#then I'm all caught up here

[seventh-district]

Making Incorrect H:SR Quotes Until I Run Out of (hopefully) Original Ideas - Pt. 4 - Nuthin' but Boothill Edition

[Pt. 1] [Pt. 2] [Pt. 3] [Pt. 5] [Pt. 6]

[booasaur]

Special Ops: Lioness - 1x06

[general-cyno]

I haven't stopped thinking about zolu after wano bc isn't it crazy that zoro, as enma's new wielder, has declared he might as well become the king of hell and it turns out he's a descendant of the shimotsuki/frost moon family line, making him a descendant of shimotsuki ryuma the god of the blade whom he resembles physically, whose sword zoro earned after defeating his zombie in thriller bark and who's considered a hero of wano that's only rivaled now by joy boy - luffy's sun god nika the warrior of liberation and joy. that both zoro's presence and luffy's df awakening as nika/joy boy in wano were considered the "work of fate". how zoro was luffy's first crewmate, one he actively sought after learning just his name and fearsome reputation. the whole pirate king and greatest swordsman business. their parallels to roger and ray. how they both have the will of kings/conquerors. I feel insane

[arcshuttle]

Opportunist may be our inner negotiator and can, in the right context, be great at talking us out of a pickle, but he also carries so so much of our neurodivergency by being so so tonedeaf in the worst possible situations. I love him.

[iwritenarrativesandstuff]

Trigun Thoughts Vol. 1 Pt. 2

So now that I've finished with volume 1, I just wanted to write down a couple thoughts I've had and neat things to point out so far

When I was watching Stampede, I took note of a few kind of textbook avoidant behaviours Vash engages in, and lo and behold, here he is in the manga displaying even more of them. I'll list out a few here.

In order, we have:

Casually asking for a time limit on the interaction (ie. "How long do I have to keep this up before I can leave?")

Attempting to lose people in a crowd

Leaving without saying anything (and as a bonus, dreading being recognized in public)

Over-indulging or over-involving oneself in social events to create a viable excuse to leave suddenly (in this case, he uses alcohol as a reason to "pass out")

Sleeping to avoid unwanted conversation

Escaping to the bathroom to get away for a bit (and also to grumble about it haha)

Playing off sincere reactions by deliberately allowing them to be misinterpreted to avoid personal questions

It's really obvious, even this early in the manga, that Vash is intentionally avoiding prolonged interaction with people, and only involving himself in situations by necessity. He doesn't like attention on himself - the only reason he intentionally draws it is to divert it away from others.

The reason for this is a bit muddy though. It does seem that Vash doesn't particularly enjoy being caught up in drama, and it is also very likely he wishes to get in and out of places as quickly as possible to avoid them getting caught up in his drama too. It may even be that he finds prolonged socializing kind of tiring; that he needs a certain amount of time to himself.

But then there's also this bit, shortly after the celebration, where he pretends to pass out.

This brings in a bit of a guilt aspect to it. It likely has to do with July, or maybe it's due to something else (at this point, we can't say), but I think it's notable that Vash cuts things off shortly before they become intimate. He can play along to make others happy and to share in their joy for a bit, but the second things get too personal or focused on him, he will quietly slip away. Now this is specifically an instance of physical intimacy, but I think it'd probably hold for emotional intimacy as well, given the continuous avoidance and misdirection he does to prevent too many questions.

I made some commentary on Stampede Vash's self-punishing behaviours - specifically, the way he denies himself food. I don't want to get too into it because I don't know if everyone reading this has seen Stampede, but food is framed as something to be shared in the show - so, denying himself food is denying himself the right to share with others, which is denying himself belonging, which is denying himself any semblance of intimacy. (It means other things too, as food-sharing is associated with Rem, but I don't want to get too into it here.)

Vash in the manga doesn't seem to have the same issues with eating, but this is a similar premise - he's denying himself intimacy out of a sense of not being deserving of it.

So, then, there are probably many interwoven reasons for Vash's avoidance - he's sick of the chaos that follows him around, he doesn't want others getting hurt, he gets tired from having to "play it up" all the time, and he seems to also feel that he doesn't deserve that closeness. I'm intrigued to see how Vash's avoidance will be tackled going forward (I'm assuming it will?), and I suspect, more than there being one right reason for it, that all these reasons are actually true to an extent.

On a completely different note, this panel here is the biggest mood. I feel it in my bones.

[pencap]

people still occasionally tag my poems as stucky / stucky-coded / etc and that amuses and delights me. i have been Seen and Identified accurately and i cannot deny my roots. even though i am no longer intentionally writing for or about them i still love the same kinds of archetypes and narratives and dynamics that drew me to them in the first place

[strawberrywindow]

I couldn't stop thinking about an AU where Daniel resorts to gathering vitae again, this time to 'cure' Hazel, after his Brennenburg adventure💫, thoughts all mainly derived from this loadscreen text that tells us that Hazel is still in hospice care by the time the game's story began.

