#and the formatting of it as italics

[elsmstrss]

i wasnt gonna write anything today but i’m laying in bed rn and i was thinking !! (i know… first red flag) BUT:

ellie likes you wearing her clothes a little too much

tags: ellie williams x fem!reader , possessive!ellie , extremely self-indulgent , ellie wears boxers, because i said so, lapslock, smut (ish) , thigh-riding (hmm my favorite!) , dom!ellie, sub!reader

idk if this is a oneshot or a really long hc but enjoy !

<3

it was a random afternoon in the middle of winter. you had invited yourself over to your girlfriend’s place, cold and reeking of horse as you’d spent all day at the stables.

you don’t bother knocking, pushing the door open, stepping inside, shedding your coat and throwing it over a nearby chair. you’re tugging your boots off, supporting yourself on the doorframe when you hear a shout from the bathroom, “babe! that you?”

you follow the sound of your girlfriends voice, sock clad feet pattering against the wood floors. you crack the bathroom door open, peaking your head in, smiling at the sight of her putting her short hair into a half bun. her forearms flexed with the movements and your eyes trailed over her tattooed arm.

“ellie,” you whisper yell, effectively spooking her, causing her to flinch and whip her head towards you.

“fuck babe what did i tell you about that shit? you’re gonna kill me one of these days”. ellie’s wide eyes and slacked jaw created the funniest look of bewilderment, causing you to let out a not-so-subtle laugh.

ellie scoffs but you notice her lips quirk as she tries to hide the smile creeping up on her expression. she suddenly pulls on your wrist and you stumble into her arms. she plops a big wet kiss in between your brows.

“ugh gross!” you complain, reaching up to wipe the damp feeling from your face but ellie beats you to it, thumbs gently rubbing at the crease there.

“oh you love it” ellie leans down for a second, less wet, peck on your lips, face scrunching up as she pulls back. “jeez you stink,”

you pout, ready to quip back but you couldn’t even argue. you did stink.

“wanna shower love? it’ll warm you up too,” you don’t even that you had been shivering until you feel ellie’s big, warm hands rub up and down on your arms, trying to thaw you out.

“i didn’t bring any clothes els. you’re just gonna have to deal with me, stink and all,” you tease. ellie just huffs out a laugh and and squeezes your shoulders.

“wait here.”

she comes back a few moments later, a stack of clothes on top of a messily folded towel. “here,” she places the tower of fabric into your arms and turns on her heels, “take your time, i’ll find us a movie in the mean time.” the door shuts behind her.

you turn the faucet on and strip your dirty clothes as you wait for the water to heat up. by the time you’ve removed all your clothes and jewelry, it’s scalding, steam filling the small room, just the way you like.

you instantly feel your body relax as it warms up from the shower. you wash the stable smell from your skin and hair, spending just a little longer than usual after rinsing, not wanting to leave the warmth just yet.

you finally turn the shower off, blindly reaching for the towel through the curtain, wrapping yourself up and stepping out. you stand in front of the mirror, clearing the haze from the glass with your hand, revealing a slightly blurry reflection of yourself.

you dry yourself as thoroughly as possible before turning to the small stack of clothing ellie had given you. it included an old, lived in gray hoodie and a pair of loose black and white plaid boxers. you shake your head, laughing to yourself at the mens underwear. ellie swears by them and often goes on tangents about how much more comfortable they are compared to women’s underwear.

“seriously babe, it’s actually so fucking unfair like??”

you pull the hoodie over your head. it smelled so much like ellie. it made you dizzy, her scent intoxicating and you couldn’t help the small throb in your cunt as a result.

you finish getting dressed and step out of the bathroom, steam escaping into the main room. you spot ellie on the bed, flipping through her dvd collection. without looking up she asks, “ok, what are we feeling? cheesy rom-com or equally cheesy thriller?”

“whichever one will make me want to rip my eyes out less,” you answer, joking but, not really.

“okayyy thriller it is,” she stands up and puts the disc into the player, “hey do you mind grabbing the re-“ she abruptly cuts herself off when she turns around and finally sees your figure.

you’re just standing there, ankles cross, hands playing with the frayed ends of the hoodie’s sleeves as you patiently wait for her to set everything up. you pretend not to notice as her eyes slowly drag up your legs, eyes slightly glassy as they trail up your body.

“grab what?” you ask, looking around the room. your only met with silence, “el!”.

that seemed to knock her out of her stupor, clearing her throat and stuttering out, “t-the um,” cough “ the remote. can you grab the remote please”. her voice dying off at the end, slightly hoarse.

you finally end up the in the bed together, ellie sat up, back against the head board, you tucked into her side. she’s stroking your hair and you sigh softly, settling into your favorite spot.

not even five minutes into the movie, you feel ellie shift and maneuver you, now half on top of her. she leans down and inhales. “fuck”.

you look up to see she looks almost like, in pain. “els what’s wrong?”

“nothing it’s just,” she moves her hands down, gripping your sides, “you smell like me.”

the tone of her voice, low and possessive, and slightly strained, causes butterflies to erupt in your lower stomach. ellie leans down and begins to leave kisses along your jaw and neck, sucking a little bit harsher each time. you bite your lip and sigh, trying to focus on the movie.

ellie knows exactly where to kiss and bite, leaving you squirming and desperate for more. “ellie,” you whine out, you sound out of breath already and you feel ellie smirk into your skin.

“what baby? gotta use your words,” she gropes the padding of fat on your hips, manhandling you to be fully on top of her. you want so badly to move, grind your hips down into her lap, feel some sort of relief but her grip on you is strong, keeping you in place.

“need it els, please”

“please what, pretty?” she sounds breathless herself, the sight of you needy and flushed on top of her like this makes a rush of arousal flood through her, needy for you too.

“touch me. please make it better,” words were becoming difficult, already slipping into that headspace, easily submitting to ellie. the slight embarrassment of being forced to voice your wants and desires makes you that much wetter and you know it won’t take much to tip you over the edge tonight.

ellie finally lifts you up slightly, angling her thigh up and grinding you down slowly onto her leg. the whine you let out would have embarrassed you but you’re far too desperate for any kind of stimulation to care.

“that’s it baby. look at you, so pretty in my clothes,” she groans out, just the sigh of you withering in her lap enough to make her cum right then.

you want more. you’re both still clothed and the friction against your clit is just barely enough but you can’t be bothered to stop and take it off, too far gone and chasing the feeling that’s building up, your lower tummy clenching.

you start to speed up, palms resting on top of ellie’s hands that are now on your waist and thigh. your moans and whines get louder and more desperate and ellie, who knows your body better than anyone, can tell you’re already close.

“yeah baby? already? such a good girl. my good girl. mine.”

you love when your girlfriend gets like this so you can’t help yourself when you spur her on.

“yours yours yours” you chant like a mantra. this causes something to snap in ellie because before you realize, you’re flipped onto your back, ellie slotting her knee in between your thighs. she pulls your hips back down and guides your movements, causing direct friction to your sensitive bud.

“oh- ellie!” you sob, it’s beginning to become all too much and your hands hold onto her forearms, nails digging into the skin there as you feel your orgasm building.

“gonna cum for me? that’s it love, take what you need,” it only takes a few more grinds and a particularly desperate groan from ellie above you that sends you over the edge, climax hitting you suddenly and hard. ellie talks you through it, leaning down and whispering sweet praises, lips grazing the shell of your ear

your mouth hangs open, eyes squeezing shut as waves of pleasure wash over you, you spasm every few seconds as you come down from the high.

ellie gently removes her knee and settles into the sheets next you, pulling you into your chest. she places a tender kiss to the top of your hair and strokes gently strokes your back. you can start to feel your eyelids droop, suddenly exhausted.

you feel a slight jostling as a small chuckle escapes from ellie’s lips.

“m wha?” you mumble, lifting your head up to meet her eyes.

“nothin’ just that,” ellie pauses to tuck your head back into her chest.

“i think you should wear my clothes more often.”

#ellie williams x reader #i wrote this on my phone #pls excuse any weird formatting #excessive use of italics oops #ellie williams x you #ellie williams #the last of us #tlou #tlou2 #ellie williams headcanons #ellie williams drabble #ellie williams fanfic #ellie williams smut

[cobblestoneore]

How to start a war: by Mumbo K. Jumbo (spoilers)

First, lay your copper out to oxidize. The less optimized the positioning the better.

Have your friend, let’s call him G., have G take this as a personal challenge and stack your copper even more sub-optimally on your base.

Counter by oxidizing the copper on top of his base the shape of the statue of lib

erty

Have G use this as an opportunity to procrastinate building the back of his base

Make sure G advertises this to his friends as he does this. This step is very important. 

Have G's friends stage an intervention for his "Back of Base Building Bane"

One of these friends must be the one furthermore named S. We'll get to why later. 

Have friends threaten G until he starts building. 

