#the first one was not good so I'm not linking it here

[shizucheese]

An open letter to @samreich and @dropoutdottv

I am writing this letter in response to the statement you posted yesterday, as well as the response of some within your community in response to Jewish people speaking out about it.

I have always admired Dropout for the inclusive space that you had created for marginalized people. Yesterday you showed that I and my fellow Jewish fans are not included in that. Everything I have been able to find shows that this was prompted by Noah Grossman and Rachel Bloom having been on your network recently. From my own research, Noah Grossman has not made any statement about the war in Gaza. Multiple people have pointed this out. The closest I have been able to find as evidence that Rachel Bloom is a “Zionist” is that performed at a fundraiser for a hospital in Tel Aviv. There is no evidence that I could find to indicate that either of them support the actions of the Israeli government in Gaza. You yourselves said in your own statement that to your knowledge no one who has appeared on Dropout has openly identified as a Zionist." What this means is that people saw you had people on your network who were Jewish and had even the slightest connection to Israel, and decided to accuse them of being “Zionists” and you of Platforming them.

Multiple Jewish members of your community have spoken out, explaining to you far better than I could why your response was incredibly antisemitic. I am begging you to listen to those members of your community, and do better. You cannot foster a community or space that is safe for everyone, particularly marginalized people, if you are also fostering a space where antisemitism goes unchecked.

Related to all of this, I want to take a moment to discuss the meaning and history of the word “Zionist.” A member of your Discord community voiced their frustration over your statement and how the word “Zionism” is being used. I will link it here, because I think they and a few others made some very good points that I intend to expand on here: https://www.reddit.com/r/dropout/comments/1gjjver/antizionism_antisemitism_from_a_longtime_fan_of/

I am going to include the response from the subreddit mod here: “This seems to be a reasonable and nuanced take so I don't want to dismiss it out of hand, but since you're using different definitions you're either intentionally or unintentionally creating strawmen arguments that to my knowledge no one here is supporting. If they are, please report it and it will be handled.

I'm definitely not an expert on what the definition of Zionism is or should be, but it's clear that Dropout's statement is not using the same definition you are here, so focusing entirely on the semantics isn't relevant to the actual issues being discussed.”

I realize the moderators of the dropout subreddit are likely not directly affiliated with you, and I will not hold you personally responsible for the words and actions of someone who is likely a fan basically doing volunteer work within your fan community, but their words and actions and the rhetoric that can be found in the subreddit in response to this Jewish person speaking out are indicative of the attitude and treatment of Jewish people that lead to this whole situation in the first place, and the kind of culture that statements like the one you made yesterday cultivate.

There are several problems with the statement the reddit mod made, and the mindset behind it.

The first major one, as many people in the replies pointed out, is that people from outside of a community have no right to tell people from within that community what a their own terminology means. Coopting a word from a culture and then talking over them when people from that culture speak out against it is incredibly problematic. For the record, because I and I know many other Jewish people have experienced this within the past year, if not longer than that: people from outside a marginalized group do not get to tell people from within that group what is and isn’t offensive to their group, or speak over them and tell them that something that people from within that marginalized group say is offensive isn’t actually offensive.

We say that it is important to elevate marginalized voices and not speak over them, so why is it that I’ve seen so much of this when Jewish people try to speak up about their own lived experiences?

Surely there is a way to elevate Palestinian voices and listen to their struggles without silencing Jewish ones?

The second major problem here is that the word “Zionist” has come to mean so many things to so many people that it is essentially meaningless. There is a reason I have largely put the word “Zionism” in quotes this entire time. As such, it is an incredibly bad faith argument to make to accuse a Jewish person speaking out about the use of the word “Zionism” and claim that “it is clear that Dropout’s statement is not using the same Definition as you are” and dismissing it as “semantics.” Especially when the definition of “Zionism” and the fact that it has been coopted by non-Jewish people to mean something different is so central to the conversation at hand?

For some people, “Zionism” is the belief that Jews have a right to self-determination and that Israel has a right to exist. For them, “Zionism” is a wide umbrella term that covers people from those who support a One State solution in favor of Israel and should rightfully be called out for it, to people who support a Two State solution and condemn what is happening in Gaza right now. This is the Jewish definition of the word, and the one that the OP of that subreddit post was using.

For others, “Zionist” means someone who uncritically supports what Israel is doing right now.

For others, “Zionist” means “Jew.” There is a long history of the word “Zionist,” being used by antisemites, and antisemites calling themselves “antizionist” when they are either trying to justify their bigotry or mask it to make it seem more palatable.

If you can take a statement an “antizionist” has made and replace the word “Zionist” with “Jew,” and they suddenly sound like they would have been right at home in WWII Germany, they are that third one and anything they say should be taken with far more criticism.

People who fall under the first and second definitions of "Zionist" also can be described as "Pro-Israel," and bad faith actors often interchangeably accuse Jewish people of being "Zionist" or "Pro-Israel" under the second definition when the reality is those people fall under the first definition and are disgusted by the actions of the Israeli government in Gaza.

So, here’s the problem: based on the complete lack of evidence that either Noah Grossman or Rachel Bloom are “Zionist” by the second definition stated here, it’s hard not to think that the people accusing Dropout of “platforming Zionists” are antisemites dressing up their antisemitism in progressive rhetoric and calling it "antizionism." They saw two Jewish people who had either stayed silent since the war started, or had at “worst” were involved with a fundraiser for a hospital, and labeled them “Zionists,” even though the actual views of both of these people are not actually known.

Your platform and two people who had appeared on it were subjected to an antisemitic campaign involving a threat of boycott, and your response was “to our knowledge, no individual who has appeared on Dropout has openly identified as a Zionist,” and then several paragraphs about the Palestinian people without even a hint of condemnation for the antisemitism at work here. Not even a single acknowledgement that being Jewish doesn’t automatically mean that someone is a “Zionist” by the second definition.

Also, like…the mod on your subreddit claimed it was “clear” which definition of “Zionist” was used in your statement, by which I assume they meant the second definition I provided. But I have personally been accused of being a “Zionist” for being in support of a two state solution, and I know for a fact—because I’ve seen it—that other Jewish people with the same beliefs have experienced this as well. Also there are people in the reblogs and tags of your Tumblr post claiming there are “Zionists in the reblogs” and “Zionists in the tags” when the closest thing I can find to “Zionism” is Jewish people calling out the antisemitism in the statement and the situation, and pointing out that the UNRWA, which you linked to in your post, has connections to Hamas, including members of their organization having been found to have been involved in the attacks on 10/7.

So no, “the definition of Zionism” is not clear here.

While we’re on the topic of Hamas, gentle reminder that Hamas was founded by people who wanted to cause a second Holocaust, their charter explicitly called for the hunting down of and murder of Jewish people as recently as 2017, (I will not link to it here, because there is a history of people getting penalized on social media for speaking out against hate speech by quoting it as if they were spreading that hate speech themselves, but it is easy enough to verify), and they still openly deny the Holocaust happened. To support, financially or otherwise, Hamas in any way is in fact to support Genocide.

When people came forward to express their disappointment in a derogatory word having been used in Breaking News and your Chris Grace special, you listened to them and made a statement addressing the issue and promising to do better. I am now asking for you to do the same for your Jewish fans: listen to what we are saying. Address it. Do better.

Also, before anyone tries to say “how can you say Dropout is Antisemitic when Sam Reich is Jewish?: --something I’ve already seen people do in the reblogs and tags of Dropout’s post and elsewhere—please do not use a Jewish person as a tool to silence other Jewish people. My one-year subscription to Dropout ends at the end of this month. If this has not been addressed by November 30, 2024, I will not be renewing my subscription and will be boycotting Dropout going forward. I urge anyone else who is disgusted by the antisemitism and silencing of Jewish voices on display here to do the same.

Thank you.

[chongoblog]

Sure!

For context first, I want to say that this was part of a fun challenge I had Red give me. Basically I wanted to cook more, so I had Red give me a Single Ingredient that I had to use for a meal, and then that day I'd get stuff for it. The ingredient in question was cheddar cheese

Biscuits: Found this one online, admittedly. Mostly because I'd never made biscuits before (hell I'd never made my own dough!!), so I found a recipe for Red Lobster cheddar biscuits. Here's a link to it. I followed it pretty closely (including the topping), with some exceptions, like subbing in garlic salt for the garlic powder and salt. I personally feel like I left it in the over for a little long, but they still turned out great, and I'm especially proud with how my very first biscuits turned out! And I managed to use the cheddar cheese that I needed to use!

Green Beans: So one thing you'll learn as I post these recipes (which, who knows, maybe I'll post these more regularly) is that I LOVE sautee-ing things. And these green beans are no exception. I put some spoonfuls of butter in a pan along with some garlic, salt, some pepper, heated it up, and just sauteed these bad boys for a while. I did forget to cut off the tips, which I won't forget next time. The big trick is to make sure that they soak up the flavor of that garlic and butter while still keeping that crunch. I feel like I could've kept em on longer, since they were still SUPER crunchy, but that might just be my sensitive teeth talking.

Shrimp: After the green beans are done, I covered em up with a paper towel to try and keep em warm, and I use the same pan I used for the beans to cook the shrimp. After all, the garlic and butter I figured would do WONDERS for the shrimp. I did add a hearty dose of lemon juice to the pan for cooking the shrimp in as well. I got the shrimp raw and already peeled, because frankly, I was already doing a bunch of stuff I hadn't done before, so I didn't wanna have to add a whole other step.

Something else to note is that after it was all said and done, there was a fun little mix of butter, garlic and lemon juice that the shrimp was cooking in, and I poured that shit on the green beans and shrimp. And if that wasn't good enough, some of it pooled up on my plate, and dipping the biscuit in that was NEXT LEVEL.

Anyway, glad I did this fun little challenge. I'll probably do it again and make more stuff. Hope you all enjoy me slowly turning into a cooking blog, I guess lmao.