As much as I love Daniel, I don't think he really learned all that much from his experience even in the most charitable ending towards him in which he saves Agrippa. I can very, VERY easily see him slipping back into old ways if it meant saving Hazel. The most he seems to approach viewing torture as bad is when he realizes he himself no longer counts as an innocent so he can't justify killing others to save himself anymore. But killing no good, horrible, bad people to save HAZEL? Now, we're cooking with gas 😀 💀

[makeste]

Loving the return of the BNHA reactions - any further updates since vol 36?

yes, actually! so there has been a change of plans! here's the deal:

so as you're probably aware, after all of my fuffering two weeks ago about whether or not to skip ahead to the newest chapters, I decided to roll with the majority of people who advised me to keep plugging away at the old chapters first.

HOWEVER, I'm sad to report I only made it up to chapter 370 before I was waylaid by unforeseen circumstances. said circumstances being that my almost four-year-long streak of being Covid-free finally came to an end last week. 😭 it was good while it lasted. but yeah, that kind of took me out for a solid chunk of days. thankfully I'm feeling better now!

then a couple of days ago, I received an ask from a kind individual who informed me that there were in fact a lot of things happening right now in the manga which are very pertinent to my interests, and which I probably would want to experience and enjoy here in the moment alongside my fellow fans!

so after some consideration I took their advice and skipped ahead to read chapters 404, 405, and 406. and having now done so, I can say with certainty that it was the right call for me and I do not regret it whatsoever! because holy shit, these chapters are life.

so, long story short, I technically still have 33 chapters to go (which I will be resuming this weekend). but also, there's going to be a full-blown chapter 406 recap going up in like an hour or so from now lol. that's just how the dice fell. blame it on the coronavirus sapping away all of my remaining willpower. and Horikoshi for writing three back-to-back wish fulfillment chapters seemingly especially for me. what a generous man.

[snail-drop]

✨My FFXIV profile charms are finally done, and up for preorder!✨ - Double-sided to showcase their growth🌱 - 3" tall & wide, gloss coat on reverse 🌅 - Stuck between Zenos, Alisaie, and G'raha (or anyone)? Discounted bundles of 3 available during preorders ONLY!

I'm also moving next week, so purchases made during this preorder phase would help a homie breathe a little easier! 💛

(Reblogs super appreciated, with the way social media is going right now 😔) Thanks for checking these out! More talk in the tags ahaha ✨My etsy store! ✨

[imogenkol]

— OCS AS HORROR THEMES/TROPES

I was tagged by @corvosattano and @simonxriley to do this uquiz! Thank you 💕💕

tag list (ask to be added or removed!): @adelaidedrubman @florbelles @marivenah @voidika @kyber-infinitygems @inafieldofdaisies @socially-awkward-skeleton @aceghosts @carlosoliveiraa @risingsh0t @unholymilf @thedeadthree @cassietrn @jackiesarch @gwynbleidd @shellibisshe @loriane-elmuerto @katsigian @captastra @simplegenius042 @theelderhazelnut @g0dspeeed

MEAT AS HORROR

meat hooks and conveyor belts and cold metal. the warm eyes of a stupid animal, completely unaware of the watering mouths that await it. "cut here" lines drawn on the body, slabs of steak that bleed and bleed, unrelenting. are you hungry? would you kill to stay alive? you feel like prey, or maybe like predator. sinew is stuck between your teeth, and gore dribbles down your chin. don't chip your teeth on the bones. you feel like the top of the food chain, and don't see the eyes gleaming behind you.

JUST CATHOLIC TRAUMA

(tw for implications of self harm) here god is judgment. every action is weighted, every action is watched. tally marks on a scoreboard, on skin, your body on a golden scale, and you can't shed enough weight to stop it from tipping. worship isn't enough. sacrifice isn't enough. guilt lays across you in layers. blankets, sheets of snow, cling-wrap cutting off your circulation. you can't save yourself, but you can never stop trying. fire licks at your heels, a constant reminder of what is inevitably waiting for you.

HEAVEN AS OBLIVION

there is absolutely nothing for you now. you are dead but not gone, you've passed on to the next realm and hit an infinitely extending wall. your fingers dissolve before your eyes, your eyes melt out of your head, your head does not exist. you are not present anywhere, and you cannot hear anything. you've dodged hell, but at what cost? this is all there is now.

FAMILY AS A CULT

you will never need anyone else. outsiders will hurt you, aim to corrupt you and ruin you and leave you in pieces, but your family will always be there for you. everyone has the same eyes, the same smile. the same sickly yellow light cast over their skin. the same tastes, the same food that melts to gray sludge on your tongue. family recipe. hugs last too long, touches linger and sting like sunburn. don't stray too far. if you come back looking like a wolf rather than a sheep, the dogs will eat you.

[msvelawciraptor]

I paused my Althaar relisten because I was not emotionally prepared to listen to episode 18 again. Then, driving back from Dallas today felt like a great time to pick it back up.

You know what's not smart? Listening to something you God damn well know will make you cry at highway speeds.