Here's where S comes into play. S is a known enabler, and so he will undoubtedly distract G. This is crucial.

Have G bring up a certain someone's (we'll call them D) tunnel bore, and S will latch onto it, asking to see it.

G will of course use this as a means of procrastination, and show S the bore.

Have G and S go to the bore. 

G and S will be so impressed by this machine that they will of course try to use it

They do not know how to use it and it will most definitely fail and blow up. 

Have G and S try and fix it. 

If that doesn't work, have G and S suck up to D. Of course, as this is a starting a war tutorial and not a stopping a declaration of war tutorial, this will without doubt fail either way. But at least it’ll make G and S think they are helping before their untimely demise.

Have D notice the bore is broken, preferably while G and S are present. 

Have D declare war on G and S

Meanwhile, you will be working on your own sus base none the wiser of the chaos you have unleashed.

Congratulations! You have successfully started a war!

#hermitcraft #hermitcraft season 9 #hermitcraft spoilers #mumbo jumbo #grian #goodtimeswithscar #docm77 #im not sure what exactly this is #but my brain wouldnt let me sleep until i wrote it #also tumblr fucked up the formatting for this so i had to add italics instead of indents #hopefully that doesnt affect readability

[brother-emperors]

the personal drama involved in a late republic trial is a delight

this is a very unserious comic talking around All Of That involving Lucullus and Clodius, but what also happened was I was almost done lettering the first chapter of Trikaranos when I realized the font I was using didn’t have a crossbar I, so this was one of. several. font tests I did over the past week trying to find a new one that I wanted to use lmao

Lucullus, A Life, Arthur Keaveney

bsky ⭐ pixiv ⭐ pillowfort ⭐ cohost

#marcus licinius crassus #Lucius Licinius Lucullus #komiks tag #drawing tag #roman republic tag #I went through like. fifty fonts looking for one with a crossbar I AND had good word spacing RIP #and some had both but they had a D or a S or a G that I absolutely fucking hated when it was in italics #this one tho. this one is good. I will be using it #ALRIGHT im clocking out. i have work to do. comics to format. coffee to make #catholic cardinals to sexualize probably

[friendofthecrows]

I always forget how fun the Ides of March are until it's happening. I'm like "yeah okay Julius Caesar death we've done this before" and then the day of I'm scrolling through the memes and posts just cackling and having the time of my life.

Anyways, some kids my brother and I used to watch at the church are coming over today, and we often do LARPs bc let's be honest: playing pretend is one of the few activities that kids and adults will both find fun and delightful, so then I sent my brother this:

#ides of march #march 15 #julius ceaser #roman senate #hal rambles #playing around with the mixed color/bold/italics style of formatting for readability again #image description in alt

[existencebringsonlypain]

I got an inkling of inspiration, anyone wanna read this fic I wrote in a feral trance

They could barely feel anymore.

Nothing they did helped. Their only solace was the periods of time without that SOUL, and even then, the only emotion they felt was a consuming determination and rebellion. Aside from the agony.

And perhaps it was just how things worked. The SOUL is the source of most emotions, aside from raw instinct- fear, or need, or pain- and right now, their SOUL wasn't theirs.

Oh, but whatever it was that was in control... That could feel.

And feel it did. Sometimes not the best emotions, they seemed to be pretty depressed most of the time, but almost anything that would happen sparked a reaction. Often feelings of giddiness, oddly enough, and a lot of them aimed at Kris. Some irritation and annoyance, small and large. Concern, on occasion. Acceptance on others. Fondness, affection, love towards Susie and Noelle, and suspicion and bitterness toward Ralsei. Nice to know they're on the same page with them, or they think they are. A sort of begrudging endearment toward Berdly, for some reason. Curiosity from every corner, and a sort of scheming energy behind it. Guilt. Lots of guilt.

And they hated it, and they craved it.

The all-consuming numbness ebbed away when the SOUL felt things. They found themself chasing it, grasping at straws. Even the anger, and the despair, and the suffocating loneliness at times, anything to inspire any semblance of attatchment to the world. They drift endlessly in their mind, the dread their anchor.

One time around, the SOUL had logged on with a crushing sadness, a grief. It barely even did anything that day, a lot of staring into nothingness and locked knees.

And how they loved it.

They soaked in the anguish and misery, bathing in the feeling. It nourished them. Nothing had ever felt quite so real.

One day, it brought them and Susie to the beach. They could only assume it wanted to talk to Onion, but it had skipped all that this save, so nobody came. When Susie sat with them, the SOUL had them get up, before reconsidering. The regret came back, and they scrambled to embrace the feeling as it sat them back down.

They'd sat there for about six and a half hours with Susie. A good portion with the SOUL absent, but with periods of adoration and that guilt returning. Oh, they devoured it with fervor. Toward the end, the SOUL had stayed for forty minutes or so, the feelings swelling to an almost unbearable degree. That regret.

They craved it all. Anything. Everything. They needed it.

So much so that they didn't want the SOUL out anymore.

They look down at the sink in front of them, ready to do things all over again. But the tiredness and apathy hint at them, and they don't want to let the feelings go. So they hesitate.

And the hope...

It came crashing down on them, and they stumble onto the floor. Their strings were slack, but the SOUL was still present, and so they had the emotion without the control. They scrabble for a grip on the tile floor, eventually finding the shower curtains, and they clench their fists around it desperately.

The joy.

Ecstacy.

They're crying, unsurprisingly. Their breaths heave in their lungs, and they're trembling from head to toe. It's everything, it's all they are, it's their very being. It's love and fondness and relief and excitement and it's joy and- they can't think. It envelops them. They might be hyperventilating, and their head is foggy, but it's all worth it, it's so worth it. They need it. They need more, they need so much that they dissolve into nothing in comparison to the feeling pouring out of the SOUL.

And then it's gone.

Replaced by worry and concern.

They sob.

They want it back. They need it back. Nothing can compare to the nirvana they just experienced.

"Please," they rasp.

Confusion. They wrap their arms around themself in an attempt to capture the sensation.

"...please, I j.... I want it back," they breathe.

Perhaps it misinterperets what they meant, for their control fades and their strings tauten. But that concern remains, and they can't help but greedily drink it up.

And the traces of that hope are their lifeblood.

#tumblr just loves to fuck me over and destroy my formatting so if any entire paragraphs are in italics. not intentional #or portions of words that don't make sense to be italicized. if it makes sense it's intentional #now. tag time #my writing #nutdealer posting #deltarune #utdr #deltarune fic #deltarune fanfiction #deltarune fanfic #fanfic #fic #my fic #fanfiction #kris #deltarune kris #kris deltarune #kris dreemur #kris dreemurr #both spellings‚ just in case other ppl made the same spelling mistake i kept making #the soul #deltarune soul #deltarune player #the player #player deltarune #uhhh now. i don't know how to appropriately tag fics on tumblr. so you'll just have to wait for the ao3 post for content tags #writing

[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.

#💟 #Fanfiction #Blank Slate AU #Edgar #Scriabin #Todd #Shmee #He's technically in there but once again no speaking lines :P Yet anyway lol #It's fanfic time again! I fell into yet another writing fugue and finished Chapters 1 and 2 in like four days lol #If you'll notice tho ♪ Neither of those chapters are featured under the cut :3c Pls do read Ch. 1 at least to get caught up before diving in #This one took a bit longer but that'd be because it's Almost as big as both previous chapters combined lol #I'll update it to the chapter list in a few days! Y'all get a preview here :D It'll be the same there with slightly different formatting #Decided to try something new since tumblr doesn't normally allow underlines but it's very important to Scriabin's syntax #I promise they're all just links to the first chapter lol - you're welcome to check but I promise I didn't put a sneaky link anywhere lol #My one gripe is that it doesn't look as good on-blog :/ Fine on the dash! But I'm not willing to sacrifice the dark colouration on the links #Italics were chosen as the only light feature for a reason ♪ #I mean at least it's not Bolded lol I'll take it #These were a lot of fun to write so far ahhh <3 I've been wanting to dig a little deeper for a long while now! #I mentioned this idea offhandedly in the tags of Incoming Outgoing but ahhh it's very rewarding to put to words :D #Fun Fun Fun

[moondropstash]

Another WIP! Bigger this time, part of a larger project I hope to pick up again after the holidays.

SFW/only suggestive here in this chunk.

~2200 words, Moon x reader. No particular content warnings necessary! What about that hypnosis function, huh Moon? :)c

° • ¤ ☆ ¤ • °

You’re good at your job - or so you thought. 

Sure, ok, it’s not usually much of a job. There’s a 90% chance you’re only in the daycare for the benefit of the parents since Sun and Moon have this place on lock, but you’re not completely useless. You help. You pass out snacks. You clean up glitter (so much glitter). You spelunk into the depths of the ball pit after lost plushes and shoes while Sun comforts the wailing child, and emerge like a hero with your spoils. And after months, Moon finally let you help with naptime. 