Red Lobster ain’t got shit on me tbh

[alacants]

if you saw the full video of carlos alcaraz and his team watching rafa's retirement announcement, perhaps you noticed that his coach seemed, dare i say it, reluctant to join in. if you follow juanki and/or jcf academy on social perhaps you noticed that amidst effusive tributes from across the spanish tennis establishment both were conspicuously silent. why the seeming reticence from one spanish great to the spanish great? well. WELL.

juanki, rafa, and the case of the green-eyed monster

("but user alacants, in creating this post aren't you ignoring the vagaries of human nature in favor of imposing a narrowly crafted narrative onto a twenty-year relationship that is probably both more complex and less contentious than you make it out to be?"

of course i am. what are you, new?)

davis cup 2004

prior to 2004 juanki was Mr Davis Cup. he often cites the 2000 cup (where his win decided the tie) as the most meaningful title of his career, more so than roland garros. then 2004 rolls around, spain makes their third final in 5 years… and the day before the tie begins juanki is dropped from the lineup in favor of some 18 year old who's never even played a match at roland garros. (<- actually. isn't that crazy??)

"obviously i am not jumping up and down with happiness." and to be fair to him everyone else sounded baffled as well. and then… the 18 year old had the nerve to play andy roddick in front of a record-breaking 27k home crowd and win.

to twist the knife: at the last minute juanki got named to the doubles match alongside tommy robredo and they got CRUSHED, just absolutely destroyed, by the bryan brothers. held serve once in three sets. 

so it is maybe not a surprise that afterwards juanki does not exactly look happy despite nominally winning a major trophy.

it's noticeable enough to make the news. rafa is forced to tell the press nooooo, it's not true that they don't get along. juanki then goes on the record to say that on the trip back from sevilla the captains were only paying attention to nadal and moya, the winners, and ignoring him and tommy, the losers. while this may be true there is no way to make it sound good that you're saying it, yk.

(if you click through you will see that in the same interview he describes himself and rafa as "good friends." rafa goes on to describe them as friends on several more occasions! juanki does not.)

three months later, spain went out in the first round of the 2005 cup, 4-1 to slovakia. juan carlos was not part of the team lmao. and indeed a qualification play-off in september would be his last taste of davis cup action for several years. (that last call-up was ferru's first btw. red string of fate. SORRYYYY I KNOW IT'S NOT ABOUT THEM.)

roland garros 2005

unfortunately if you're juanki it did not get better. here he is in 2005 "[accusing] spanish media of a nadal obsession." (that link will also give you a taste of the contemporary fan discourse lmao.) he was baited, but also, they baited him because they knew he'd rise to the occasion.

rafa nadal btw had just played his first roland garros, which he won. juanki at rg: "unlike the media-designated extraterrestrials i'm just a HUMBLE PLAYER trying to win matches. i'm not one of the favorites but maybe if i keep trying…" he was then forced to deny he was jealous.

(this was shortly after rafa beat him for the title in barcelona, resulting in this cheerful take: "when you're on a high like nadal is everything seems to go right - but it doesn't last forever.")

rafa, meanwhile, is not helping:

QUESTION: Other than Carlos Moya, were there any other Spanish players you grew up watching, admiring? Did you follow Juan Carlos at all when you were growing up? RAFAEL NADAL: No, my favorite was Moya.

rome 2008

the hits continue. by 2008 rafa nadal is THE spanish tennis man, he's the guy everyone thought juanki was going to be. (ouch.) and now they are about to meet in rome. rafa btw has been undefeated on clay since the famous federer hamburg final, for an overall record of 117-4 since 2005. he's never lost in rome.

so imagine the reaction when juanki actually wins.

—wait did you think it was something like "ferrero shocks king of clay in tantalizing return to form." lol of course it's not, it's "nadal suffers freak loss due to blisters." harsh? rafa didn't think so: "i congratulate juan carlos, but today for sure was not my best tennis."

never mind that juanki was also playing through injury, bad enough that it took him out of barcelona then functionally killed his roland garros. (safe to assume that after 2004 he's more or less always injured.) this is typical sports media syndrome, nothing new or particularly unexpected. but once again: juanki is not, like, shy about expressing his thoughts.

QUESTION: The fact that Rafa was injured - he complained about the foot injury at the press conference here - what does that take away from your win? Do you feel it takes a little bit of shine away from your win? JUAN CARLOS FERRERO: [...] When you go to the court and you decide to play, I think the injury is not reason to say yes or no… You know, at the end I play a little bit better than him. I don't know if it was big reason to don't play at his best level, the injury. QUESTION: How much do you think this loss and the injury is going to affect Nadal's preparation for Roland Garros? JUAN CARLOS FERRERO: I don't know. Maybe you have to ask him. 

fortunately (???) this match was immediately followed by an explosive spanish tennis row that ended with top players including juanki and rafa joining hands in solidarity to push the president of rfet out of his job, so this did not become the topic it might have otherwise. 

davis cup 2009

it's now 2009. juanki hasn't played a davis cup tie since 2005. he's just dropped out of the top 100. and then… rafa and ferru get injured. juanki gets a dc call-up. he heroically saves the qf tie! he wins his sf rubber! his teammates are tossing him in the air, the crowds are chanting his name! he doesn't make the final roster bc everyone is healthy but he's a reserve, he's there with the team. they sweep the tie, the heroes are undisputedly his special friend ferru (epic comeback) + verdasco/lopez (deciding win over undefeated opponents). …and then they go for the obligatory meeting with the prime minister who's like, RAFA YOU WON THE DAVIS CUP FOR US THANK YOU SOOOO MUCH WE LOVE YOU.

a lot of people were unhappy about this, presumably (??) including actual rafa. afterwards, juanki says, "most of the team thought it was disrespectful." one wonders who was not included in "most."

(honestly? probably feli lopez.)

valencia 2013

speaking of actual rafa, did he notice and/or care about anything of this? i mean he definitely noticed. but i assume he didn't care. (rafa experts are welcome to chime in here.) after all, a couple years later rafa spoke at juanki's retirement ceremony. there was a hug and everything!

so like, ok, they are cordial, they are friendly, rafa's place is cemented in history and juanki is retired anyway. THEN less than a year later rafa pulls out of juanki's beloved valencia open to enter a different more lucrative tournament instead and he is fully dead to juanki who is calling him out in the press like, i think it's his DUTY as a SPANIARD to support a spanish tournament.

which event did he choose instead, btw? Roger Federer's Basel™. which he hadn't played since 2004. and then he ended up withdrawing anyway. there was some conspiracy theory type thinking at the time that he only committed to basel so he had an excuse not to play valencia (well that and the $$$) which is almost certainly untrue but is also very funny.

meanwhile juanki sooort of backpedaled like i mean we don't understand his decision but we respect it… sure, juanki.

late-career detente (?)

juanki has since repeatedly gone on the record noting 1. the only player he ever felt inferior to was roger federer 2. who btw is the best player of all time. these are not neutral statements coming from a spaniard and no one is taking them that way.

now having said that, he has also had plenty of nice or at least diplomatic things to say in recent years about rafa's will to compete, etc. "i wouldn't like him to get [to roland garros] and not win matches." while also dropping gems such as:

q: which of the big three was the hardest to play and why? juanki: federer. but i'm just glad i managed to beat all three of them before i retired. :)

with all of this in mind, the aforementioned video of carlos and team watching rafa's message. is. so. funny. JUAN CARLOS GROW UPPPP. like presumably the academy at least will say something once the big moment rolls around but when literally every other spanish tennis player under the sun is posting their glowing tributes and you are Haughtily Silent it's so obvious!! son!!!

additionally: this makes juanki spending the olympics at home so fucking funny. yeah, i bet you DIDN'T want to watch your special friend and your beloved protege coo over rafael nadal for two weeks. like in the year 2024 there's no way it's that serious, nothing more than "my annoying ex-coworker i still have to be polite to." just, they're not friends. and ferru and rafa (and now carlos) are. and it's very funny to me personally.

in conclusion: "rafa largely to blame for ferrero's downfall" (espn, 2012)

[puckszone]

my musings on how to leave longer & more regular comments on fics:

We all know comments are good - readers have probably heard authors on tumblr talk about how valuable comments are for ages, and I hope most of the authors reading this have felt that validating joy first hand.

But we also all have lives, and only so much energy in a given day. Maybe you have worries about leaving a comment that's too "weird", or "awkward". Maybe you LOVE a fic, but have no idea how to put those strong emotions into words. Maybe you leave short comments, but wish you felt comfortable crafting the paragraph-long detailed comments that some readers gift to their favorite fics.

If you've ever thought about trying to comment more often, or trying to leave longer comments, then here are some ramblings of mine that will (hopefully!) bring comment-inspiration your way.

A quick table of contents:

Lower the mental stakes

How do I comment on porn?!?!?!?

My approach to paragraph-long commenting

My call to action: challenge yourself to go one step further

Lower the mental stakes:

When I first joined a writing discord, I was genuinely blown away at the amount of support and love the HRPF community contains. I was also blown away at the amount of people that were actually reading my works and messaging about them!! It is still one of the coolest feelings ever.

In my mind, this is an example of a "lower stakes" ways to talk about fics: messaging a friend, or a group chat, or a discord server.

It takes a lot less energy for me to type a rambling text about how much I love the fic I'm currently reading vs. typing a cohesive, well-thought out comment for the author themselves.

One of those two options is much more intimidating!

I want so badly to tell the author how much I love their fic, but I'll never find the time to write all the things they deserve to hear!! So the tab sits open on my phone for months, and the comment never gets written.

If you relate to this: try to lower the "mental stakes" of writing your comment. Remember: this is a fun thing!! Fic is fun!! And I promise, you don't have to write the "perfect" comment to make an author's day.

A potential solution: treat the comment box a bit more like a message to your group chat. Not in a rude way - let's stay polite to the writers in our community, and recognize when unsolicited feedback isn't wanted.

But instead of forcing yourself to always have the "perfect" comment, think of something lighter. Think of what you would text to a friend if you were going to send them a link to the fic: maybe "dude this fic is so funny you need to read it", OR "this is INSANELY good", OR "i've been reading this all morning you need to check it out right now".

Then write that!

Comment: "this fic is so funny oh my god. love it!"

Comment: "this is INSANELY good"

Comment: "SCREAMING. I LOVE THIS"

Comment: "i haven't been able to put this done all morning! sooooo good!"

Comment: "i read the first chapter of this fic and instantly knew i had to send it to all my friends. i love this so much!!!"

Also, this might just be personal preference but: a discord message can get lost to time. AO3 is an archive, and comments there are much easier to look back on!!

