#this is all so very normal i promise

[andillwriteyouatragedy]

sometimes it's hard for me to read a book because i'm jealous that i didn't write it

[verflares]

i've been looking everywhere for you!

[petercushing]

returning here for one second to comment on the till/joe/alena/rammstein accusation thing.

you have to be incredibly naive to not believe it. everybody who’s been in the fandom for more than a year knows that there’s a whole system of picking out girls for till (and apparently for richard as well, idk, i was only obsessed with till) and getting them to afterparties. the only thing you need to do is be a hot young (in some cases very fucking young) female. that’s all there is and the talk about how “they sometimes also invite men” is ridiculous because men are never invited to row 0 for one specific purpose, they are there as friends of the band, not as sex objects. the fact that the fandom just accepted that a bunch of (often barely legal) girls are being picked out for every concert just to sexually satisfy their idol which they adore and would do anything for (that’s literally grooming btw, it’s not the case of “oh they wanted it” if they’re literally obsessed with a stranger 40 years older than them) is kind of fucked up if i’m being honest. i was the most hyped about rammstein when i was 17/20 and only now i’m seeing how destructive all of that was. defending someone who absolutely does not deserve it and being affirmed by members of the fandom who are way older that it’s all fine is not normal. i’m only writing this post to try to speak sense into some people here: stop acting like you know them, stop defending them because you’re a fan, stop being delusional and putting impressionable girls in danger because you can’t accept the fact that a 60 year old man in power is a fucking pervert and a sex pest.

[harvestmoth]

okay last one. au where nothing goes wrong at all ever (a lie) and melia venam gay moment

[leatherbookmark]

our flag means death S2E3: the innkeeper

[gothiccmothie]

"It's Election Day!"

(Vote for Ms. Mingus Crown! it's not like you have other option!)

[pinkieroy]

And another thing (this is the last one, I promise, I will stop going on tags and rabbitholing my way into reading discussions i disagree with)

Another thing I don't know where came from is the idea that the rest of the party doesn't interact with their relationship, that it is something isolated and that the others don't comment or interfere with, that it's kept apart from the group, because that is simply not true?

I'm too lazy to look for exact quotes right now, but in episode 65 Ashton was the one, after Laudna's outburst, that insisted for her to go somewhere to reconnect with Imogen, sure Imogen kept saying she would be with Laudna, but Ashton very clearly knew that some time alone with Imogen could make her feel better.

But you also have other things sprinkled out through the campaign like the "are you staring because you are jealous?" From Fearne during the dusk arc, FCG after getting the share dream spell suggesting numerous times to use with them, FCG getting Imogen to kiss Laudna's forehead for the ritual, Orym comparing Imogen's loss to his own six years before, "that dead lady's got a lot of love in her heart", Ashton and FCG helping Laudna on the gift shop, Fearne trying to to help in episode 65 telling Laudna Imogen was thinking about her the whole time.

My point is the party is not alienated from them, they have private moments, sure, but some post I read was talking about how the party doesn't interfere with the "stagnation" of their relationship, which just sounds so weird to me? Where exactly do they need to interfere? Unless one of them was having trouble and was asking for advice (which is something that, ya know, happened) I don't see why they need to interject, unless you want their relationship/dynamic to change, because it is not your cup of tea, so it isn't that the other characters don't interact with their relationship is that you want the interaction to be different (which is valid, I disagree but everyone has their taste in shipping and fiction in general), but trying to say that they keep their relationship far removed from the others is not really true is it?

[cassmouse]

Do y'all have any idea how much self restraint it's taken to not add 'Girl on Fire' to the Phoebe/Melody playlist just because I think it would be really funny

[suffarustuffaru]

why otto is so pissed off at subaru (arc 8 ch 24)

hello im otto posting Again but im writing this in an attempt to understand this subject myself (and totally not as a reference for later…) and also bc some people in the fandom seemed to be confused on Why ottos so angry at the moment. but i really think the key reason why hes so mad at subaru right now comes from this: otto treasures the people he cares about far above anyone else—to the point where if he needs to make sacrifices, he absolutely will because the people he cares about (his friends in emilia camp) go First before everyone else in his mind.