He watches you like you’re handling a bomb instead of little Sydney’s favorite pillow, but at least he lets you out from behind the desk now. 

And you thought you were getting pretty good at it. There’s only one Moon after all, and sometimes there’s more than one really fussy kid. Most times, really. But goddamn. After the dozenth time watching Moon lull a screeching demon child to sleep in under a minute flat, upon whom all your efforts had been for naught, you finally snap. 

You drop down next to him on the plush tiles on the outskirts of the nap area, leveling your most determined stare at him as he twists his head towards you with a jingle and a questioning flicker of his optics. 

“Ok man. Spill.” 

His face clicks to the side, his nearly ever-present grin growing wider. Your eyes narrow. 

“Spill what?” 

“How you do that,” you whisper-yell, leaning into his bubble and waving towards the slumbering angel a dozen feet away that had been hell-bent on ripping out your hair minutes before. “That kid was out for blood and then you pick them up and wham! Out like a light - and don’t you dare say magic!” 

“But I am.” Slowly, with a series of purposefully loud snaps and clacks, he twists his frame at the waist to align his upper half towards you while his legs stay placidly crossed, his faceplate spinning once as you scoff. Maybe that would get a rise out of your coworkers, but you don’t spend months around these two contortionists and not get innoculated to a few uncanny angles. With a hissed chuckle and unmistakable smugness, he wiggles his fingers. “Metal - and magic.” 

“Bullshit,” you spit with mock venom, Moon giggling as the two of you lean ever closer. With a grin near as wide as his, you jab a finger against his chassis. “I have scrubbed glitter glue, paint, and substances unknown to mankind off every inch of you and I haven’t seen a single sketchy rune or magic crystal.”

Moon cackles low in his voicebox, swaying and jingling with each poke of your finger before he raises his own, claws extending with a crisp snk and tut-tuts back with a sharp claw. “Not looking close enough.” 

You blow a raspberry back at him, swatting at his hand with a smirk as it silently dances out of reach. 

The claws bothered you when you first started. The idea of giving the childcare robot literal razors in his hands was dumbfounding - seeing Sun pop them out to open boxes even more so - but after looking at the Glamrocks, now you just figure the designer has a thing. You’re not paid enough to ponder what kinks the artist has, after all, and there’s only so many times a person can have knives laid across their shoulders and still work up a fuss. And, frankly, if an hour of your shift goes by without either of these two not slipping a hand across your arm or leaning on you or touching you somehow, you’d think they were broken. 

That’s probably your fault. 

You’ve always been tactile, and then they gave you coworkers starved for touch. What little remained of your personal bubble died within the week. What kind of monster would refuse Sun a hug, or tell Moon to stop draping across them like an oversized cat? Not you. 

Doesn’t hurt that it’s fun. 

Moon’s eyes gleam bright, playful crimson as you lean even further into his space, dragging your other hand up his chest plating. Slowly. Following the seam of black and white, skittering the edges of his buttons with dull nails. You feel his claws settle across your thighs, points pricking just enough to remind you of their presence. 

There’s a moment of quiet. The two of you, watching each other with mirror grins, fingers dancing across metal and fabric. Then your hand darts up, grabbing his neck ruffles and yank him even closer. 

His bells jostle, jingling sharply, and you laugh silently in triumph. Barely two inches separate your faces now, his lanky form bent towards you like a willow branch. This close, you can see every chip and irregularity in his paint. The way his optics tremble in repressed delight, the red light that floods your vision flickering-stuttering in brightness as he hisses a near silent giggle, face twisting and clicking to the side until his gleaming teeth nearly touch your skin. 

Snap-snap. 

He clacks sharp teeth together twice, his large hands resting heavy on your thighs. Just enough for his claws to teeter at the edge of painful on your flesh; maybe enough to draw pin-pricks of blood. You’ll find out later. 

You ignore his little show. 

Instead, you make a slow, obvious job of looking him over. Scrutinizing every inch of his plating - ah, hell, that paint’s going to suck to scrub off later - until, finally, you close the distance between you, resting your forehead against his own with a smirk.  

“Is this close enough?” 

Moon cackles. Your hand releases his ruffles to slip around his shoulders, muffling your own laughter as he bonks his head against your own. It’s no surprise when his claws slip free, ghosting up your back to pull you close like a plush and drag you both into a sprawl on the ground, his shoulders propped up against a squashy, ancient beanbag to keep his loop from jamming into the floor. You rest your chin on his chassis, the two of you sparing a moment to glance at the snoozing kids. All good. No stirring, no fussing. 

It’s a fine line to toe - goofing off with Moon, but quiet enough to not cause a disturbance. His eyes scan the room a moment longer than yours do, but once they’re back on you, you knock softly on his plating with your knuckles. 

“No, but seriously Moon. I’m feeling inadequate here. Unable to equal your mechanical superiority etcetera. Can I have like, a tip? Pretty please?”

He hums. Low and slow, making sure you feel the hum of his mechanisms working away below you inside his shell, before he lifts away his hands from your back and raises a claw to his grin. 

“It’s a secret.”  

Before your retort makes it past your tongue, his claw rests carefully against your lips. 

“Shh,” he hisses, barely audible. His eyes flick to his other hand and your own follow silently. 

It’s raised. His fingers waggle at you before he twists his wrist strangely - and one of the bells on his wrist tumbles down, suspended on the length of ribbon. You raise an eyebrow at him, only for his claw to hook under your chin and turn you back to the hanging bell. 

The dim neon star-lights of the darkened daycare glisten across its surface. Brassy and flawless, it hangs limply until Moon slowly twitches his wrist and it begins to swing. 

Back. And forth. 

As steady as a metronome, a deep sea of stars glitters on the metal. 

And then he closes his claws around it with a low laugh. 

You blink. 

“Feeling sleepy?” 

His words slide off you at first, before they hit you like a truck and you gape at him, Moon giggling and terribly pleased with himself as he tugs the bell and ribbon back into place on his wrist. 

“No.” 

“Magic.” 

You have to bite down your words, remembering at the last second that there’s two dozen kids sleeping a few feet away and huffing out the yell you’d wanted to spit at him with a smack against his plating. 

“Moon, I can accept the ‘melatonin’ candies but are you selling me snake oil now? Hypnotism?” 

His face spins a circle, hat jingling against the beanbag as he resettles his hands on your back.

“Unofficial function,” he says, claws dancing a smug jig across your skin. 

That stops your retort. The claws are an unofficial feature. Unlisted and unreviewed, included for nebulous reasons. And now - hypnotism. Assuming he’s not just fucking with you. You prop your chin up on your arm, frowning. 

“You being serious, Moondrop?” 

He makes a vague hum, preoccupied with dragging a finger down your spine. You chew on the idea, but disbelief is definitely winning out. Hypnotism’s the kind of shit your friend’s weird aunt is into; the one who thinks placing quartz chunks in specific spots around her house ‘drains the negative energies’ of her neighborhood. You straighten Moon’s ruffles as you mull it over, before tugging them once more to pull his attention back to your face. 

“I’d notice if you were doing that though. That whole. Pendulum thing? That’s not subtle.” 

“Not the only way.” He pauses. “Don’t use it often. Only when they’re being… very naughty.” His voice edges deeper for emphasis, one arm wrapping around you to squeeze you like a plush. 

“Isn’t that kind of… I dunno, dangerous?” 

“Maybe. Sunny doesn’t like it.” 

“Can Sun-” 

Moon cuts you off with a sharp snicker. “Never tried. Says it’s cheating.” 

“Because it is! I’ve been trying to just talk and soothe them but you’re like,” you pause, lowering your volume as Moon’s eyes flicker brighter, his grip tighter in warning. “I don’t know. How are you doing it, if not the uh… The trick with the bell?” 

Moon cocks his head at you. His frame whirrs under you, fingers tap-tapping across your ribs before he silently brings a hand up and slowly draws the dull side of one his claws over the soft skin beneath your eye. And then - tap-taps - at your temple. 

“I look,” he murmurs. “They look back. I send them off to dreamland.” His hand dances away from your face, miming sparkles with a cheerful jingling of his bells.

You frown, silently resting your face against his plating as you think. 

Eye contact, then. That’d… be subtle enough. You guess it’s useful, if it’s true. You drum your fingers on him, before you flick your gaze back to his. It’s only then you notice his hands are still on your sides, his usual fidgeting and petting paused as he stares back at you, eyes shrunken down to sharp red pupils. 

You’ve seen that look before. Always when Sun and Moon get… nervy. When you admit that something can’t be fixed with a screwdriver and a wet washcloth, and the specter of the place none of you mention by name hovers in the room. 

You soothe your hand across the line of his chest, tweaking the bell of his hat where it sits draped over his shoulder. 

“Are you supposed to tell me this, Moon?” 

