I loved your book soooo much hope you enjoyed this little write up!

[thewitchybookie]

introducing the main characters of my #hogwartsfanfic: ✨the curse of the thunderbird✨ part i

read more on: https://archiveofourown.org/works/55304065/chapters/140299276?fbclid=PAZXh0bgNhZW0CMTEAAabkXCr2E0XWE6AZqNQRB5BPnEhRKd7FIWOgGyyfAmkKBIS9-2lRQfzzujU_aem_o_ciZ2Pg_h_El-eYQyJV5Q%23workskin

[nephtheless]

My first Fanfic!

The title: Last Launch (tentatively). And with illustrations to boot! (Still adding those gradually)...

This is the story about how the Greatest Pilot that Ever Was made their big exit, and how it affects those they left behind.

Angsty... for now ...

I don't have an AO3 account yet (working on it), but you can read Chapter 1 here:

Chapter 2 is getting it's finishing touches ::)

If you enjoy reading it, I would be so happy to hear your thoughts!!

[fridurwrites]

That Eye Thing

It's three years to Sanidine's launch day, and Gabbro's been in space long enough for Gossan to have a rare moment of spare time. Naturally, the best use for spare time is to go confess the information Esker gave them to Slate. It's not like their bad luck might intervene in something that simple. Right?

[nebulastarss]

I'm so glad that my parents don't really come into my room that often and ask me what I'm doing, because how am I supposed to explain to two 45+ adults that I'm writing a Shadow the Hedgehog time travel fic when they both know for a fact that I've never plaid any of the games and the last cartoon I watched was Sonic Underground

[samantha-and-nellie]

there’s nothing that says that samantha couldn’t see nellie’s window in the ryland’s house from her own… so therefore she absolutely could…

[the-meme-from-uncle]

Not me drawing art for my fanfiction instead of actually writing the bloody thing...

It's an AU on the end of the Fountain of Youth Affair in case you were interested 👀

(lmao what's a background?)

I ate on that third one ngl 😌💅

[moondirti]

If i started a lil comic series of random moments between miguel and wraith that don’t make it into the main fic, would y’all be interested

[julibellule]

Ed has never met anyone quite so stubborn as Stede. It’s hot as fuck, in all honesty, probably because Ed himself gives up the moment things get tough. Always been easier that way. Safer. Stede though? Christ, this guy is fucking fearless. Reckless.

He’s come back from another date (how is he still going? How has he not given up yet? Unbelievable. Amazing.) and he doesn’t even look upset by it anymore. It was clearly terrible, but it feels as if Stede had accepted this before the guy even arrived. Now, he sits down at the bar stool with nonchalance and asks for his regular.

“Got a new one for you, Ed,” he announces cheerily. He’s got a big toothy grin, and his top lip disappears when he smiles, which is really cute for some reason. Ed honestly can’t understand any of it, he just knows he’s fucking well charmed. “Never have I ever… been on a first date with a guy who has dabbled in light cannibalism.”

“FUCK,” he shouts, because. Well. Fuck. “No. Really? You’re fucking with me. Fuck off.”

>>> Click here for more BlackBonnet fic recs <<<

[vaperarmand]

my boss assigned me real work to do today ... you're joking 😐

[heffawhump]

Almost a sure fire sign I’m about to put out an update: I start mass replying to comments on my Ao3

[hannah-heartstrings]

I've been working on the thiefguard x reader I mentioned. 2nd person dialogue is harder to write than I thought it would be, that or it's just awkward 'cause I didn't know what anyone should say when I started, maybe it's both. XD

In any case, I have to replace a conversation that isn't working, but I thought you guys might like this bit from it of the pov character helping Garrus out.

@druidx @babyblueetbaemonster @inkysqueed

------

            “And then Garrus can tell you about the bandit raid.”

            Her head whips to him. “What raid?”

            Your eyes widen excitedly. “He stopped a bandit raid!”

            He glances off. “I just spotted a few bandits in the woods, it wasn’t that impressive.”

            “He was still pretty heroic though,” you smirk to Lecrinn.

            She smirks back, it turning up towards Garrus. “Sounds like him.”

            He blushes, a shy smile forming.

           Seeing his reaction, her smirk widens.

[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.

[nephtheless]

Debris (Outer Wilds Teen Founders Fic)

A short drabble for the 'Miner Gossan' universe.

Teenage awkwardness ensues!

[merrydock]

The Best the World Had to Offer — Chapter 1: Adrenaline

Older Than the Universe will be a couple of days late this week (sorry, editing turned out to be a bigger job than I thought), so to tide you over I thought I'd post the first chapter of a new story I'm working on!

Based on what I've been seeing on here lately, it seems that people are finally realising the greatness of Gossan/Slate. This reminded me that, buried in my WIPs, I had a half-completed Gossan/Slate fic that I began writing at the same time as OTTU. The outline actually predates OTTU by like, two weeks.

And, well, inspiration struck, so now I'm finishing it. You can read Chapter 1: Adrenaline on AO3 here!

Shout-out to @rondoel for their awesome Gossan/Slate comic, which motivated me to start writing this again. Go check them out, their stuff (Outer Wilds and everything else) is awesome. Some scenes are also loosely inspired by Elwensa's comics (I found some of their work to be very similar to my outline, and now they are forever intertwined in my head), so check them out too if you haven't already!

Anyway, this is mostly pre-canon, following Gossan and Slate from the conception of the space program to Feldspar's disappearance and Gossan's "Incident", through to the return of Feldspar by the Hatchling, with all the ups and downs and drama between. Gossan/Porphy also makes an appearance, towards the end, but it focuses mainly on Gossan and Slate's tumultuous relationship and how it evolved over time. Probably will be something around 30 chapters; I can't for the life of me write something short.

I will update when I have time. OTTU remains my main priority, but this is a fun little side project I'm doing to give myself a break ::)

Ok that's it bye!!

[samantha-and-nellie]

hello! i’ve decided that i’ll open a little fanfic trick-or-treating for the next few days! send me an ask that says “trick” or “treat,” and i’ll respond to them all on halloween with either a line from a wip or a fanfic idea i’ve had. “tricks” will get angst-y responses, “treats” will be fluffier! excited to see what i end up pulling out of my drafts for y’all:)