like. thats ottos key reason for everything hes been doing in arc 8. all his other reasoning branches off from that—like him wanting to leave vollachia for dead and only take the people his camp cares about. otto sees the path that will keep his camp safest—ie just going into vollachia to rescue rem and subaru and then immediately getting out—and he chooses that rather than subaru and emilias more noble approach of refusing to leave vollachia and its population of 50 million people to die. otto himself is aware that his own strategy is Callous, especially after roswaal told him in chapter 24 that he agrees with ottos proposed strategy of just leaving vollachia. but otto thinks that its 1. entirely necessary and 2. he Knows that thats the optimal way to keep the emilia camp safe.

he knows that staying in vollachia and helping vincent is a massive risk to his whole camp. otto being a merchant values equivalent exchange and Hates too much cost, which is On Top of otto knowing that going out of their way to help vollachia is risking the entire emilia camp’s lives. but otto Knows subaru and emilia. and he knows that subaru and emilia are idealists at heart that will do everything they can to save Everyone, which is why despite being Extremely Unhappy about all of this, otto plays hard to get so vincent is the one who asks for their help. that way, at least the decision to help vollachia looks more like accepting the request of vollachias emperor and adding more accomplishments under their belt and Less Like just going out of their way to vollachia for no benefit at all.

otto valuing his camp above everything else is also why he creates distance between himself and julius and anastasia and emphasizes that theyre enemies. for otto, its Absolutely the emilia camp above everyone else.

then theres the whole louis situation. otto, of course, knows that subaru cares about louis Despite everything shes done.

so. essentially. i think ottos extremely pissed about subaru always going out of his way to try and be a hero because otto knows this comes at a Detriment to subaru (bc otto CARES about subaru!!! he knows subaru is WAY too selfless and forgiving and he cant agree with that!!!) and otto worries for the cost of subarus decisions, especially with the current conflict regarding louis. otto has accepted that, unlike the majority of his camp, that he has to be the Bad Guy. because in ottos mind, no one else in his camp is going to be bold enough to be the ruthless morally questionable one. he thinks its 100% necessary to play this role to minimize the costs and threats to his camp.

which is why he hasnt told anyone, despite knowing this from his dp, that louis/spica is innocent.

hes fully aware that—even though hes manipulating his own camp—louis will be more likely to be eliminated if he keeps quiet about the fact that she has Zero malice. louis being eliminated means one less threat to his camp. and otto KNOWS that subaru cares about louis and is upset at the idea of her dying (which is at least partly why otto snapped at julius in chapter 23!!), but ottos decided that killing louis comes at a far less cost than keeping her alive. because keeping her alive means dealing with the consequences of the emilia camp calling her an ally and rem and subaru recognizing her as their daughter when louis has affected So Many people. otto knows this and wants to prevent it at all costs.

otto wants her dead for these reasons. otto figures that he has to be the one walking in darkness bc he not only wants to help emilia and subaru and preserve their idealism (bc he Knows that its important to them!! its who they are at heart and he cares about them in turn bc of their kindness and goodness!!!), but otto also wants to help by being the necessary evil. because someone has to.

that, of course, wont stop otto from being pissed at subarus decisions. this also, of course, wont stop subaru from being pissed if he ever finds out otto withheld the fact that he knows louis is 100% innocent just so he can make sure that 1. the rest of emilia camp stays suspicious of louis and 2. louis gets killed. i really do think ottos questionable decisions will eventually catch up to him—because he stands in direct opposition to everything subaru stands for.

subaru wants to save everyone. he wants to have it all, even if it costs him. otto, meanwhile, chooses only who he cares about because hes not idealistic enough to believe he can have everything, and he believes that sacrifices have to be made even if its cruel. and he knows that subaru cant do that, but it still angers him because hes trying to keep subaru safe while subaru insists on trying to accomplish everything without sacrificing anyone. otto doesnt think its possible at all. but otto knows its not in subarus nature to be pragmatic.

which is why otto takes A Lot of the things subaru has been doing in arc 8 Extremely Personally. because its Very personal for otto.

[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.

