#Haunted the Orange Ghost Bear

[currymanganese]

Legacy. You think about it?

And the Lord God caused a deep sleep to fall upon Adam, and he slept: and he took one of his ribs, and closed up the flesh instead thereof; And the rib, which the Lord God had taken from man, made he a woman, and brought her unto the man. And Adam said, This is now bone of my bones, and flesh of my flesh: she shall be called Woman, because she was taken out of Man. Genesis 2:21-23~

"Wait, so what was the best one?"

"Best what? "

"Best meal you ever had."

"Yeah, it was, it was Carmy's."

"I knew it. I knew it, yeah."

"Sydney: Hmm. He is really, really... really good."

"High praise."

"Yeah, but he's still a little bitch."

Inspired by my add-on to @espumado's thread here on the supernatural and mythological references in The Bear. @thoughtfulchaos773 @glitterslag @moodyeucalyptus @vacationship @ambeauty @lecham1644 @tinfishlove @whenmemorydies @brokenwinebox @glitterslag @tvfantic87 @augustmonsooning @devisrina @imliterallyjustablackgirl @angelica4equity @outmakingmoonshine @blackjack-15

[emacrow]

Danny is klarion's parallel soulmate due to his chaotic energy like being so strong and perfect to his powerful ghost core went crazy and took over (and accidentally kidnapping him)

Clockwork didn't even tell danny anything beside a cryptic as fuck small message about a place called gotham, until one day visiting there, he just had a accidental encounter with a pointy hair boy and their orange cat walking passed him.. Only for danny to just instinctly follow him for 5 blocks through gotham with his core practically going mad that his eyes are glowing green with his main consciousness throw out the window.

Little backstory is that the light group are basically chaos beings waiting for their parallel balance beings to be born. Klarion just got lucky meeting his first and will gloat forever about his betrothed.

It like something clicked in Danny's core that this guy he just walk by is going to cause some type of chaos that make his body practically shivers all over in a weird yet very good way that He doesn't even noticed anything else until he got back to his haunt that he just carried klarion in a bridal style.

This never happen before, but it feel so good he doesn't know and he is Freaking out but doesn't want to let go of this guy to the point of koala bear style clinginess with a gripped that will put superman to shame that his core is just feeling so good and peaceful for once as if this person is what he been missing all of his entire life and he not letting go ever.

Meanwhile Klarion just have the most red face ever mustered on his face because he is obviously very virgin in the dating area(he secretly a closet romantic as heart though he locked it up real tight to be a cool villain but that right now is being unleash so quickly by Danny's presence being near him) and he just met his soulmate, and he is hot mess on the inside because on how strong his mate is and he is just a putty in his arms with the most blessed looking face ever.

Reference image down below

Like klarion have heard of being of balance being the opposite of their chaotic soulmates but they're so very rare in the dimensions that they thought to be just fairy tale at this point, so the Chaotic beings tries anything to get out of their state of loneliness to have some fun.. but he wasn't expecting this to Happen to Him And HE FELT SO GOD DAMN BLESSED IN HIS INNER HEART RIGHT NOW.

Danny on the otherhand is freaking out internally cause he just realized he basically kidnapped someone and their orange cat and he doesn't know why it feels so comfortable to just hug them and smother them in affection and yet the feeling in his ghost core never felt so complete and he pretty sure his protection instinct is acting like a savage drooling feral gremlin that just tastes salvation. Is this what happiness taste like in his core? His whole body is vibrating so hard and his freckles are burning green with how red his face is.

Teekl is just having the smuggest face ever to see her dearly beloved companion finding a good mate and hopefully in the near future there will be kits of happiness born soon.~♡

[battyaboutbooksreviews]

🌈 Queer Books Coming Out in August 2024 🌈

🌈 Good afternoon, my bookish bats! Here are a FEW of the stunning, diverse queer books you can add to your TBR before the year is over. Happy reading!

[ Text list below ⤵ ]

❓What was the last queer book you read?

[ Release dates may have changed. ]

❤️ Failure to Comply - Sarah Cavar 🧡 I Spit On Your Celluloid - Heidi Honeycutt 💛 You're Embarrassing Yourself - Desiree Akhavan 💚 Death of the Hero - Briona Johnson 💙 Between Dragons and Their Wrath - Devin Madson 💜 The Crimson Crown - Heather Walter ❤️ Sacrificial Animals - Kailee Pedersen 🧡 Oath of Fire - K. Arsenault Rivera 💛 The Palace of Eros - Caro De Robertis 💙 This Ravenous Fate - Hayley Dennings 💜 Mistress of Lies - K.M. Enright 🌈 Wolf Bite - T.J. Nichols

❤️ In the Valley, A Shadow - Samantha Tano 🧡 Follow My Lead - Adrian J. Smith 💛 The Last Woman I Kissed - Venetia Di Pierro 💚 Full Shift - Jennifer Dugan & Kristen Seaton 💙 Hers for the Weekend - Helena Greer 💜 Come Out, Come Out - Natalie C. Parker ❤️ Rules for Ghosting - Shelly Jay Shore 🧡 How to Leave the House - Nathan Newman 💛 Plot Twist - Carmen Sereno 💙 On the Far Side of a Crescendo - Kalyn Hazel 💜 Tiny Oblivions and Mutual Self Destructions - Maxwell I. Gold 🌈 Daylan and the River of Secrets - Edd Tello

❤️ The Italy Letters - Vi Khi Nao 🧡 The Gender Binary Is a Big Lie - Lee Wind 💚 The House Where Death Lives - Alex Brown 💙 Ash's Cabin - Jen Wang 💜 The Avian Hourglass - Lindsey Drager ❤️ The Heart Wants - Krystina Rivers 🧡 A Grand Love - Janna Barkin 💛 You Can't Go Home Again - Jeanette Bears 💜 Libertad - Bessie Flores Zaldivar 🌈 Her Golden Coast - Anat Deracine

❤️ Mighty Millie Novak - Elizabeth Holden 💛 Rise and Divine - Lana Harper 💚 Dying for You - L Flowers 💙 I'll Have What He's Having - Adib Khorram 💜 Changing Her Tune - Amanda Kabak ❤️ Monogamy? In this Economy? - Laura Boyle 🧡 The Rainbow Age of Television - Sayna Maci Warner 💛 Medusa of the Roses - Navid Sinaki 💙 Confounding Oaths - Alexis Hall 💜 Idol Lives - K.T. Salvo 🌈 Brother's Keeper - Quinn Cameron

❤️ Key Lime Sky - Al Hess 🧡 Crushing It - Erin Becker 💛 The Husky and His White Cat Shizun - Rou Bao Bu Chi Rou 💚 Not for the Faint of Heart - Lex Croucher 💙 Tasting Temptation - JJ Arias 💜 Ami - S. Jae-Jones ❤️ You're the Problem, It's You - Emma R. Alban 🧡 Cubs & Campfires - Dylan Drakes 💛 The Dark We Know - Wen-yi Lee 💙 Practical Rules for Cursed Witches - Kayla Cottingham 💜 Riyati Rebirth - Kalani Shimizu 🌈 The Brujos of Borderland High - Gume Laurel III

❤️ A Bánh Mì for Two - Trinity Nguyen 🧡 Dance of the Starlit Sea - Kiana Krystle 💛 Scattered Snows, to the North - Carl Phillips 💚 Beyond a World Apart - Caitlin Myers 💙 Don't Let It Break Your Heart - Maggie Horne 💜 Nothing Heals Me Like You Do - Harper Bliss ❤️ How It All Ends - Emma Hunsinger 🧡 How Do I Sexy? - Mx. Nillin Lore 💛 The Palace of Eros - Caro De Robertis 💙 Prince of the Palisades - Julian Winters 💜 Better Left Buried - Mary E. Roach 🌈 Back to Back - Jo Fletcher

❤️ DITCHLAPSE / [REALLY AFRAID] - Tommy Wyatt 🧡 The Love Archives: Bonus Scenes & Excerpts for Palestine - Various 💛 Guardian: Zhen Hun - Ying Priest 💚 The Sunforge - Sascha Stronach 💙 Queering Reproductive Justice - Candace Bond-Theriault 💜 Gender Explained - Diane Ehrensaft & Michelle Jurkiewicz ❤️ The Unlikely Pair - Jax Calder 🧡 In Universes - Emet North 💛 We Love the Nightlife - Rachel Koller Croft 💙 Lessons from Cruising - Martin Goodman 💜 Wild Ginger in the Rhubarb - Eule Grey 🌈 Not My Circus - Delicia Niami

❤️ Asunder - Kerstin Hall 🧡 The Phoenix Keeper - S.A. MacLean 💛 Encounters with James Baldwin - Various 💚 Verity's Game - Jennifer Giacalone 💙 Hunt Me! I Crave the Chase - Fae Quin 💜 The Audacity Omnibus - Carmen Loup ❤️ Haunted to Death - Frank Anthony Polito 🧡 Blood Orange - Paige Grunewald 💛 The Bad Things We Did - Chris Archeske 💙 Dark Restraint - Katee Robert 💜 Worth the Wait - Kenna White 🌈 The Maid and the Crocodile - Jordan Ifueko

❤️ Loving Corrections - Adrienne Maree Brown 🧡 The Last Witch in Edinburgh - Marielle Thompson 💛 The Duchess of Kokora - Nikhil Prabala 💚 The Scales of Seduction - Rien Gray 💙 Survival Is a Promise - Alexis Pauline Gumbs 💜 Loka - S.B. Divya ❤️ The Every Body Book of Consent - Rachel E Simon 🧡 Southern Lights - Liz Arncliffe 💛 Then Things Went Dark - Bea Fitzgerald 💙 Death at Morning House - Maureen Johnson 💜 The Last Doorbell - William Parker 🌈 The Pairing - Casey McQuiston

[oneforthemunny]

haunted home |mafia!eddie munson x reader|

prompt: mafia!eddie surprises you by decorating the house. an expansion off of this blurb :)

read the rest of the spooky stories series here!

contains: nothing really lol. fluff. mafia!eddie themes and you can read the rest of the mafia!eddie series here!

“No, no- fuck, Gareth! Are you fuckin’ blind?” Eddie’s voice carried through the doorway in an echo, bouncing off the marble floors, wrapping around you like the cold, autumn air behind the heavy doors. 

The dogs jumped around you, tails wagging, whining and excited at your arrival. Three days away, at your parent’s house for the weekend, and the boys had missed you. You had missed them. You missed Eddie too, more than you expected in the short time you were apart. 

“Eddie, if you want to fuckin’ do it-” 

“-I am fuckin’ doin’ it, and you’re fuckin’ doin’ it wrong!” Eddie’s voice boomed, rattling the crystals of the chandelier. 

Your brows furrowed, quiet, muffled steps over the ornate rug in the foyer, following the sound of Eddie’s voice. 

“Eddie, I am trying. I’m not a goddamn interior designer-” Gareth huffed. 

“-Clearly, you’re not.” Eddie scoffed. “Can you just look at the catalog?” 

“Eddie, I am looking at the catalog.” Gareth snapped. “Make Max do it. She’s the chick.” 

“Hey,” Max huffed, and you could practically see her snarl. 

“She’s not tall enough to reach the ceiling.” Eddie muttered. The cigarette smoke from the room met you before he did, that ashy, pungent smell burning your nostrils. 

You turned the corner, Eddie’s hand on his hip, ashing his cigarette. You didn’t like him smoking in the house, the smell lingered and always soured after it settled and made the dogs sneeze. Luckily, the state of your living room distracted you from that. 

The grand mantle over the fireplace had been transformed. Fake cobwebs, brooms, ghosts, fake spiders, and large candles that had wax rolling down the wicks, dripping dramatically onto the wood. Lanterns that gave an eerie, orange glow propped onto the side tables, bats hanging in the windows. Even the bearskin rug in front of the fireplace was festive, a small witches hat on the head of the growling bear. 

Gareth was on the ladder- the really tall ladder that always made you nervous when the house cleaner would dust the chandelier- glaring down at Eddie. “Couldn’t you just hire someone for this? Fuckin’ stupid- oh, wow.” Gareth’s eyes met yours, rolling his eyes. “There goes your surprise, Eddie. She’s here. Can I get down?” 

Eddie’s head turned, wide eyed- caught. “Baby,” Eddie choked, cigarette burning in his hand, ash flitting onto the ground. “You’re-You’re back early. What time is it? I-I thought you said six.”

“I got back early.” You looked at the decor around you. “What, uh… What have you been up to?” 

“Shit, it was supposed to be a, uh, a surprise.” Eddie muttered, bumming the cigarette in the tray, free hand running over his bangs. 

“Can I get down?” Gareth huffed, slapping the ladder with his hand, making you cringe. 

“No,” Eddie growled. “I saw that catalog you brought home the other day. The home one? I know I’ve been busy and shit, and-and we can’t decorate outside but…” Eddie rambled, arms lifting around him. 

Max watched you, bright eyes tracking you expertly. Eddie’s teeth clenched, heart lurching at your silence. “If you don’t like it, I can take it down. Fuck, this was stupid. This was stupid, wasn’t it? Goddammit. Gareth, get that shit down from there-” 

“-What?” Gareth boomed, eyes bulging from the ladder. “Eddie, what the fuck? We just put this shit up-”

“-So take it down!” Eddie roared, throwing his hands out. The dogs stood at alert, Vecna moving to Eddie’s side, Lucifer sticking to yours. 

You didn’t flinch, didn’t cower or shush the dogs. No, your eyes were wide, taking in every single detail. The boxes in the corner, bags from Melvald’s, happy pumpkins with smiling plastic faces that Eddie always snorted at. That you loved. That he had bought just for you. 

“Eddie, I am not taking this shit down. Get someone else to do it. Get Jeff or Dustin-” Gareth snarled, climbing down the ladder with heavy stomps. 

