#and i have another idea for a gothic ghost story going through my head

[harrowscore]

my brother just told me my book would probably be popular on tiktok and. ngl i almost strangled him lmao

[burins]

director's cut meme: estate? 🙏🙏🙏

manor horror! manor horror! The working title of the Damian shows up to a haunted manor fic (beyond “manor horror”) was “there are many rooms in my father’s house and all of them are trying to kill me.” I knew that I wanted to write this fic basically as soon as I saw the brief for the Gotham Horror zine. I don’t know that people generally apply to a zine with a full outline and opening scene pre-written, but I sure did! It was extremely lucky that a) the zine mods liked that idea and b) I frontloaded all of this quite so significantly, because final pieces were due the week after I got back from our honeymoon and “hello my love let me hide in the hotel room for a couple hours to write my horror fic” is not really the move.   

Because this was a zine fic, I also couldn’t talk about the writing process while it was happening, which felt like several months of sitting on my hands and squirming. I love to talk about writing! I love to talk about process! So thank you for asking about this one!

I was really going for a particular mid-century horror writing style here (which is probably obvious.) I read a LOT of Shirley Jackson in prep for this (actually, I think I read The Sundial on your rec!) and flipped through some of Bradbury’s horror stories. I did hunt down some Arabic horror writing to see what tropes Damian might have in the back of his mind beyond my vague memories of the spookier bits of 1001 Nights. Not much genre writing gets translated into English, and most of what I found was pretty modern, but I had a good time with it! (I couldn’t find a full English translation of The Cairo Maquette but I would like to read one.) Also I flipped through a lot of photos of very crusty neo-Gothic interiors to pastiche together in my head. Thank God I didn’t actually have to draw anything.  

Because I decided to write from Damian’s POV, I also needed to actually read his comics. So I read the Morrison run cherry-picked for his appearances, and also the Tomasi Batman and Robin. (One of these was a MUCH more positive experience than the other.)

I had a bit of a time figuring out what Damian should sound like. Obviously he’s a kid, but he’s a very precocious kid who has always been treated as a miniature adult, and who is vaguely embarrassed whenever he does something he thinks is childish. I was aiming for the kind of diction that a kid gets when they read a lot and talk to adults a lot and basically never interact with other kids, and I think I landed there. (I did hit a moment where I was extremely tight on word count and had two scenes left to write and my editing note to myself was “does Damian need to talk quite so much like a dictionary.” Maybe at some point I will go back and undo some of my word count edits.)

I also needed Damian to be frightened, but Damian is not someone who is going to acknowledge fear, especially right after leaving the League! So I had to find ways to convey the sense of creeping unease when I couldn’t have Damian’s POV actually admit that anything was scary. Once again thank you Shirley Jackson for doing this way better so that I could imitate it (We Have Always Lived in the Castle in particular.) 

The other thing I struggled a bit with was which of the Robins would actually appear in the fic. I really wanted the unsettling vibes of Damian being alone in this strange house with even stranger adults, which I knew would be diminished by the presence of another kid, even a hostile one. So Tim isn’t there. Dick is, because Dick is not a kid to Damian, but also, Dick is an ambiguous ghost. 

(more below the cut, because Damian isn't the only one capable of talking like a dictionary)

I actually had a whole ending to that scene with Dick in the front hallway that I scrapped because it was before I had decided Dick was the daytime face of the nighttime Robin:

“What,” comes a growl from behind them, “is the meaning of this?” Father is standing in the hall with his arms crossed, a long, bulky shadow. Damian lets the umbrella fall to his side and squares his chin. “Father,” he begins, “we were--” but he doesn’t know how to finish. They hadn’t been training, not really. Damian had been using an umbrella as a weapon, of all the ridiculous, childish things. Grayson folds at the waist and lands neatly on the marble tile. “We were goofing off, Bruce,” he says. “It was my idea. Thought I’d come by and introduce myself to your new one, since you seemed unlikely to bother.” A hallway light flickers to life as he steps forward. Father’s eyes narrow. Damian is aware of a sense of rising pressure, as though the weight of Father’s disapproval were a tangible thing. His ears pop, and he suppresses a wince, and then Father huffs and turns on his heel to leave. “Great to see you as always, Bruce,” Grayson grumbles under his breath. At some point during the conversation his hand had landed on Damian’s shoulder, and Damian had not removed it. He corrects the oversight now.

This was fun but it ended up not fitting where I went with the character.

Finally, Bruce’s motivations! I hit the point in the fic where I had plotted everything out and realized that while Bruce needed to be opaque to Damian he could not be opaque to me. So I wrote out everyone’s motivations, which was enormously helpful for finessing character interactions. I’m including them here because I think I’m very funny.

Damian motivations: wants to be Robin - Talia has held this up as a goal for him, either misdirecting or outright lying to him about what becoming Robin entails. (why? does she think he can break the curse? does she think this will cement Bruce to her? if Damian dies and the house eats him, he’s Robin forever)  Bruce motivations: does not want another Robin. Needs another Robin desperately. Has watched 3-4 kids die on his watch. Alfred motivations: he’s a house :) House motivations: wants another Robin, but only the Right Robin. Happy with the Robin it has (Dick- amalgamation.) Distrusts Damian, who is an outsider and here For The Wrong Reasons.

Bruce’s motivations were also why I included that final scene from his POV, because I think the essential tragedy of his crusade being something he cannot do alone and that devours everyone who comes to help him with it is simply so delicious. (Although she very much didn’t appear in this fic, I did land loosely on Talia thinking that Damian could break the curse and be Robin successfully. He’s her son! She trained him! Of course he can do this.)  

Okay I’m cutting myself off here because this is now a solid 1/8th of the length of the actual fic. thank you :)

[intrepidacious]

✩ upcoming wips

main masterlist | navigation

i haven't been posting a lot lately because i'm a slow writer and life has been kicking my butt but i've wanted to let you take a peek at what i've been cooking up in the background!!

what little attention i have at the moment has been going into time after time but there's a lot of ideas constantly swirling around in my head and i've wanted a place to put some of them. shockingly, these aren't even all of my wips. yeah, i know.

this is just a snapshot of the most prominent fic ideas i've been working on at the moment which means that plots and especially titles might still get changed. also i'm not committing to any sort of schedule with these so keep that in mind :')

please feel free to ask questions about any and all of these and i'll do my best to answer <3