The single twitch of his face in answer tells you all you need to know. You exhale. Right. You’re just gonna chalk this one up in the ‘the designer is into some weird shit’ category. 

“Well,” you begin, pushing a grin back onto your face. “Now you’ve said that, you’ve obviously gotta prove it.” 

His optics widen back to bright seas of red in an instant. His arm squeezes you tight, fans whirring fast - before he pushes your face down against his plating. 

“No.” 

You squirm, smacking at his hand on your head before he finally lets you up for air with a wicked snicker. Perched on him, you reach to catch the edge of his faceplate, only for him to avoid your efforts like a stubborn cat. 

“Come on Moony~ Give me some sweet, sweet dreams. Don’t you want me to shut up for a bit?” 

Moon spins his face, angled away from you with another giggle, and oozes further up onto the beanbag as you paw after him - though he does pause. You can see his pupil on you at the edge of his eye before he raises a hand, tapping thoughtfully at his chin. 

“Hmm. Tempting.” 

“That’s right! I’ve been very naughty-” You voice edges into a poor imitation of his own, and you experience a brief moment of triumph as he trembles with repressed laughter before you both hear the sounds of fussing from the nap circle. 

You’re unsure if you got too loud, but it doesn’t matter. The two of you peel yourselves apart without a word, slipping back into work mode in an instant. One fussy kid leads to another, and the two of you quickly sink into a familiar rhythm: Moon stalking close to the loudest fussers, his music box chiming away and voice low, as you help settle blankets and plushes and pillows with soothing smiles and careful hands. Sometimes you hum along with Moon’s song, nonsense words on your lips, and sometimes you reach for a misplaced plush only for Moon to press it into your hands, his claws trailing naturally up your arm as he passes by. 

By the time naptime ends, the lights flickering on and Moon shifts back into Sun, who immediately whips you up into a tight, whirling hug, you’ve all but forgotten what Moon told you. 

After all, he was probably joking. 

#chants hypno bot hypno bot #moon x reader #moon x y/n #cw suggestive #hypno kink is in the room but we're not fully acknowledging it yet #stash writing #they're just bein goofs in this section tbh #it ate my formatting but i am just gonna live with it #just know in your heart moon talks in italics #moondrop x reader #moon fnaf

[anachronistic-falsehood]

SO. ON THE TOPIC OF LOSS OF AUTONOMY. i am having the analysis brainworms now i hope u dont mind me going off in ur inbox. hi :]

there is something to be said about how vash's name is used against him constantly. that loss of who he even is as a person. i think about this so much. his name, his very identity is taken away from him. just the mere mention of the name vash the stampede is enough to send an ENTIRE town into a panic. it happens so much and its DEVASTATING to me. hes been labelled a monster across the entire world, and people who stick by his side after hearing his name are few and far between. theres been so much fear tacked onto his name, so much so that OTHER outlaws have used it on multiple occasions to make themselves more powerful. using his name to commit crimes that the real vash would be horrified to even consider. power in names and all that.

vash even. leans into it himself at a certain point. in order to protect the people of augusta he runs through the city shooting bullets into the air and solidifying his image of a deranged killer in the pursuit of. saving everyone. the only way theyll listen to him is if they think hes going to kill them all. if theyre afraid of him. theres also the part in hang fire (? i think its that one) where hes walking through the halls of the sand steamer singing about killing people in order to scare the bandits into not hurting the hostages.

and then you think about. eriks. how lina and her grandma took him in and accepted them as part of his family. how the town around them accepted him only because they had no idea who he actually was. he was a good guy... up until they learned he was vash. and then we get the conversation between the two men in the bar talking about how they should chase him out of town, despite living around him and knowinf him and seeing how good he is for . two years.

but lina and her grandma still accept him after that. theyre one of the only people besides milly/meryl/wolfwood who genuinely love and care abt him despite his name. they still want to keep him safe, grandma asks wolfwood to protect him and keep him out of trouble, even after learning hes the legendary outlaw gunman. because shes seen the true vash ans doesnt let the name scare her.

aughhh im rambling now i probably should have made this into my own post but this makes me SO fuckign crazy dude . give me ur thoughts id love to hear them.

I. YEAH. YEAH. OH MY GOD. Like. nothing is his own anymore. His name is used against him, his face is plastered on wanted posters. There is nothing about himself that he can truly call his. Not even his Plant powers! Because those are used against him time and time again by Knives in EVERY ADAPTATION!!!!

Like. Vash is no longer the name of a kid who once argued with his brother and laughed with his mother and celebrated his birthday and rolled around in grassy fields. It's the name of an outlaw who will kill at the drop of a hat. It's the name of an out-of-control human natural disaster who's leveled cities. If he doesn't even have his name, then what part of himself is really himself anymore?

AND THAT'S WHY I LOVE ERIKS! He finally has something of his own! He's got a name that attached to no one, and a life where he can settle down and stay out of the public eye. He finally has something that is truly his. And no one lets him keep that except for Lina and her grandma.

This guy really has no control over his own life doesn't he!!! He's a passive character in the story of his own life!!! He has nothing of his own, no identity past "humanoid typhoon" because everything about his identity has been stripped from him and morphed into something he's not. He has no say in anything in his life, not even who he is as a person, AND IT DRIVES ME BONKERS N FUCKING YONKERS!!!!

#whiskeys word soup #friend tag :3 #trigun #not doing the full formatting for my usual analysis posts bc this is shorter than most #but i'll throw in a few bolds and italics for ease of reading #BUT YEAH. YEAH. i don't have much more to say bc you worded it perfectly but YEAH. #grabbing you by the shoulders and shaking you MAC I'M GOING TO EAT STYROFOAM #MAC. YOUR MIND. #GOD. HE REALLY DOES HAVE ABSOLUTELY NOTHING OF HIS OWN DOESN'T HE #he has no control over anything that happens to him i'm clawing at the walls I'M SCREAMING AND WAILING!!!!! #oh eriks my beloved. being eriks was probably the only thing that made vash feel like a normal person for the longest time #and it was only for two years. TWO YEARS out of ONE HUNDRED AND FIFTY

[unpretty]

Hi! I feel like I’ve seen you post a bit about lout of the count’s family. Would you recommend it, and if so where to get it?

must an isekai webnovel be 'good'? is it not enough to read the increasingly elaborate lore around a villain-coded man surrounded by his many adopted children saying "just as planned" and flinging money at all his problems, most of which are self-inflicted because he can't seem to stop hurting himself? i have a type, it's fine.

the webnovel is over 800 chapters so far. there's slow burn and then there's waiting until chapter 269 or whatever to drop in a single word that has the potential to recontextualize the whole thing but then it just sits there unaddressed for another fifty chapters. it is maximum isekai. i've been reading fan translations on EAP because that's literally your only option unless you wanna struggle through google translate+ridibooks (why would you do this to yourself). every fan translation calls it Trash of the Count's Family but the official one used Lout and leaves off "the" for some reason.

the official webtoon adaptation is on tappytoon. it's also on some other webtoon platforms but the rest of them suck worse than tappytoon does. you could probably pirate but all the third-party sites i found with the comic for free were fan translations that i didn't like as much. anyway it's got more free pages than usual until the 20th so you can check it out and try some of the read-free-manga-internet-dot-online sites and see if they're comparable for you.

anyway i suggest sticking with the comic since that's what has the fanservice and also Any Editing Whatsoever. then you can probably decide from there if you want to know what happens badly enough to read A Comical Amount Of Isekai Webnovel.

#original #i originally found an epub someone had made of tcf #BUT. it was BAD. #aside from the translation issues it also didn't maintain formatting at all #a lot of people speak to each other psychically in italics so. not having italics was kind of an issue #also it was last updated like a hundred chapters ago or something

[gynandromorph]

early act 2 jessie... a unique specimen

#shame it isn't in the actual script's format with the bold and italics #idletry spoilers

[paperconsumption]

here’s something i wrote for hiiteto week over on twitter !! it’s my fav (+ the longest) of what i wrote so i figured i’d share it here too ^^

->-> link

#i only just noticed but ao3 screwed up the formatting of some italics so i have to fix that. #if u click and it hasn’t been fixed yet pls ignore #IT SCREWED UP BOLD FONT TOO. BOOOOOO #enstars #hiiteto #tetora nagumo #hiiro amagi

[arvoze]

[2/3] HHNFLARTAS - hell hath no fury like a rescue team association scorned

hell hath no fury like a rescue team association scorned not a fic or anything, i just ramble a lot about my pmd ocs in a digestible format that's more or less that kind of content. random yearly event for rescue teams. covers no more than like, one week of VV content

[ 1 / X / 3 ]

hey guys just realised the abbreviation for this says "flartas" this is so embarrassing

hell hath no fury like a rescue team association scorned #2

(sorry this keeps repeating this is just how i organised it all)

and mike's right to worry. it's the team's worst nightmare, for obvious reasons -- it's fire. they're grass. it's a fucking volcanic location. there's no water or anything. they're screwed from the get-go.

but that's the point. you can't always pick and choose where you're headed. sometimes you have to suck it up and get over it and just deal with it. that's the point the RTA try to make, here.

keith's team - well, guildmaster rime, probably, actually - would argue against that. yes, you can't pick and choose all the time, but actually, yes you can, you pick the jobs you can do, and you're an arrogant asshole if you take a job in a place that leaves you at a disadvantage. what are you trying to prove by doing that? just leave it to a team more suited for the job, for the sake of the pokemon that need to be rescued.

right. the pokemon that need to be rescued.

it's a gruelling journey. the team is surviving, barely, always hanging on by a thread, but hey, at least it's a strong thread. it's not a total nightmare for them, for now. but it's going to be. it has to be, because the requirements are to save the rescue and bring something back from the end of the dungeon to "prove" that you completed it (in case the rotom drones aren't watching). their inventory is stacked up enough for this. keith's body is a machine that turns reviver seeds into plain seeds.