“-Gareth, I swear to fuckin’ God-”

“-You’re not gonna do shit, Munson! C’mon!” Gareth yelled, the dogs growling under his feet. 

“-You wanna bet, Emerson? I’ll shove you off this goddam ladder. Send you through the fuckin’ window if you-” 

“-Can both of you shut up?” Max huffed, face scrunching in annoyance at their bickering. Her eyes stayed on you, studying every quirk of your face. 

Eddie’s eyes followed her own, to you. His heart sank and raced at the same time. He hadn’t felt like this in years, not even when Billy’s guys had a Ruger in his face. Why was he so nervous? So anxious that he’d displeased you, disappointed you. 

“Baby, I can get all this shit down. I just…I thought you wanted it because you dog eared the page, but I shoulda asked you before. I was just wanting to surprise you.” Eddie muttered. 

Max watched you, Gareth’s face snarling in disgust at the softness in Eddie’s tone. “Munson, ew-” 

“-She likes it.” Max said, cutting Gareth off with a raise of her hand. 

Eddie’s eyes snapped to the redhead, flickering back and forth from you to his partner. “What?” Eddie hissed, brows creasing in confusion. “No, she doesn’t. It’s fine, I can just take it back-” 

“-No.” You shook your head, the lump in your throat strangling your voice. The bats and crows, you knew Eddie had chosen for the “creepy ambiance” he always liked to go for with decor. They were a stark contrast to the happy ghosts holding little pumpkins next to them. It made your nose burn with the threat of tears. 

“Max is right. I love it.” You nod, looking over at Eddie with a wobbling lip, a watery smile, eyes shining in pure adoration. 

Eddie felt that familiar blush creep through his chest, up his neck and to the very tip of his ears. “Really? I mean if you don’t, I can just get rid of it, and-and you can get whatever you want.” 

“No, Eddie, really. This is so,” You looked around the living room, at the cobwebs that were dramatic and stringy that Gareth was going to hang, tiny, plastic spiders sewn in. “This is perfect.” 

“Perfect.” Gareth grinned, smug, a little mocking in his tone. “See, Ed, you were freaking out for nothing.” 

“Shut up, Gareth.” Eddie hissed, his tone dropping and changing to menacing in a beat. Gareth just snorted, unfazed by his mood change, too used to it. “Just… Get the fuck outta here. Both of you. Gimme some space.” Eddie waved his hand. 

Max followed behind a smirking, smug Gareth, shutting the heavy front door behind them, the click of the latch echoing through the living room, rattling off the high ceilings. 

Eddie took slow, calculated steps behind you. “You don’t have to act like you like it.” He muttered in that soft, gentle tone that was reserved just for you. “I’ll take it back.” 

“No,” You shook your head, grabbing at his hand blindly, finding it easily and holding it in yours. “This is… This is just… I can’t believe you did this for me.” You smiled, the tears brimming in your water line. 

“What d’ya mean? Hey, don’t cry. Shit, I didn’t mean to make you cry.” Eddie cooed softly, pushing Lucifer back when he guarded you, hands grabbing at your waist, pulling you into him gently. 

“Why’re you crying?” Eddie muttered, curls brushing against your forehead, tickling at your collarbones when he dipped his head towards yours. You could still smell the nicotine on his breath, soothing you with the soft coo. “What’s the matter, hm? You don’t like it?” 

“Eddie, no, I love it.” You mutter, resting your head against his gently. “You didn’t have to do all this for me. I-I know you can’t decorate-” 

“-I can do whatever I want.” Eddie said firmly, hand cupping your jaw, holding your gaze in his. “It’s my house. I wanted to decorate it for you.” 

Heat rushed to your cheeks, turning into his palm, your own hands enveloped over his. Diablo nosed at your knee, watching you carefully.

"And, ya know, it is my favorite holiday." Eddie shrugged, dimples creasing when you giggled.

“Thank you.” You beam, pressing a delicate kiss into his calloused hands. “It’s perfect, really. Too much, Ed, you didn’t have to do all of that. I had some in my storage I could use.” 

“No, it’s no big deal. I wanted to get it for us, for the house, y’know?” Eddie shrugged, soft lips pressing to yours, a gentle, sweet kiss that had you both melting into each other. 

You pressed your cheek against Eddie’s chest, arms around his waist, looking at the decorations. “This is really nice, Ed.” 

“Yeah? Spooky enough for you?” Eddie grinned, squeezing your hips gently. “I just gotta put up the webs and shit on the chandelier. Gareth was being such a fuckin’ bitch about it.” 

“I can help you put it up.” You offer, looking at the pile on the coffee table. 

“Nah, I’ll get someone to do it later. Wanna hear about your trip.” Eddie hummed, pulling you into his lap onto the couch.

[brain-usurped-by-bug]

My Curated Turbo/King Candy playlist!

These 22 23 songs were selected for their lyrical connection first and vibes second, although the playlist mostly consists of rock and electronic music. I have arranged the playlist roughly in narrative order for maximum vibes.

Tracklist (as of Sept 14, 2024), along with choice lyrics and overly deep explanations on why these songs fit.

"The End" - My Chemical Romance. Serves as an introduction to the playlist, and a warning of the downfall that is to come. "Save me! Save me! You Can't! Take me!"

"The Main Character" - Will Wood. A sharp transition away from the introduction, taking you back to a happier time. Despite the bright tone, the lyrics introduce a self centered character who feels he deserves love and attention. "I'm the main character, and you have to like me."

"I'm Gonna Win" - Rob Cantor. A Rock music. The lyrics speak of winning at all costs and a refusal to give up. "I'll never loose, I'll never die. You've seen me before, you'll see me again."

"Kickstart My Heart" - Motley Crue. Energetic rock music, representing confidence and the excitement of a race.

"Freak of the Week" - Freak Kitchen. Harsher rock music, the lyrics speak of a willingness to do anything for attention, including self mutilation. "Like me, like me, won't you like me?"

"Final Transmision" - The Living Tombstone. Electronic music, and the transition into the road blasters era. "Pushing off the payload, no cable to rewind him." "Eyelids getting heavy, sleep it off now kid, everyone knows now exactly what you did."

"Bloodstains" - Agent Orange. Angry rock, falling into mental illness. Considering homicide as a solution to his problems. "Ah things seems so much different now, the scene has died away. I haven't got a steady job, and I've got no place to stay."

"Alien Blues" - Vundabar. More mental illness rock. Disillusioned and disconnected to the people around him, popularity fading. "My teeth are yellow, hello world. Would you like me a little better if they were white like yours?"

"Cowboy Dan" - Modest Mouse. Sad cowboy rock, shortly before the road blasters incident. He is angry and dissatisfied with is place in life. he is a major player in his scene, but he wants more, he wants war. He hates how things have changed. he wants out. "He hops in his pickup, puts the pedal to the floor, and says, 'I got mine, but I want more'." "Can't do it, not even if sober, can't get that engine turned over."

"Toba the Tura" - Forgive Durden. Post-Roadblasters regret. lots of great lyrics here. "I watched the lamps fall, You pushed them over. They say you're gifted, Well I just see a scared kid." "The raw scorched Earth, It's a trophy of your worth." "Your cold wicked soul boasts a foul scent." "This mess that you made, it's a six-foot grave, It's a home for your lonesome bones that remain. We'll disappear you'll stay here, To rot as the king of the dark and forgot." "(Oh what have you done, disobedient son) What have I become? (You've broken the trust) Destroyed all I loved."

"My Crt" - Dream Puzzles. Moody electronic music about being hunted by a yellow eyed man inside a computer. Is he haunting himself, or is it an external force?

"Awoken" - Wooden Toster. He lives in pain and regret, but he has awoken from the monotony and is prepared to make a change. "Pushed by desire to change the way my stream will frow. now I've awoken and I'm taking back control."

"Sirens" - Bear Ghost. A drift into headcanon territory. He he's sick of hiding, so he goes out to have fun and let off steam, but he's terrified of being caught, and nearly is.

"A Mask of My Own Face" - Lemon Demon. A turn to the playful and sinister. A mask is put on, he goes around in disguise, and is proud of himself. "I'd wear it on Thanksgiving and I'd laugh in the parade at all the people hissing, knowing I'm the one they hate."

"Cabinet Man" - Lemon Demon. THE Turbo song. He reflects on his past and decides to take over Sugar Rush. Perfect vibes, to many fitting lyrics to list. Someone sinister is lurking in a game cabinet, assumed dead, existing unseen, unbeatable, breaking in. Half Human and Half Machine.

"My Ordinary Life" - The Living Tombstone. He's a king on top of the world, surrounded by admirers. He's on a high. He loves the glitz and glamour, but it's all a farse. "People blend together but I would be lost without their love. Can you heal me have I gained too much?" "Is there a real me? Pop the camphane."

"Ruler of Everything" - Tally Hall. He is playfully in control of everything, but his inner darkness still lurks. "Your facade is a scam, you know you're making me cry this is the way that I am. I've been living a lie, a metamorphical scheme."

"Dear Dictator" - Saint Motell. A return to rock music. The point of no return has long been passed. Judgment is on the horizon. "Nobody has ever seen his face, but fear his smile." "And at the trial they'll be no jury, and all the dead are gonna play witness. It's not too late to say you're sorry, but it's to late to truly mean it."

"Wolf in Sheep's Clothing" - Set it Off. A return to rage. He's lying and hurting people to keep his position. "So, tell me how you're sleeping easy, how you're only thinking of yourself. Show me how you justify, telling all your lies like second nature."

"House of Wolves" - My Chemical Romance. He knows he faces eternal damnation, but it's way too late to turn back, so instead he embraces it. "Take this to my grave." "Tell me I'm a bad, bad, bad, bad man."

"Unconditional Love" - Against Me!. Cybug Transformation. He is doomed, and not even unconditional love can save him now. "Half digested and eternal, somewhere lost in the ephemeral."

"Dead!" - My Chemical Romance. Death. “Did you get what you deserve? The ending of your life." "Have you head the news that you're dead? No one ever had much nice to say, I think they never liked you anyway."

.

"Puzzle Pieces" - Saint Motell. Bonus track! y/n sings about how Turbo/King Candy has designed himself, and is made up of all these pieces that don't fit together. "I can hardly move, I can barely breath, near your features."

[ghcstao3]

drabbles masterlist

(about time i made one of these)

here, you can find all the drabbles that i've written (that i could find lol) on my blog, from feb 2023-nov 2023. everything is in chronological order in their own sections, and all ghostsoap unless otherwise specified :)

PART TWO of the list

(scrapped) snippets

starving artist!soap x mi6!ghost

ghostsoap christmas

soap stranded in space

hogwarts prof ghost x zoologist soap

halloween curse

misc

supernatural something!ghost

love, death & robots au

clingy ghost

ghost restoring his humanity

ghost and his cold hands

tommy's pov on ghostsoap's relationship

soap and his evil cat

soap's struggle with nightmares (part 1) (part 2)

on memories

ghost and his fear of snakes

tommy and ghost band au (part 1) (part 2) (part 3)

soap and people-watching

summer job

mr. & mrs. smith au

on love and expressing it

bookshop au (part 1) (part 2)

on types of kisses

mildly supernatural au (part 1) (part 2)

sensual orange eating

soap and his times of day

apartment 4b

soap's nickname

soulmates aftermath

ghost plays piano

ghost's anger

soap and drawing

catholic guilt

ex-jazz singer ghost

ghost’s haunted house

soap finds ghost in a church

quiet marriage proposal

morning conversation

night at the museum au (part 1) (part 2)

mw3 mini fix-it

tommy’s bachelor party

alternate timeline

how to tie a tie

marine biologist au

asks / requests

soap drawing ghost

post-breakup

ghost stalking soap on leave

'22 dreaming about '09 events

ghost and christmas shenanigans

oblivious soap

honeypot soap

soap buried alive

teen joseph

price, ghost, and smoking in the rain

secret relationship accidental "reveal"

tinder roulette

sleep-talking soap

vigilante ghost

anastasia au

ghost and his summer outfit

first meeting at a bar

ghost with parseltongue

werewolf!soap, vampire!ghost

gaz and ghost second first meeting (feat. jealous soap)

stripper au

olive theory

the difficulty of kissing a man always in a mask

cowboys au

body swap

failed relationship

'22 flashbacks to '09

domestic arguing

voice actor!ghost

lifeguard!ghost

string of fate soulmates

identity mix-up

ghost and gracefulness

accidental sugar daddy ghost

best man ghost

soap is stood up

first meetings

human!ghost x vampire!soap (pt1) (pt2) (pt3) (pt4)

werewolf!ghost x vampire!soap

post-mission shower

bear shifter!soap

141 & mrs mactavish

greek mythology asks

hades and persephone

achilles and patroclus

orpheus and eurydice

apollo and hyacinth

last updated: nov 24, 2023

[antimonyandthyme]

1k, prosenna

warnings: references to character death, grief/mourning

There were hands smoothing down the wrinkles in the sheets by his legs.

“Go away,” he said. “You are dead.”

Ayrton rolled his eyes. “Of course,” he said, and went back to adjusting the blanket.

Ludicrous. Ghost Ayrton was trying to tuck him in. Alain was losing his mind.

“So even in death, you seek to drive me mad.”

Ayrton pulled back, like that stung. Actually stung, physically. Which made no sense. Alain was talking to a shade his mind had cobbled up, in rejection of the reality. Some people had no business lying still. So, his imagination made them move.

“I’m trying to make you comfortable.”

“I am quite comfortable, thank you.”

“Then why can’t you sleep?” Ayrton said softly.

Alain stared down at his hands, tangled in the sheets by his waist. He had lost faith in the veins running along his body to carry blood. If he looked in the mirror, he knew what he’d find. Haunted eyes, and a tiredness that stuck to flesh like wet film. Why couldn’t he sleep?