✩ one shots

a smile that cold - ransom drysdale x f!reader - au inspired by daphne du maurier's rebecca - (well, mostly by its musical adaptation, which is great) - i'm going full gothic/seasonally spooky vibes in this one - tropes: widower remarries, mystery, dark-ish (well, there's murder), perhaps a hint of spice - status: mostly done, but still missing a chunk in the middle

to home afar - bucky barnes x freader - the guernsey literary and potato peel pie society au - (oh yes we're going there) - i love this book and this au so much but i just haven't had the time to focus on it - tropes: 40s!bucky, dad!bucky, writer!reader, one (1) broken engagement, fitzsimmons appearance, hints of epistolary storytelling, pen pals to friends to lovers - status: about halfway done, still missing some connective tissue

all that's been (and all that won't) - bucky barnes x f!reader - buffy the vampire slayer au - tropes: slayer!reader, vampire hunter!bucky, friends to lovers, inspired by me rereading all the vampire knight manga so if you know those you'll see the twist coming, canon-typical violence - status: conception phase, some scenes written

stay here forever - 40s!bucky barnes x f!reader - a continuation of first date, last night - this was a plan ever since i posted that story and yet - tropes: friends to lovers, mutual pining resolved, tfa!bucky, kinda angsty, will probably get another part … - status: mostly written, missing connective tissue

just for spite - bucky barnes x witch!reader - originally inspired by a moodboard by @treatbuckywkisses - this has been sitting in my drafts for an embarrassingly long time - might end up being a collection of loosely connected one shots - tropes: post tfatws!bucky, practical magic vibes, there's a cat, slow burn? maybe? - status: first part done, some more scenes written

death becomes him - steve rogers x grim reaper!reader - inspired by a mix of meet joe black, elisabeth (the musical, not the movie), the fairy tale godfather death, and the show dead like me - this is such a weird idea and i need to write it so bad - tropes: canon-compliant-ish, slow burn, artist!steve, will probably include time jumps, dark-ish for obvious reasons - status: random scenes written

tomorrow - steve rogers x reader - inspired by the river song storyline in doctor who - (yes you read that right) - i love using my most random au ideas for steve, i think this works so well and i'm so excited about it - tropes: opposing timelines, kind of slow burn kind of established relationship, goes through steve's entire mcu timeline - status: scenes written, writing time shenanigans is tiring if that's all you do though :')

ghost light - lighthouse keeper!steve rogers x reader - (yeah) - this one is so random but i cannot stop thinking about it - tropes: retired!steve, maybe a little angsty but it's fine really, either writer!reader or barista!reader - status: vibes and like two paragraphs

mirror's image - endings, beginnings!frank x reader - fic based on "why'd you only call me when you're high" by the arctic monkeys - tropes: fwb, drug consumption, angst and spice, idk if this will have a happy ending or not - status: about one third done

✩ series / AUs

dear heart, it's me - anthology based on the amazing devil's album "the horror and the wild" - listen for vibes 😌 - will probably posted for a milestone celebration - pairings include: stucky, bucky barnes x reader, natasha romanoff x reader, wanda maximoff x reader, jefferson x reader, steve harrington x reader (more tbd) - status: one fic stuck in revision, three more started, real excited for one additional one atm

nothing else will do - continuation/expansion of my rewritten drabble - think medieval-ish fantasy vibes, once upon a time with some princess bride thrown in there - pairings include: outlaw/pirate!steve rogers x reader, knight!bucky barnes x reader - status: lots of daydreaming and some random scenes put onto paper

occupy my brain - continuing these two drabbles - ransom drysdale x reader - there will be at least two more chapters but i am aiming to keep this one short and sweet - status: it’s more or less planned out, if only someone would finish writing it down that’d be great

come fly with me - introducing my pilot!bucky au!! - i’m not sure where it came from either but i’m having fun and it grew out of my control fast - series of connected one shots within the same universe - (i also have plans for sam and steve with this one!!) - status: not a priority rn, but i have a couple of ideas floating around my brain

read you like a book - library au!! - you’ve already been introduced to this universe’s bucky and steve and i love them dearly - status: again, not a priority at the moment but they’re coming

something bout you - beloved - ngl returning to this one is probably gonna hurt but i still want it to exist - college au steve rogers x reader - this is my childhood friends fake dating au that i made up for ren - status: hopefully i will return to this one day after tat is done

i feel awkward tagging people in this but do feel free to reblog this and do tell me about your favourites lmao okay have a nice weekend 🫶🏼

[transman-badass]

Okay here's what I've got for this Southern Gothic idea

@cljordan-imperium @words-after-midnight @

this is going to be one of my darker stories so under the cut it goes.

The story involves a transman historian returning to the town one of his ancestors founded in Alabama. It's not for pleasure - he has no fond feelings towards the South - but rather he's following up on a theory of his. During the Civil War and Reconstruction period there was a female abolitionist who wrote under the name Mary Tuesday. She was a widow, or spinster, in her 30s, who dedicated her life to the cause, and to charity, and was extremely well-liked by those around her. As the story goes, Tuesday went down to Alabama after the Civil War to help with Reconstruction efforts, but her group was attacked by ex-confederate bandits. The supplies were stolen, the men were killed, and Tuesday taken, along with any other women, presumably to a brutal end. But the historian has a theory, one that's gaining popularity among his peers - Mary Tuesday might have been an early transman, living a double life as a man unknown to most. And the protagonist suspects Tuesday might have survived and escaped the attack.

So down the protagonist goes to the south, to face off the ghosts of the past - his own included. Most people don't recognize him, he transitioned after he left. The class divide, between his lower middle class/working poor upbringing and the world of the upper middle and higher, is immediately on display. He's allowed to stay in a former plantation outside of the city, which he has mixed feelings about. The plantation was the home of the man who legend says led the attack against Tuesday, a man so infamously cruel, even years later, when the town put up statues of quote unquote 'southern heroes', they refused to honor him. They say the only person he loved was his wife Dolly.

And sure, they say the plantation is haunted. Sure the town has some spooky tales, most well known to the protagonist being the local boogeyman figure [that I haven't named yet]. But the ghosts they say still walk the streets and houses turn out to be very different from the ghosts the protagonists actually encounters.

This story is partially a vent. I've lived in the south my whole life. I'm not a fan. All the bad things are true, and all the good things seem locked behind a paywall. And the bigotry is getting worse, at least, that's how it feels in this small town I live in. It's all Jesus, no love. Though I will say, I have never, in all my 30+ years, heard 'bless your heart' used as an insult. Last time I heard it, the full sentence was 'bless her heart, she's so deaf she can't understand me on the phone', said with a smile and small shake of the head.

Another thing that inspired this story was how many damn stories written before the millennium romanticized the south and the confederacy. I was looking through books that are probably long out of print and just boggling at them. The past really is a foreign country.

Other inspirations include Ghostland - highly recommend that book.

I aim to have a reasonably diverse cast, just like the south I've known my whole life. Don't plan to have any romance right now. There isn't really an external goal here. I don't know who's gonna read this, and when I first thought of the idea, I joked that I'd be cancelled for it. I'm writing this story for me, I think, more than some of the rest I've worked on. But if you like this idea, you're welcome to join me.

[elliepassmore]

The Thirteenth Child review

4/5 stars Recommended if you like: Gothic settings, fantasy, fairytale retellings, healer + death

Big thanks to Netgalley, Delacorte, and the author for an ARC in exchange for an honest review!

This was another one of my most anticipated releases this year and once again it didn't quite live up to my expectations. I'm not familiar with the fairytale it's based on, so perhaps it is following that more closely, but this book lacks the creepiness I've come to expect and love from Craig's books. Between one of the characters being a god of death, the plague sweeping the kingdom, and the ghosts Hazel sees, you would expect this to be on par with House of Salt and Sorrows in terms of spookiness...but it wasn't, nor did it have the less creepy but still tension-filled vibes of House of Roots and Ruin.