[neroniiii]

gange

[zentriii]

Dating your enemies sibling

SakuAtsu or OsaSuna (you decide cause I can’t lol)

sakuatsu it is :D

Kiyoomi stretches languidly on her bed. She’s got the day off today and finally has a moment for herself after finishing up her chores. All she wants to do is watch anime with her girlfriend until it’s time for lunch.

“Omi-chan!” Atsumu singsongs, walking out of her bathroom in nothing but shorts and a tank top. Kiyoomi pretends like she can’t see her tits through it and rolls onto her stomach with a groan. She’d rather stare shamelessly, but Atsumu’s ruthless with her teasing and they’ve already had to change her bedsheets once today.

Atsumu drops down and plasters herself over Kiyoomi’s back, undoubtedly pouting at Kiyoomi lack of affection.

“Ugh you’re all wet, did you even dry yourself off?” Kiyoomi wreathes under Atsumu, hoping that there isn’t an Atsumu-shaped water stain across her back.

“Course I did,” Atsumu squawks. “Sides I wanted to ask ya-”

“No.” Kiyoomi cuts her off. Atsumu’s been asking her for the same thing all day- impressive given that the day’s not even half over- but her answer isn’t changing. Kiyoomi does not want to go to Osamu’s housewarming party next week.

A part of her is proud that she was able to afford her own home, that Onigiri Miya’s become a successful chain. But every other part of her is still a first year university student and unable to process her embarrassment and let go of petty resentment.

If Kiyoomi doesn’t think about it, it doesn’t matter.

“Pleaseee,” Atsumu whines softly in her ear.

Kiyoomi flips them over and straddles Atsumu’s lap before Atsumu can clock how off kilter that left her. It’s a last ditch attempt of changing the topic, but she takes advantage of the towel Atsumu dropped on their bed and works it through her hair.

She tsks. Atsumu’s a filthy liar; her hair’s absolutely not been dried.

It’s painfully unfair how healthy it is with the way she takes care of her hair. Which is to say, Atsumu does not. Hasn’t even heard of the concept. Kiyoomi hates her a little for it. Atsumu won the genetic lottery with naturally thick hair and she doesn’t even know it.

Kiyoomi doesn’t realize when Atsumu wraps a hand around her waist until she squeezes gently. It’s an Atsumu-thing: fiddling with whatever’s in her hands. Kiyoomi wonders for a moment if there’s anyone else in the fucking world whose lap she could sit so comfortably in.

“Fine,” she sighs.

If Kiyoomi can’t go her whole life closing her eyes to everything she doesn’t like, she can at least hold Atsumu’s hand about it. Acquiescing isn’t so hard if she’s not alone.

“Really?” Atsumu perks up, light dancing in her eyes. Kiyoomi’s just a girl- how could she ever not feel like she’s at the top of the world with Atsumu looking at her like this?

Kiyoomi’s still Kiyoomi though, for better and for worse. She’s not throwing herself into the deep end without an out. “I’m not staying the whole time- you can if you want but I’m going to leave early.”

Atsumu’s got mischief in her eyes and Kiyoomi already know she’s already worked her way under the lines she just drew. “Then let’s go to Samu’s for lunch today.”

What.

Atsumu must read the disgust-slash-confusion off her face because she immediately goes to sell her point. “If ya don’t wanna come to dinner with everyone, we can just crash at her store. What’s she gonna do? Kick two payin’ customers out?

Kiyoomi wants to dig her nails under Atsumu’s skin and rip the smirk off her face. She’s been got and knowing her, Atsumu’s only gonna keep pushing.

They’re too similar for her to not.

She'd rather deal with Osamu without being in front of the rest of Atsumu's family though so Kiyoomi snorts, “You’re on being-a-menace duty.”

“That’s just my everyday babe,” Atsumu winks horribly. She looks ridiculous and Kiyoomi will never tell her that. She keeps her girlfriend’s goofiness close to her heart. It might be an open secret between their friends, but she’s the one who gets to see it everyday.

There’s only threads of hope that today won’t be a shitshow of petty and snide comments between her and Osamu but at least Atsumu can step in before they can go too far. That’s a hope Kiyoomi can count on at the very least.

“Alright, let’s go now.” Kiyoomi abandons her comfortable seat in favour of looting through Atsumu’s clothes for one of her hoodies.

Atsumu groans and flops onto her back dramatically. “Now?”

“Yes now. I don’t want to deal with the lunch rush that’ll come later. Get your lazy ass up.”

“Yer cruel so Omi-Omi,” Atsumu whines as she gets up anyways.

“Are you finally realizing?” Kiyoomi teases. Honestly they’re both horrible. It’s half of why they work.

Atsumu just laughs in her face.

Kiyoomi isn’t suddenly optimistic or anything, but she isn’t dreading going to Onigiri Miya’s as much. She can be mature about this.

[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.

[spaghett-onaplate]

i need to pack my bags and get the hell out of frown town

[masteredinstinct]

if you catch louis looking @ your muse like this spray water at him