“Because you left,” Alain said. “Without so much as a goodbye.”

Ayrton’s face seemed whiter than before, if that were even possible. Even now, when nothing between them mattered any more—even now, they hurt each other.

“I am trying,” Ayrton said, “to right this wrong, can you understand that?”

“Then let me sleep,” Alain said.

It was close to eleven when Alain awoke. His alarm had been switched off. He did not remember doing that. There was a hand on his shoulder, shaking him awake. Ayrton had not left.

“Now, to the shops,” Ayrton announced, sounding so much like it was the tallest order of the day. “Get dressed, Alain.”

“No,” Alain said. He had not left the house in—weeks. Since Imola.

Ayrton pursed his lips and squinted. It was all so familiar. He used to make that expression right before they argued. Alain could close his eyes and conjure it up, every frown line etched in its precise position. He supposed he was getting exceedingly good at recreating Ayrton from memory.

“Get dressed,” Ayrton said menacingly, “or I will dress you.”

Alain barked out a laugh. It grated against his ears like metal on metal, a crash on the track. He hadn’t heard himself in what seemed like eons. Fine, fine. He could humour Ayrton, if only because he had made him laugh.

Ayrton watched with satisfaction as Alain drew clean clothes on. It didn’t seem strange that Ayrton watched him while he changed, with something in his eyes Alain couldn’t quite place. Or rather, something Alain couldn’t bear to place, now that the something was no longer within reach.

They went to the market.

“Why can't they see you?”

Ayrton scoffed. “Why would I choose to appear to them?”

Alain shook his head. “Why would you choose to appear to me?”

Ayrton looked at him as if Alain were deliberately being obtuse. Which was just typical. And comforting enough for the crack in his heart to tear open and bleed freely.

The shopkeepers must certainly think him mad. He was holding up produce for Ayrton to inspect. He was holding them up to thin air.

“Pah,” Ayrton said. “You call those oranges?”

Alain inspected the offending fruit. “What would you call them?”

“Those are yellows at best. This is what you’ve been eating? No wonder you’ve grown so thin.”

The weather was crisp, and Alain’s lips cracked when he smiled. He poked his tongue out to get at the blood, and let himself be bullied into purchasing grapefruit instead.

There was a light drizzle when they were finally done. Alain kept his walking pace while Ayrton seethed behind him. By the grace of the universe, Alain had been spared an apparition that could touch. If Alain could imagine the feel of Ayrton against him, then. Well. He wouldn’t survive this.

“Walk faster,” Ayrton demanded. Every time he tried to push at Alain, his hands went clean through. “You are getting soaked.”

“I don’t mind,” Alain said. The chill of the air was refreshing, actually.

“I do,” Ayrton said. “Come on, your house is just around the corner.”

But Alain would not listen. He stood under the clouds as the sky opened up and mourned for Senna.

“Come in from the rain,” Ayrton pleaded with him.

Alain stayed, like a madman who would not be swayed. The immovable object to Ayrton’s now very stoppable force. The paper bag holding his groceries tore, and the grapefruit thudded to the ground, coming to rest in puddles. He was allowed to relish in the anguish he was inflicting upon Ayrton. In return for the sorrow that now bound his every waking moment.

“What would you have me do?” Ayrton was shouting now. The rain adhered to his cheeks like tears. “For you to come inside, Alain, what would you have me do?”

“Come back,” Alain said to the storm.

The rain kept falling. Alain did not know for how long. Could have been seconds. Or years. Alain was looking his grief right in the face. He was dimly aware that he was shivering wildly, that his teeth were chattering.

“I will never forgive you,” Ayrton said, his final attempt at moving Alain. “If you allowed this to break you, I will never forgive you. You will never see peace, Alain, for I will never leave you.”

“What if,” he said, sounding for all the world like a child, lost and pathetic, “I wanted that?”

“You are a fool,” Ayrton said harshly. His hands hovered a mere millimeter above Alain’s cheeks. He looked so much like he wanted to stroke Alain. It looked like pain, that he couldn’t. “Come in from the rain, Prost, and live.”

Alain looked up. The sky was clearing. The earth continued to spin, as she always did. Alain crouched down, and picked up his fallen fruit. He took his time. Dragged it out. Allowed himself the taste of longing. When he turned to go home, Ayrton was no longer there.

[liminalbeans]

Belated Halloween post!

The beanies are:

Haunt (black bear with pumpkin on chest)

Pocus (black bear with orange hat and nose)

Pumkin (pumpkin)

Quivers (ghost bear)

Tricky (green bear in pumpkin costume)

The location is unknown.

[nanomooselet]

Visual Motifs: Tesla

So, one of the benefits of an adaptation like Stampede - a retelling, rather than just lifting from the page - is that they know where it's leading, and they can add context or foreshadowing. For some characters, they can even add presence. In addition, Stampede is required by the limits of the medium to do some streamlining. From all I've heard about their consultations with Nightow, their concern was with themes first.

But there an issue arises in Tesla. What is there to say or do for her? She isn't a presence; she's an absence. There's not much you can add without undermining the gutwrenching horror and thus the thematic impact of her character.

But Orange found a way. In fact, they found multiple ways.

Tesla can never let anyone know what she wanted because she was so thoroughly stripped of action or speech. While she lived no one cared to listen to what she had to say, and she's forever silenced by death. Nightow had to bend the rules to give her a last, ambiguous word.* Memories and assumptions are all that's left. Those are all undoubtedly themes in Trigun. I think it's all still true in Stampede, with an obvious exception.

After all, silence is a statement.

Congratulations to Orange on making it even more horrifying. Though I'm at least reasonably sure that she wasn't conscious in suspension... I hope she wasn't. I suppose it adds to the argument to suggest her fate in the manga was kinder.

It also opens the question of what happened to her in the Fall, but helpfully (?), Nightow had already introduced a means of resolving it. It tidily both suggests a possible future plot point and further characterises Knives in the way he protects what he loves. He says her discovery was to him "but one grain of sand", and he's a fucking liar. (Also, note Dr. Conrad in the picture on Tesla's file. Nai had to learn he was involved somehow.)

My trash boy never disappoints.

Personally I do believe it's jumping the gun to assume Knives actually bears her consciousness, but she had a profound effect on him, much as red geranium petals are now foundational to Vash's identity. While the icon of the Eye of Michael represents a number of things (I'm gonna talk about them too, if I ever get around to it), the variation on it used in the Windmill Village isn't so ambiguous. The arrangement turns up over and over.

Behold the single most obvious way Tesla's made more "present" in Trigun Stampede. (It's sure beholding you.) The motif of Tesla's eye is as central a symbol in Knives as geranium flowers are in Vash. Tesla might not literally be a ghost, but she haunts Knives anyway. He's determined that she'll haunt everyone else too, though they may not know it's her. In his mind, he's her avenging angel.

But he isn't the only one who holds onto her.

And a certain panel in Maximum...

Though those particular eyes actually represent the eyes of humans. Eyes weren't prominently linked to Tesla in the manga, but this may have been the inspiration.

Speaking of the manga... what about Rem? Though we know it or something like it occurred, in Stampede we don't see the confrontation with Vash where she confessed to her anguish over failing their sister, and how far she was willing to go ensuring he wouldn't be hurt. I understand feeling that it flattens her. The narrative is being dictated by Knives in that moment, who wasn't there to witness it and had a vested interest in removing Rem from the story.

That doesn't mean there's no sign Tesla haunted Rem. If Tesla hadn't suffered what she suffered, maybe Rem would have served an uneventful term as Navigation Officer before going back into cryosleep, while the SEEDS fleet peacefully continued on its journey. It was still because she failed Tesla that Rem adopted and raised the twins. Knives's anger/fear at the perceived betrayal by both Rem and Vash still led to him crashing the fleet, Rem's death, and all that happened in its wake.

It's an interaction we never witness - it may not even have been a direct encounter - and yet Tesla, through Rem, instigated the plot. And that's also still true.

Comparing the discovery scenes in Stampede and the manga directly, there's a change. The flower Rem left as a memorial for Tesla in the manga (looks like a white lily, which represents innocence and purity in the Japanese language of flowers and is often used for funerals) is instead a red geranium.

I'd chalk it up to reinforcing Rem's connection with the flower and minimizing the 2D background painting budget, except...

Almost every time the twins as children are together on the screen with Rem, a geranium in a glass dome is there too. The only time it's not present somehow is when they're visiting the Plant room at the start of ep twelve.

And when they find Tesla, there's a shot where this happens:

The red petals are almost invisible in the darkness... and then pop out when she's revealed, like a wound. As if they emerged along with her.

The geranium, to Rem, represents Tesla. When she can, she has it accompanying the twins. The presence of this small, red, glass-bound thing - suspended, mute, so easily stripped of its petals - is perhaps an inadequate gesture, just as Tesla herself never grew to be what she could have been, and adopting the twins may not make a difference. But Tesla can be with her family in spirit and her baby brothers will get a chance to grow. That's all that Rem can do for her now, a regret she bore until the end of her life.

In Stampede, Rem and her successors are positioned as Knives's most direct ideological opposition in a number of ways, and I think one of them is in how they honour the memory of Tesla. Would the twins' older sister have wanted the vengeance Knives wreaked in her name? Or would she have had the grace to hope the humans would learn better? Would she have been happy those who came after her were given the love and the choices that she wasn't?

She can no longer choose. No one will ever know.

And that brings me, finally, to how Tesla haunts Vash.

Unlike the manga, in Stampede it's not as though Vash has any reason to fear being abused, or dismembered, or consumed, or exploited. In the manga he very much feared all those things, and accused Rem of raising them to continue the experiments. He was very angry and frightened to realise he was surrounded by humans and he was "not like them". But in Stampede Vash might as well be a human.

That's definitely a way Stampede thematically diverged from the manga. Nai's the one who's perfect and more like a Plant, because of his powers. Right?

It's Vash who tends to be physically closest to the geranium.

In the SEEDS database, Vash and Tesla are in the same folder, while Nai has his own. There are all sorts of potential reasons, but in my mind it'd be because their colouring matches (yellow-blonde hair, blue eyes). It's Vash (his hands on the left) who notices there's an extra file and starts scrolling through them. He unlocked the database, and he caused the jars of what was left of Tesla to be revealed.

He wears red. Specifically his outfit is red over black - his shirt and pants. And his eyes are the first ones in which Plant patterns are highlighted.

Ever noticed that Tesla's missing both arms?

But it's hardly as though Vash is in any position to understand what Tesla felt, or what she wanted.

And it's not as though Knives, in his loneliness and fear and denial of responsibility, would puppet his sibling for the power to take revenge.

Right?

* Don't get me wrong. Nightow's relaxed approach to worldbuilding could have made her reveal in Maximum a plot hole, but it's not. Plants really are weird enough that just about anything seems possible. Nightow created the impression that discovering her remains was so painful for the twins they came to a mutual, unspoken agreement to avoid mentioning it, let alone using her fate as a rhetorical tool. When Knives finally does bring her up, it's just before trying to meld with and then imprisoning his brother aboard the Ark. To me, it feels like his declaration of total war.

[milfgyuu]

As It Was [M] Pairing: Lee Chan x Fem!Reader Series: SVT x Harry’s House Tags: 9.1k, Ghost!Chan, Human!Reader, Historical/Fantasy Themes, Reunited Lovers, Romance, Angst, Mature 18+ Summary: On the anniversary of his death, the love of your life returns but things aren’t quite the same. Living with Chan’s ghost proves to be sweet torture in many ways but that’s the thing about real, genuine love…it will always prevail in the end. 

Warnings: Mature Content Throughout, Explicit Sex Scene 18+. Re-occurring mention of death, grief, ghosts, mention of mortal wounding/blood, angst with happy ending, unprotected sex (mxf), oral (f), it’s a heated & steamy lil love scene but rather brief!

Spring is one of those seasons everyone in your small town spends the rest of the year anticipating. Fresh green scenery is splashed with color. Blooming pinks, oranges, yellows, purples. It brings warmth and festivities. Singing children and joined hands. Dancing in the square with a merry tune floating through the air - mingling with the natural floral aroma. 

You loathe Spring. 

It is rot and decay. It is broken and desolate. The smell of fresh flowers knots your stomach and the colors - blinding and sickening to behold. You can’t bear to hear the sounds of the townsfolk and their empty traditions. The music is haunting, twisting, and mocking in a way you can’t seem to escape. 

How could they go on like this? Like nothing has changed? 

As if Spring hadn’t been mangled and ruined just like your heart. 

It’s been two years since Spring lost all it’s meaning and you fled far enough that the sight and smell and sound of that wretched season can no longer touch you. You don’t smell the flowers nor look upon their poisonous petals. The laughter and singing and melodies die before they can reach you; ceasing to exist as if all the oxygen was sucked from the air, suffocating before fading into nothingness once it gets too close. 

Your cottage stands alone in the woods. It’s shingles are drab, dried to the point of cracking and splintering or damp and rotting in the places the trees press in too closely. The windows are cloudy or entirely blocked by overgrown foliage you can’t find the will to remove. The garden out front - one that would have been full of love and tender consideration under different circumstances - is dead and infertile. 

It’s unwelcoming and lacks any spark of life. Too fitting for the ghost who dwells within. 

Neither alive nor dead. Trapped in limbo between the planes of existence ever since you felt Chan’s heart beat beneath your palm for the very last time. 

Your body jolts at the sound of the kettle whistling into the stark silence. It was easily forgotten with your back turned to the kitchen, shoulders squared in some weak attempt to garner the courage to open the small chest in front of you. 

Coming back from the kitchen with the small steaming cup in your hands, you eye the chest carefully as if it might open all by itself before you’re ready. Sometimes you wish it would. You hate being responsible for breaking the seal, contaminating that little bubble of preservation once a year to weep over its contents before carefully sealing them back inside and hiding them away until Spring rears her ugly head once again.