The story follows Hazel from when she quickens in her mother's stomach to when she is 18 and being called on by the king. While there's a decent mix of good and bad things happening to her throughout her life, I felt a distinct lack of forward moving tension throughout a lot of the book. When she's a kid, there's a lot of rich tension between how she's treated and the fact she's been promised to the god of death, Merrick. And then there's ~some~ tension after she begins training as a healer, but it doesn't feel active, it feels passive. The plague that's causing its victims to weep gold from their skin and eyes should be creepy and have lots of tension for Hazel....but she solves it almost immediately and then there's kind of just a lot of nothing going on. Even when Hazel is making things happen, she is very much a reactionary character. Curiosity kept me turning the page, but mostly from a "how is there still 40% of the book left" perspective.

All that being said, I did like Hazel as a character and I thought the concept was interesting (the concept, of course, is Death's goddaughter and not the mysterious plague). Merrick cares deeply for Hazel, but he's also a god and doesn't totally understand how humans think or work. Of course twelve years is a long time to a human...but to immortal Merrick it's nothing, and he doesn't understand why Hazel is miffed by his absence. Likewise, the idea that Death is training his goddaughter to be a healer is an interesting twist, made even more interesting by the flip side of that coin.

We do get to learn a lot about Hazel as she grows and I enjoyed following her as a character. In a way, I actually think this book would've worked a lot better if it really had been following Hazel throughout life, or at least farther through life than it did. Nettle & Bone is my favorite T. Kingfisher book and has a similar plot structure of following one character into adulthood, then having the bulk of the tension + plot occur, and imo it works very well. That aside, Hazel has a lot going on in her life and is no stranger to tragedy. She's able to keep a level head while also being compassionate to those she's caring for.

Leo is an infuriating prince...but he's also someone willing to listen and change. As snarky as he is, it's clear that he's also lost and at least some of his acting out is a result of that. When Hazel rightly calls him out (on more than one occasion), he actually reflects on his words and actions, and then takes steps accordingly. While I did think they knew each other too little for a romance to be feasible, I did think the budding romance between them was cute and I was rooting for them.

Hazel also grows close with Leo's two sisters, Bellatrice and Euphemia, though this largely happens off page. I would've liked to see more of this development because while Euphemia is a child and thus easy to like, Bellatrice is more closed off and I have a hard time believing she'd so easily make friends with Hazel. But apparently the two end up close enough to read each other's expressions with ease and for Bellatrice to tell Hazel her deepest secret.

There's a lot of scheming going on behind the scenes as well and while I guessed some of it, some of it still left me surprised. In that vein, I have to say that there's a lot of worldbuilding in this book, but Craig does it in such a way that it never feels infodump-y. There's quite a bit about the gods of the realm (obviously) but there's also some interesting information about medicine from Hazel's studies as well as about the politics of the country, thanks to Hazel treating the king. The way it's written definitely makes the world feel more expansive than just what's going on with Hazel and the rest of the country. I also liked the tidbits we saw of the gods and the various religious sects that follow them.

Overall, not my favorite Craig book and definitely not horror. I did enjoy the characters and particularly seeing how Hazel grew up. While there were some things I had issue with in this book, I still plan on reading A Land So Wide and Lenore's book.

[seldnei]

Taking stock of the writing: 2023

For any new followers: this is my annual post about my writing in the past year.  This is purely for my own mental health–the tag says “seldnei is tired of feeling like a slacker” for a reason.  Please feel free to skip.

So what did I accomplish in 2023?

Well, it was a helluva year, again.  We’ve acquired another teenager, with all that entails, which is a good thing overall but definitely added some chaos.  My boss retired earlier than expected, so day job went sideways for a while.  My cousin died, which was entirely unexpected.  My father died, which was both more and less unexpected.  Also the eldest BFF’s mom died, which was not traumatic for me, per se, but being able to spend a week with him was, like acquiring Q, a good thing surrounded by chaos.  Oh, and Z got his ADHD diagnosis, which has triggered some interesting realizations about the assumed neurotypicality of everyone in the household.  We are, in fact, that family who said, “But that can’t be a ‘disorder’; everyone is like that, right?”

I am exhausted, and my brain feels not only full but occasionally like it’s eating itself with self-analysis.

BUT.  I am here.  And I wrote things.

Stories/Poems/Etc.

Finished the second Exorcist story, and decided it did need to be mashed up with the first one.  I dunno, it’s still cuter than I like. 

Did the requested rewrite on the Teachout camel story, and got rejected again (I vaguely recall this as another rewrite request, but I could be wrong and can’t be arsed to dig through my email right now). I kind of think this editor and I have fundamentally different ideas as to what these stories are.  Keep this in mind as I get into future plans, btw, as it was a contributing factor.

Wrote some more TMA fanfic.

“And the Forest Sings of Secrets and the Dead” for FUCKIT, which prompted the best review of all time from Q: “What the fuck, Laura?”

“The Modern Eurydice: with Leto in the Mountains of Delos,” also for FUCKIT, which is probably my favorite thing I wrote this year.  I really hope there are more modern Eurydice stories somewhere in my head, because I loved writing this one and the first one.

Poetry:

“Elpis at the Farmer’s market” for FUCKIT

“4am, April 2023,” also for FUCKIT, the poem my husband wants to frame and put on the wall

Random bits and bobs in my notebook

I wrote three podcast scripts because I really want to make a podcast. 

Script one is a monologue type thing, continuing my explorations of ghosts and terrible mothers.

Scripts two and three are the first two episodes of a short series that adapts the not!Tempest/not!Mosquito Coast/not!Island of Dr Moreau thing I’ve been fucking around with for like four years now.  I think three more scripts and I’ll have the series completed, and then I can turn my attention to things like casting and recording and editing and hosting and posting and dear lord what the fuck.

 I started a bunch of other things:

The baseball/ghost romance novella, where I am trying out iterative outlining.

Some abortive attempts to find my way into my post-apocalypse cunning folk thing

A start and some notes for a gothic horror story that I probably will get back to in a while (watch this space in, like, three years)

Other Stuff

“An Oral History: The Dead Queen at 1223 Murchison Row” sold and came out in Artifice & Craft. 

I created my author website, which I’m still very pleased with.  Also did some blogging, but not as much as I would have liked.  Still, not sure when I had time?

Submitted things sporadically.

Kept up my morning writing routine, though it did have some disruptions here and there and the time got a little compressed.  But the biggest thing, I think, is that I kept going.  There was a lot of stuff going on in my life this year, and I wrote through it all.

Novel and Goals for 2024

Okay, this is where we get into the stuff that makes me nervous.

So the novel is on a second round of reading at a publisher.  This is taking forever, but the publisher has also posted periodically that they’re still working their way through subs, and frankly, I am entirely willing to let them do their thing because, as I said last year, I think this might be the absolute worst time to try and find an agent or publisher.  This is one of like two sparks of interest I have gotten for a book that a professional editor says is very good, so … yeah, we will let that lie.  Additionally, I’ve been reading some stuff from established trad authors who are also  having issues selling things, and I’m like … uuuggghhh.