So send that discord message to the author in a server you're in - they're going to appreciate it so much!! But consider copy-pasting that as a comment in AO3 as well, no matter how short it might be. It means a lot!!

How do I comment on porn?!?!?!?

PWP fics are known to have a large number of hits, with less kudos and even less comments.

Listen. I get it.

Especially in a fandom like HRPF, where many fics are user-locked, it can be intimidating to comment with no chance to hide behind anonymity.

But remember this: anybody who might "see your username" has also clicked into that very same fic and gone alllllll the way to the end. We're all in this together!!! I promise!!

Maybe the actual logistics are difficult for you - how do I leave a comment on an 8k porn-no-plot fic?? how do I explain that I love this fic without making the author uncomfortable?? - so in that case, let me give a few brief ideas for you to work off of.

Some words I like to use a lot: dirty, nasty, HOTTTT, sexy, intimate, vivid.

If you're feeling especially blindsided by the Everything of it all: i like to throw in a good "stupidly hot". "my brain is melting out of my ears". "soooooo dirty nasty hot". "WHEWWWW this is making me feel insane".

Don't overthink it!!!! Speak your truth!!!

And, final point: don't be afraid to highlight specific favorite parts, like you would with any other fic! Say it with your chest! If you liked the frottage, then say "the thigh riding was sooooo stupidly hot". I promise, the author put it in because they also thought the same thing!!!! It's going to make their day (and maybe result in more fics with that same favorite part of yours).

My approach to paragraph-long commenting:

I just want to reiterate: there is no right or wrong way to write a comment. But here's the general breakdown of how I think about leaving more detailed comments, if you want some ideas.

I copy snippets from the fic that call out to me as I read

I go into my clipboard to paste them all into the comment box

I write 1-2 sentences about WHY i copied down that specific snippet

Sometimes, it might be hard to know exactly why you were so affected by a given line. Here's some things you might especially appreciate in a fic:

Characterization: maybe the dialogue felt especially realistic. maybe the character's decisions made a lot of sense to you. maybe the way two characters interact is just exactly how you picture it. write that down in one sentence!! done!

Prose/writing style: maybe the line was a really gorgeous metaphor, piece of dialogue, etc. copy and paste that shit into your comment + add some "!!!"s, or maybe a single sentence like "this is so so gorgeous" or "INSANE metaphor" or "beautiful prose i'm chewing on glass"

The plot: "I have no idea where this is going next, and I can't wait to find out" / "OH MY GOD THE CLIFFHANGER"

The emotions you felt while reading it: this one's an easy one I promise! "the way you wrote [CHARACTER]'s pain hurt sooooo good" / "this is making me feel ill" / "i actually gasped out loud on the bus" / "i'm so nervous for the next chapter" / "i'm SO excited by where this fic is going" / "i teared up reading this"

A long comment will come organically & very easily, even if you only have 2 copy-pasted snippets!! And the author gets to hear very specific feedback about exactly what you're enjoying - that's SO unbelievably rewarding to hear.

So, my personal call to action: challenge yourself to go one step further!

If you don't usually leave comments: try leaving one or two one-line comments this week. Throw in a quick "i love this!!" next to that kudos!

If you usually leave one-line comments: try leaving a couple sentences! describe one specific thing you liked about the fic, or one specific emotion you had.

If you often leave comments on the fics of people you know: try going outside your comfort zone and commenting on a stranger's fic. you got this!

Push yourself one step further, whatever that means for you! It's such a beautiful thing, to be able to read and love and discuss fic in a shared community, and it's worth the effort!

If you've read my ramblings the whole way through: thank you!!!! This was mainly an outlet for me to put all my thoughts into real words, and I sort of can't believe you read all the way through. <3

I welcome any and all additions to this post!!!! The more we talk about commenting, and the more we comment, the more this community grows - and that's a positive thing for all of us, readers and writers alike.

[oatmealdaydreams]

Black Hole Fantasy: I'm pulling in the driveway, I'm turning off the car

Let me know if ya wanna be added on or taken off the general taglist!

Part 1

Inspired By Works: the Shifter Stan AU made by @the-east-art! Check out her stuff, it's super good. Shout out to East!

Pairing: Stan Pines & Ford Pines, gen

Warnings: Homelessness, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse

Summary: After reconciling, Stan answers what he can while Ford asks questions about his shifting abilities. Most of them are expected from his nerdy brother: how certain shifts work, what kind of limits there are, what the deal is with partial shifts, and all that. But then Ford asks about how he found out about his abilities, and…and Stan debates if it’s a good idea telling his brother about his time driving in Mount Tammany.  Stan cannot lie to Ford without him seeing right through it, anyway.

Notes: Wrote a majority of this today (as of posting) because I damn well know a lot of us need some comfort right now.

[Masterlist] | ao3 link

[read under the cut]

Stan expected this. It’s Ford, he’s gonna be all nerdy and ask questions and wanna know more about things he doesn’t understand so he can understand them. He expected this. 

As soon as the question leaves Ford’s mouth, he can tell it probably isn’t the best thing to ask, for whatever reason that may be, because Stan tenses in his seat and his gaze darts away from his brother. 

Stan expected this. It’s Ford, he’s gonna be all nerdy and ask questions and wanna know more about things he doesn’t understand so he can understand them. He expected this. 

The younger twins are due to arrive within the next week or so for another summer. Stan’s surprised their parents are letting back to Gravity Falls—depending on what they told their parents—but he’s not complaining. He grew attached to those chaotic gremlins rather quickly. They’re family, after all. Stan knows he’s got a weak spot for ‘em. Ford gives him shit about it sometimes when he’s being all stubborn and grumpy. It doesn’t come from a place of hypocrisy, though. Ford’s just as bad as Stan is when it comes to their niblings, and he most often admits it.

The time sailing across the vast seas on the Stan O’ War II with Ford helped with remembering things. Stan had remembered most of his life—the important bits, at least. There were still holes in his recollection here and there, still are, but important memories stuck before the rest of it. The fact that he had a twin brother named Stanford, his niblings, most of what he’s done while in Gravity Falls, the entire Portal Situation, and almost everything that has to deal with a certain triangular dream demon. When he has relapses, Ford is always there to help him remember and support him until the memories come back. Childhood can be a bit blurry sometimes. He doesn’t quite remember much about their father, but Ford reassures him that he’s not someone to worry about; Stan trusts Ford. That, and the way Ford’s eyes darken every time he mentions him…well, he can piece things together on his own. Some people aren’t worth remembering. That’s okay. 

One of the periods in his life he struggles to remember much of is the ten years before he arrived in Gravity Falls. Ford doesn’t know much about them, either. When a memory from then resurfaces, it can be…really shitty. Sometimes, when a relapse happens and it involves something from his years being homeless, it gets a lot harder to calm Stan down. Especially since all the memories he’s remembered from then so far have been what his niblings would call ‘unfairly traumatic’. Stan knows by now where he got all his survival skills, at least. 

There are a few memories from when he first got on the streets that aren’t so bad. A few failed attempts at cheap products that got him banned in some places. He vaguely remembers his Stan Vac, the whole not-rash-causing rash-causing bandaids, little things like those. His leaky towels that made stains worse. 

His drive up through Mount Tammany. 

Stan remembers a particular night from that. Getting banned from New Jersey and trying his luck in the next state over. Dark nights where the skies were perfect for stargazing if he’d only let himself stay still for a few minutes. But then again, staying still for even a second on the road is the kinda thing that gets ya killed. So. He can always stargaze now, though. Ford always watched the stars when they got the chance at sea. Maybe they can do that again, now, in a place that doesn’t involve a surprising constant of sea-bound critters out ta get their asses. 

The fucking point: he remembers sitting in his car on the roadside, alone, in the middle of nowhere up on a mountain, getting all teary over his stupid fucking hands. He’d shifted them by accident, and suddenly six fingers replaced five. Missing Ford did that kinda shit, he supposes. Intertwining a five-fingered hand with a six-fingered one nearly broke him. Stan can punch a pterodactyl in its damn face, but he’s weak when it comes to his family. To his brother. 

Stan hopes Ford never finds out about it. He hopes he does find out about it. It’s a complicated mess of things. 

They sit in the chairs in the living room. Some rerun of an earlier Ducktective episode plays at low volume, perfect for background noise. Ford noticeably has a notepad and a blue-inked pen out on his lap. Stan’s counting down the seconds it takes for his brother to ask whatever questions he has on his mind. It only takes about thirty seconds for him to burst. A new record, really. 

“Can I ask you a few questions about your shifting?” Ford’s eyes twinkle like the fucking stars. 

Stan shrugs, genuinely open to it, “Sure, why not.” 

Ford’s excited little smile is plenty of reward for agreeing to this. He knows if he said no, Ford would back off. He’d be a bit disappointed, yeah, but he’d back off. Brothers are like that, y’know. 

His brother readies himself with his pen and all, eagerness leaking off him like some weird mist or something. 

“How can you shift into a mermaid but not into a partial fish shift?”

“It’s not that simple, Poindexter. There’re limits to it.”

The sound of a gliding pen across paper, “I suppose that makes sense. Even with Shifty, he had to learn through visualization before he could shift into something. Perhaps you mimic in a similar fashion,” There's a brief pause as Ford writes another note. “What are the limitations?”

“Well,” Stan grunts out a sigh, “for one, shifts hafta be made of the same base stuff that humans are. Size is another thing. Can’t shift inta somethin’ too small or too large. And, uh, partial shifts are their own thing, not very sustainable. ‘S why I gotta shift into a full merfolk instead ‘a partial fish.”

Ford nods along to his brother, scribbling notes hastily as he talks. There’s a sense of ease that blankets the air between them. Lounging in the tv room, talking, listening, just hanging out with each other. When was the last time they did shit like this? When was the last time it started to feel easy? Maybe it’s because he’s answerin’ the things that he does know about his shifting abilities, but a warmth blossoms in Stan’s chest at the realization of how much it reminds him of being kids. Yappin’ with each other. No arguin’ or nothin’, just…yappin’. It’s nice. 

“Wait, so—” a readjust of Poindexter’s glasses, “Then how come you’ve shifted into partial cat eyes or…ah, the partial bear shift the kids told me about?” 