Discarding the porcelain dish off to the side you settle onto your knees, the unforgiving floor bruising your skin in the process. With both hands, you pull the chest closer and take a deep breath. It’s nothing but dust and stale air but then you push the lid open and the faint scent of cinnamon and whiskey barrels into you and your shoulders sag. 

Your face is wet before you’ve even reached a hand inside, daring yourself to pull something from it’s depths but your trembling fingers make you hesitate. 

It’s all you have left of what could have been a lifetime of happiness. 

The smooth wooden handle of Chan’s small knife tickles the tips of your fingers and you lift it gently from the belly of the chest. The blade itself it rough hewn and a bit crooked but he’d loved it anyhow. Gifted to Chan by his father, he’d always carried it around like the greatest treasure. Like a mighty sword though it was hardly large enough to be deemed much more than a novelty. 

You place it on the floor next to the chest and pull a small stack of letters you’d refused to open thus far. They were stacked high and secured with a pretty blue ribbon. The same one he’d bartered for in the market just so he could tie it around the wildflowers he’d picked for you. It’s silk was starting to fray at the corners and there were ink stains on the material from Chan’s delicate penmanship. 

His hands were always calloused and warm and covered in dirt more often than not but they were incredibly gentle. It showed in the way his letters swirled and looped elegantly on the envelopes in front of you just as it had when he’d held you as you danced. If you closed your eyes and quieted your mind, you could feel the rough pad of his thumbs stroking over your cheekbones. His warm, thick palms cupping your face oh so softly.

The old silver flask in the corner of the chest glints back at you and you reach inside, taking it into one hand while you rub the back of your other hand against your wet eyes. All that does is smear the tears across your face and you wipe the remnants away with your sleeve. The cap of the flask is screwed on a bit too tightly. Last year you dared a swig and hastily put it away, ashamed of your indulgence when you could have easily emptied it’s contents. Once removed, you put the flask up to your nose and breathe in slowly. 

The whiskey burns just the same and your eyes squeeze together tightly. Chan had only been drunk a handful of times but he’d carried that flask with him like a lush. He’d tease you about the faces you made when you tasted it but you hadn’t ever complained when you tasted it on his tongue. That was different. It was sweeter and full of him. 

Choking down another wave nausea and grief, you set the flask down and peer into the chest. There is one item you’ve not touched since his death and your fingertips burn when they near the handkerchief that you usually avoid with great care. Quiet sobs escape your quivering lips as you pull out the cloth and peel back its layers. 

Amidst the stained material lies a golden locket with it’s chain curled protectively around it like a wyvern with her pile of treasures. Your arms slacken leaving your hands in your lap as you stare down at the necklace catching on the bloodied finger print Chan left behind just before he’d died in your arms. 

You remember it too vividly. 

He was coming home from a neighboring town and you’d been waiting for him all afternoon. You sang as you fed the chickens, tossing the meal into the air and letting it rain down like a winter flurry. You tended the gardens and milked the cows. You twirled in your silly little dress, that golden locket clasped around your throat. 

You spotted him coming from a distance and left the pigs to gorge themselves with an overfilled trough, abandoning the bag as it continued spilling into their pen. You called his name and he smiled and then he stumbled and that’s when you recognized the blood on his shirt, pooling at the front of his abdomen, spilling past his soaked fingers. 

He crashed to the ground and you screamed so horrifically the entire earth writhed and groaned in your wake. Tree roots curled and retreated from the soil, boulders shook and fissured, and the sky cracked open letting forth a torrential downpour of absolute turmoil. 

You’d rushed to hit side, knees cracking as they hit the ground, your dress tearing and soaking up the excess of dirt and blood. It was so bright. As if everything was gray except for the hideous, bright red blood that showed no signs of slowing. You pressed your hand against his, willing the blood to clot, the wound to close. Willing a miracle. 

It didn’t work. 

He’d smiled at you with blood in his mouth, staining his white teeth. It was grim and beautiful and he’d done nothing more than smile and reach for your face. He told you he loved you and nearly choked doing so. You begged him to be quiet and he simply laughed. It was weak and disassembled and it broke you so completely when he reached up and touched his finger to the locket he gave you, accidentally smearing red there too. Suddenly, his hand fell and his heart stopped and you begged for him to take you too. 

You begged and pleaded and sobbed and screamed. 

The memory leaves you light headed and you lay the open handkerchief in front of you on the floor, careful not to jostle the necklace inside. You turn to retrieve the cup of hot water and realize you hadn’t brought along a clean cloth to use, so you dipped the end of your dress into the hot water and carefully bent over the locket, using your dress to clean the dried blood from it’s surface. 

It’s too easy you think, the way the blood disappears within seconds as if it were that simple to erase the horrors of the past. With one finger, you lift the chain and it unravels, catching as the locket lifts off the cloth and hovers in front of you. After a moment, you extend your opposite hand and lower the chain until the locket rests in your palm. It’s heavier than you remember, perhaps because of the enormity of what it now carries within. 

“Have you an idea how cramped it’s been inside that thing all this time?”

The voice comes from behind and you lurch forward, knocking over the chest and all its contents. 

“Kidding! I’m kidding! Ah, damn-”

You snatch up the knife and raise it before you, the uneven brick of your fireplace imprinting painfully into your back as you press against it. The blade clatters to the floor when you look up to find a terribly beautiful and familiar face looking back. 

“Oh Gods!” you choke out hysterically, scrambling further away and knocking your head on a low table. You hiss, pressing your fingers to the wound and your fingers come away mostly clean but the sight of bright red makes your chest tight and the figure approaches with something akin to concern. You’d think him nothing but a figment of your imagination but as he moves you hear his footsteps and when he accidentally kicks the empty chest it spins out of the way.

Chan reaches for your hand but they never connect and it comes away like mist before it’s fully corporeal again. The man you love, who died in your arms years ago, stares down at his hand in shock. He lays it against the brick and he can feel the rigid texture of it. Looking even more desperate, he tries again to touch you but he cannot. You feel nothing but cold where he attempts to hold you. 

“I…” He looks at his hands and then back to you, “I’m sorry for scaring you. I didn’t think you were real,” his voice trails off and he shakes his head, smiling at you in all the ways you’ve missed, “You’re surely a sight for sore eyes.”

His name is all but a whisper on your lips. “You didn’t think I was real? I don’t understand...how can this be?”

“Well,” he shrugs as if he’s not all that sure himself, “When I ah…departed…I think I wanted to stay so badly that a piece of me latched onto that locket. I hadn’t ever expected to return…well, somewhat return. I’m still not sure that I understand the intricacies of the afterlife.”

You stand on shaky legs and Chan grumbles with frustration when he reaches out again and remembers he can’t help you. It’s a divine sort of torture to be reunited with the one you love without the ability to touch them. He motions for you to sit on the lounge and frowns at the torn cushions. Its state is no better than anything else in this old house. 

You watch as he sits next to you and marvel at how real he looks. Had you not known the truth of things you’d think he was alive and well like it’s all been some terrible nightmare. That truth is solidified when you stretch your arm out and straight through Chan’s chest. He glances down with a grimace and snatch your hand back to your chest. “Sorry.”

It’s quite possible you’ve finally lost your mind. You’re not sure that you care.

Chan chuckles at the quiet embarrassment in your body language and grins like there isn’t anything amiss. “I’ve missed you terribly,” he starts and your chest cracks, “You look beautiful as ever.”

Choked laughter is swallowed by another torrent of tears and Chan wishes desperately to hold you. “You’re still a awful liar. I look wretched,” you correct him, your hands shaking as you wipe at your face, “I’ve looked as vacant on the outside as I've felt on the inside since you left.”

“Nonsense,” he chides, smiling gently as he reaches down and takes up the handkerchief in his hands. It seems as though he can physically interact with most things, except for you. “The cottage does seem a little…vacant though. Have you re-arranged the furniture? Painted the walls…gray…perhaps? Decided to house little orphan spiderlings?”

Your scoff is wet but entirely familiar to Chan. 

“Forgive me if I haven’t the spirit to dust or paint,” you sigh, “It’s hard to bring life to a dwelling that lacks that of which within.”

“Pretty, pretty words as always. Don’t you know I’m just a poor farm boy?” his canines shine with mirth, “Don’t you remember telling me that my hands were built for a sickle and a plow. Too rough and filthy to hold a such delicate bindings?”

You remember quite clearly how you used to bite back at his teasing as a child. You were a little girl with ribbons in your hair and he was just a boy with dirt on his pants. That was years before you spent your days with him in the gardens as Chan taught you how to tend to different plants and crops before retiring under a tree where you’d read to him well into the sunset with his head in your lap, one of your hands carding through his hair. 

“It’s a relief to know your good humor is not lost.”

“It’s a relief to know you’ve not forgotten about me.”

His change in tone is hardly noticeable but you’ve spent more time reading him than any of the books you’ve since neglected on the cobweb covered shelving in the room. 

“I could never forget you,” you tell him quietly, placing a hand over his in the space between you. It of course sinks through to the cushion beneath but the sentiment is received and Chan quickly shoulders away an errant tear. 

He sniffles, albeit a little too loudly, and slaps his thighs, standing to look down at you with another dazzling smile. “Well, that’s enough of that,” he gestures for you to stand since he can’t offer you his hand, “Why don’t you show me around and put me to work? These hands are getting much too soft for my liking,” he says as he wiggles his fingers for you. 

How like him to ignore any and all lingering questions in favor of teasing and laughter. How like you to fall for his charms so easily, allowing him the pleasure of winning you over with his distractions. You stand and make like you’re snatching for his hands, smiling for the first time in years. 

“They are looking a bit soft, aren’t they?”

He bites his lip, sealing in the overwhelming amount of joy blooming in his chest. If his heart could still beat, he knows it would thump so loudly you’d hear it from across the room. 

“Quite soft,” he pretends to frown down at his palms, “If I'm to haunt you for eternity you might as well make good use of them. I’m certain you’re just itching to order me around and I’ve grown tired of sitting around waiting.”

Perhaps you’re damning yourself by giving into this fantasy but it feels too real and you won’t allow yourself to question it any further. He’s here. 

You grin back at him and hum. “I do suppose you could be useful.”

It’s a strange notion that someone no longer alive could be so full of life.

Granted a second chance, Chan doesn’t waste a single moment with you. Together, you transform the dilapidated cottage into a home filled with love, and light, and color. Chan scrubbed and buffed the windows until the sunlight poured in while you swept and dusted bidding all your spiderlings farewell. 

Morning were spent fixing the old henhouse or rather Chan rebuilt the coop while you admired his work from your position in the garden. He’d already cleared the overgrowth and tilled the soil to his satisfaction before he let you set foot in it, wanting to ensure you didn’t dirty your delicate hands until you were ready to choose what to grow. Even then he hounded you to wear your gloves and your hat, making sure you took breaks along the way. 

Meanwhile he worked without breaking a single sweat, grumbling about how much easier the farm work would have been if he could have gone without food, sleep, and shade. 

It was still a marvel that he was here with you but you were reminded of the gift’s limitations too often. 

As it was, Chan only existed in the cottage and it’s immediate grounds. You’d learned so one day when he attempted to go into town with you and began fading away the moment he’d stepped outside of the invisible barrier. You rushed him home, even though he seemed to be well and intact, and did not let him out of your sight for days on end, worried he would disappear entirely. Worried that next time, you would not get him back.

Ever faithful and present at your side, Chan reassured you he wasn’t leaving again and you both agreed he would remain home when you went into town for things. In hindsight, you may have seemed a bit mad to the townsfolk, dashing about to get everything you had needed each time you visited but the look on Chan’s face when you returned home had been well worth it. 

Seedlings for the gardens, a few new books, material for Chan’s newest project, and something he hadn’t been able to see or hold in years…a few hens and a handful of chicks. 

Chan’s teasing about being a lowly farm boy were only half truthful. He was cut from the same cloth as his father and his grandfather before him, all naturally gifted farmers. He’d loved his animals and cared deeply for them, understanding and appreciating all they give to us in return. He was elated when he felt the fuzzy texture of the chicks’ feathers in his hands. 

So much so, he’d wanted to kiss you right then and there until he remembered he couldn’t. 

He couldn’t touch you or kiss you or hold you and yet he could ache and yearn and crave the feeling of you so badly he felt weary down to his bones. Some nights while you slept he climbed from your shared bed and wallowed in turmoil alone where you couldn’t see his sorrow and desperation come to fruition but when you woke up, he was there with a smile and he kept his empty hands full all day long to keep them busy. If his hands were working, it kept away the stinging absence of your warmth for just a little while. 

It was a miserable looking afternoon when you’d set off to town to deliver the eggs yielded from the hens. The rain had come and gone most of the day and though he’d suggested you wait until tomorrow, you insisted the break in the weather should be enough time to care for your chores and so he waved you off before turning back to the cottage with a sigh. It really had come a long way. 

He had been working on a project in secret for some time and now that it was ready, he figured he might surprise you with it upon your return. Using the material you brought home for him weeks prior, Chan built a new lounge for the sitting room. He’d only needed to pull apart the old one to re-use a few wooden supports and by the time he was finished the rain was coming down hard, yet you hadn’t come back. 

Moving the furniture around, he eyed something that did not belong discarded on the floor. The golden locket that had somehow brought about his return had been hidden under the lounge, misplaced when you had jumped away from his voice. It was a wonder how neither of you had thought about it since but he smiled and pocketed the necklace for the time being. 

Just before Chan could get to it, you suddenly appeared through the front door, soaked to the bone. He chided you for getting caught in the storm and ushered you in the bathing room, drawing a hot bath while you stripped off your wet clothing. The audible thwap of each article hitting the ground echoes in his ears but he doesn’t look away from the bath, dropping a bit of soap into the water to bubble up. 