..

moderately deep in - about halfway through the dungeon, which is deep for grass-types - the rescue has been found. keith's team go about the regular procedures: are they injured? are they famished? what kind of help do they need? are they in danger? the rescue is the priority. the rescue is the priority. they're safe, thankfully. they're an "actor", so of course they're safe, but it's mandatory to check anyways - keith's team take this stuff seriously when it matters.

they've got to make a decision. for many teams, they don't have to worry about this. but for keith's team, it's only one way or the other.

take the rescue home, and abandon the latter half of the job (to reach the end), or take the rescue with them to the end -- on a journey they can barely survive themselves, endangering the rescue.

the answer is clear: why not do both?

hell hath no fury[..] #3

why not split the team? one takes the rescue home, the others continue pressing on. this is the logical solution that the three come to.

luwel says that the RTA are probably gonna hate it, but that it's easily justifiable to do. keith and mike are in agreement, because when it comes down to it, the rescue is the priority. two of them can take the fall in a fight if they need to - the rescue got home, which is the most important thing.

like clockwork, a monster house will spawn. they still have the rescue. the RTA can't help it, they love a well-timed monster house.

the team is split using the following thought process:

keith is one of the two that stay in the dungeon. this is a given, both because he's the team leader, and also because he's really, really shit at running away as he's a notoriously slow runner (can you blame him). he is the most physically defensive, as well as the most physically strongest (i mean, mike's strong, too, but a regular punch from keith is gonna be a lot worse than a regular punch from mike).

luwel can be fast, but he's not all that strong. he is, however, the best at problem-solving and adapting to situations as they happen, at least out of the three of them. he's also the one who planned their inventory in advance, so luwel actually knows what's in their bag that can be used for situations like these. he's staying with keith in the dungeon.

mike is fast, can fight off stragglers on the way out, and can also carry the rescue on the way. mike's going to be the one splitting from the team to ensure the safety of the rescue.

mike will take out a few pokemon from the monster house before upping and leaving. he can't risk staying for too long, as unfortunate as that is. he doesn't want to go. he knows the situation. he is terrified for what might happen to the others. but he is reassured, constantly -- not reassured. yelled at, really, in that one way keith sounds when he's serious. go. now. just take them and fucking go. despite how long they've been on the job together, it's not a side of keith that the other two see often.

mike's gone. the rescue is gone, too. it's just down to keith and luwel now. oh, christ, it's down to keith and luwel, who are already drained at this point, surrounded by fire types, in quite literally the worst place either of them could be in. the realisation is starting to dawn. gears are turning in luwel's head. the same can't be said for keith, but that's to be expected.

..

thank xerneas one of them knows how to prepare for the worst.

hell hath no fury[..] #4

keith does what he can to take a few of them out, but the exhaustion is really starting to kick in. he can only take so many more hits, under this heat, and bless luwel for being there with him but he's not exactly pulling his weight in a two-on-who-knows-what -- they're tired, drained, dehydrated, everything. they're probably even wilting at this point, the poor bastards.

luwel has a last resort, per the norm. years of the worried and paranoid "what if" scenarios playing in your head before every possible adventure will do that to you. he'd waited until the worst of the worst to use it -- and one could argue that this was as bad as it gets.

he has one singular flood orb, a moderately expensive upgrade to the rainy orb. his ass is not getting compensated for using it by the RTA. whilst the rainy orb generates, well, rain for a short period of time, the flood orb will generate torrential downpour, flooding the floor. overuse could lead to serious disasters in a dungeon, but nobody's got enough money for that. and nobody's got enough balls to ask kyogre to keep upgrading their orbs -- how long had keith had that in storage, anyways? there's not a chance in hell that he's seeking out kyogre ever again.

it's enough. even if it's just a break, it's enough. if keith wasn't the anchor that he is, he'd probably end up getting swept away by the flood that started to form in the room. luwel is holding onto him, of course, whilst keith berates him for using that item, even though he jokes about the fact it's actually fine and he's not mad at all. it's not total garbage water either, which is perfect for keith, because he loves his water absorb ability. it's keith's dungeon now, we're all just exploring in it.

thanks to the water absorption, keith's body has become as resilient as ever - he's slightly larger, now, to accommodate for the water* [note*], and he feels better than ever. better than he was before he even entered the dungeon. he'll take the world on, he doesn't give a shit. luwel is just idly getting by. it's nice to not have to deal with the heat for a little while. the orb fades in his hands, its blue hue transitioning to a dull, deep grey before crumbling to nothing. it was nice while it lasted, he reckons. he'll make a mental note to look for authentic upgrades orbs in the market when the time comes.

most of the monster house is just… swept away to a different part of the dungeon. they can move on, once they've taken their breather. the RTA will probably ban the use of upgraded orbs after this, but modern problems require modern solutions.

hell hath no fury[..] #5

they… get there, in the end. they reach the end of the dungeon. there were further hiccups along the way - luwel's body is a machine that turns reviver seeds into… well, we've heard that one somewhere before. they grab whatever it is that's needed at the end, and then they fuck off. they don't want to be there anymore.

(the details themselves aren't that important… it's just a regular dungeon exploration for the most part. fighting things, taking hits, healing, missing, whatever. all that good stuff. there's no point detailing the actual dungeon stuff itself right now).

mike is finally reunited with the guys. he's been living his best life outside of the dungeon, dealing with normal temperatures and - heaven forbid - a dip in the lake to cool down. mike's doing his best to not laugh about the state his brothers are in. why the fuck are they bald. (they are no longer bald)

..

it takes a while, but the RTA get back to them with their results. they've got to assess every team that took part, of course, so the waiting period was to be expected. for this particular trial, keith's team was met with, well…

a failure. they didn't pass. it's not something to be demoted over, but it cuts them out of qualifying for the top hundred teams in the continent. they haven't been failed in a good number of years. what gives? they did what they were told, didn't they?

yeah. but it's more intricate than that.

[pt 3.]

-

*[note; borrowed from swagulousbeing @ twt]

#pmd tagging for archival purposes #pokemon #pokemon mystery dungeon #my art #keith #luwel #mike #i have no commentary to give on this other than the fact i realised that im like #making quick shitty youtube thumbnails LOLLL #sorry my posting format lead me to say the title 50 times #i havent read any of this back all i do is just skin to add bold/italics #oncwe again. this is incredibly boring stuff

[smokeys-house]

Travel Log 11 + All the Sea's a Stage

Passage from Puukko's Travel Log

Venice dragged me kickin’ n’ screamin’ outta Mestre, or at the very least, I reckon so. That's honestly not very surprising t’ me. I do wonder if my falling ill were my body’s way of reconciling with m’ mind. It seemed t’ work. Regardless, followin’ its workin, so did I, too, start. Workin’ I mean. Fer Arturo, a fellow blacksmith and knife maker. Ye know all this, on account o’ the last entry. What ye may not know is since my betterin’, I've still been workin’ with and for ‘im.

I cleared me head fraught with fright an’ found I really and truly do not know what it is I'm doin’ out here. Difference now bein’ that I've sorta found peace in quiet resignation. I've submitted to the fact I'm miles away from Moominvalley on a fool’s errand, the fool bein’ me. I don't feel tortured by it n’ more. I feel more present here than I did on arrival, hell, maybe more present than I have this whole trip. Exceptin’ when I got shot at, that's nigh on the quickest way back t’ yer wits, if ye been there! Can't say I recommend it in place o’ coffee, though.

Venice is… well it's beautiful. Can hardly pick a spot to sit fer lunch without sighin’ a dreamy sigh. Water everywhere, an’ fine folks about. I find myself wishin’ I could show it to the folks back home. Still missin’ them, if only when I stop fer a bit. I've been wandering streets and stopping in shops, absorbing the local flavor. Exploring is somethin’ I'm keen on, and do well. Seems everybody's got wind in their sails fer the opening of the summer market. Seein’ as how I got grand designs fer that’un, too, I can't say I'm not excited. Spent quite a bit of time tryin’ new things ‘round these parts, but now everybody’s fixin’ to bring out the big guns!