[godbirdart]

i know i talk about formline work a Lot but like

we’re super lucky to have artists creating this artwork today. while being decently widespread in the pacific northwest, between the tragedies imposed upon the PNW communities by settlers - disease, famine, displacement etc - formline art could’ve gone extinct. we’re seeing a resurgence from the lull of art that occurred not even a couple hundred years ago

there’s no question that there’s a lot of cultural recovery that’s underway alongside this resurgence. we’re still reuniting communities with their work as recent as February 2023. nothing hurts an artist [and by proxy, their community] quite like having their work stolen - especially a culturally significant piece.

i just feel super fortunate that despite everything, we have indigenous artists today that share their works with us. this isn’t even limited to PNW art. I’m grateful I can visit a museum, owned by the local indigenous community, where i can explore Plains art in its rightful home. i’m grateful that i get to learn about my neighbours and that they can share their stories and culture on their terms.

tl,dr: idk!! we should celebrate and support and get to know our neighbours better!! thank you artists for sharing your work

[benevolenterrancy]

AND IT'S COMPLETED! Last chapter finally posted!

The Torchwood team manages to get themselves dumped into the middle of the Korean War and have to struggle their way through injuries, medical staff, time anomalies, demon hunters, and more general confusion than even they're used to dealing with on the regular in order to find a way home.

Meanwhile the MASH crew get a bunch of British spooks who just may win for being the weirdest patients they've ever had, and that's saying a lot.

[lilbittymonster]

27. What’s ONE object that’s important to them?

I just did this for Kitali and Estinien so I'll do one for Aymeric and Estinien, since I don't think i talk about them as often.

Aymeric's parents had a set of cobalt blue and gold drinking glasses. They were a wedding gift from some relative, and were Eastern (Thavnairan specifically) make, and were thus Very Costly To Import, all that nobility posturing. And they were regularly used and were a common sight around the house as an evening wind down drink by the fire before bed.

Some Time Later, after the death of Aymeric's parents but before the end of their romantic relationship, Estinien was over one night and they had these glasses out on the side table and, as two young twenty somethings are wont to do, they got a bit Handsy on the couch. One of the glasses ended up getting elbowed and fell off of the side table and shattered. Estinien swore up and down that he would find replacements for them, and Aymeric assured him that he did not need to, the relatives who gifted them were no longer in the picture anyways, there was no one left to disappoint.

(It still stung a bit because they were his parents' but he wasn't going to make Estinien any more guilty.)

Fast forward several years. Aymeric receives an unmarked parcel in the mail. It's a wooden box filled with fine wood shavings that smell like sea salt, with two matching cobalt blue and gold drinking glasses carefully nestled inside. He doesn't need a note to know who it's from.

Thanks for the ask @oh-yeah-no

Ship Preference Asks

[ofcowardiceandkings]

portuguese boyfriend's mum: oh he looks red is he burnt do you need cream?

boyfriend: no he's just english

💀💀💀

[threepoint14art]

comes out of my university induced come yet again: animation memes demon got me, this is very simple and repetitive but i love animation memes amen

I get chased off the internet for having too many fnafhs ocs more at 7

[asstariontrash]

Tav Tag!

Inspired by @inaconstantstateofchange's entry -- big thanks to them for gently motivating me and also to @triumphingmybest for the very cool template!

I want to draw my Tav & talk about them more on this blog, but I wanted to introduce them properly first. Meet Hemlock, my godless Oathbreaker paladin who's nevertheless trying his best all the time:

I've been using #tav/astarion and #tav: hemlock on this blog to tag things that especially remind me of them, so if you're interested in more Hemlock vibes, give that a peek.

You can find a blank Tav Tag template here!

I am very shy but very eager to perceive other people's characters. Tagging @beaubambabey & @jellymellydraws in the softest, lowest-pressure way imaginable, and YOU, if you're reading this and would like to talk about your Tav too!

(also please behold my redemption Durge under the cut, because this was getting long:)

I drew Century already over here! Their tag is #durge: century. It was important to me that they be Very Pathetic At All Times; never more than 30 seconds away from dissolving into tears.

Hemlock is also a mess and also about two steps away from a nervous breakdown for most of the game, but at least he hides it better. He's just starting to crack, whereas Century has already been smashed to smithereens, you feel? (Astarion gets his teeth into both of them, for better or worse...)

I just really like characters who're in the midst of a faith/personal identity crisis, it fuels me.