He turns for you to enter the water and only once you’re submerged with your body somewhat obscured does he meet your eyes. “You stay in there until you’re warm enough,” he murmurs with a stern look of concern, “I won’t have you dying over some silly little cold because you were caught dallying in the rain.”

“Right,” you answer him, teeth chattering, “Being mortally wounded is much more distinguished than a silly little cold.”

Chan bites back a laugh and he moves to leave. “Suppose we could embellish your headstone a bit,” He turns back to you for only a moment, “Whatever did you put on mine anyway?”

The question is a jest because he knows burial isn’t traditional, rather, families travel with their deceased loved ones and give them a proper send off on a pyre out to sea and he was no different. 

You lean over the edge of the tub and set your chin upon your crossed arms. “It reads, ‘Here lies the silly farm boy who should have stayed on the farm’,” you smile weakly and there is a phantom throbbing where his still heart lies, “I might forgive you if you manage to put the fire on before I’m done. I might even read you a bed-time story.”

His lips twitch and he bows his head, “As you wish.”

Your eyes catch on his shoulders, seemingly more tense than usual, but the door clicks shut and you dip under the water savoring the warmth and ignoring the tug in your chest. 

You stay hidden in the bathing room until the water runs cold and let yourself feel the prickled bite of the evening air on your skin. Feeling numb is better than feeling nothing at all and you shut out the too human craving for connection. 

With hair half dried, dressed simply in a white gown and bare feet, you follow the sound of the crackling fireplace into the sitting room. Chan looks up from where he’s seated on what is no longer your tattered old lounge but something new and seemingly his own doing. The corners of your lips turn up. “So, this is what's kept you so busy?”

“The old one was wreaking havoc on my ghoulish posture,” he shrugs, standing and crossing the short distance to stand in front of you. He isn’t so chaste as to not notice your undress, the impression of your bare figure beneath. “You’re not dressed properly.”

“You built me a fire,” you smart.

Chan stands so closely you imagine the warmth that used to permeate your skin. 

“I also built you a lounge.”

“Any other surprises?”

Chan bites his bottom lip and your eyes hang on the motion for a moment. His eyes catch your own and he smirks, reaching into his pocket. “I did find something rather important,” he lifts the necklace you hadn’t realized was missing and he raises his brows at you, “I’d like to chastise you for being so careless but I suppose I posed a greater distraction than you’d intended so I’ll allow the slight.”

You tug at the ends of your gown and give a little curtsey, a mockery of his earlier bow. “How gracious of you, good sir. One more favor if I may ask,” you turn your back to him and look over your shoulder, “I’d loathe to lose track of it again.”

“Fine,” he breathes out slowly, “You still owe me a story though.”

You smile to yourself and Chan carefully slips the necklace around your throat, clasping it at the base of your neck. Then, the oddest thing happens. 

His knuckles ghost over your shoulders and you feel him, actually feel him. His warmth, his proximity, the cinnamon and whiskey. You whirl around in shock and Chan’s hands are still raised in the air. His mouth pops open, “Did you feel that?”

Without answering you raise your arm until your palm hesitates just over his chest. It would be too big a blow for it to simply phase through like usual but you push forward and your hand hits solid form. The material of his shirt bunches beneath your fingers and you feel the warmth from his body seeping into your fingertips. 

You look up at Chan but his eyes are glued to his chest as if he can feel it too and then he brings his hand up and covers your own. He lets out a sound of disbelief and his chest heaves making your heart thud violently against your rib cage. 

Chan brings his other hand up and cups your cheek, his eyes watering when he feels your soft skin against his fingertips for the first time since the day he died. His thumb strokes your face so gently it threatens to shatter you into a million tiny shards and then his lips descend upon your own and a euphoric sense of being floods your system. 

Impossible to keep your once empty hands still, you grab at him over his clothes just to feel him, to convince yourself that this is real and not some feverish dream brought on by your poor sensibilities. Chan is much the same and you wish the imprint of his hand splayed against your spine could be burned into your flesh. He presses you closer and closer, bending over you with the desire to take back every single missed touch.

Breaking away for breath is but a mere parting of lips only. 

“I don’t understand,” you murmur in astonishment but Chan simply shakes his head. 

“I don’t care for an explanation,” he pants, pushing his lips against yours desperately. 

The fire paints the shadows in the room in yellows and oranges when he hitches your gown in his hands, fisting the material before pulling it over your head and casting it away. It dances in your eyes when he lays you down on the cushions and you watch him pull away his clothing piece by piece. He looks at nothing but your glow illuminated by the flames and when his body covers your own, you hook your leg around his hips, the heel of your foot pressing into his thigh. Your breasts brush against his chest and your heart beats loudly enough for the both of you, the wildfire inside a magnificent beast compared to the tame licks of curling heat burning in the hearth.

The unrelenting instinct to never let your bodies more than breadth apart drives Chan mad with the urge to knead and claw at your flesh but he’s gentle, reverent. His lips blaze a path from your lips to the crux of your thighs. He licks, and bites, and kisses every inch of skin available to him not daring to take a mere second of this blessing for granted. 

You moan into the open air, both hands carded into his locks, tugging the strands to bring him back before he throws you over the edge of oblivion. 

Your fingers pull at his roots and he breathes, hot and heavy against you, dragging his tongue over your slick heat again and again. He follows the second or third tug and you reach between your bodies as he rises, taking him in your hand to guide him to where you need to feel him most. 

The rise and fall of your chest is mesmerizing and Chan can’t take his eyes away from you and your gloriously beating heart, even as he sinks between your thighs and loses himself in the way your body urges him closer when he slowly drags his length in and out. As if resisting his retreat, you pull him back in, fingernails digging into his skin, ankles locking around him. 

You stare up at him, lashes fluttering, mouth open, chin tipped, and throat bared. How he wants so badly to mark it. To leave blemishes from teeth and tongue. To remind you of how thoroughly he touched you Gods forbid he never gets to touch you again. To convince himself this isn’t all a dream. 

He leverages himself against the arm of the lounge behind your head, eyes trained on your face. Every breath that parts your lips increases in effort and your yet your body still urges him closer and he obeys each and every one of your wordless commands. 

Hours slip by unnoticed.

By the time the fire is nothing but warm glowing embers, your bodies are spent but they do not part. You lie together, legs intertwined. You brace your chin upon your hands much like you had in the bath but this time your arms are crossed over Chan’s bare chest. His eyes are closed but he is very much awake. 

“Have we considered that perhaps I’ve gone entirely mad?”

Chan doesn’t open his eyes but he does offer a short laugh. “What a disheartening sentiment to hear after making love to a woman.”

“Says the ghost of my lover,” you roll onto your side, keeping your thigh firmly planted across his hips, “I didn’t mean it to be a bad thing. I’d gladly stay in this delusion as long as you’re here with me.”

He shifts his outside hand to your thigh and strokes your skin. The subtle roughness in the pads of his fingers dissolving your will to keep up the discussion. Chan opens his eyes and smiles down at you. “A delusion?” he questions, “Or rather one of those fairytale stories of yours? Surely you’ve not read something quite as fantastical as this, have you?”

“I don’t think I’ve ever come across one like it,” you grin, “Perhaps I’ll write one of my own.”

“Well,” he stretches, arching his back in a wave that carries you along with him, “I am certain you owed me a story this evening.”

You don’t answer right away and Chan glances down, catching you staring at the scar across his stomach, the cause of his fatality. You glide your fingertip over the raised skin. “Maybe it’s time you shared a story,” you murmur, daring to meet his eyes, “We haven’t spoken about what happened to you.”

He tenses beneath you. “I’m not sure it’s something worth sharing,” he admits, “Dwelling on the past tends to make us question the present. How things might be different had they gone another way.”

His voice is distant when he says that last part and you understand that as painful as it may be for you to hear, it may be worse for him to say aloud. 

You’re quick to change the subject and force a half-convincing yawn into the palm of your hand. 

“Well, I’m not sure I have the energy for stories anyhow,” you wiggle your way up and steal a kiss, “Won’t you take a lady to bed? A bit uncivilized to sleep nude in the sitting room.”

Chan’s grin is wicked and heat licks up your spine. “Oh, I don’t know about that,” he takes a handful of your backside and squeezes, “I think we could be even less civilized in the kitchen.”

You gasp. “The kitchen?”

He winks, “All the way down to the floorboards.”

The prospect of such a thing makes your stomach flutter in anticipation but Chan’s already moving your bodies so he can stand and haul you up into his arms, making his way into the bedroom. He promises to make good on his suggestion tomorrow and he certainly does, the rain keeping you indoors and in his arms all day long. 

Summer bleeds into the early days of winter and you’re already preparing to mourn the loss of color in your garden. Some will hold out, hardier than the more delicate flowers, but they certainly aren’t the prettiest. You made sure to take clippings for spring and selfishly stole a few more to bring inside. Chan found an old vase in one of the cupboards and you arranged them carefully to display in one of the windows. 

Chan spends much of his time tending to his animals, building things, and stealing kisses from you as often as he can. Which is very, very often. 

You’ve never truly understood what miracle allowed him to remain whole and solid under your fingertips but you thanked the Gods for it every single day. Chan has a feeling it has something to do with the golden locket that sits against the base of your throat and is often caught staring or stroking his thumb over it as if it might help him somehow understand it’s secret innerworkings. 

It was disappointing to learn that he still could not leave your small homestead. 

He shrugged it off of course, that’s what Chan does. He brushes things off like it doesn’t bother him, gives you that dazzling smile, kisses you, and sends you back to your garden or your book. Then he spends the next five hours tirelessly chopping wood behind the cottage until you’re sure there are no trees left standing.

You also still hadn’t learned anything more about Chan’s death. 

Eventually the days get shorter and the chill drives you indoors a little bit earlier. Chan keeps the fire going inside the cottage to keep you warm and you repay him in many different ways but tonight, it’s something more reminiscent of your youth. 

You sit on the floor with your back propped up against the lounge and Chan lays with his head in your lap. His eyes are closed but he’s awake, humming contentedly while you read him a book and stroke his hair. It’s quiet and peaceful, nothing short of a blessing to share your life with him - even if it’s not the same. 

It’s not better or worse. Simply different. 

Chan listens so closely to the words you read aloud to him, the way your delicate tone wraps each syllable in silk, and he thinks about how fortunate and entirely unworthy he is of keeping it all to himself. 

The past few months he’s felt the weight of the living and unliving situation you’ve both grown so accustomed to. You’re a young woman living alone in the middle of the woods with a man who isn’t quite a man anymore. Simply a being lucky enough to cheat death and return to his lover with nothing to offer her. Not like he had before. 

He would have given you the world and now all he can give you is himself. 

The guilt drove him mad. 

“You’re not listening to word I’m saying, are you?”

Chan opens his eyes to find you smiling down and you close your book, setting it aside. He turns his head in your hands and kisses the inside of your palm. “I’m always listening to you, love.”

“Mhm, who is full of pretty words now?”

Chan cracks a grin. He loves when you taunt him with his own words. 

“Tell me,” you run a finger along his fringe - always the same length, the same shade. No need for a haircut in the barn like you subjected him to years ago. 

You think he might avoid talking about it, whatever is bothering him, but instead he let’s out a long sigh and suddenly sits up next to you. You glance over at him in surprise and see him open and shut his mouth, and then try again a second later. 

“Do you remember what you wanted to call our children?”

The questions strikes you so odd and unexpectedly that you stumble over your answer, grasping onto that long ago memory of a silly little dream made up one summer afternoon. Chan had stole you away from your chores only to laze about in the field. He laid your head in his lap instead, poking little wildflowers into the crown of your hair while he asked you all sorts of hypothetical questions about the future. 

“It was ah,” you squeeze your eyes for a moment and the names return. “Hana for a girl and Haru for a boy.” 

“Do you ever mourn them?”

The lofty smile that had parted your lips only seconds ago flips into a frown and your brows knit together. “I don’t understand what you’re asking.”

You hadn’t the chance to have children so you couldn’t fathom why he would be asking if you mourned them. How can you grieve for something you’ve never had?

The pain in his voice and his posture is palpable as if it hovers just between your bodies. You lean into it without hesitation, reaching for him in the dark so he’s not alone but when you physically touch him he withdrawals into himself and your body turns to ice. 

“I promised you a full life,” he says with shaking hands and distant eyes, “Marriage, children, a home full of joy and love…yet all I’ve done is take everything away from you.”

You tremble out his name, eyes burning and threatening to spill over for the first time since Chan had come back into your life. You could not comprehend why he was saying the things he was. You were happy. You were loved. How could he not see that?

Warmth mercifully bleeds into your skin where Chan rests his hand - real and calloused yet so gentle - and your eyes meet, both red and weeping silently. 

“I cannot be the husband you deserve, nor give you the children we once prayed for,” he utters into the still air, “It’s selfish of me to stay here when I cannot provide a life outside of these four walls. You should living the life you’ve always dreamed of and not giving it all up because I couldn’t let go when I damn well should have. You belong here and I do not.”

The devastation you feel at his words is an ugly monster that morphs into misplaced anger the longer the silence sits between you. 

You knock his hand from your leg and stand with a growl, glaring down at Chan with an ire that threatens to melt the stones around the fireplace. 

“How long have you felt the bitter sting of self-loathing?” your voice is deathly quiet, “Were you going to leave me again? Like you did when you left without word the first time?” Fury like no other sizzles in the air as your voice grows. “Perhaps this time in the dead of night so I could wake to find you missing from our bed? So I could feel the despair of your abandonment once more?”

Chan stands and opens his arms, palms facing up in surrender. “Pleas-”

“No.” The word is absolute and it feels as if cement fills his deflated lungs when you say it.