Bearing that in mind … I’m going to start looking at and dipping my toe into self-publishing this year.  Guys, I am so tired of thinking about what an editor might or might not find appealing enough to publish; I want to write my weird little stories and have people read them.  I don’t even care if it’s just my friends and I only sell, like, three copies of anything.  I have long since resigned myself to never being a full-time writer, so while extra cash would be nice, it’s not something I desperately need.  (That said, I am going to be selling my work because it’s work, so.  But I have thoughts about discount codes and freebies, so we’ll see how it goes.)  I’d like to be able to hire an editor, commission covers, that kind of thing, though, so I’m also thinking about starting a Patreon to help fund those aspects of it, with rewards and all that good stuff.

So I can publish the novellas and short story collections, and if the publisher passes on my manuscript, I can publish the Teachout book and start writing the second one.

This is the scary part, though.  Am I too scattered to make something like this work?  What if no one has any interest? What about pirates (both cyber and sailor)?  Will I annoy people with self-promo?  Will people in my circle think less of me?  (Do I care about the people who would think less of me for doing this?) How will this affect my other writing?  OH GOD HOW DOES THIS AFFECT MY TAXES?!

I think I can do it.  I might ask y’all for cheerleading here and there.  I have a planner and Mr. Seldnei.

Every time I think about it and get scared, I think second Teachout book no matter what happens and I’m like … yeah. Yeah, I think I need to at least try.

So, goals for 2024:

FUCKIT subs

finish this baseball thing

Podcast

Patreon (?)

Self-publishing

AAAAAAAAAAA.

[dearcraziness]

Chapter 7.

"Bendy, wake up..."

Bendy got up. Saw Lara again in front of him!

He thought that everything would happen again. He felt sick.

"Has something happened?!" the calmness left his mind in an instant.

"No, everything's fine. We decided that it was time for us to unwind, go for a walk. Especially you need to rest."

"You're right, we'll go right after breakfast." the days were quite tense, it was time to relax.

The friends walked around the neighborhood of the place where they lived, and then teleported into the human world. The sun seemed to shine even brighter there.

There was no one around - dense forest. Only the trunks of spruce, birch and aspen trees, which were covered with bright green leaves. Silence covered the surroundings. Sometimes there were noises behind the bushes. The wind stirred them, then small animals...

The weather was getting warmer and hotter. The further they went, the brighter sun's rays became.

"I was thinking, maybe we can go back? I'm tired of the bright rays, it's so hot." Boris confessed.

"Be patient. We only walked a couple of kilometers," Bendy replied. "By the way, it was your idea to go on a trip, wasn't it?"

"Well, I changed my mind."

"Look, there's a shade." Lara showed.

"How great. So, let's keep going." Bendy said, looking at the disgruntled Boris.

They turned left and walked on the shady side.

An hour passed, and soon a strange place appeared in front of the friends.

There were signs with strange inscriptions in the ground. First name, last name, one year and the second... On the fence were black Gothic letters: "Hailinfill Cemetery".

Creatures like Bendy, Lara and Boris lived forever, so they couldn't quite understand how people lived a certain amount of time and then died. Nevertheless, it was a fact.

So many graves, names, dates and surnames... In the depths between the thick cypresses there was a single tombstone. It had the name "Joey" on it. The year of death coincided with the current year. Then Bendy saw the words drawn.

"He just wanted to be reunited with them."

A lot of questions were mixed up in Bendy's head again. Who to reunite with? How did his grave appeared here? Who was he really?..

An unpleasant feeling seized Bendy, he said, "It's getting late. Time for us to go home."

"OK..."

In the evening, Bendy was lost in thought again. He went to the room where he had seen Joey. He walked around the room several times, thinking. But he couldn't find an explanation for what happened. Maybe it really just seemed to him...

He was about to leave, but suddenly he heard someone's voice.

"Still looking for answers, Bendy?"

He turned around. Joey was sitting in the same place in front of him.

"But how?.. Why are you here?"

"To answer your questions."

"And how are you alive again?.."

"I'm not," Joey replied. "Here, look."

The man's palm passed through the imp's hand.

"Hmm, the life of ghosts is quite interesting..." he continued.

Bendy began to lose his patience.

"Just tell me who you really were?! And who is to blame for what happened?"

"Hmm, well, the answer to the first question is quite simple. I was an ordinary person who started studying magic one day. However, it is difficult to find an explanation for the second question..."

"It wasn't you who did it?.."

"Of course not!"

"Then why did you want me to kill you?" Bendy didn't understand.

"Listen, you have friends here. They'll be fine now. My family has long gone to another world. I just wanted to join them. I wrote Henry a letter to meet him one last time. But my best pal came much later than I expected."

After a short pause, he continued.

"You know, Bendy, not everything can be explained. I used to look for an explanation too, but then I found out that an accident had happened to my loved ones. However, your story has a reason for the dark beginning. I wrote a script long time ago. Soon I burned it. Everything happened according to the script, but then it became the same. I also wrote a happy ending, which set you free, now you choose your own destiny. The script is in the first drawer of the desk, you can read it."

Bendy opened the first drawer and saw a stack of sheets.

"Thank y..." he didn't finish because Joey was already gone. Although, in the imp's thoughts, the phrase was repeated. "Thank you, Joey..."

Taking the script in his hands so that it wouldn't disappear, Bendy ran to his fellows.

"Guys, come here! You'll see evidence of what happened."

He showed them the pages. Boris looked puzzled, and asked:

"Em... And what are we supposed to be looking at?"

"Eh? Can't you see?"

Then he looked himself. The sheets were empty.

"Bendy, stop playing tricking us already! Not funny." Boris said.

"But... but... There was so many sentences here..."

"Don't get upset," Lara comforted him. "Maybe it's for the best."

"But how is this possible? I don't understand anything." Bendy realized that it makes no sense to dig into incomprehensible things. The main thing is that friends are near, everything is fine with them. He threw away the papers and hugged his buddies.

The happiness of loved ones is the most important thing in life. Bendy was sure that only the well-being of his friends was worth fighting for.

I hope you are also aware of this, dear readers! But, this is not the end, it's only the beginning...

[starring-movies]

The Haunting of Bly Manor: Episode Analysis

Episode 8 - The Romance of Certain Old Clothes

Episode 8 is the penultimate episode of The Haunting of Bly Manor. This episode, as well as Episode 5, are some of the absolute standout episodes of the season and in this one we are given the origin story of who The Lady of the Lake was.

We find out that “towards the middle of the 17th century” the current owner of Bly Manor at that time had died, and he left his two daughters as his heirs to the estate. His daughters were Viola and Perdita, and Perdita was five years younger than her sister. It’s an interesting detail that in Latin, ‘perdita’ means ruined, wasted or lost. In accordance with the meaning of her name, Perdita’s life is completely wasted and lost to Viola.

In life - Perdita lost her husband to Viola (Arthur was first interested in her but Viola presented herself as the lady of the manor so that he would marry her instead), she lost most of her life to caring for Viola when she became sick with “the lung” and she literally lost her life to Viola when Viola strangled her.

In death - Perdita gets lost as a ghost when her face and memories all fade.