“It ain’t sustainable, so it doesn’t last long,” Stan tries, though he’s pretty sure he just explained the partial shift thing. “Wouldn’t wanna randomly shift underwater, y’know? And fish shifts are always a bitch to shift in and outta.” 

“Ah, I see. Why are fish—”

“The gills, nerd. Breathing’s all different an’ shit.”

“Oh, well, nevermind then.”

Stan snorts at him, and Ford playfully rolls his eyes. He writes a few more notes down. Stan taps his fingers on the arm of his chair, lightly drumming out a tuneless rhythm. A companionable silence fills the room, and for once, he doesn’t feel the need to replace it with some sort of sound. Probably because he’s already making noise with his tappin’, but still. It’s like a gentle inhale of fresh pine air, drifting around them. It’s calm. It’s as quiet as any ambience can be. It’s peaceful. 

And it only lasts for a few minutes, thankfully, because Stan might’ve started tappin’ with two hands instead of one if it went on for too long. It’s still silence, after all. Nothing good has come with complete silence.

“Given what you’ve explained…how does your shifting work?” and this question has the stars in Ford’s eyes turning into spotlights that gleam onto Stan. 

Stanley clicks, shrugging, “Tch, I don’t know.”

Ford glances up from his notepad, pen stilling, “What?”

“I don’t know how it works, Six.”

“How can you not know how it works? It’s your shifting!”

“I’ve been busy.”

“But you just explained—”

“I know some things, just not everything!”

“How—wait, okay. What were you so busy with that you didn’t explore your shifting more?”

The peaceful air thins. There’s a slight pressure, tension, something that threatens to smother them if they don’t tread this carefully. A choking hazard. 

Stan scoffs, a biting voice, “Jeez, Six, do ya not remember bein’ shoved into a massive fuckin’ portal? And I thought I was the amnesiac.”

He winces as soon as he says it. That was a bit harsher than he intended, honestly. It’s in the past. Sure, there’re still some shit they gotta work out, but now wasn’t the time. Why is he always biting like a wounded feral dog when it comes to shit like that? What is he, a beaten hound? 

Ford goes sheepish, “Oh, right…”

It’s awkward. The tense air simmers like New Mexico’s summer heat. It blazes underneath the first layer of their skin. It fizzles and crackles and makes both of the older twins fidget in their seats. Stan shifts his weight in his chair, and his finger-tappin’ gets quicker. 

Ford clears his throat, “Right, well, I—thank you, Stanley.” 

A small, fond smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. Warmth fills his chest like waves of the ocean, his heart sighing pleasant beats. Ford’s said it a number of times while they were sailing. Some nights, when the beer was cold and the stars were glistening across the vast seas, they figured out talkin’ about shit. Not everything, no, not even some of the things they probably should, but they were still important things they needed to talk about. The portal was one of them. At least, some of it. The parts that Stan remembered in flashes. Memory of its entirety came back before they returned to Gravity Falls, but he digresses. They talked about some shit, and Ford made a point of saying ‘thank you’ a lot more. He still does it. 

The tense air dissipates a significant amount, easing, calming, gentle.

“Yeah, whatever, Poindexter,” Stan waves it off, but he couldn’t wipe the little smile on his face if he tried. “What else ya got, huh?”

Ford shares his own little smile, glancing down briefly at his notes, “Well, let’s see…oh! How did you initially find out about your shifting?”

And the tense air returns with a sharp bite. 

As soon as the question leaves Ford’s mouth, he can tell it probably isn’t the best thing to ask, for whatever reason that may be, because Stan tenses in his seat and his gaze darts away from his brother. 

“Of course, if you don’t remember it,” Ford adds quickly, “Just the earliest you can remember.”

Stan considers what to do here. He’s been given an out. He can just give the easy excuse that he doesn’t remember. It wouldn’t be too far a lie, what, with how fickle his memory from that far back can be. It’s still a lie, though. He does remember that night driving through Mount Tammany. Although it may not be his first experience with his new-found shifting abilities, it is one of the earliest. It would be around the time he first found out, anyway. 

And he’d promised Ford on the boat that he’d try and talk to him. They both did. They made that promise. Stan is tired of breaking things. He won’t break a promise to Ford, especially now that they’re on much better terms. He can’t risk fucking this peace up. It’s too precious now. There’s been too much work and hard nights and shed tears they’ll never comment on. Stan won’t break it for anything. 

He sighs, refusing to face Ford while he does this. 

“It ain’t much. Just a drive through the mountains,” he forewarns, “Nothin’ pretty, nothin’ ugly.” 

Ford’s eyes widen in momentary surprise, as if he’d expected Stan to take the out. He shakes it off, leaning in slightly. An eager listener. A nod to show he understands. 

Alright, we’re fuckin’ doin’ this, Stan thinks. 

A gruffer sigh, “Just been banned from Jersey, I think. A few failed business ventures or whatever, and I was drivin’ up through Mount Tammany.”

Stan ignores whatever Ford’s reaction is to him being banned from their home state. He can’t handle reactions if he’s gonna commit to this. Grabbing a half-drank can of Pitt Cola, givin’ something for his hands to do. Idle hands ain’t gonna do good. He can’t risk havin’ idle hands that reach for violence and excuses. This ain’t the time for it. Not now, not now. 

He swallows, continuing, “It’s dark, probably in the middle of the night. Got used ta drivin’ in late hours so much I don’t think it made a difference.” 

The scene itself starts to unravel in front of his mind’s eye. He can almost see it, hear it, smell it. He keeps talking. 

“Mind kept driftin’, so I had ta pull over. I was wonderin’ about…people. Where they were, how’d they been, all that. Guess they really got to me, heh.” 

Ford doesn’t need to ask who he’s referring to. This one, he knows. He knows what Stan is like when he talks about missing Ford. It’s one ‘a those times. 

“Not even twenty yet, y’know. Still young enough to have a weak stomach about things. I couldn’t keep drivin’ all those curves up in the mountains like that, else I was gonna crash or somethin’. I pull over.”

Stan has to pause for a moment, swallowing again. He tries not to get lost in the memory. He fidgets with the can in his hand, thumbing across its smooth surface. Remind himself where he is. Remember he’s in a chair next to his brother, and not breakin’ at the sight of holding a five-fingered hand and a six-fingered one together. Five plus six is eleven. It’d only been ten years when he saw Ford next after that, but it sure felt like eleven centuries with the way they’d changed. 

No longer lookin’ like each other. Both scared outta their minds and desperate. They’re twins; but back then, they’d been strangers that shared a last name. Not even that. Stan’s used many names throughout the years. He’s worn many faces, too. Droppin’ his shift for the first time in years, just to see his brother, had been a lot more unsettling than he thought it’d be. 

Right, explain’ Mount Tammany. 

Stan shakes his head lightly, ignoring his lingering thoughts of triangular portals. 

“I felt the extra fingers before I saw ‘em,” a hitch of breath besides Stan, but he continues through it, “Six fingers on each hand. The last I recall, I wasn’t the one with hands like that. Turns out I shifted ‘em without thinking.” 

Stan does that sometimes. In moments of heightened emotion—distress, usually—his body decides to kick into gear without askin’ Stan first and shifts itself into whatever it deems necessary to survive the situation. He heard Wendy explain it as a trauma response once. She’d been taking this psychology class to avoid some shitty required course that had a shitty teacher. She’s smart. Gonna do some pretty great shit one day, that kid. Badass enough as it is, really. What highschooler can say they’ve survived the literal apocalypse without referrin’ to a video game? 

“I was already a weak mess at that point,” Stan hesitates, thumbing the can in his hand again. Quiet noises come from Ford’s chair, and he tries to write it off as squeaky furniture. “I, uh…shifted one hand back, and…intertwined them. ‘Bout broke me. I was already fucked-up with drivin’ in the middle of the night, anyway. Y’know, lackin’ sleep and all. That shit.”

Stan cannot look in Ford’s direction after he’s finished. He keeps fiddling with the Pitt can in his hand. His other hand drums a tuneless rhythm on the arm of his chair. He can’t have idle hands. They reach for things. Reaching for Ford might not be a good idea right now. Hey, at least Stan’s actually thinkin’ for once in his damn life. Mabel’s childlike optimism is rubbin’ off ‘a him. 

The quiet noises include a sniffle, and Stan feels something in his chest crack like a statue about to fall off a breaking cliff. Something’s about to break and fall into the churnin’ waters below. The sea can be just as much of a hell as it can be a comfort. Life’s like that, he supposes. Your greatest comfort can be your easiest weak point. 

They sit there, not talking, not looking at each other, hardly making a sound. It’s a fragile air. It’s a thin glass sheet. They’ve had practice on the Stan ‘O War II with learning how to navigate moments like these, but this? This is something else. This is about an earlier memory of being kicked out from home. This is about when Stan learned he was just as anomalous as his brother. This is about one of the first times Stan lost a little hope. This is different. It’s fragile, and Stan’s never been good with fragile things. He breaks what he touches. He doesn’t know how to touch this without cracking the glass like a hammer to a stained glass window. 

Neither of them breathe for a moment. 

How the hell do you navigate a conversation like this? How did it turn into thinly-veiled raw emotion with the steadiness of a paper house? The pivot from your average sibling bickering and stupid smiles to something made of a deck of flimsy cards. A sharp pivot. A sudden pivot. Where did the fragility come from? 

Ford, surprisingly, is the one to break the stained-glass window. 

“Lee,” his voice is thicker, choking, full of hitching breaths and sniffling that becomes all the more noticeable with the uneasy silence. 

Stan can’t help but turn to his brother as soon as that nickname is uttered. There’s a lump in his throat at the sight of Ford’s red-rimmed eyes behind the guise of his blocky glasses. He doesn’t have it in him to swallow it down. 

Okay, they’re doing this. Great. This is fine. 

“Six,” Stan responds, and he sounds just as bad as Ford.

He ignores the prickling droplets in his eyes. 

“You—when did—” words come tumbling out of Ford’s mouth like foreign concepts of another dimension. 

“It’s fine, Poindexter,” an attempt at waving things off, even with how messy their voices are right now, because he cannot stand seeing his brother look so distressed.

“It’s not fine, Stanley.”

“...It’s not.”

“You were banned from Jersey?”

Starting there, okay.

“‘S what happens when yer products are a total sham.” 