“I do not mourn the children we never had. I do not wish for a marriage or a husband. I haven’t a single damned care for life outside these blasted four walls,” your breath catches on a choking sob and Chan moves toward you but you shoot a hand out and he stops. “The only being that has ever taken anything worthy away from me is the bastard who ran a sword through the man I love!”

With a final heave, your knees hit the floorboards painfully. Lightning ricochets in your bones until the pain lodges in your throat and you curl inward with sickness. 

He’s there in an instant. Chan wraps himself around your body, pulling you into his lap and against his chest. His arms keep you secured but his hands wander frantically, willing every ounce of hurt away, praying to the Gods that he might endure it instead. He rocks your body, soothing your tears and your deeply wounded heart to the best of his ability. 

Your hands latch onto his shirt, nails piercing his skin but he doesn’t so much as wince at the pain because it hasn’t the slightest affect compared to the trauma you’d be dealt in this lifetime. He can hear your muffled words against his throat. Apologies and broken begging for him not to go. He doesn’t know if you’re asking him but he’s not going anywhere and he’d sooner set the heavens ablaze than leave your side ever again. 

“I’m so sorry, my love, I’m sorry,” he whispers into your hair, “I’m not going to leave you, I swear it. I won’t ever leave you alone again. Please forgive me for being such a fool. I only want for you to be happy and I couldn’t forgive myself for ruining the life we had imagined but I understand now. I understand and I’m sorry.”

He utters it over and over until you’re sure his voice will run hoarse. 

“I don’t need those things to be happy,” you press your face closer to his throat and don’t feel a shred of sadness when you don’t feel a pulse, “You are all I need in this life and any other.”

“I’m yours,” he murmurs, gracefully standing and lifting you both from the floor. 

He says it again when he lets you down into the bed, and again when you pull him under the covers and lay your head on his chest. He whispers it as you close your eyes and feel his fingertips trail over your back from your hips to your shoulders in repetition. You hear it in your dreams when you look over and find him sitting next to you with a smile. 

Even here, he belongs to you and death itself cannot keep him from your side. 

When morning comes, the weight on Chan’s chest is no longer an ethical or moral one, but a physical weight and one without burden. 

You hadn’t shifted away in the night. In fact, you hadn’t moved at all. You awoke just the same as you fell asleep with your head on your lover’s chest and your arm looped firmly around his waist. If anything, your leg might have been the only difference, now tucked snugly between his own but when you move to sit up, Chan tugs you closer and you realize perhaps you weren’t the only one needing to stay anchored to the other.

“I was wondering when you’d finally stir,” he murmurs into your hair with a hint of mirth, “I was beginning to think you pricked your finger on a spindle.”

“If I close my eyes again will you wake me with a kiss?”

“Then we might not ever leave the bed,” he smarts.

“Don’t you have animals to tend to, farm boy?” you lift your head to gesture at the sunlight peering through the curtains, “Sun’s awfully high.”

His voice is soft as are his lips when they capture yours off guard. 

“So sweet,” he whispers to himself as he pulls back, “I wanted to share just one more thing with you before we started a new day.”

You groan, rolling onto your back. “Haven’t we cleared this up. I’m perfectly grateful to spend the rest of eternity together…gardening, and reading, and dancing, and fucking til our hearts content and then doing it all over again day in and out. Just the two of us. What’s left to discuss?”

“My death,” he sighs and you sink further into the bed. 

Maybe it’s best to simply close your eyes again. 

The second your lids meet they shoot open when Chan’s rolls his body over your own. He’s staring back down at you with a tired crease in his forehead. “You’ve neglected to outgrow your petulance, darling.”

Your only answer is a huff and Chan resituates himself so that he’s hovering above you without keeping you under his full weight. 

“I know I told you I went there for trade and supplies but my trip had another purpose,” his lips twitch as he meets your eyes, “I visited the jeweler and bought a ring.”

You open your mouth in shock and he offers a sad smile.

“It was perfect and I think you would have really loved it,” his fingers toy in the material bunched at your waist, “I couldn’t wait to get home and find somewhere to hide it. I finished my errands before making my way home. Passed the time trying to decide how I would do it…propose I mean…what I would say, all the things I would probably forget once I was in front of you…”

Reaching up, you place your palm against his cheek. 

“I was so busy overthinking that I wasn’t paying attention to the woods around me until I felt a blade at my back. Lousy bandit ambushed me and demanded everything I carried. I hadn’t any gold left and only carried a small knife worth less than half a silver. He took the empty pouch even though I told him there wasn’t anything left. Right pissed to find I was hiding an engagement ring.”

The pieces fit together before he finishes. 

“You fought with him to keep it.”

“Would have won too if the bastard hadn’t fought dirty,” he grumbles, “It was naïve of me to think a thief would try to leave with honor after defeat but I turned my back like a fool and he ran his sword through it. Had the nerve to spit at me something like, ‘Crawl back to your woman and die at her feet’. Didn’t even bother to look for the ring again before he left me to bleed out in the dirt but I knew I had to make it back home,” his eyes flit to yours, “I had to make it back to you.”

Because you would have scoured the earth should he have disappeared and not come back, and he knew it. Better to have him die in your arms than drive yourself mad never knowing what had happened to him. He’d outran death just long enough to make it back to your side and suddenly your small hands cannot grasp enough of him at once. 

He’s quiet as you weep, hands seeking solidity in every inch of his body. 

He’s here. He’s home. He made it back to you, again.

Chan kisses you back each time you touch his lips, sweeping across his cheeks and nose, and chin before finding his mouth again. He’s as real as can be given the circumstances. 

“That’s everything,” he whispers, thumbs wiping at your cheeks, “No more self-loathing or sad stories, I swear it.”

Your bottom lip trembles with a watery laugh, “Are you finally realizing that I don’t need much to be happy? I have you. That’s all I need.”

Chan laughs in return. “Oh? I’m not much, then?”

Your sour face makes his lips twitch into a smile and he kisses you, though you don’t kiss him back. It only makes him laugh harder, kissing all over your face despite your rolling beneath him to free yourself. He wins you over, eventually, and you indulge him. 

“You really would have loved that ring,” he sighs, falling back down against the pillows at your side now, “It’s a shame it’s probably buried…or melted…I’m not actually sure what happened with my body…”

You sit up and tilt your chin. “We built a pyre and held a ceremony.”

“Ah, melted then,” he says with a shrug and further explains at your confusion, “It was still in my pocket.”

Your brow creases. “I changed your clothes, of course. You think I’d send you off in dirty, bloodied clothes?”

Oh, well…He supposes he didn’t really think of it at all but now that you’ve said it aloud it does sound stupid to have thought you wouldn’t have cleaned him up. You always fussed after him in life, why wouldn’t you in death?

“I…” you start and stop, bowing your head as if ashamed of what you’ll confess. “I kept the clothes…I don’t know why. I thought to burn them long ago but I couldn’t do it. They’re tucked away on the shelf in the closet.”

Chan’s spine straightens and he stands from the bed with such haste that his ankle remains wrapped in the sheets. He kicks them off when you ask what on earth he is doing but he’s already in the closet, pushing things around. You direct him toward the lefthand corner and explain that the clothes were wrapped carefully in a spare length of cloth. 

You hadn’t washed them when you gently removed them from his too-cold body. Like an automation of sorts you pulled them off, folded them tightly, and set them aside until you knew what to do with them. The dirt and dried blood are still very much present and it turns your stomach when Chan unveils them in a rush. 

He doesn’t bother to examine the shirt and goes straight for the pants. Torn, stiff, and filthy. Digging into the right pocket he swallows thickly and frowns. After a moment, he reaches into the left pocket and freezes when his fingertips touch metal. Slowly withdrawing his hand, Chan’s jaw nearly unhinges. 

The ring is there, in his hand, perfectly preserved. 

When he turns over his shoulder, you’re still in the bed, now sitting up on your knees, waiting for him to tell you what he’s on about. There has to be a reason for all of this. 

“Would you still marry me?”

The words tumble out of your mouth and you’re unsure if they even make sense.

“Marry you? Do you mean back…then, I - well, yes I believe we would have married…or I’m sorry…would I marry you…now? Could we do that - If that’s what you m-meant…”

Chan crosses the small distance left to the bed and braces your jaw in his open hand, pulling your lips up to meet his in the middle. Your legs tingle and you threaten to topple over either toward him when he pulls or back onto the bed when he bends over you but then his hand slips down around your waist. His forehead rests against your own and he chuckles at the way you’re still trying to mentally catch up. 

He brings his left hand up between your bodies and pinched between his thumb and forefinger is the engagement ring he bought you. The very same one he fought to keep and you unwittingly saved when you let yourself hold onto a piece of the past. 

“It’s likely frowned upon to wed a dead man,” he grins - looking more alive than ever, “But I was hoping you might consider it.”

You glance down at the ring and back up into his hopeful eyes. 

“Chan, I-”

His fingers press into your skin with a bit more urgency. “I know I can’t give you a proper wedding and it’s likely that only the two of us will ever know but I-”

“Yes,” you interrupt him and he doesn’t realize what you’ve said.

“- Swear i’ll make you so happy for as long as you live and beyond that even. If you’re to cross over I’ll be here holding your hand and we’ll be together in this life too-”

You kiss him instead and though his lips keep moving for a second he finally shuts up long enough to lose track of his rambling. When you pull away he’s beautiful and nearly breathless, as if his body still demanded that he stop to breathe, and your smile threatens to split your cheeks in half. 

“Are you finished begging?”

“Begging? I’ll get down on both knees right this moment if you want me to.”

You tug at him to slow down with a gentle laugh. “If you were listening you would have heard me say yes already.”

He sways on his feet and grins. “Yes? You’re certain?”

“Always, yes.”

So, there was no big wedding like you’d once dreamt about as a whimsical child. 

There was no dress, no guests, no band. 

But there were flowers, everywhere, their beauty and fragrance further pronounced by the warm rays of sunlight and the gentle breeze swirling about at the back of your cottage. There was the quiet melody of the creek mingling with the rustling of the leaves on the trees. There was palpable joy and bliss in the air around you as you stood beneath a tall oak tree to exchange your vows. 

And most importantly. There was Chan. 

He’d upheld his vows impeccably for over fifteen years and broke the last of them when you became gravely ill and bed ridden. For the two of you, there was no parting at death. Death was only the next chapter in your story and you left the earth with your husband’s hand wrapped tightly around your own. Neither of you wept for you knew what awaited you on the other side. 

Opening your eyes after your final breath felt surreal. 

You’re no longer laying in the bed of your cold cottage. No longer weak or frail. You’re standing on your own two feet in the middle of a field so similar to the ones you and Chan had chased each other around in from your youth but it was different. Not better or worse, simply different as it was, and your refreshed eyes scan the open plain. 

You hear laughter wrapped in warmth and familiarity, and you turn with a smile. 

Chan barrels into you, wrapping his arms around your shoulders as you both go crashing to the ground, rolling over soft grass and wildflowers. It’s natural to fall into place with you looking up at your husband with stars in your eyes while he leans over you with his boyish smile and messy hair. 

“Is it too soon to say you look heavenly?”

You scrunch your nose at his terrible jest and look around at the sky above him. You pluck a small white flower and tuck it behind his ear, “Is that where we are? Heaven?”

“I haven’t a clue but it’s beautiful, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, it is,” you murmur, tracing the lines of his face. “So what do we do now?”

The corners of his eyes crinkle when he looks at you and he dips his head down for a long, sweet kiss. His eyes sparkle with mischief when he whispers, “Anything we want.”

Thanks for reading! 💗 (also- if you caught the subtle nod to one of my favorites, ‘The Princess Bride’, i love you, SMOOCH!)

SVT M.List | Main M.List |

→ Please do NOT copy, repost, or translate, any of my works here on tumblr or on any other platforms! All stories are copyrighted, Milfguu, 2019. ©️

[sunnywrites101]

The heaviest burden

Pair - Portgas D. Ace x GN Reader

Genre - Angst

Word count - 458

CW- Character death, mentions of blood, depression over all big sad

Your hat weighs heavy on my head and my heart. It crushes me slowly. As I watch your body hit the floor, my feet move on their own. Walking towards you felt as though I was in slow motion, the battle becoming quiet as my ears rang. There were screams I couldn’t tell where they were coming from, until my vocal cords felt scratchy. When I fell at your side, I could see your smile. A smile that haunts my very dreams, a smile that could light up any room no matter how grim the circumstance.

The last time I saw that smile was when you entrusted your beloved orange hat to me in Alabasta, telling me to stick with Luffy’s crew till you’d pick me up to sail back to pops together. I trusted you. Another strangled cry left my lips the ringing in my ears was unbearable. I had followed your orders blindly against my better judgement. I trusted you to come back to me alive and well. Smiling that damn smile of yours. But that never came. Your blood was starting to soak into my clothes as I sat back on my legs.

I had silently started gathering the beads of your necklace. Unbeknownst to me there would be nights I’d slave away to put that necklace back together. I couldn’t bear seeing it broken into pieces. It reminded me too much of your body lying on the ground. I put my hand on your cheek, a gurgling noise of agony forced itself to be known as I felt your warmth leaving your body. That was the first and only time you felt cold since I’d known you. You were always so warm, so full of life.

Now all I could do was scream as Marco dragged me from your body. We had a funeral for you days later. People put down flowers, but I wanted to put myself down there with you, it seemed so lonely down there. Pops told me to keep your hat, keep your legacy alive. I wasn’t planning on giving your hat up anyways, you had entrusted it to me. I’d rather die than break a promise to you, my love.

The first few days were the hardest, but after 3 sleepless nights your necklace was put back together and secured around my neck. I never take it off, it’s apart of me now. Just as you were my hotshot, my Portgas D. Ace, but that’s all gone now, like a fairytale without a happily ever after. You died and the dream was gone, there was no more fuzzy feelings or pranks to pull, it was over. You were gone and now I had to live with the ghost of you.