An amazing detail; is that when Viola and Perdita are mingling with the various suitors, no one in this scene actually opens their mouth when it looks like they’re speaking to another person. Everyone makes the physical gestures towards one another which you make when you speak to someone (like one person leaning in to be heard and the other leaning in to listen), but no one’s mouth actually opens in speech. This small detail, as well as the whole episode being in black and white, helps to immerse us into the fairytale or gothic romance-like tone of the episode.

After Viola marries Arthur, they have a child together. We discover that the origin of the phrase “it is you, it is me, it is us”, which is used to invite a ghost into a person, was first said by Viola to her baby daughter.

It’s not made completely clear, but it’s straight after Viola notices Perdita and Arthur looking at one another that “her suspicion began as small”, but also when “the tickle in her lungs” began. This may just be a coincidence, but if it’s not, then it’s strongly suggested to us that Viola’s illness stemmed from the jealousy and suspicion that planted itself within her - like an almost ‘Dorian Grey-style’ physical manifestation of the jealousy that infected her heart.

When the doctor’s treatments for Viola’s illness don’t work and her condition starts to look more terminal, Arthur calls the vicar to her bedside to preform an absolution rite. Out of sheer stubborn wilfulness Viola refuses to repeat the rites, saying to the vicar for him to “tell your god, that I do not go”. Arthur tries to covnince her to repeat the rites by telling her “it is not about your body any longer, my love. It is your soul we must treat. It is your soul I worry for”. Again it’s not made explicitly clear, but it’s strongly suggested that Viola doesn’t die peacefullly and her soul is imprisoned in the chest of clothes because she didn’t say the rites and so her soul was not properly treated before dying.

As Older Jamie is telling the story, she says that “then five times around the sun, and all is different”, as this was when Viola found Perdita dancing with Arthur and started to treat Perdita awfully. In Episode 9 Older Jamie also says that “five years would pass, and there was peace” for her and Dani, before Viola started to take over Dani’s body. It seems that Viola was given “five times around the sun” before she started to see the connection between Perdita and Arthur growing stronger and when all became different; and so Dani and Jamie were given “five years” of peace before Viola reared her head and made everything different for them.

We also see a similarity being drawn between Viola and Peter. Viola is still hanging onto her life and refusing to die and Perdita says to her that “you should think of her, Vi. Think of Isabel. What will she be left with, what memories of you will she carry? Will it be this? This version of you? Because Viola, with love, let it be anything else”. It’s clear that Viola obviously does love her daughter but at the same time, by refusing to let go, she’s acting somewhat selfishly. Perdita is right when she says that Isabel will not carry any fond memories of her mother, but only a vision of her slowly wasting away in a “living death”. In the same way, Peter does love Rebecca but his decision to drown her was a completely selfish one, only thinking about his own loneliness and what he wanted.

We then see that Viola’s soul has been trapped in the chest which she locked her clothes in. While trapped in the chest she repeats a constant cycle of “sleeping, waking, walking” as she waits to see her daughter who will open the chest when she is of age. However when Perdita is the one who opens Viola’s chest, Viola strangles her as revenge for being killed by her and for her opening the chest that was supposed to be guarded until Isabel could open it. When Viola sees Arthur’s reaction to finding Perdita’s dead body, she doesn’t see “the changes wrought of time” but she sees “only his sadness”. This is heartbreaking for Viola, to see the man who was once her husband lamenting the loss of her sister.

Thinking that Viola’s chest was cursed, Arthur throws it into the lake so that Isabel would not succumb to the same curse that killed Perdita. It is this “absolute abandonment”, this “final insult”, which breaks Viola’s heart completely, and it’s from the anguish she feels and “stubbornness alone” which stops her “being pulled towards some other place, some realm beyond”. This stubbornness that Viola had, and because she ignored the pull from the “realm beyond”, meant that “she instead made her own gravity, gravity of will”.

We find out that The Lady of the Lake’s journey through Bly Manor started when her chest was thrown into the lake. The trip that Viola makes is in the hope that she would one day find her daughter. She walks to her old bedroom in the hope that she will find her daughter but then when she doesn’t find her, she remembers that she died and that her daughter had left her. This remembering would break her heart after every single trip, and so she would sleep to forget what had happened and then would wake back up having forgotten. It is also revealed to us that most of the other ghosts which we see in the manor are people who got in the way of her path, the most tragic of whom was the Doll Face Ghost, who was a little boy that she mistook for her daughter and drowned.

Through this we are also presented the idea of the danger of becoming blindsided by anguish and stubbornness. Viola began her journey through the manor with the purpose of finding her daughter, but then as time went on and she forgot more and more, the journey just started to become a ritual, something repeatedly done mindlessly and with no purpose. Through this repeated ritual, she completely loses the purpose for which she once did this, and as a result takes the life of an innocent boy because she could only remember that she was searching for a child and so she thought that this must be the child whom she sought. Viola allows anger and grief from love to seethe inside her, and eventually it takes over her completely, leaving only that anger in control of the shell of her body.

As well as this, we find out that the reason that all the ghosts have lost their faces is due to a side effect of forgetting. As each of the ghosts gradually forget who they once were, this gets physically shown on their face. It is a visual representation of memories fading as the details slowly get lost and then they are eventually lost completely.

You can read my previous The Haunting of Bly Manor posts here:-

Episode 1 - The Great Good Place

Episode 2 - The Pupil

Episode 3 - The Two Faces, Part One

Episode 4 - The Way It Came

Episode 5 - The Altar of the Dead

Episode 6 - The Jolly Corner

Episode 7 - The Two Faces, Part Two

——————————————————————————

[calwrites]

The Halloween Party

Summary: Reader has lived across the hall from Penelope Garcia for a couple years and considers her to be one of her best friends. That’s the only reason she agreed to go to a Halloween match making party.

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Reader

Warnings: none

Word Count: 2.2k

I wrote this very quickly so it’s not the best, but I couldn’t let Halloween go by without writing something for Reid.

——————

“I still can’t believe I let you talk me into this stupid match making thing,” you grumbled at the blonde currently on your couch.

Penelope Garcia smiled at you over her wine glass. “Well I wanted to go but only if my favorite neighbor did it too.”

“I’m the only neighbor you talk to,” you pointed out. Penelope stuck her tongue out at you and waved her empty glass in the air. You rolled your eyes, but refilled her glass anyway.

You and Penelope had lived in the same building for a few years. When you had seen the brightly dressed woman lugging boxes down the hall, you had offered to help her move everything in. She had intrigued you. You had passed each other in the hall a couple of times after that, but had never really talked until one evening when you heard a knock on your door.

It had puzzled you because you were still pretty new to the area so you didn’t have any friends who would be dropping by unexpectedly. Opening the door, you had found Penelope standing in the hall crying.

“I had a really bad day at work. I just really need someone to talk to,” she had said. You ushered her in and spent the night learning about Penelope’s job as a technical analyst for the BAU. Now whenever Penelope’s team got through with a tough case, she would come collapse on your couch while the two of you drank wine and decompressed.

“You’re also the one who told me to get out there and forget about Kevin,” Penelope countered.

“Yeah well I didn’t think you’d drag me along.”

“It’s not just you! I convinced some of my friends at the BAU to sign up too. Besides, I know you’re excited for the party. You already bought two dresses.” She pointed at the dresses still laying out on your kitchen table. You were trying to decide whether a black dress or white dress would be better for your costume.