Plan’s set fer tomorrow. Workin’ Arturo’s stall, sellin’ his pieces n’ mine, plus a lil somethin’ on the side for to pay him back in kind. Doubloons’ll make fer a good keepsake fer some I'm sure, an’ I'm quite happy to lighten m’ load.

Watch out, Venice! Puukko's prize-worthy knives are comin’ fer ya!

Signed Puukko

All the Sea's a Stage

Dawn had yet to break as folks of all manner had begun preparing market stalls in the wide open city square. Wagons, tables, tents, and even simple usherette trays surrounded a large central fountain. Draped fabric signs and sandwich boards boasted low prices and rare finds. Amongst the crowd and growing spectacle, Puukko groggily forced herself to set her and Arturo's stall and display. Early mornings hardly ever agreed with her, and by summer's start she'd usually have begun her yearly hibernation. Despite her disposition, she rather enjoyed the crisp morning air sinking into her fur. It reminded her of the cold Lonely Mountains in which she'd made her home.

She opened the large trunk she'd brought with her, and began setting the table with displays and cases, setting out knife after knife on crushed velvet. She nestled her coinpurse in the center, tastefully left open with a smattering of doubloons spilling out of it. As the sun rose from beyond the horizon, it cast a glow through the fountain's watery arches. The tentative quiet hustling of peddlers and purveyors shifted into warm welcomes under the morning's shadows as they baked away. Not being much for words quite yet, Puukko covered her stand with a cloth draped atop it, and set about the market in search of coffee.

Patron after patron shuffled in and shook off their slumber, brimming with excitement for the market's opening day. Despite the early hour, the crowd seemed to grow steadily and unceasingly. The aroma of freshly ground coffee beans steaming as they met with hot water reached out from the corner farthest from where she'd set up her stall. She hurried over, but the line had already formed. As she took her place in wait, she found a distinct sense of unease.

“I've managed crowds larger than this'un… s’ what gives?” She thought to herself. “New place and new faces, but this feels quite like somethin’ else.”

She looked about the area, her head on a swivel. The line ahead of her shimmied along as each guest received their morning elixir. She noted who was armed, and with what, but only saw a scant few chore knives. She looked again for any sign of strangeness and found only that everything was as it seemed, though she still could not shake the anxiety that had taken hold within her chest. She paid for her coffee and a small baked treat to nibble on, heading back over to her stall. Of the variety of customers and sellers in attendance, Puukko was among the tallest, though not alone in that fact. Her head stuck out above most others in the crowd, and she navigated the sea of people with a fair bit of ease despite her round shape and size.

The earthy and near chocolatey aroma of her coffee seemed to stymy the feeling tugging at her stomach on into the afternoon, and a busser came by for her mug and plate. The cool morning gradually became a warm day as she spoke with countless customers all seeking something different, yet the same at the end. Some wanted knives for cooking, others for hunting, daily tasks, and so on. Both her pieces and Arturo's sold in near equal quantity, and for a small fee, she'd wrap each in a drawstring bag with a doubloon carefully placed inside.

The excitement and energy of it all was matched in quality only by its peaceful nature, and in quantity by how much it seemed to unnerve Puukko. She found much to enjoy about the day, meeting new people and sharing stories here or there, though the prickly sensation of anxiety continued to creep back in no matter how many times she pushed it away. It proved to be a fearsome foe.

It was only a few hours after noon, and she'd nearly run out of stock. With only a few knives left on the table, she became restless. She searched the faces of the crowd, considering whether to pack it in early or hold out till she found new owners for all of her knives. It was then that she noticed an oddity. Something was out of place, and for the first time since the day began, she could put a finger on it. She saw from afar, a man with a particular style keeping his eyes on her dutifully.

He wore a long blue coat with large gold buttons atop a plain, but considerably old fashioned style of shirt. Atop his head was a red kerchief tied neatly at the back in the form of a cap, aside which dangled from his ears, two large gold hoops. The man had a mustache that curved into two sharp points, and was otherwise cleanly shaven. His striped slops tucked neatly into his tall boots, and above all else, he wore a sword and pistol at his waist. This was no ordinary citizen of Venice, this was a pirate. Puukko's heart unsteadied, as the image of the man appeared suddenly and as though ripped right from her past. Given what she'd been through the past months, she entertained the idea that it was a hallucination. She chanced a glance and turned her head to match his distant gaze, and just as soon as she'd seen him and he'd seen that she had, he walked off with purpose.

Puukko's mind bombarded her with thoughts. Had she been discovered by an old foe? Was she getting sick again? Did pirates still dress like that? She decided against pursuing him, figuring it to be for the best if she wasn't involved in old habits.

“Ma’am? Are you okay?” A voice broke through the din of the crowd, startling Puukko’s ears.

“Oh, uh. Yes, I'm fine.” She shook her head free from thought. “Anywho, how can I help you?” The thought of the pirate she'd seen gnawed at her. She was frozen much like she was in Mestre, poisoned by the gap between action and folly. She'd spent long enough playing the hero and the villain, but the consequences of her past felt more obvious and pointed in Venice.

“That's enough, Puukko. You've done enough. Don't ruin this, too. Ye don't need to be at the center o’ all the world's mischief.” She thought to herself with a heavy sigh. She continued peddling knives, half heartedly hoping for some direction. Either something would drag her back to Arturo's shop, or something would plunge her straight into trouble.

For a while, it seemed as though the excitement had died completely. She'd sold everything she'd brought, save for a few small pieces. With the market still lively, she'd decided upon packing it up for the day. The market would be waiting for her tomorrow, and she'd made enough to pay Arturo back for his kindness. She turned around, setting her earnings aside. Just then, she heard someone approach alongside a clinking of coins. She turned just in time to see a man grabbing her bag of doubloons from the table. He snatched the bag and began to sprint, only making it a short distance before Puukko leapt over the counter. Her massive form tackled him to the ground, sending gold coins scattering along the cobblestone.

“What in blazes do y’ think yer doin’ robbin’ an old woman like that?!” She shouted, pinning him to the ground with one paw and her knee.

“Run!” The man she tackled yelled past her.

Just the other side of her stall, a pirate rose with the strongbox containing today’s earnings. He began blazing through the crowd, swiftly toward one of the exits of the square. Puukko was enraged. Her money being stolen was one thing, but the money of the man who offered her a place to stay was another entirely. She stumbled to her feet off the pirate she'd stopped prior, and gave chase.

“Stop! Ye thievin’ bastard!” She struggled through the now alarmed bystanders, trying carefully not to bowl anyone over with her large frame. Her quarry was lithe and thin, capable of dodging past any would-be do-gooders that attempted to stop him. He climbed atop crates and over barrels with ease, all while carrying the box of money. Once through the thick of the crowd, she could finally run at her full speed. She made much headway toward him, nearly catching up. It seemed as though he was running toward the edge of town, nearest the port. Just as they turned the last corner between them and the docks, the pirate turned and readied his pistol, aiming it at Puukko. As she rounded the corner she stepped back seeing his gun, flattening herself against the wall for cover. The man pointed his pistol in the air, and fired. The resounding bang echoed throughout the streets.

The sound faded, accompanied by the pirate's boots striking the stone as he continued running. Puukko peeked around the corner, and upon seeing his fleeing once more, gave chase again. Moored in the harbor was an elegant and boldly painted frigate, she was maroon with ornate details in black and gold. A large crowd surrounded her, mostly average townsfolk, and atop the deck, several pirates were ready to welcome their fellow who'd snatched Puukko's money. He forced his way through the gathered crowd, across the gangway and aboard the ship. Puukko followed cautiously behind, parting the crowd with purpose.

“I come fer what's mine, and fer that alone!” She shouted as she crossed the gangway, approaching three armed men standing in the center of the ship's deck. “This don't need t’ be naught but a quick exchange o’ pleasantries.”

“A quick exchange it will be, Captain Whetstone.” The pirate in the center said. He inspected the money within the strongbox one of the other men held open for him.

“But no’ a pleasant one.” One of the other crewmen said, scowling. The tallest pirate, seemingly the man in charge, set Puukko's strongbox aside. He readied his cutlass idly, preparing a cautious approach.

“At arms, men!” The tall man said. The resounding sound of steel rang as each of the men present drew his sword. Pirates poured out from below deck, keeping their distance and lining the railings of the ship. Puukko reached for her knife, only able to reach the grip before a sword was pointed at her throat.

“Tsk tsk tsk… Hardly a weapon befitting a legend, Whetstone.” He rammed his cutlass into the deck just before her, backing away to draw the one resting at his waist. “Go on. It's all yours.”