[the-haunted-office]

Open Starter - The Ruined Office

You find yourself in an Office that is... entirely destroyed.

Well, not entirely. Some of it is still standing, the main structure of it anyway.

The inside of it otherwise appears to be utterly gutted. The ugly orange carpet is ripped and torn more than it's not, and where it isn't ripped and torn it's stained and pocked with what appear to be massive patches of burn marks. These burn marks are further accentuated by smoke damage that crawls up the walls and clots the ceiling in puffs of black and gray, at least where it's still intact.

Where the ceiling isn't intact, bundles of wires and cords dangle down like intestines ripped out of some great animal, left there to rot. Broken, uneven piece of ceiling tiles lay strewn about, and the floor is littered with shattered glass and filament from what used to be the overhead florescent lights.

Those are out too, and the entire Office is utterly dark. Every cubicle and desk and printer and wall and filing cabinet, everything, is lying in ruin. Not a single piece of the Office has been left untouched by whatever touched it. Everything is... just broken and ruined and it's kind of sad. It looks like a tornado came through and chewed up and spat out everything in its path.

Everywhere debris is crunching underfoot as you move about to explore your surroundings. How you got here is one question. What happened to this Office is another. Where everybody is is yet another. Are you safe might be the most important.

There doesn't seem to be anybody here, although there may be a creeping feeling that there is. How could there not be? It's an Office, and experience tells you that those usually have people in them. Despite the condition of this one, there might be someone still here. Right?

There is silence all around, though, save for the noise you are making from moving around. You call out into the silence to see if anybody might still be there. No answer, not even from the Narrator or Narrators who might normally answer from overhead.

You spend some time wandering around this sad empty ruined place, wondering what could have happened here. Wondering how to get out. Feeling watched. It's after about maybe fifteen or so minutes that you finally realize you are being watched.

Two pairs of black hole eyes suddenly loom out of the shadows at you, rearing up on what appear to be white blankets draped over two five-foot-pairs of stilts. They look like some kid's idea of silly ghost costumes, except these two kids aren't holding out Halloween buckets and asking for candy, and one of them is bearing an unbearably large mouth full of needle-sharp teeth at you.

A voice suddenly projects itself directly into your head, large, male, British, and demanding: "Who are you and what are you doing here?" he snarls.

You can't tell where the voice has come from - was it one of these creatures, and if so, which one? If you've been around the Haunted Office for any period of time, you might recognize the voice, as it sounds just like the ever-present Narrator there, Cyrus. But neither of these creatures looks like him.

What should you do?

[battyaboutbooksreviews]

🌈 Queer Books Coming Out in August 2024 🌈

🌈 Good afternoon, my bookish bats! Here are a FEW of the stunning, diverse queer books you can add to your TBR before the year is over. Happy reading!

❓What was the last queer book you read?

[ Release dates may have changed. ]

❤️ Failure to Comply - Sarah Cavar 🧡 I Spit On Your Celluloid - Heidi Honeycutt 💛 You're Embarrassing Yourself - Desiree Akhavan 💚 Death of the Hero - Briona Johnson 💙 Between Dragons and Their Wrath - Devin Madson 💜 The Crimson Crown - Heather Walter ❤️ Sacrificial Animals - Kailee Pedersen 🧡 Oath of Fire - K. Arsenault Rivera 💛 The Palace of Eros - Caro De Robertis 💙 This Ravenous Fate - Hayley Dennings 💜 Mistress of Lies - K.M. Enright 🌈 Wolf Bite - T.J. Nichols

❤️ In the Valley, A Shadow - Samantha Tano 🧡 Follow My Lead - Adrian J. Smith 💛 The Last Woman I Kissed - Venetia Di Pierro 💚 Full Shift - Jennifer Dugan & Kristen Seaton 💙 Hers for the Weekend - Helena Greer 💜 Come Out, Come Out - Natalie C. Parker ❤️ Rules for Ghosting - Shelly Jay Shore 🧡 How to Leave the House - Nathan Newman 💛 Plot Twist - Carmen Sereno 💙 On the Far Side of a Crescendo - Kalyn Hazel 💜 Tiny Oblivions and Mutual Self Destructions - Maxwell I. Gold 🌈 Daylan and the River of Secrets - Edd Tello

❤️ The Italy Letters - Vi Khi Nao 🧡 The Gender Binary Is a Big Lie - Lee Wind 💚 The House Where Death Lives - Alex Brown 💙 Ash's Cabin - Jen Wang 💜 The Avian Hourglass - Lindsey Drager ❤️ The Heart Wants - Krystina Rivers 🧡 A Grand Love - Janna Barkin 💛 You Can't Go Home Again - Jeanette Bears 💜 Libertad - Bessie Flores Zaldivar 🌈 Her Golden Coast - Anat Deracine

❤️ Mighty Millie Novak - Elizabeth Holden 💛 Rise and Divine - Lana Harper 💚 Dying for You - L Flowers 💙 I'll Have What He's Having - Adib Khorram 💜 Changing Her Tune - Amanda Kabak ❤️ Monogamy? In this Economy? - Laura Boyle 🧡 The Rainbow Age of Television - Sayna Maci Warner 💛 Medusa of the Roses - Navid Sinaki 💙 Confounding Oaths - Alexis Hall 💜 Idol Lives - K.T. Salvo 🌈 Brother's Keeper - Quinn Cameron

❤️ Key Lime Sky - Al Hess 🧡 Crushing It - Erin Becker 💛 The Husky and His White Cat Shizun - Rou Bao Bu Chi Rou 💚 Not for the Faint of Heart - Lex Croucher 💙 Tasting Temptation - JJ Arias 💜 Ami - S. Jae-Jones ❤️ You're the Problem, It's You - Emma R. Alban 🧡 Cubs & Campfires - Dylan Drakes 💛 The Dark We Know - Wen-yi Lee 💙 Practical Rules for Cursed Witches - Kayla Cottingham 💜 Riyati Rebirth - Kalani Shimizu 🌈 The Brujos of Borderland High - Gume Laurel III

❤️ A Bánh Mì for Two - Trinity Nguyen 🧡 Dance of the Starlit Sea - Kiana Krystle 💛 Scattered Snows, to the North - Carl Phillips 💚 Beyond a World Apart - Caitlin Myers 💙 Don't Let It Break Your Heart - Maggie Horne 💜 Nothing Heals Me Like You Do - Harper Bliss ❤️ How It All Ends - Emma Hunsinger 🧡 How Do I Sexy? - Mx. Nillin Lore 💛 The Palace of Eros - Caro De Robertis 💙 Prince of the Palisades - Julian Winters 💜 Better Left Buried - Mary E. Roach 🌈 Back to Back - Jo Fletcher

❤️ DITCHLAPSE / [REALLY AFRAID] - Tommy Wyatt 🧡 The Love Archives: Bonus Scenes & Excerpts for Palestine - Various 💛 Guardian: Zhen Hun - Ying Priest 💚 The Sunforge - Sascha Stronach 💙 Queering Reproductive Justice - Candace Bond-Theriault 💜 Gender Explained - Diane Ehrensaft & Michelle Jurkiewicz ❤️ The Unlikely Pair - Jax Calder 🧡 In Universes - Emet North 💛 We Love the Nightlife - Rachel Koller Croft 💙 Lessons from Cruising - Martin Goodman 💜 Wild Ginger in the Rhubarb - Eule Grey 🌈 Not My Circus - Delicia Niami

❤️ Asunder - Kerstin Hall 🧡 The Phoenix Keeper - S.A. MacLean 💛 Encounters with James Baldwin - Various 💚 Verity's Game - Jennifer Giacalone 💙 Hunt Me! I Crave the Chase - Fae Quin 💜 The Audacity Omnibus - Carmen Loup ❤️ Haunted to Death - Frank Anthony Polito 🧡 Blood Orange - Paige Grunewald 💛 The Bad Things We Did - Chris Archeske 💙 Dark Restraint - Katee Robert 💜 Worth the Wait - Kenna White 🌈 The Maid and the Crocodile - Jordan Ifueko

❤️ Loving Corrections - Adrienne Maree Brown 🧡 The Last Witch in Edinburgh - Marielle Thompson 💛 The Duchess of Kokora - Nikhil Prabala 💚 The Scales of Seduction - Rien Gray 💙 Survival Is a Promise - Alexis Pauline Gumbs 💜 Loka - S.B. Divya ❤️ The Every Body Book of Consent - Rachel E Simon 🧡 Southern Lights - Liz Arncliffe 💛 Then Things Went Dark - Bea Fitzgerald 💙 Death at Morning House - Maureen Johnson 💜 The Last Doorbell - William Parker 🌈 The Pairing - Casey McQuiston

[leiascully]

X-Files OctoberFicFest Day 15: Hollow

This year, I'm using the October 2022 prompts from @artpromptcal.

TW: canon typical discussion of death/post-mortem

For an office job, it's surprising how much time they spend in the woods. She supposes that they mostly leave the bodies in dumpsters and abandoned buildings to municipal authorities, which is part of it. The mysterious corpses are all in the woods, decomposing under leaf litter and tangled in roots. She's learned to prefer the open air. It makes the flies more bearable. Predation is a fact of death - she knows that - but crows and foxes seem a more dignified option than rats.

There are less sinister reasons to venture into the forest, too: reports of strange creatures and lights that can't be explained. That's what they're chasing today.

"The Ozark Howler," Mulder explains again as they hike. "A wolf-sized creature with the muzzle of a dog and the shape of a cat, Scully. You might think that would be strange enough, but you'd be wrong."

Scully steps over a fallen branch. "Of course I would."

He grins. "In addition to those anomalies, it has red eyes and horns."

"Astonishing," she says, crunching through the leaves. There's a nip in the air that chills the tip of her nose. It's apple weather. Firepit weather. The mountains around them are red and orange and yellow, stippled with dark green pines. Sunlight sifts through the leaves when the wind sighs.

Scully doesn't believe any legendary creature would appear in the daylight - too easy to document, for starters - but a day like this is impossible to argue with. They deserve an easy case once in a while. Besides, something is killing chickens. She suspects a mountain lion or coyotes, but the reports are incongruous. There are bears in these woods too, somewhere. Any of those things would have the power to turn chickens into the smears of blood and feathers in the photographs in Mulder's files.

Mulder isn't finished. "The first reported sighting was in the 1800s by none other than Daniel Boone."

"I've heard of him."

"Reports differ on whether he was able to shoot one, but multiple sources have described seeing Howlers over the years, even up to present day."

"Mmhmm." Scully sips from her water bottle. "How did we get called in for chicken murder? That isn't a federal crime, or we'd be arresting Colonel Sanders."

"Someone from the local field office tipped me off to this one," Mulder said. "Chicken's big here. Anyway, this thing could be crossing state lines. The Ozarks Highlands span a four-state area."

"I see."

The trail in front of them crests the hill and descends into a hollow lined with a bonfire array of maples. At the bottom, a sturdy wooden bridge spans a chuckling creek whose progress down the slope is punctuated by tiny waterfalls. The trail is cut into stone steps just a bit too high for Scully's stride. Mulder wordlessly puts out a hand to steady her as she climbs down. His grip is warm and strong. She savors the moment.

They stop on the bridge. Scully pulls two apples out of her bag. Locally grown, the sign said. She and Mulder lean on the railing and eat the crisp fruit. It takes her a moment to realize that the woods are loud around them in a way that's so different from the city: birds and water and rustling leaves instead of traffic and people. Peace steals over her. There are bones in these woods, to be sure. These mountains are old, worn down nearly to hills. There are always bones in a place like this. But they're hunting a beast instead of a human murderer. It's old-fashioned, almost sweet. If these woods are haunted, it's by ghosts that belong here.

Scully unearths a bag of trail mix. She suspects that Mulder's hunger is greater than apple-sized. Mulder leans his shoulder gently against hers. She doesn't shift away. There's no one to see them here. They can exist in their most natural state: so close that the clouds of their breath mingle and their fingers brush as they reach for GORP.

"Imagine the Howler in a place like this," he says, and she can almost see it: a wild thing, crouching to lap from the stream, watchful red eyes and graceful horns and a tail that lashes.

[sparrow-mask22]

The Umbrella Academy Story of The Mothers (4/8) umbrella edition: Rachel

TW: childbirth, mentions of stillbirth/pregnancy loss, mentions of religious trauma, signs of Klaus being a cult leader from the minute he was born, grief (also the whole "village is being invaded" quote is a reference to an AO3 story called 'The Dragon and the Butterfly' it’s an Encanto meets How to Train Your Dragon story)

October 1, 1989. Lancaster Pennsylvania. 40 seconds before noon.

Rachel Herschberger, a 25-year-old woman, lived in an Amish village since she was a child. She had a deep connection with nature and simple life, which was why she chose to stay in the village even after she came of age. Rachel was sitting on a wooden bench outside her house, watching the sunset paint the sky with vibrant hues of red and orange. The air was filled with the sweet smell of freshly baked bread and the sounds of horses clopping on the cobblestone street.

Rachel’s younger sister, Sara-Beth, walked up to her, a basket of freshly picked apples in her arms. "The harvest was bountiful today," she said with a smile, setting the basket down beside her sister. "The applesauce will be sweet this winter." Rachel nodded, her gaze still fixed on the breathtaking sunset. "Jah," she replied softly, her voice filled with contentment.

As the colors of the sky deepened, the village began to quiet down. The horses were taken to their stables, children were tucked into bed, and the adults retreated to their homes. Rachel stayed out a little longer, enjoying the peacefulness of the night. She leaned back against the rough-hewn wood of the bench, hazy memories still haunted her: Waking up and feeling no kicks from the baby inside her, the village doctor feeling no signs of life. It was as if her child had vanished into thin air.

Faraway words rang in her ears: “I'm sorry….no movement…no heartbeat…thirty-five weeks….”