“I’m always excited for a Halloween costume party. I just never thought I’d be one of those sad people who signs up for a matchmaking party.”

“Y/N, you are one of the smartest people I know. And I work for the FBI. I know a lot of smart people. The only reason you’re still single is because whenever you get time off from teaching you spend it trying to solve impossible math equations. And I thought you said your match sounded nice.”

You sighed. “Trying to solve an impossible math equation is arguably the most important part of my job. I think the university cares more about that than the courses I teach sometimes. I guess he does seem nice. He’s either very smart or he’s very good at using google to sound smart. Either way, when you look at the data, the likelihood of finding a long term partner through a survey is-“

Penelope groaned. “No! I get enough info dumping at work. Let’s just talk about the party. It’s next weekend and you’re buying clothes for it so I assume you and your partner decided on your costumes. What is it?”

When Penelope had invited you to a Halloween costume party, you had been quick to accept. She then told you that it was a matchmaking party where you had to fill out a survey and were then matched with another attendee. Pairs would have to decide on costumes and then find each other at the party. Until then, pairs wouldn’t know who the other person was. Definitely not your usual definition of fun.

“I’m not telling you,” you teased. Penelope gasped on faux anger before the two of you burst into laughter and decided on a movie to watch.

——————

You stared at your computer screen intently, willing the message to change.

I’ve been out of state for a work trip for the past few days. I didn’t mention it earlier because I was hoping that we would get back in plenty of time. It took a couple more days than we were anticipating though. We’re about to take off, so I’ll make it back in time for the party but I won’t have time to put out on my whole costume. I can just wear the cape or something if you don’t have any better suggestions. I’m looking forward to meeting you tonight.

You chewed your lip thoughtfully before an idea popped into your head. And you began typing back a response.

That’s a shame. I was looking forward to seeing your Masque of the Red Death costume. I have a new idea though. What character refused to wear a costume to a costume ball?

The response came back almost immediately.

And I was looking forward to seeing your Leonore costume. I’m sure that there are a number of characters who fit that description. Would you like a list?

You smiled and rolled your eyes.

It’s another gothic story. He’s throwing the fancy dress party, but he refuses to dress up. His new wife’s costume causes a bit of a stir. Enough clues?

The reply caused you to get up quickly to begin sorting out your new costume.

I’ll see you tonight, Mrs. de Winters.

A few hours later found you ready to leave. You were thankful that you still had the white dress you had previously purchased with the idea of using it for Leonore. You were even more thankful that you still had a wig from a few Halloween’s ago that worked for your costume. So now, with a white dress and curly dark hair, you were ready to leave.

“Ok I give up,” Penelope said when she opened her door. “What are you supposed to be?”

“I’m the narrator from Rebecca,” you told her. “It’s kind of a last minute costume. I’m glad your case wrapped up today. I would be bummed if I had to go without you.”

“Well it’s a good thing it didn’t come to that.” Penelope looped her arm through yours and pulled you down the hallway, the two of you laughing as you went.

——————

Thankfully the room wasn’t too loud when you and Penelope arrived. Jack-o-lanterns and bowls of candy sat on tables around the edge of the room, and bats and ghosts hung from the ceiling. You and Penelope made a circuit around the room, trying to find your matches.

“Maybe ours guys are running late,” Penelope suggested. The two of you had moved to a snack table while you surveyed the sea of costumes around you.

“Or they’re ditching us.” Penelope gave you a playful swat. You were saved from another attack by Penelope’s phone dinging.

“Oh! Some of my friends are here. Come meet them.” Before you could protest, Penelope was dragging you across the room. Two people stood against the wall talking, but broke into smiles and waved when they saw Penelope approaching.

“Y/N, this is Derek and Emily. Guys, this is my neighbor Y/N.”

You smiled and shook hands with the two FBI agents.

“So you’re the famous Y/N,” Derek grinned. “It’s nice to finally meet you.”

“Famous? If anyone is famous it’s Derek “chocolate thunder” Morgan. The way Penelope talks about you, I was imagining a superhero. She wasn’t wrong.”

“I like her,” Derek laughed.

Emily groaned. “He does not need a bigger ego.”

“Where’s Reid?” Penelope asked. “Don’t tell me he bailed.”

“He said he needed to stop by his apartment first. We came straight from the plane. And don’t worry, Hotch and JJ both assured us they would take pictures of the kids in their costumes.” Penelope squealed and clapped her hands excitedly.

You chatted with Penelope and her friends for a few more minutes before Penelope spotted a man wearing a matching costume to hers. She waved bye to your little group and rushed off to meet him, leaving you with the two FBI agents.

“Oh there’s Pretty Boy,” Derek cried.

“I was kind of expecting you to show up in an intricate costume. You love Halloween, Spencer,” Emily said.

You turned to find a handsome man approaching your group. He was wearing a nice suit and had a leather satchel slung over his shoulder.

“No time, unfortunately.” The man shrugged. “I just had to pick up some books from my apartment. Hi. I’m Dr. Spencer Reid. You must be Garcia’s friend.” He turned to you, but didn’t extend a hand. You realized that this must be the young genius Penelope mentioned from time to time.

“Y/N,” you replied. Spencer’s eyes took in your costume carefully. You tried not to shift uncomfortably.

“Are you planning on doing some reading tonight?” Derek asked.

“No. My date and I were discussing a volume of poetry that I have, so I wanted to bring it to show her.”

“What a ladies man,” Emily teased. “How’s she going to know it’s you though? You’re not wearing a costume.”

“Actually, I am.” Spencer smiled slightly at the confused looks on his friends’ faces. What he just said clicked for you suddenly.

“Maxim?” You asked before you could stop yourself.

Spencer blinked at you in surprise before smiling widely. “Mrs. de Winters?”

Emily and Derek looked between of you in slight confusion, but you and Spencer smiled at each other in delight. “We’ll leave you two to it,” Derek teased as he and Emily walked away.

“I’m glad that you’re a friend of Penelope’s and not a complete stranger,” you admitted. “I was a little worried I’d get stuck with some weirdo. Not that you sounded weird when we talked!”

“Well our first conversation was about the statistics of meeting a murderer when online dating. That’s a little weird.” The two of you laughed slightly.

“I’m a math professor, so I’m interested in anything statistics,” you admitted. “I’m kind of a nerd.”

“Same,” Spencer laughed. “You know these last minute costumes were a good idea.”

“I still want to see your Masque of the Red Death costume sometime.”

“Deal, but only if you tell me what you teach.”

You waved your hand. “Oh nothing exciting. Just some upper level math that nobody wants to take. The fun part of my job is trying to solve the Riemann hypothesis.”

“You’re trying to solve one of the Millennium Prize problems?” Spencer asked in surprise.

“I’m surprised you know about it.” Most people you talked to had no idea what the Millennium Prize problems were. You were sure they wondered why a university would tenure you just so you could keep trying to solve a math problem.

“I’ve looked over them before,” Spencer admitted shyly, like he was waiting for you to make fun of him.

“No luck?”

“Way beyond my level.” The two of you laughed slightly. A slower song began to play and couples danced slowly across the dance floor.