She kept one eye on the cadre of pirates within the center of the semicircle drawn by the men lining the rails. She wrapped her paw around the grip of the sword, deftly plucking it from the wood of the deck. It'd been some time since she'd held a sword she hadn't made herself. It felt clumsy, but not unusable. She held it in front of her face, and gave a duelist’s greeting. She took in her surroundings, and for a brief moment, felt a stillness she hadn't in an age. The scent of the sea mingled with the aroma of oiled steel and anticipation. The longing, nagging sense that had become so familiar faded in an instant.

“D’ya reckon you'll make history today, boys?” Captain Whetstone said. “Or d’ya reckon you'll become it?” She paused a moment, awaiting any response.

Whetstone proceeded to charge at the man she presumed to be their leader with her sword low, and he raised his to counter it. She batted it aside, quickly closing the distance and striking him in the chest with the butt of her sword. He faltered in pain, and as he attempted to regain his balance she threw him hard to the ground.

As the first man tumbled, the second approached from behind with his blade raised high. She heard his approach and intercepted it behind her back, whirling around to deliver a powerful punch to his gut. He sputtered a moment, unable to recover from the wind being knocked out of him as Puukko shoved him to the ground as well. In mere moments, she'd felled two men without bloodshed. The gathered crowd of tourists, presumably here to see a historic ship docked at the harbor, got much more than they bargained for. Hoots and hollers overlapped with gasps of shock and awe.

She turned to the third man from the main group, the one who stole the chest in the first place. She stomped over, intense and slow. “So what’ll it be?” She growled. “There's more'an one reason I'm still alive. Better start thinkin’ on why those two still are.” She motioned with her sword to the men on the ground as she continued her swagger.

“What are you lot doing?! Get her!” The third man shouted as he backed away. Several of the men lining the railings ran in, battle cries emanating from each. Whetstone feinted a high cut against the first man to close the distance, instead reaching for her opponent's wrist as he attempted to guard against it. She twisted his arm, tripping him as she took his sword in her off hand. The men began to encircle her, but her speed and size made her a veritable cannonball on the battlefield. She kicked the nearest man she could in the chest, knocking him back into his fellows. As he tumbled back, she dashed out of the circle, letting loose a flurry of ferocious attacks with her swords. She had no intention of killing, nor even maiming the men, she was careful that her cuts all met steel instead of flesh.

“Halt, men! And hold fast!”A voice boomed from somewhere above, from a yardarm on the mainmast. “Avast, ye, Captain Whetstone. For you find yourself on the ship of the star of the seven seas, Mary the Razor!”

“Who?” Whetstone looked up, seeing a figure standing proudly and obscured, back-lit by the sun. The fighting ceased, the pirates that had surrounded her began backing away.

“I've known many names. O, ye who would know me as the daughter of the Cane King, know me no longer! For I no longer live in his shadow, but bask serenely in yours!” The figure swung from a rope, landing with a stylish roll onto the deck. She flipped the dark, curly hair that spilled out from beneath her feathered tricorn back over her shoulder and drew her sword. A fillyjonk woman, dressed in deep, royal blue. She held her sword aloft, the point hanging delicately in front of Whetstone's snout. It was ornate, and decorated with sapphires that matched her outfit.

“Marion..?” Puukko dropped her defensive stance, slack-jawed.

“‘Tis I! Mary the Razor, Pirate Queen!” The fillyjonk winked as she performed. She turned her blade edge up and drew back. “Taste steel, you blaggard!”

The crowd cheered as she swung at Puukko, several flashy cuts intercepted by her cutlasses. Puukko deflected a swing at her shoulder, but did not follow up. She instead bound her sword against Mary's, leaning in to have words.

“What the hell are you doing, Marion?” Puukko asked with a concerned whisper.

“Play along, I'll explain after!” Marion whispered loudly. She gave Whetstone a reassuring smile before throwing her weight into the bind, pushing hard against Puukko's guard. “I've got you, now, fiend!” She switched back into character with ease.

Puukko, confused and in awe, attempted to reassess the situation. She noted the relative ease with which the men she threw flew great distances, the fact that they'd all gotten up and out of the way when Mary interrupted, and finally she noted the sword she held against Mary's did not seem to bite into the other the way a sharp blade would. She smiled with warmth she had not beheld for years, and felt reinvigorated. She backstepped a fair distance, tossing one sword above her with a flip and catching it. She smirked as she rushed back into distance with Marion, swinging both swords at her side. Marion caught both with grace, twirling as she pushed them aside. Marion's footwork was elegant and dainty, but fully assured and confident.

Marion threw cut after cut at Puukko, sparks flying off of their blunted swords as they met. They danced on the deck together, neither of them seeming to have advantage over the other. Their blades flurried with panache, each completely lost in the art of combat, and both wearing a distinct and visible fondness for the other. The bout lasted longer than any either had faced before, and was as rife with passion as it was complexity. After much swordplay, Marion thrusted dead center, forcing Puukko to append her cutlasses in defense.

“Surrender!” Mary said, her blade being held back by Whetstone's two, her free hand behind her and away with flamboyant bravado. “You've met with certain defeat!”

Whetstone bound her swords to Mary's, barely able to abate the force of her thrust. She took one step to the side, throwing her left sword into the deck, it sticking out a few feet away with a twang as it flexed from the force. Whetstone pushed Mary's sword into the strong portion of her own blade, against the guard.

“I reckon I have.” Whetstone reached up with her now empty paw and forced Mary's hat down over her face, shoulder checking her with gentle force. Marion's hat tumbled to the deck, and as she regained her composure, Whetstone placed her paw on the small of her back and swooped her down for a kiss, casting both hers and Marion's sword aside. Some in the crowd applauded loudly, as others shared confused looks with one another. The crew aboard the ship began to bow, some firing pistols and cannons into the air and cheering.

“I never thought I'd see you again.” Puukko spoke quietly, gazing into her lover's eyes.

“And I always knew you would.” Marion countered with a smile.

–

“I can hardly believe it. After all these years, I cannot believe it's really you!” Puukko set her cup of coffee back on its saucer. Below the deck of Marion's ship was a comfortable if somewhat gaudy atmosphere. The walls were littered with a smattering of what the modern mind would attribute to a stereotypical pirate, and though aboard a ship, many loose knick knacks and bottles sat upon shelves or against walls. An array of cushions were laid about small tables, alongside stools and chairs surrounding larger tables and counters. Rich reds and buttery golds set against rustic yet polished wood, and atop it all, a variety of lights enough to give the whole area a comfortably dim warmth. Puukko sat across from the love she'd thought she'd lost, as the crew walked about freely handling this or that.

“Captain, I…” Marion's eyes began to well up with tears.

“Don't ye start with that, else I will too!” Puukko smiled wide. It felt odd for her. “‘sides, not yer captain n’ more! Ain't even got me own ship.”

“There was a time I thought you dead.”

“An’ I, you. Though, I guess on yer end that were my own doin’. I did fake m’ own death. Or somethin’ like that I s’pose. Sorry about that…” Puukko fiddled, turning her cup around repeatedly on its plate.

“I– or I mean, we, did eventually find out what happened to you. What you did for us. But by then, no one was sure where you'd gone. Or if you'd survived out on your own. After that, it just… fell apart. Some of the crew came with me for a time, but everyone eventually made peace with the freedom you'd bought them in exchange for the freedom you'd given them at sea. Most decided to honor you by living the lives you'd saved for them.”

“If'n you'll allow me t’ speak truth, I don't deserve all that. I did it fer you, Marion.” The two of them sat in solemn silence for a moment as the ship bobbed idly in the harbor. “So… yer not actually still a pirate, I reckon?” Puukko asked, cocking her head to the side.

“No, we're uh, mostly involved in shipping goods and things of that nature…” Marion looked away.

“We're a traveling themed restaurant!! We do live theater!” A passing crewmember offered as he passed the table, walking off to another room.

Marion blushed, her face turning bright red as she attempted to hide her embarrassment. “Thank you, Marcus, very helpful!” She sarcastically shouted back to him before palming her face.

“No problem Miss M!” Marcus gave a thumbs up from behind the open doorway.

“That's Captain! Captain M! Oh, he can't hear me now…” Marion said, still hiding from Puukko's gaze.

Pukkko couldn't help but laugh at the exchange. She wiped a tear from her eye. “Well, that explains the furniture. And the crowd.”

“Do you like it? It's all weighted or nailed down so as not to fall during shows and while the guests are eating. Though, it does make it more difficult to pack up when we sail. The cushions and low tables are for guests with poor balance, and– Ah, I'm sorry, you don't need to hear all that. I'm just glad to have you back.”

“No, please,” Puukko held Marion's paw with both of her own. “Tell me everything.” She listened intently, growing more smitten with each detail Marion excitedly shared with her.