“I–yes, I get that, I just…I saw the commercials. Thought you figured it out, and  not…”

“You saw the commercials?”

A pause, “Ah, well, yes. It was the only time I ever saw you.” 

Something about that twists a heart or two. Neither of them can tell if it’s their own or each other’s. It doesn’t matter, really. It twists all the same. 

“You went through Mount Tammany?” Ford continues. 

“Headed towards Pennsylvania. Business opportunities and all that.”

“Ah.”

“Yeah.”

Moses, they’re pushing towards seventy and still this awkward? What are they, pre-teens?

“Can you show me?” Ford is so quiet that Stan almost doesn’t hear him.

“Uh, what?”

“Just—you said you shifted into six fingers, so…” the shrug he gives is a little unlike him, but this entire conversation is a little unlike them. Too many emotions going ‘round in a circus display of some spin-top toy. 

Well…not exactly where Stan thought this conversation would go, but it’s not a bad direction. Just show his brother that he can have six-fingered hands like he does. He’s done it before. It’s not the shift that holds a heavy weight behind it, but it’s the reason Ford’s even asking. He’s not gonna point out that Ford’s already seen him with similar hands before. 

Stan tears a hole in the paper house, and he nods. 

Ford watches with a gaze of…something. Careful curiosity is in there somewhere. Along with whatever else is racin’ through his damn head. Lots of things today, huh?

Stan doesn’t need to concentrate as much as he usually does with partial shifts. This one is something he’s practiced and done so often that it’s instinctual. In fact, he glances down and notices one of his hands already has six fingers. He shifts the other to match. Ford stares. He fidgets with his own six-fingered hands. They twitch like they wanna reach out. Stan feels that echo in his knuckles, his joints, the bones of his wrists and hands and even in his sockets. 

Stan slowly reaches out first. 

Ford spares a darting glance at his face, and he meets him halfway. 

They hold hands. 

The very much not-there-at-all tears glide down Stan’s face. Ford’s sniffling again as his breath hitches again. Quiet sounds flitter around the room. Little sounds. Sounds they won’t admit to making because that means admitting to crying over holding hands, and they sure as hell ain’t gonna do that. Doing that means facing the truth of how heavy it feels. Holding hands with your brother isn’t supposed to be heavy. He’s seen Mabel and Dipper hold each other’s hands, and they certainly don’t get weepy over it. Not that Stan would dare to make fun outta them if they did, no, he rather shift in and out of bein’ a fish a million times before he even thinks about doin’ such a thing. 

Ford squeezes, and Stan squeezes back. 

A deck of flimsy cards topples over and scatters across the floor in a whirlwind of sad old men and old wounds. 

Little birds keep close together for winter. 

A sparrow holds his brother’s hand, and it brings more comfort than he’d thought possible. Maybe the scared teen that drove through Mount Tammany heals a little. Maybe the lost kid that cried over his hands while stranded alone in his car starts to smile again. 

A small, teary smile tugs at the corner of Stan’s mouth.

Taglist: @lost-in-thought-20 @thegoldenduckie @not-sure-what-im-feeling

[sissylittlefeather]

Bonded: Part 3

Surrender

A/N: I was able to write something! Here is a continuation of the vampire!reader series I started on Halloween 2023. Part 2 was the last day of my Kinktober challenge and this is Part 3.

If you need to catch up, here are the links:

Part 1

Part 2

Warnings: 18+ minors DNI, there's the usual sex and smut, but also death and blood drinking

Word count: ~2.7k

"It's easy. You kill him."

“Kill him?!” You shriek and Mary smirks at you.

“You'll bring him back, of course. You have to turn him.” You look down at Elvis and he kisses your knuckles submissively. You're tempted to let him stay like this: all sweet and in love with you. But it won't work with who he is.

“I can't turn him. How do I make him a normal human again?” You look at Mary pleadingly and she scoffs.

“Not possible. Our actions have consequences, young one. You started a process that can only be finished.” She turns and walks from the foyer into the kitchen. “Follow me.”

You pull Elvis to his feet and he wraps his arms around you.

“If I'm a vampire, will you let me stay with you?” His eyes are so round and full of affection that it almost breaks your heart.

“Honey, if I make you a vampire, I'm not sure you'll want to.” He caresses your cheek gently and without thinking, you lean into his touch.

“Come on!” Mary calls from the other room, breaking you both out of the trance you seem to be in. You make your way into the kitchen with Elvis close behind you. “He needs to lay on the table.”

“How exactly does this work?” You ask as Elvis climbs onto the table cooperatively.

“You will completely drain him. Your venom will begin the process of turning him and when he wakes, he will feed from you first. That will complete the transformation and end the blood bond.” Mary speaks matter-of-factly, but for you and Elvis, this is a decision that impacts the very core of who you are. You look down at him laying on the table.

“I'm sorry, Elvis.” He smiles up at you, doe-eyed.

“Don't be. I've loved loving you.” You swallow the lump in your throat and turn to Mary, determined to do this right. You nod and let your fangs descend. He won't taste as good without an orgasm, but that's not your concern right now. He cocks his head a little to give you access to the place you've bitten twice at this point. You lean in and run your tongue over the spot. Then, you sink your teeth into him and begin to drink.

You were wrong. He tastes just as sweet as he did after sex. Something about him is absolutely intoxicating, but you can't let it go to your head. You need to focus.

Fifteen minutes later, you pull back and breathe, looking down at his ashen face. You're so full, but you have to keep going. He's almost there and he nods to you gently before his eyes close and he passes out. You try not to cry as you lean back down and keep drinking.

Finally, no more comes as you suck the spot on his neck. You look down and notice that he isn't breathing anymore and start to panic.

“Mary! He's not breathing!”

“Of course he's not. He's dead.” She answers you nonchalantly as she fiddles with something in the kitchen.

“Mary! Did I do it right? Oh God…” You start to think she's been lying to you and shake Elvis's shoulders as the tears stream down your cheeks But of course he doesn't rouse. You bury your face in his chest and cry. “Elvis! Please!”

It takes you a second to realize what's happening when you feel his hand on the back of your head. As soon as you do, you sit up and look at him. His blue eyes are sharp and clear and if it's possible he's gotten even more attractive.

“I'm okay, honey. But-” He opens his mouth and his fangs are prominent. “Starving.”

You nod frantically and crawl into his lap, straddling him as he sits up, his hand on your neck as he runs his tongue over a spot.

“Okay, you're going to want to bite savagely and cruelly, but don't. Make yourself be gentle.” You whisper. He nods and growls against your neck. You feel him drag the tips of his fangs against your skin and shiver. It shouldn't be sexy, but it is. His other hand holds your hip, pulling you in against his body.

“Male vampires can be quite dangerous. There's a reason we ended them. You need to keep him under control.” Mary speaks and you notice a nervous edge as she watches the scene in front of her. It's true that no one has seen a male vampire in decades. She's not sure what will become of Elvis.

“You can't control me.” Elvis whispers darkly into your neck and you start to think this was a huge mistake. Without any further warning, he sinks his teeth into your neck and starts to suck the blood out of you.

As soon as the blood hits his lips, he's addicted to the way it tastes. He drinks from you eagerly and intensely and you feel yourself start to get lightheaded.

“Elvis…” You whimper. “Stop…”

Mary notices how pale and weak you are becoming and tries to pull him off of you. He easily pushes her to the side and grabs you with both arms, burying his lips in your neck as he sucks on you. He's lost in a haze of blood lust and actual lust and if it wasn't for Mary, he'd lay you down and take you right there in the kitchen. It's only when he feels your hands in his hair that he stops for a bit and pulls back to look at you. You blink slowly, trying to focus on his face with the blue eyes and soft lips, as blood drips down his chin.

“Elvis…” You plead as a tear slides down the side of your face, your head flopping as he holds you.

“Oh God, baby. I'm sorry. Baby?” He shakes you and tries to revive you.

“Hmm?” You answer, loopy from blood loss. He licks the spot where the puncture wounds were and they begin to heal quickly. He starts to panic a little that he's drained you too much. Without thinking, he offers you his arm. You lean forward with your fangs extended and before Mary can stop you, you bite him and begin to suckle.

“No! No! Don't do that!” Mary frantically pulls you off of his arm and you groan. He tastes so good and you need more. “Stop! You'll end up bonded again and this time it won't be breakable no matter what you do.”

You dive back into his arm and he pulls you in close to him and Mary starts to panic. She rips you apart and slaps you across the face, hard. Elvis hisses at her and pushes her backwards, holding you protectively. Without another thought, he pulls your lips to his and all of a sudden you're both a tangle of tongues and blood and fangs and combined moans as you kiss deeply. He holds your body as you roll against him and it looks like there's going to be no stopping the two of you when Mary grabs a pitcher of water and throws it on you both.

Finally, this wakes you both up as you cough and splutter and look around confused. Mary sighs deeply and falls backwards into a chair.

“What happened to us?” You look at Elvis and then at Mary.

“You almost soul-bonded.”

“We what?” Elvis asks, his eyes wide. Mary gives him an exasperated look.

“Soul-bonded! You almost bound yourselves to each other for eternity!” You crawl off of Elvis sheepishly and stand up and he tries to adjust so that his erection is less noticeable. He looks at you with his eyes wide and round, but the look of pure devotion is gone. Some part of you misses it.

“Now begins his existence as a vampire. You will have to teach him. Can you do that?” You look at Mary as she speaks and nod slowly. “Do not feed from him again.”

“I won't.”

******

You spend the next few nights teaching Elvis everything he needs to know about being a vampire. He learns to feed, to compel, and to clean up his messes before a girl wakes up. Overall, he's a good student, eager to learn and do what he's told, but sometimes you have a hard time pulling him off before he drains a girl completely. You really can't control him.

It scares you to send him off alone, but he has to go back to Germany. You keep in touch and he seems to be doing well, but your chest aches with missing him. He took a part of you when you turned him and now it feels like there's a hole in your heart. He sees you one last time before he leaves for home in 1960.

“Thank you for doing what I asked.” He speaks sullenly, like he's not exactly grateful.

“Elvis, I tried to warn you. This life isn't easy.” You look up at him and he cups your cheek gently.

“It's okay. I asked for it. It's my burden to bear.” The way he talks makes you want to cry. He didn't deserve this. You look down at your shoes to try to hide the tears.