“Want to dance?” you suggested. Spencer hesitated and you worried for a second that you had overstepped, but then he smiled and held out his hand.

Neither one of you were very good dancers, but what you lacked in talent you made up for in smiles. You continued to discuss everything from mathematical theory to what working at the FBI was like to classic literature.

“Do you think this is how the Manderley fancy dress party would have gone if Mrs. Danvers hadn’t sabotaged the narrator?” you asked. “They could have been as happy as us dancing.”

Spencer thought for a moment. “I don’t think so. I don’t think they could have been truly happy together with all of the secrets still between them.”

“True,” you agreed. “So you think we’re happy?”

When Spencer smiled at you, your heart fluttered. “I’m pretty happy. This is going a lot better than I expected. Not that I didn’t think you sounded great when we talked online! But Derek said something about you sounding too good to be true, so I started to worry that you wouldn’t be as amazing in person, but I shouldn’t have. You’re even better in person.”

You smiled gently back at Spencer. “You’re better in person too.”

Spencer studied your face intently for a few seconds, a look of uncertainty on his face. “Can I kiss you?” he asked quickly, like he was afraid he would lose his nerve if he waited.

Your smile grew. “I’d like that,” you responded.

Spencer put one hand gently on your cheek, the other still resting on your waist, and brought his lips down to meet yours. When the two of you broke away, still smiling widely, you were totally oblivious to the looks of shock and delight on the FBI agents’ faces.

“I think we might have to do this again sometime, Mrs. de Winters.”

“I think so, Maxim.”

Without speaking, the two of you leaned in again, and you were able to capture Spencer’s lips once more. You didn’t think you’d get tired of this any time soon. If only you had taken Penelope up on her offer to set the two of you up last year.

[themurphyzone]

PatB/BatB AU: Imprisoned

Summary: Pinky tries to rescue his father from a spooky, mysterious castle, only to wind up the prisoner of a terrifying monster. Also the terrifying monster has no fucking idea what he's doing, but Pinky doesn't know that.

AN: Because I desperately want to write a BatB/PatB fic but I don’t want to tackle the entire movie cause this movie is more slow burn than most other Disney Princess stories. I decided to try the scene where Belle first meets the Beast just for curiosity’s sake.  

AO3 Link

Pharfignewton’s hooves nervously stirred up dead leaves and twigs as she halted in front of an eerie black gate, its bars crisscrossing over each other as if to prevent anyone from entering…or leaving.

An unfamiliar sense of dread swept over Pinky. The enormous castle beyond the gate loomed, the highest towers piercing the thick, gray clouds above. Still, Pharfignewton’s instincts were never wrong. If she said Papa was somewhere in that large, gloomy castle, then he was going to be in that large, gloomy castle.

Pinky gently flicked the reins, but Pharfignewton didn’t move. A tremble ran down her back.

“It’s okay, Fig,” Pinky whispered. He stroked her mane, and Pharfignewton whinnied softly. “Just think of your favorite things. Like apples, carrots, grassy meadows…”

A gust of wind blew the gate open. It crashed against the unforgiving stone wall.

Pharfignewton leapt back, the sudden move nearly pitching Pinky to the ground, but he clung to several strands of her mane and quickly scrambled into his usual position at the base of her neck.

She trotted across the stone bridge, ears swiveling in every direction.

“P-poit. They oughta change the lock on that thing,” Pinky murmured as the gate slammed shut.

Pharfignewton stumbled against a crack in the stone pathway leading up to the castle’s front door. She couldn’t go any further. The stone would damage her hooves, and they’d need to be in tip-top shape for the ride home.

“Fig, you’ll have to wait here.” Pinky climbed up her mane and onto her long muzzle, petting the soft fur between her eyes. Her head rose indignantly, stamping a hoof against the stone. “You shouldn’t go onto the stone without horseshoes. It’ll ruin your lovely hooves. And don’t worry, Papa and I will be back before you can say sugarcube!”

They couldn’t afford horseshoes for Pharfignewton, which prevented Pinky from riding her as often as he would’ve liked. Pinky’s chest ached from the reminder. Pharfignewton deserved pretty shoes.

She let out a gentle puff of air as she lowered him to the ground, giving him an encouraging nudge.

Pinky slowly approached the heavy doors, a brass gargoyle with bulging eyes serving as a doorknob. But the knob was at human height, not mouse height, so even with a running start and flying leap, he couldn’t reach it.

Then he remembered his manners. Breaking into a haunted, abandoned castle was awfully rude. What if he disturbed some ghosts in whatever ghostly things they did?

“Hello?” Pinky called, pressing an ear to the door as he knocked. “Anyone home?”

Nobody answered, but the door creaked slightly, allowing Pinky enough room to squeeze inside. Pinky bundled Mama’s well-worn traveling cloak around himself, trying not to think of the scolding he might’ve received as a young mouse about breaking and entering into strange places.

But he wasn’t stealing anything. He was just going to find Papa and bring him home. If Mama were alive, she’d understand.  

Somehow the castle interior was even colder and draftier than outside. Gargoyles lined the walls, crouching with their wings outstretched, and each one seemed to have their eyes trained on him. The inside was mostly stone, with a wine-red carpet leading from the doorway and splitting into two paths along an enormous staircase.

Torches and lanterns hung along the walls, but they were dim and barely provided light to see by.

Whoever built the castle must’ve had a great love for the Gothic style. Pinky could appreciate dedication to the theme, but he shied away from an eagle-like gargoyle all the same. There were eyes boring into him. He just knew it.

“Hello?” Pinky shouted.

“Hello!”

Pinky grinned. The echo made up for the dreary décor.

“Narf!”

“Narf!”

This time, he cupped his hands to his mouth, took a deep breath, and yelled from the top of his lungs.

“FJORD!”

“FJORD!”

Feeling slightly bolder, Pinky played a quick game of eenie-meenie-miney-mo for the path he’d take, since there were so many of them and he couldn’t choose just one. There were so many rooms. It would take a while to go through them all, so he’d have to chance it.

On the last count of ‘mo’, Pinky’s finger pointed at the rightmost staircase, so he climbed the long flight, his bare feet sinking into the carpet. He hoped the ghosts would forgive him for tracking dirt inside.

Clink clink clink.

Funny. Feet didn’t usually make that kind of noise on carpet.

Probably just the creaking of old metal. This castle had definitely seen better days, judging from the cobwebs that spanned entire corners far above his head.

He reached the top of the staircase. More doors and rooms awaited him down the dark hallway.

Pinky knocked on the nearest door. He heard a splash of water and the sweep of a mop coming from within. A maid, maybe?

They could point him in the right direction!

“Hello? Are you a castle maid? I’m sorry for interrupting your work, but I’m looking for my Papa!” Pinky shouted, pressing an ear against the door. Someone whispered urgently, the exact words too muffled to make out, and the splashing and sweeping noises stopped. “His name is Jack, he’s a little shorter than me, and…oh, he has a big bushy mustache too! He tends to get vegetable bits stuck in it when he eats. Have you seen him?”

No reply.

Pinky’s tail twitched nervously. Maybe the maids really didn’t like having their work interrupted.