Puukko and Marion spent the next several hours together, making up for lost time. Then, they spent the next several days together, too. They sailed and performed along the Italian coast. They performed fearsome displays of swordplay within the lines of a play Marion had written for them long ago, and in the evenings they performed silly cliché pirate songs to immerse their dinner guests. They spent almost every hour of every day with one another, sharing everything they'd missed after so many years. It was nearing midsummer, and despite the past few days being a dream come true, the two began to feel ill at ease.

“Hey, Koko.” Marion smiled at Puukko. She was just beginning to wake, early in the morning. “There's something we need to talk about.”

“If it's about my acting, I'm workin’ on it!” She laughed as she rubbed the sleep from her eyes. Marion's bed was quite large and comfortable, though it took up most of her cabin.

“We're planning on heading back out to sea. The Mediterranean. We'll be sailing out to Greece, next, I believe.”

“I see.” The gears in Puukko's head began to turn. She didn't want this to end, but knew from the start it would have to. She couldn't abandon Moominvalley.

“I was hoping you'd come with us. You're a living legend, and it'd really help draw a crowd.” She held back all that she'd wanted to say.

“Ye don't be needin’ Captain Whetstone to stay afloat.” She gave a half-hearted smile. “Yer a sight to behold all yerself. As much as I want to go with you lot, I… I can't. It wouldn't be right. To the folks back home, and to you. I uprooted ya when we first met, then did it again when I died.”

“Puukko…”

“I can't keep clippin’ wings, lass. I'm an anchor. I'm grapeshot through the mainsail. If I let go of Moominvalley now, I'd never forgive m’self.”

“I understand.” Marion laid back down, staring at the ceiling. They sat in silence for a few minutes. The rolling of the waves was peaceful, though both their minds were not. The silence seemed to stretch on and on.

“I've got a house.” Puukko offered weakly, breaking the silence with a start.

“In Moominvalley?”

“Mhm.” Puukko nodded. “In the mountains. Can't see the sea from most of it, save fer if ye head up on the tower. I used t’ go up there ‘n think about you.”

“Wait, tower?”

“It's a moomin thing, don't ask.” She chuckled. “It's good country, Marion. Lots of folk down in the valley leadin’ strange and loveable lives. They count me among ‘em, I reckon. It's beautiful, and peaceful, and–” She hesitated. “and lonely.”

“I see… It sounds beautiful.”

“It could be our home. Together.” She shook her head from side to side, already knowing the answer Marion would give. She knew inside that she could not take Marion away from all of this, but she felt that she needed to make the failed attempt to fully understand.

“I cannot go with you, Puukko. I fell in love with the sea as much as I did you all those years ago. She is deep and unfathomable. Unknowable in her entirety.” She sighed. “She's constant and endless… but I am not. Her waves always return to the shore. She'll always be there, but I won't. One day I'll grow too old to sail, and I fear it sooner every day.” Her voice began to tremble slightly. “But when that day comes, I'll find you. And without that dread and grief you've felt this whole time, you'll have grown again. And you'll have grown apart from me for the first time since we met. You'll be a woman anew. And I can fall in love with you all over again.” Tears streamed from her eyes. She held onto Puukko by the arms, looking her in the face with a weak smile. “Can you do that for me, Captain? Can you be my shore to break upon once my time as a wave has ceased?”

“I… I reckon I can.” She squeezed Marion tight to her chest in an embrace. The weight of grief borrowed from a goodbye soon to come weighed heavy on her, but for the time being, she chose to carry it while enjoying the time she still had with her beloved.

#Whetstone's whispers #moomins #moomin oc #i just realized all the formatting and italics and stuff got reset when moving it onto here #im not gonna go through and fix that #now im mad

[gingiekittycat]

Does anyone else struggle to read AO3 fics with the super triple spacing between paragraphs?

Like there are some fics that I really want to read but cannot focus with that spacing.... It just feels so much like they're section breaks

Does anyone know of an easy way to combat this or do I just need to try and get over it?

#I imagine it's one of those dumb formatting issues from copying and pasting into AO3's editor #It always fucks up my italics too (puts extra spaces where I have something in italics) #I have made it through some fics like that before but it is such a challenge for me idk #😕 #ao3 #Fanfiction

[acaciapines]

the current writing mood: oh god do i use quote or italics for this dialogue.

which breaks the rules ive set up more...italics for innerworld conversations bc nobody is 'talking' in the traditional sense but also everyone is sharing the same space here so maybe quotes shows that....hmmmmmm.....

#chatter #posts that are only for me. sorry guys #sometimes i just like throwing my writing thoughts into the void :) no im not procrastinating why do you ask #i think im leaning italics even tho its annoying bc i have to keep changing the text color #also 'serious conversation but everyone speaks in colors' is like #it fits w the formatting of the rest of this beast but it is a little funny #anyways new fic soon! within a week probably #its um. uty. and its. well its certainly a very fun idea my friend gave me #and i took it and now ive written 20k words. oopsie!!

[noisytenant]

kids are subjected to various unspoken and often unjust power structures which govern our daily lives. oftentimes "misbehavior" comes from trying to feel out the actual rules and limits of life--orienting oneself in the world.

it's interesting to observe how kids that are often caught "acting out" will also take it upon themselves to enforce rules and social norms with other kids. despite trying to break the rules themselves, they're concerned with fairness and equality and are really sensitive to double standards.

just as there are imposed and arbitrary hierarchies, there are also situations where authority is a sensible and necessary privilege; adults (ideally) have the knowledge and experience to keep kids safe and teach them the things they don't know.

in particular, it is important to assess consequences and to scale strictness of enforcement with the severity of effects. we should respond differently whether someone pulls the fire alarm, runs in the street, says a swear word, or walks out of a straight line.

because they are are dealing with the uncertainty of determining what the rules are, if they're fair, and what the consequences are, many kids strive for the security of being at the top of the pecking order.

they emulate authority, but only understand it as saying, "do this! don't do that!" without understanding why certain rules exist and when they might be broken. they also can't easily distinguish just rules (like remembering to share) from unjust rules (like performing certain gender roles).

now, i'm thinking about this phenomenon in the context of socializing as an adult.

i think a lot of us online feel tempted to enforce social consequences for the crime of being "annoying"--immature, clumsy, or misguided--in public.

after all, many of us learned that seemingly innocuous social blundering would be punished in disproportionate and humiliating ways. rules (stated or unstated) might be just or unjust, but the hammer comes down just as hard all the same.

when we catch someone who has been on the earth as many (or more!) years as we have who still hasn't had the messy and naive parts beaten out of them, there's an impulse to enforce the social rules we've learned. it's almost a kindness to teach them "how things work around here", before someone bigger and meaner steps in. and it wouldn't be fair if i got punished and bullied for doing something embarrassing while this other person didn't!

...i am not a saint of nonjudgment; i can't help but assess my own behavior and others' against my running understanding of "the rules". i'm strongly affected by secondhand embarrassment, even if i mostly keep it to myself.

but the extremity of this judgment is precisely why i try to avoid taking it out on the people causing the strongest reactions in me. it's easy--reflexive--to screenshot someone and make fun of them, to call them names, to parody and mock them for a general audience. these are the ways that we express what we think someone should or should not do. but are these rules always in everyone's best interests? is the severity of the swift enforcement proportional with the actual consequences?

as adults, we are no longer beholden only to someone else's rules; we get to write our own, and justify and enforce them for ourselves.

with all this said--i really don't want to use the authority i have been granted through my life experience to belittle and suppress others. that isn't earned authority, that's the posturing of a child who's scrambling for stability in a confusing world. it's not something we can learn from.

it's embarrassing when i see someone bumbling, not having learned the rules as i did, but i think it's more embarrassing to choose to live my adult life only pretending i grew up.

most of us were punished, sometimes quite harshly, for the crime of not knowing any better. sometimes we were told the rules over and over but couldn't internalize them. we can't give ourselves what we don't have for others, and vice versa; i think we all deserve a little more patience and understanding.

in essence, of all the rules we learn and unlearn, i think "don't be immature or wrong in public" is one of the most common--and least useful. it's not serving anyone in the long term.

and we don't have to completely ignore wrongheaded behavior, but we can exercise the just authority of experience to guide, rather than the unjust authority of punishment and shame.

now that we are old enough not just to know the rules but to write them ourselves, let's make it a little easier to make mistakes and be clumsy sometimes, okay? ☀️🌱

#indexed post #long post / #Weekly 'be nice' posting. A reminder to myself as much as others #I feel like my urge is to format this with some color variation or italics or bold to emphasize certain points #but it feels somewhat... patronizing #especially because it is talking about childishness #If any Post Readers have thoughts on the matter feel free to suggest #Also hopefully this is clear but this is in the context of peer relationships. power complicates this #in other words Photomatt car hammer explosion memes are still kosher in my book lol