“I'm so sorry.” He tips your chin up so that you're looking into his face.

“Hey. I asked for this. I'll be okay. You just… take care of yourself, alright?” You nod and desperately wish he wasn't leaving. It's stupid and impractical but you're not ready to be without him completely. Something about what you went through together has you wanting to cling to him like your non-life depends on it. He kisses your lips softly one last time and then turns and walks out the door.

But you don't even have time to cry before he's back through the door, his arms around you and his mouth pressed to yours.

“I can't leave.” He murmurs as he kisses down your neck, his fangs grazing the sensitive skin just below your ear.

“You have to go.” You whimper and pull his hips into yours desperately.

“After.” He whispers, scooping you up bridal style and carrying you through your apartment to the bedroom.

When he gets there, he lays you down surprisingly gently and kicks his boots off. You spread your legs as he crawls on top of you, kissing the supple skin of your breasts. He opens your robe to reveal your bra and panties and moans softly when he sees you.

“You're still the most beautiful woman I've ever seen.” He leans down and kisses the valley between your breasts. Your back arches without your control as he continues to press kisses down your stomach to your thighs. A whimper escapes your lips when you feel his fangs graze against the sensitive skin of your inner thigh. “Can I?”

“Fuck. Yes, please.” You try to remember what Mary’s warning was, but at this moment you don't really care. He smiles against your skin and licks a spot just inches from your center.

“Good girl.” He murmurs against you and then sinks his fangs into your thigh. You gasp and moan loudly as he begins to suckle from your leg. “Tastes so good, baby.”

You almost cum just from the sensation of him drinking from you, but he pushes you over the edge when he slips first one and then two fingers up inside you as he sucks. He barely gets his thumb on your clit before you shudder and pulse around his fingers, your orgasm ripping through you like a tsunami. After a few seconds, he licks the puncture wounds and then moves to your clit. You can still feel his fangs as he begins to lick over and around you fervently.

“I already came…” You whisper, your clit swollen and sensitive.

“I know. I want you to do it again.” The vibration of his voice against you makes you want to scream. Instead, you writhe and whimper as he drags his tongue over and around your sensitive bud. The pleasure is overwhelming and you feel another climax gather in your center.

“Oh God, Elvis!” You moan loudly and run your hand in the front of his hair. He groans and keeps licking you like he has nothing left to lose. “Ah! Ah! Ahhhhh!”

Your whole body relaxes as your release rushes through you and you cum hard in his mouth. He carries you through it with his tongue and then kisses your clit softly. As he moves back up your body, your hands begin to tear at his clothing and it doesn't take long for you both to be naked, pressing your sweat and skin against the other. You roll him onto his back and settle with a knee on either side of his hips. He reaches up and holds your face in his hand. There aren't any words, but both of you know what's being said. When you sink down onto his cock, his eyes roll back and he grunts loudly.

“Fuck, baby.” He whispers through gritted teeth as you start to roll your hips against him, pushing him deeper and deeper inside you. Your head drops back and you feel his hands on your breasts as you fuck him, slowly at first but picking up speed with each thrust. Before too long, you're bouncing as hard as you can, slamming yourself down on top of him as he guides your hips with his hands. Eventually, you lean over and kiss his neck and he wraps both arms around you, fucking into you from underneath. You graze your fangs over his skin and he stops.

“No. Mary said not to feed from me or we'll end up bonded again.” You pull back and sit up.

“Oh.” You whisper breathlessly.

“Not that I don’t- I mean-”

“No, it's okay.” Your eyes search his for a bit before you lean over again to hide the tears that have gathered in yours. He curses under his breath and looks up at the ceiling. Is it so terrible if you're bonded?

Without warning, and without pulling out, he rolls over on top of you and slowly rolls his hips forward to meet yours.

“You'll always have a part of me.” He whispers as he fucks into you. “Please believe that.”

You nod and hold onto his shoulders, still trying not to cry.

“I have to cum baby.” You nod, unable to speak. He's kicking himself for not letting you feed from him, but it's too late. His hips stutter into you and he grunts, filling you with his release. When he finishes, he pulls back and looks into your eyes, moving a piece of hair out of your face. “I won't ever forget you.”

You bite your bottom lip to keep the words from tumbling out of your mouth. I love you.

What you don't know, what you'll never know, is he's doing the exact same thing. He lays on your chest for a bit as you stroke his hair before he drags himself away and gets dressed.

In what feels like a few seconds, he's back at your front door, desperately searching for a reason to stay. But you've held back the words, knowing he has to go. He kisses your forehead and your lips one last time.

“I have to go.”

“I know.”

“I'm sorry. I-” Your eyes flick up to his quickly. “I'll miss you. Goodbye, baby.”

You nod and he walks through the door. This time he doesn't come back.

You watch on TV the next day as he waves and smiles and leaves Europe for good. You give yourself three days to mourn, but you're never quite the same after Elvis.

And he's definitely not the same after you.

******

December 1970

“I know I'm asking for a miracle here, but I need you to find her.”

“Boss, why do you need a dancer from the Moulin Rouge?” Elvis runs his hand through his hair and scowls. Most of his bodyguards know what he is, but he still can't admit to why he needs to see you.

“I just do. Now, can you do this, or do I need to ask someone else?” Elvis fiddles with the rings on his left hand nervously.

“I'll make it happen. We'll find her.” Sonny turns and walks from the room, leaving Elvis alone in the TV room at Graceland.

He prays desperately that they'll find you. You're his only hope.

******

To be continued...

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Taglist:

@ccab @aliypop @18lkpeters @dkayfixates @tacozebra051 @your-nanas-house @joshuntildawn13 @lookingforrainbows @60svintage @littlehoneyposts @epthedream69 @louisejoy86 @rjmartin11 @from-memphis-with-love @deltafalax @atleastpleasetelephone @cinnamoroll-things @burnthheparaphilia @jhoneybees @cattcb @everythingelvispresley @returntopresley @searchingforgravity @msamarican @angschrof @lustnhim @polksaladava @librababe99 @hooked-on-elvis @theelvisprincess @makethemorning @peaceloveelvis @mrspresley69

[bronx-bomber87]

Hi!! I just spent the last hour scrolling through your page and I adore everything you have to say about tim and lucy…

So I was curious (because I’m a month into the fandom and I don’t really know anyone yet) what your thoughts, predictions, expectations for season 7 would be?

Sorry if you’ve posted something similar before, please point me in the right direction if you have :)

- Loren

Hi! @moderatelydelusional Nice to meet you, Loren. Thank you for the lovely ask :) Making me all red with your nice comment. So glad you liked everything I've had to say about our lovely ship. Appreciate it so much. Before I answer I want to say welcome to the fandom! We are glad to have you here. 😊 There are so many good blogs on tumblr for them. Glad you chose me as one of them. I am honored. ❤️ I haven't really tackled s7 at all so this is a good ask. Excited to answer it. I'm a detailed woman. So imma break your question down into sections if that's alright. I legit don't know how to be brief about this show or them haha Also will do it with gifs cause that's my thing. Here is my detailed answer below. Hope you enjoy it.

Thoughts on S7- Well we've had ZERO and I mean ZERO spoilers or indicators about this upcoming season. Which I do love them keeping it close to the vest. Honestly I do. Just means they have something incredibly good lined up. They just want to make sure we are surprised. Can't fault them for that. But I'm dying for anything. The end of s6 left us wanting so much more with the scene above. We are all chomping at the bit for any content. I know Eric had a interview couple weeks back about s7. From what little he was able to divulge I am EXCITED.

Here is the link to it. Talks about Tim needing to EARN Lucy back in more ways than one. How she is the love of his life. (Tell us something we don't know haha) But I love Eric referring to her to as such. The personal development for Tim to come as well. Like I said they haven't given us much of anything yet. It's hard to have thoughts when we don't have much to go on. But it seems like it'll be well rounded season. It's always been a character driven show so I think it'll be more than just our ship. Which is fine with me. It is an ensemble cast after all.

I fell in love with this show as a whole when it first launched back in 2018. Give me more Tim/Angela, Lucy/Nyla and Wopez. I'll take all of that. I have been all in from the Pilot. I remember watching it on my lunch break on my phone when it first premiered. I was hooked. When we finally get a promo and a friggin premiere date I can probably be more in depth with my answer. Since we don't have a lot to go on it's hard to have in depth thoughts ha But from what little they've let out I'm quite excited for the journey we're going to embark on. We just need a start date for said journey. All we know is Jan but I need a hard date LOL

Expectations For S7. -I expect Chenford to get back to the softness above. It won't be easy but I expect we are headed back there. I think it's gonna be quite the journey to get us there. Both Tim and Lucy are going to need to grow before we do. They both still have shit to work out. Lucy with her career path and the rough time she had last year. It wasn't just Tim that crushed her. I mean it was a huge headliner but wasn't the ONLY one. Our girl has some communication problems and is like her soulmate in how she handles emotional distress. Expect that to be addressed on some level.

Tim obviously has a lot to make up for and he knows it. That is the first step. I expect we see Tim working constantly to improve himself as a person. To be worthy of Lucy again. He's not going to half ass his healing. He is going to be very Tim in how he goes after it. This is going to bleed into every part of his life. I expect to see that all over his character development in s7.

I also anticipate that we'll see an even stronger and more refined version of Chenford in Season 7, with their characters continuing to grow and evolve. Strong separately and even more so together. I cannot wait for the slow burn of their reconciliation. Going to make all the hurt worth it. It'll be Chenford 2.0 and we are all going to be grateful for that. While losing our minds together it's happening. I would rather have our ship and characters be real and develop. Better that than to be puddle deep like John/Bailey. I'll take the pain of growth over the stagnation of boredom. i.e. Bailian.

Predictions-Obviously I want to predict something like above. Them starting over. Kisses, hugs, and if we're lucky enough to get a repeat of 5x12 on screen. That one I'm straight just trying to manifest lol Possibly Celina catching them or almost doing so when they get back together at her place. These are more hopeful than actual predictions lmao But I mainly predict a deeper intimacy between them when they do reconcile. Stronger communication. It'll be beautiful. I also think we're about to see a side of Tim Bradford we haven't seen before. As we know Lucy brings out the best in this man. The absolute best. We're going to see that on full display.