Rachel couldn't shake the feeling that her child was still out there somewhere, waiting for her. She knew it was against the Amish way to question the will of God, but she couldn't help but wonder if she had done something wrong. Maybe she should have prayed more, been a better example to her unborn child.

"Sister, you look like you have seen a ghost," an elderly woman said, approaching Rachel and Sara-Beth. Her name was Katherine, and she had been the midwife at Rachel's birth. "Is there something you'd like to talk about?" she asked gently, sitting down on the bench beside Rachel.

(Yay more foreshadowing! :D)

Rachel hesitated for a moment, unsure of how to respond to the elderly midwife's gentle prodding. She glanced at her sister, then back at Katherine, and finally decided to confide in her. "It's about my child, Katherine," she said softly, her voice trembling slightly. "I...I lost it. The baby died inside me, and I just don't understand why. I feel like I've done something terrible, and I can't stop thinking about it."

Katherine reached out and patted Rachel's hand reassuringly. "Oh, my dear," she said, her voice filled with sympathy. "I am so sorry for your loss. It is not your fault. These things sometimes happen, even among the Amish. We must have faith that God has a plan for us, even when we cannot understand it."

Rachel looked at Katherine, her eyes filled with hope. "Do you think so?" she asked hesitantly. "That God has a plan for me and my baby?" The elderly midwife nodded solemnly. "Jah, I do. You must trust in His wisdom and know that He will guide you through this difficult time. He does not give us more than we can bear."

Sara-Beth, who had been sitting quietly beside them, spoke up. "You should come with me to see the wise woman, Rachel. She has helped many of us find peace after a loss. Perhaps she can offer you some guidance." Rachel considered her sister's words for a moment, feeling a small spark of hope ignite within her.

The next day, Rachel and Sara-Beth made their way to the wise woman's cabin. It was nestled in the woods outside of the village, surrounded by a garden full of herbs and flowers. As they approached, they could hear the gentle hum of her voice as she chanted, her words carrying on the breeze.

The wise woman was an elderly woman named Esther, with kind eyes and a knowing smile. She invited them into her cozy cabin, where the scent of sage and lavender filled the air. "Come, sit down," she said, gesturing to a pair of comfortable chairs by the fireplace. "Tell me what brings you here today."

Rachel hesitated for a moment, unsure of how to begin. She took a deep breath and forced the words out. "I lost my child," she said, her voice barely audible. "I don't understand why it happened. I feel so lost and confused."

Esther nodded, her eyes filled with compassion. "I'm sorry for your loss, my dear. It is a great sadness that no one can truly understand until they have experienced it themselves." She reached over and took Rachel's hand in hers, offering her a small measure of comfort. "Please, tell me more about your child and your pregnancy. It may help you to find some clarity."

As Rachel spoke, Esther listened intently, her eyes never leaving Rachel's face. She asked about the pregnancy, the birth, and the time leading up to the loss. Sara-Beth added her own observations and memories, as well. When Rachel had finished, Esther took a moment to collect her thoughts before responding.

"It seems that your child was born with a rare condition," she said solemnly. "One that made it impossible for them to survive outside the womb. This was not something that you could have prevented, Rachel. It was simply bad luck. There is nothing you could have done differently."

Rachel nodded, her eyes filling with tears. "I know," she whispered. "But it doesn't feel like luck. It feels like punishment."

Esther gave Rachel's hand a reassuring squeeze. "I understand," she said gently. "It can be hard to accept that sometimes these things happen without any clear reason. But we must remember that we cannot always understand the ways of God. We must have faith that there is a purpose to our suffering, even if we cannot see it now."

"Perhaps," she said, "your child's short life served a greater purpose. Perhaps they were meant to be a blessing to you and your family, even if it was only for a brief time. They brought love and joy into your life, even if it was cut short. And now, as you grieve, you have the opportunity to honor their memory by living a life that is worthy of them. By being the best person you can be and sharing your love with those around you."

However, in the middle of Esther's speech, Rachel's heart hardened. She felt as though she had been told to simply accept her child's death as part of some grand plan, as though their short life had no meaning beyond serving as a lesson or teaching tool for those left behind. The thought made her angry and resentful. She looked at Sara-Beth, hoping her sister would understand, but Sara-Beth's face was filled with something Rachel had never seen before: peace.

But then, the clock struck twelve. Rachel immediately began writhing on her knees, clutching her stomach as she did a month ago. Sara-Beth's eyes widened in horror as her sister's belly swelled before their very eyes. It was as though Rachel had been impregnated by some unseen force, a bizarre twist of fate that defied all logic and reason. The pain was excruciating, and Rachel could feel something moving inside her, fighting its way out. Her screams rent the air, piercing the silence of the night.

"Oh my God," Sara-Beth whispered, her face ashen. She reached out to her sister, but hesitated, unsure of what she could do to help. The pain in Rachel's eyes was worse than any physical agony she had ever witnessed. It was as though her very soul was being ripped apart.

Esther, too, was frozen in place, her mind racing to understand what was happening. This couldn't be real. It couldn't be happening. And yet, there it was, unfolding before their very eyes. She tried to speak, to offer some words of comfort or reassurance, but nothing came out.

"Sara-Beth, get help!" Rachel gasped between contractions. "Get Katharine or someone, please!" Sara-Beth stumbled back, her eyes wide with fear and disbelief. She looked to Esther, hoping that the older woman might have some explanation for what was happening. But Esther's face was filled with the same confusion and horror.

The pain in Rachel's abdomen grew more intense with each passing moment, and she could feel something pushing its way out. She clutched her belly, her fingernails digging into her skin as she fought against the overwhelming urge to scream. Her breath came in ragged gasps, her body shuddering with the effort of expelling whatever it was that was growing inside her.

Sara-Beth returned to the cabin, her eyes still filled with disbelief. She found Katharine, who was a midwife, and frantically explained what had happened. Katharine hurried back to the cabin, her face a mask of professional calm. She knelt beside Rachel, feeling her abdomen, checking her pulse, and listening to her breathing. The pain in Rachel's eyes was unbearable, but she forced herself to focus on Katharine's voice, telling her what to do, how to breathe.

"I can’t lose another child, Katharine," Rachel whimpered, her voice barely audible above the pain. "Please, you have to save it." Her words were desperate, pleading, as though her very life depended on the survival of the child she was birthing. Katharine nodded, her expression grim.

Chancellor Jory, the leader of the village, stood near the cabin, watching in horror as Rachel struggled through labor. He had never seen anything like it, and the realization that she had somehow become pregnant just a month after losing her child sent a shiver down his spine. He glanced at the midwife, Katharine, who was doing all she could to save both mother and child. He wished there was more he could do to help, but he knew that it was best to leave them alone and let the experienced midwife handle the situation.

Rachel screamed in agony as another contraction gripped her, her body arching back in pain. She felt something warm and wet slide out of her, and she knew that it was the baby. She forced herself to push one more time, her muscles burning with the effort. With a final, guttural cry, she expelled the child from her body. It landed on the ground with a wet thud, its tiny limbs twitching spasmodally.

Katharine raised the child to the heavens, her eyes filled with wonder and disbelief. "A boy!" she exclaimed, her voice breaking with emotion. The villagers, who had gathered around the cabin, gasped in shock and awe. They had never heard of such a thing happening before.

Rachel lay there, her breath coming in ragged gasps as she stared down at the tiny form that lay beside her. The pain had finally begun to subside, but exhaustion and shock were quickly taking their toll. She reached out a trembling hand and gently touched the baby's downy hair. "My sweet child," she whispered, her voice hoarse from the ordeal. "You are a miracle."

Chancellor Jory knelt beside her, his eyes filled with a mixture of awe and disbelief. "Rachel, I don't know how this is possible," he said, his voice barely audible above the soft rustling of the leaves in the breeze. "But I am glad that you and the baby are safe." He glanced over at Katharine, who was still cradling the child in her arms, examining him carefully.

The villagers, their faces a mix of shock and wonder, began to gather around them, whispering amongst themselves. They had never seen anything like this before, and they knew that it was a miracle that both mother and child had survived. Some of the women in the village, their own children held tightly to their sides, began to weep silently, unable to comprehend the magnitude of what had just happened.

Rachel gently lifted the tiny form to her breast, guiding his mouth to her nipple. She closed her eyes, her face a mask of tenderness as she began to stroke his downy hair. The air was filled with the soft sounds of suckling, as if nature herself was trying to soothe them after the ordeal they had been through.

Chancellor Jory watched the scene unfold before him, his heart swelling with a mixture of pride and disbelief. He had never experienced anything like this in his life, and he found himself struggling to find the right words to express his feelings. He glanced over at Katharine, who was still examining the baby, her face a mask of wonder.

The voices of the villagers, normally soft and hushed, began to rise in alarm as they realized that someone unfamiliar was in their midst. Children's eyes widened with fear, and adults instinctively drew their families closer, watching the stranger with suspicion. Even the livestock, normally docile and unafraid, began to stir restlessly in their pens and stalls.

"Supposedly there's an outsider in the village…"

"There's an invader in the village?"

"THE VILLAGE IS BEING INVADED?!"

A young boy, no older than ten, sprinted through the center of the village, his voice shrill with fear. The words echoed through the village, causing a stir among the gathered crowd. Some of the women began to wail, clutching their children to their chests as they scanned the horizon for any sign of an invading force. The men, their faces set in grim determination, formed a loose perimeter around the group, eyes darting this way and that, searching for a threat.

The outsider, an elderly man with a British accent, took a step forward, his hands raised in a placating gesture. "Now, now," he said, his voice calm and soothing. "There's no need for alarm. I mean no harm to anyone here. My name is Reginald Hargreeves, and I'm searching for a child born in this village several hours ago." He glanced at Chancellor Jory, who nodded in confirmation. "The mother has given stillbirth last month, and she has been... concerned about the child's well-being ever since."

The villagers, slowly beginning to relax, exchanged uncertain looks. The young mother, still cradling the baby, stepped forward. "You're here to take him away?" she asked, her voice trembling.

"Yes," Reginald replied, his voice gentle. "I assure you, I only mean to give the child a loving home. His mother's situation is... untenable, to say the least. And he deserves a better life than she could ever give him."

Rachel, tears streaming down her face, nodded slowly. She looked up at Chancellor Jory, then back at Reginald, her hands still clutching the baby to her chest. "I-I don't understand," she stammered. "Why would you want him? He's not even yours."

Reginald's expression softened. "No, he's not mine by birth," he said gently. "But he is one of many special children born today of mothers like you, Rachel. Women who were not pregnant when the day began, but who found themselves with a child to care for at the end of it. He is a miracle, Rachel, and he deserves a life filled with love and opportunity. You've given him the best start you could, and now it's time for him to move on to the next stage of his life."

The old man's words hung in the air, each one like a weight on the villagers' shoulders. Some looked relieved, others angry, but no one could deny the truth in what he was saying. Rachel, her face still streaked with tears, slowly released her grip on the baby, handing him over to the outsider. As she did so, she felt a strange mixture of sadness and hope welling up inside her.

"Your son will have a wonderful life with us, Rachel," Reginald assured her, cradling the baby in his arms. "He will grow up with a well education, around the clock nanny care, and siblings of his own age. He will be loved and cherished as our own." As he spoke, the other villagers began to nod in agreement, some even offering their own words of comfort.

The baby, swaddled in a soft blanket, let out a small coo, his eyes fluttering shut. The sight was enough to bring a small smile to Rachel's face, despite the knot in her stomach. She looked up at Chancellor Jory, who seemed to be studying her expression intently. "It's all right, Rachel," he said softly. "You've done the best you could."

Reginald, the man who had come to take her child, nodded in agreement. "Yes, you have been a wonderful mother to him," he said, his voice gentle but firm. "But now it's time for him to move on to the next stage of his life." He paused, and Rachel could sense the threat underlying his words. "I must remind you, Rachel," he continued, "not to contact him or attempt to find him in any way. If you do, it will not end well for you."

Her heart sank at his words, but she knew there was nothing she could do. She had no choice but to let her son go. As she watched them walk away with her precious child, her body trembling with the weight of her loss, she tried to focus on the good that would come of it. At least he would be safe and loved, she told herself. At least he wouldn't have to grow up in poverty and hardship.

But there she was, reeling from the loss of another child, unable to shake the fear that the man's warning was nothing more than an empty threat. She tried to find solace in the fact that her son was now safe, but the ache in her heart only grew more unbearable with each passing moment. As she watched them disappear into the crowd, she felt as though a part of herself was being ripped away.

[gravekeeper-anna]

Item Give: A bass guitar. Seemingly of gnomish design and size, the power cord jack has been seemingly melted shut, and the instrument now bears ectoplasmic resonant strings. Ghosts, shades, and similar can handle and play the instrument as if they were alive. The vivid orange body on the guitar bears the inscription; "Cogsworth", followed by a number of floral hearts.

"...interesting," the Gravekeeper intoned as the guitar was left on the cold stone of her stair, though in the doubtful tone of disinterest. This was not her instrument, nor did she have a desire to learn to play it.

In fact, the sight of it somewhat drew dismay for the Lady Handhour. A dark, begrudging instinct rose in her, tempted to destroy the supernatural instrument out of spite. But it was a gift, a tradition of strange respect, and so she left it where other gifts for the Grave often went - in a tomb.

Days passed with the odd guitar sitting alone, an odd addition to the Keeper's assortments of decorative bones, skulls, and collected teacups, and it sat in silence like the rest.

It was Mr. Clancy, the curious dislocated hand that one night grew curious enough to pluck a single glowing string, and broke the hollow silence.

Periodically, ghostly plucks of the guitar could be heard from some thicket of Tirasfal, discordant and undefined in melody. On some nights, it was cause for new whispered tales around campfires to scare the ears and imaginations of those that heard the haunted strings.

{ @nixalegos }