I think he will continue therapy. I also think we’re going to see a very determined Tim driven in his quest to make amends to Lucy. Which will bring out that new side we haven't seen. It's one of the facets of s7 that has me most excited. And not just for the Chenford portion. (Which does make me giddy to no end) But for him as well. You follow me long enough you'll know I love Tim development. So this excites me so very much.

We watched Tim take strides in his mental health walk and as a person in s6 after 6x07. I expect we're going to see the fruit of that not just in his amends to Lucy. But professionally as well. Tim took quite the fall professionally after being bounced out of Metro. He has fences to mend to Grey, Lt. Pine, and those around him as well in patrol. I see him making those strides and then some.

I predict Lucy is going to finally going to get grounded professionally and personally. (She does have a new roommate. I can see development here too) Lucy got very lost in s6. I think s7 she will be righting her ship. Finding her purpose. My guess was T.O. for her with her dipping her toe with Celina in 6x08. She's so empathetic and willing to slow down and teach. I think that could be a good path for her. Whatever her trajectory is I think it's going to be be worked out in s7 for our girl. It's time for her to get some damn wins. I hope that answers your ask LOL Or maybe was too much? HA Either way I can't wait for s7. I need a promo and a premiere date. Seriously ABC, you're killing us.

[gliphyartfan]

Your dear double anon has returned

Anyway, I hope you had a good night's sleep and breakfast, because I'm back with more thoughts on LU I had this at 4am when I couldn't sleep (that's exactly why this sounds so far-fetched and mixed, perhaps a little meaningless(?)

I've been thinking a lot about Villain Chain lately, you know, by cloudninetonine. Also in humans are hylian space orc reader but that comes later and thinking a lot about cloudninetonine basically since I reread his/her mess au.

This is all set in mess au, in fact.

So far I have only found three writings that involve them and I have not found any more, which is a shame, because I'm interested in the concept of when a hero is a villain and a villain is a hero, I've always been a fan of role reversals in any context.

And one of the writings I read was about how they became like this when their guide/Reader/player died and they made a huge statue for them as a tomb and they see the guide/Reader/player from the original chain and kidnap them to maintain it and so on (this no has minimal relevance, I just woke up very talkative, although I'm sure I sent you messages yesterday)

Yeah, wrong, but I've kept them in mind because, remember the yandere version of cloudninetonine's chain? Where they're older and guide/reader/player isn't really their guide/reader/player but they think it is? Well, here I came up with an interesting continuation.

guide/reader/player is not really the guide from the original chain either.

Whether it's Dark Link or Villain Chain, they corner the reader and are like 'aha! You have no escape, little guide' and with a blank expression guide simply (when the adrenaline and fear have passed), grabs the blade of the sword that is pointing at their neck and bends it.

Here is the first clue that something is wrong, if it is Dark Link, whether by this action or not, he realizes that there is something wrong with the guide, it is not as he remembers it. If it is Villain Chain, there is bewilderment because the guide who described that shadow that plans to betray them did not resemble the guide they had before them who was not affected by magic, potions or weapons.

is not the guide that Dark Link remembers or that he described to Villain Chain because it turns out that is not the guide either, Reader is a guide but not of that specific chain.

Either because Hylia was confused or she searched for a stronger guide/Reader to stop Dark Link she simply looked for a Reader/Guide who she felt had even a modicum of power over the Hylians and found Guide/Reader from Human are Hylians Space Orc.

But that's where my train of thought ends.

Looking back after getting a proper night's sleep and reading this out loud, I feel like this was so far-fetched but my tired, sleep-deprived brain couldn't figure it out in time.I'm not particularly satisfied with these ideas, but perhaps I'll salvage something for the future.

Or maybe I'm thinking of ideas for a Villain Guide/Reader/player getting to know everyone, seeing as how no one has really done anything like this and some players can be evil in video games.

—double anon (since you already know my problem with Tumblr and the fact that I have to send at least two messages for one to arrive, I wasn't sure if I should give myself a name because my attention span It's null and void and I bounce from fandom to fandom every week. and I disappear the moment I decide to give myself a anon name, but I've been paying attention to Linked Universe for over a month, and I think that's reason enough to know that I won't disappear anytime soon, although I have your Tumblr profile saved in my Google bookmarks anyway so I'll still come visit even if it disappears)

This is a doozy. (Quite the long one, tad overwhelming. 😅) I’m not that familiar with villain chain? Let’s see what I can do with what I can figure out.

One thing I realized is that When Reader sees how the Villain Chain practically worships them, they’re baffled.

To this Reader, adventure games are meant to be just that, games.

The idea that she’d be revered as an actual deity is unsettling, and she’s torn between keeping up the act to protect herself or leveling with them. If she lets on that she isn’t their Guide, the Chain only becomes more obsessed, deciding she needs saving from whatever memories she’s ‘lost.’

And if she realized the Chain has suffered from the loss of THEIR Guide, Reader tries to gently reason with them, perhaps offering compassion?

Big mistake sadly. The moment they show even a hint of softness, the Chain decides Reader has truly “returned” to them. They double down on their devotion, misinterpreting kindness as affection, and it fuels their possessiveness.

To jog ‘memories,’ the Villain Chain might recreate locations or scenes from the past with the old Guide.

They could go to absurd lengths ya know, clearing whole areas, painting fake backdrops, even dressing up in the same worn, ragged clothes they had when they met the Guide. Reader plays along, but she’s constantly trying to figure out an escape plan, as she now knows nothing she says or does will convince them she’s not their Guide.

The Chain takes turns watching Reader, monitoring her behavior for signs that she’s “returning” to them. This means Reader can hardly go anywhere without someone at her side or in the shadows. Even a sigh or a glance could be analyzed endlessly.

Twilight would try to remind Reader of the old days by isolating her in forests or mountainous regions, telling tales of their past escapades.

He thinks being in these familiar places will awaken her ‘true self.’ But when this doesn’t work, he only becomes more frustrated, insisting that Reader must remember and that her real memories are just buried.

Hyrule would repeatedly try to heal Reader, convinced they’re suffering from some curse.

Every time Reader resists or tells him to stop, he assumes it’s the curse talking and only becomes more insistent, going as far as sneaking healing spells while she’s asleep or distracted.

[incomingalbatross]

So I put this poll out there a few weeks ago, and I sort of processed the tags and comments as they came in, but I hadn't revisit it after the deadline passed. (Thank you everyone who contributed, either by vote or commentary!)

What I've come away with here is that... there are no magic answers, and a fair number of people are wrestling with the same worries as me. Sad but also reassuring to know I'm not the only one in this boat. :P The three leading answers are "using or planning to use a pen name," "don't expect to be famous enough for it to matter," and, "I DON'T talk about my original writing here."

And now I'm gonna muse out loud about my own perspective. The third of the above options is my current answer, and unfortunately the other two don't really fit my needs, because

a pen name that could be linked to this blog is arguably MORE revealing of private info than one that links to my real life - knowing my real name wouldn't give you access to my dumb fandom opinions and life complaints over the past 6-7 years

there is, for better or for worse, a little Catherine de Burgh voice in my head insisting that if I ever DO write a novel I shall be proficient. I admit it's hubristic but I want to plan for success here xP

And the dilemma that I'm running into, when I think about this, basically is:

On the one hand, if I got seriously into original writing and posted it on here, and then it became successful, there could be an easy bridge for anyone to make between Public-Facing Professional Author Me and Anonymous Private Fandom Me AND whatever I've dropped about IRL Me in the safety of anonymity. This is the kind of thing the internet has made me paranoid about, not for any specific reason, but because I believe separation of spheres is a good thing and there should be some barriers between different parts of my llife.

On the other hand, I would love to talk about my abandoned, languishing writing ideas on here, because I've learned how good a mutual circle is for my fanfiction writing motivation, and while I do technically have an irl writing group right now it's... not the same as Tumblr would be. And if the options are "never finish anything because I'm avoiding community support" or "deal with the potential consequences of potential success after having written something..." Well. The pros of the writeblr approach are clear.

Honestly, the answer might be a sideblog! There might be a way to just... not separate my IDs on here entirely, but an extra step or two of obscurity so it would be harder for someone to make the connection from the outside. I've seen how that can work for other people, and it might be the best answer for me... I'd have to think through the logistics and the ins and outs first.

question I've been mulling over for a while, because the #1 reason I don't talk about original writing ideas on here is that I wouldn't want a future professional/public identity (real name or otherwise) to be connected to my personal/for-fun Tumblr identity

(I would love to hear elaboration on any of these in the tags)

[morbethgames]

Halloween Special, Current Projects, New Patreon Content

I am so sorry about the radio silence as of late. Between the stuff earlier this week (yes, that stuff), dealing with deaths of people, and university; I've been very busy and mentally drained. However, the good news is, you can play the mini game of The Bureau, "Witchy Woman" right now! The link is at the bottom of this post! Eventually I'll integrate it into the main game, or put it out as potential free DLC or something, but for now there are no stats and it's not tied to choices from the base game.

Tonight is a special case. The MCT has been called in as a favor after finishing up our most recent case. A friend of Kris's reached out, and the local P.D. has let the MCT take the lead on this one. A house party in the beginning of October up in Maine has turned sour. A party-goer has been reported deceased.

We just finished a job, but in this line of work, there's always another case to solve. So here I am, approaching the residence with my team, about to find out exactly what happened on this cold, damp night.

Because it's not part of a bigger game or story, and the only pacing I had to worry about was that of the investigation, this is much more freeflow than other investigations in the main story. Go back and forth between the crime scene, the perimeter of the house, interrogations, and more! The more you discover evidence, the more new options will unlock in conversations, and you have an evidence log in the stats section that updates every time you find out something relevant to the case.

I'm only promoting this now, even though it's been done for a couple of weeks, because it was part of a Jam and I didn't think it would be fair if I got votes from a community built over a few years when others in the Jam would not have had that same benefit. I wanted it to be an even playing field, even if it meant holding out for a bit. So, I apologize for making you all wait.

There are still things I'd like to do for this game, things I'll end up adding, but it is at the very least ready to play. It's 40k words, so have at it!

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Right, next up, something I'd like to announce. I'm working on a serialized fiction that I'm (hopefully) planning to turn into a book. The first 3 chapters are going to be posted for free, both here on my blog and on my Patreon, though not quite yet. Chapters after that will be released on Patreon for the people who pay the $5 tier.

I'll be honest, it has been extremely cathartic to go from writing an IF where the chapters are all pretty much the length of a book themselves, to writing an actual book where a chapter is about 4k words. It's a very nice breath of fresh air, and it by no means, entails that I will stop working on Bureau. In fact, it may even help speed up rate of production, funnily enough. Having something to keep my mind turning while having writer's block about a scene in the IF will help me constantly generate ideas, and that's really nice to think about.

A small college town is rocked by a horrific murder. In wake of the events, a couple of friends begin investigating this personal tragedy, determined to get to the bottom of what happened at the Scribe City college. The lesson is quickly thrust upon them that loss leads to pain, but pain is temporary, and loss can be forever. So what comes after the pain? They need to explore that journey together, and in the process, navigate the complicated things feelings that have started to bloom.

The book (serialized fiction for now) , called Love In Stasis, is going to be a 'WLW romance small town college murder mystery'. You will explore the relationships that these characters have and continue to form, and just how messy things get when tragedy sparks love. I have almost 25k words done for it, about six and a half chapters, and I'm going to try to get 50k words done with it by the end of the month. A writing challenge that's totally not tied to the name of any organizations.

If this works out, I could reward patrons with static fiction while not having to worry about providing everyone with constant things tied to the IF itself, and I could work on The Bureau at a pace I'm very comfortable with.

I'm still learning as a writer. I'm still learning new things I like, and how I like to produce content. All I know is that I like producing art in the form of writing, and I most certainly will not stop doing that anytime soon, and now that the Halloween Special is done, I will be getting back to the base game.

Which will start with a complete recoding of the gender variables. I've already started on that process, so no more multiple versions of each chapter. One version. One set of gender variables. Much more condensed coding and script. So, people out there who said that wasn't going to change, I just have to say what I'd said all along. My coding was indeed bad. However I will also say something else I've said all along. I do take criticism.

That being said I'm never using multi-replace and you can't make me. I like being able to read what I'm writing.

More to come in the near future.

Stay Brilliant,

-Vi

https://cogdemos.ink/play/viisbae/the-bureau-halloween-special-witchy-woman

Patreon Link

[idorukiss]

Heres a sorta drabble/headcanon of sorts of how I picture MC's relationship with Rafayel would devleop~ I'm not much of a writer but the brainrot is real and im working on making similar ones for the other boys too!

1,051 words || You can also read it on ao3

‧͙⁺˚･༓･˚⁺‧͙⁺˚･༓･˚⁺‧͙⁺˚･༓���˚⁺‧͙⁺˚･༓･˚⁺‧͙⁺˚･༓･˚⁺‧͙ Xavier ・ Zayne ・ Sylus

There have been many different things in Rafayel's life that inspired him when it comes to his art, But nothing took control of his heart so intensely as much as you have. Like a whirlpool you shook him to his core from that first meeting, and all he wants to do is capture you on his canvas for eternity.

It really was quite the blessing with how willing you were to become his bodyguard- not only can he keep you within arms reach but you can also protect him from all the shady people after his life. Like killing 2 birds with one stone, except you were so much stronger and beautiful than any stone he’s ever set eyes on before

He absolutely felt like a flirt to you at the start with all of the compliments and casual physical touch between you guys, He just loved to say how amazing you are while enclosing you in a deep bear hug. It was strange at first you'd admit, but it never felt like he was trying to make any passes at you or act like he was expecting anything in return. Perhaps that's just how he acts with people he trusts?

When Rafayel isnt painting, you two spend a lot of time outside finding inspiration all around. He usually has a sketchbook with him scribbling away anytime he sees something interesting- the landscapes, pretty flowers, or even a parfait you guys got to share. You’ve seen some of these sketches as he works on them, it always amazes you how much detail he can capture with so few lines.

He never let you fully flip through the sketchbook however, claiming all sorts of reasons why, like that the drawings were scared of the sunlight or you had to go through many trials to be worthy. It was obvious how much he cherished it and you respected his wishes, though it would be nice to reminisce on some of the good times you guys had together again. Though its not like your phone wasn't filled to the brim with photos already

Late one night, you stop by his place to make sure he didn't need any motivation to finish a painting for a deadline set the next morning. You have confidence he could make it in time, he always did, but you want to help him as best as you can otherwise. When you arrive you spot a stunning completed painting and a Rafayel sleeping on the sofa below it- both stunning as they're illuminated by the moonlight.

Taking it upon yourself to clean up his supplies a little, just enough to not be a walking hazard of course, you spot his precious travel sketchbook on the floor. Surely he wouldn't mind if you took a little peak in it, you'd love to see how he finished the last landscape you guys saw before he locked himself up to work. As you flip through the pages you see so many familiar sights from your time together so far, but scattered around them filling maybe even more pages was many drawings of a person. Of you. All surrounded by hearts and little notes about things you've said.

When did he have a chance to draw all of these? Is this how you look to him?? Questions race your mind as your face flushes at the image of him intensely scribbling in the sketchbook as you dance around the beach being dumb. You decide to grab a pencil and add your attempt of a sketch of him in the back, signing it with a little heart of your own. It’s nowhere near his skill level but something that captures how you feel, and maybe he would get a chuckle out of it once he spots it.

You don’t realize when the casual acts of affection he started out with turn slightly more romantic- going from linking arms together to holding your hand, and you swear you feel him press little kisses on the top of your head every time he wraps his arms around you. But you don't hate it, in fact it makes your heart flutter every time you realize it

Rafayel often messages you at the most random times to meet him somewhere, usually it was because he found a stunning view and wanted to share the experience with you. Sometimes he would even show up at your apartment to whisk you away, and every time it filled you with joy. These dates and every moment you get to spend with him fill your heart with so much warmth.

One particularly warm night you were woken up by a call inviting you to the beach near his studio. It was worth crawling out of the bed at an ungodly hour, not only for the view but for him. While you were admiring the waves, he couldn't keep his eyes off you as a cautious pinky is hooked around yours. Two faces flush as you look at him, it lasts for only a moment before its interrupted by your watch.

Your face falls as you read the notification “It looks like I got a last minute mission in the morning…I guess this means I have to head back already.” As you take a heavy step to start walking away he reaches out to stop you with a pleading look on his face “Wait, don’t go yet” “Rafayel…. I’m sorry, I really am. This night- everything was wonderful, it really was” “Can’t you just stay the night?” He wraps his arms around you, nuzzling his face into your neck “Please just stay the night, I don’t want you to leave.” Your heart flutters as you wrap your arms around him in return “Okay, I’ll stay for you my sweet painter”

He is the most clingy man you’ve ever met, constantly torn between wrapping himself around you while peppering every inch of skin with kisses and diving headfirst into hundreds of paintings with you as his muse. His studio would be covered in nothing but paintings of you if he didn't have to focus on his commissions.

He sculpted out a place in your heart that held him, and in turn you've devoted yourself to him- loving him with every fiber of your being

[simmireen]

Hiiiii everyone, you lovely people! 

I wanted to give a little headsup about everything going on!

Let's first officially announce that my adventcalender is progressing very well and currently I am still working on the last posepacks to get it all finished up. Remind me though, IF I am still in this community next year and still wanna do this, that I start in January already (.... finishing 24 posepacks is really a pain!)

I hope you are ready! 

it's not how much we give, but how much love we put into giving...

November will have 4 of the recent pose commissions I did, that will be released so I can focus on that december calender for the rest of the month! If you want to do a commission, note that you have to wait a little longer than normal, since I really want to get this adventcalender done before I start posting in december <3

Then I want to address my recent change of a few posepacks you can find exclusively on ModCollective. For me this opportunity is really amazing. I get to create between a lot of very talented people and seeing my name in between them, is just one of the big goals I had when I discovered I felt I was/am good in something, in well, basically life. Posecreation is making me happy, because I get to tell little stories with my dear sims in them.  On the other side, yes, I have to adjust to their way of working with early access (most of you know how much I hate it and why I don't do it..) and giving away some of the control about releases (I am a control freak, sorry). Yes, you have to create an account there to download. They also have a limit of downloads (10 per hour) if you keep being a free member, but all without intrusive ads. In the end, with a little patience, it's free. And that is what I find important.

Don't worry, most of my posepacks, since I create a lot, will just be distributed through patreon and simfileshare in the 'old way'.

I hope you can be happy for me :) That's the only thing I ask. 

Next thing I want to mention again, is that with releasing my advent calender, the eyelids bug will probably still be there and you will notice it in my poses, because I decided (since I'm rallying hard of this bug to be fixed) not to change anything in my way of posing eyelids.

So I want to ask you again -YES IT'S A NEW TOPIC, because they said they fixed it with the life and death update, but that's not true at all - to hit me too in the new topic.

Even if you think you already did it, please check double if you hit 'me too' on this bug because we have to start over rallying 'me too's!

Here is the link to the topic again: EA HQ

The last Phil is added after they said they fixed it. No change.

Then the last thing because I am thankful. 

You, my amazing supporters, I wouldn't be anywhere without you.

You, the one who downloads that package file everytime I upload anything.

You, the one who uses every posepack I upload or just use one pack that you need in your story.

You, who just enjoys seeing my boys or other sims having a good life.

You, who lurks in the dark.

You, who hearts the post I post.

Thank you <3

[missluthorwillseeyounow]

Happy Holidays, supercorps! Here, have a redraw of a sketch I made this year.

[fourswords]

to be quite honest shadow's characterization in the fsa manga was always something that raised more questions than answers for me because it's like. he's got a mile-wide inferiority complex about being link's shadow we all know this but when did he have the time to develop that inferiority complex in the first place. how long was he lurking around after ganon created him before the events of the manga actually started. what did he witness or hear or both to make him so fucking angry

[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.

[im2tired4usernames]

Ugh I was excited for today until I found out I'd have to spend it with people that actively make me hate being alive hate the future and drain me off all energy physically mentally spiritually like a vampire I can't stand to be around her she is the definition of stupidity and even then that's generous as fuck this bitch has filled her brain with so much garbage I watch her brain cells die at alarming rates every single time she uses her vocal cords her giggles make me want to jam a sewing needle into my ear repeatedly so I can never have to hear it again its a friendly reminder that my parents decisions this time my dad's constantly makes me want to die