“I’m sorry, I’ll…I’ll let you get back to work,” Pinky said. He backed away from the door, the hood of his cloak falling into his eyes.

Clink clink clink.

That noise again. Pinky lifted the hood away from his eyes, and he came face-to-face with a teacup, and he was pretty sure he hadn’t seen any teacups yet. Mostly gargoyles and spooky stuff, really.

The teacup was about his height, with a polished white surface and golden trim around its rim and base. Its handle was a shining red, and its pink base looked almost skirt-like, with a single yellow flower painted on the front.

“Aww, what a cute teacup!” Pinky exclaimed. He’d never seen any teacup like this before. Not even Snowball had something this ornate and pretty. “Wonder who painted you? Whoever it was, they’ve really got a great eye for color!”

He could’ve sworn the teacup’s handle lifted out of pride, but maybe the dim lighting was just playing tricks on him.

“Well, I don’t know how you got here, but I can’t just leave you alone either. What if somebody stepped on you?” Pinky lifted the teacup by the handle and carried it further down the hall. The teacup’s base seemed to twitch every few seconds.

He didn’t know where the kitchen was, but surely there had to be a cabinet or cupboard somewhere around here. He turned left when the path split again, and counted his lucky stars once he spotted a small table up ahead. The higher surface was several feet above his head, but the lower platform was at his shoulder level.  

Odd. There was a candelabra and a mantle clock here too. Strange place to store one’s knickknacks, but then again, Pinky kept his rock collection in a tea kettle, so he couldn’t be too judgy.  

Pinky set the teacup on the lower platform, sliding it over until it touched the candelabra and clock. The two objects were oddly painted, with black and white markings running throughout their brass bodies. The candelabra’s lower half was painted brown, and the clock’s topmost carvings looked almost like a cap.

Though none of them were similar objects, Pinky thought they fit together quite well.

Curiously, Pinky ran his finger over the decorative carvings on the legs. “Egad, this must be real mahogany!” he said. His fingertips were covered in a thick layer of dust when he pulled away, and he shook it off, sneezing at the small cloud that formed. “Whew, really dusty though.”

“Gesundheit!” a Scouse-accented voice said.

“Narf! Thanks a bunch!” Pinky wiped the remaining dust against the inside lining of his apron. It was going in the wash later, so it didn’t bother him too much.

Only as he climbed another flight of stairs did he realize he hadn’t seen any living being yet. Maybe the castle was just full of polite ghosts.

The carpet beneath his feet was ragged with little holes revealing cold stone underneath, the ceiling arching far above him. The pillars had rough seals over their creeping, winding cracks. There were no gargoyles, no furniture, no rooms at all.

Nothing but dust, cracks, and cobwebs.

It seemed that not even the ghosts used this area much.

“Papa?” Pinky shouted. His echoes answered back, yet there was no sign of Papa.

Wind battered the stone walls, and Pinky’s heart leapt from his chest. He wrapped his cloak around himself, willing his heart to stay where it belonged. For goodness sake, he’d grown up in Paris. If streets full of reeking garbage didn’t scare him, then this shouldn’t either.

Pinky reached a dead end, the path blocked by a barren mass of stone. With a sigh, he turned around. There wasn’t anything here. Maybe he should try the second floor again? There were a lot of rooms he hadn’t checked.

A light flickered around the corner, a bright circle of hope illuminating the unfeeling stone. Pinky hadn’t gone in that direction yet. He hadn’t planned to, but the light skipped and waved, beckoning him closer. And if there was light, that meant somebody was in the castle after all!

“Narf! Excuse me!” Pinky cried, rushing over to the ray of light. “I don’t mean to interrupt your work, but if you could please tell me-“

The light vanished. Pinky pressed his hand to the wall. It was dark and scary in here. That light had been the first sign of life he’d seen in this castle.

A shrill creak startled a ‘troz’ out of him. But it meant someone was moving around, so he followed it until he came to a doorway in the middle of the corridor.

The door was open, so Pinky peered inside.

A winding, narrow staircase led upwards. There was no carpet, only coarse and rough stone. Then the light returned, a shining beacon in the dark.

“There you are,” Pinky whispered, hauling himself onto the first step. These stairs weren’t as smooth as the rest of the castle’s, but years of routine chores had given him enough upper body strength to manage just fine.

Cold seeped into his fur. His teeth chattered, but he pushed forward. Papa needed him.

A candelabra rested on a nearby platform, its three candles burning brightly. It had the same brown base and markings as the candelabra he’d seen downstairs. Funny. He never knew candelabras came in matching sets. But once again, he was alone.

Not even a ghost in sight.

“I could’ve sworn I heard someone…” Pinky sighed. The room in front of him only contained a dimly lit torch and a row of heavy, barred doors. Fire provided the only colors, and it wasn’t enough to chase the cold, damp shadows away. Neither was the thin, colorless light that peeked from the cracks of the foundation above. “Is anyone here?”  

A hacking cough came from behind the door nearest to the torch.

“Pinky?” a weak voice murmured.

Pinky’s ears perked as he rushed over to the door. There was a barred window close to the ground, Papa’s face peeking out from between the thick steel pieces. His fur was dirty and wet, eyes wide open with fright. He stared straight through Pinky, gripping the hood of Pinky’s cloak with desperate, clammy hands.

Papa was in a cell.

Pinky bit his lip. How? Papa wasn’t a criminal. Sure, his machines blew up a lot, but that was hardly cause for jail!  

“Papa! Are you okay? Did you see any ghosts?” Pinky gently took Papa’s hands in his own, quickly rubbing the pale pink skin to bring some warmth back. “Poit. I guess they weren’t as polite as I thought…”

Papa stammered as Pinky drew him close. The bars were wide enough that Papa could slip through them easily, but as much as Pinky tugged on his arm, Papa refused to budge, heels digging into the cracks underfoot. “He’s…he’s no g-g-ghost, Pinky. Y-you have to go. Save yourself.”

“He? You mean whoever put you in here?” Pinky repeated. Papa’s bushy mustache quivered, the tiny hairs unkempt and matted. He couldn’t speak, his hands freezing in Pinky’s own. They had to get out of here. The sooner Papa warmed up in front of the cottage’s fireplace, the better.

“Food pellets. There are no food pellets here…” Papa murmured. “Your mother made the best food pellets in the world.”

Pinky’s heart clenched at the reminder. “I know. She made the best. We should go now. Please, Papa?”

Later, when they got back to the cottage, he was going to ask exactly why Papa wasn’t at the fair. Why Pharfignewton was unhitched from the wagon and terrified out of her mind. How he’d gotten locked up in the first place.

Papa’s shivers were fiercer than before.

“It’s safe and warm at home. Let’s go…” Pinky whimpered, but Papa’s arms remained glued to the cold, unfeeling bars.

Papa’s mouth opened…

“Run, Pinky!”

A thundering roar shook the entire prison. The floor, walls, and ceiling trembled with a frightened rattle. Pinky clamped his hands against his ears, and Papa tried to do the same, though he was shaking too violently to do it right.

The only light came from above now.

A massive clawed hand clamped painfully around Pinky’s shoulder and yanked him around, the prison briefly becoming nothing more than a dark blur with a swirl of purple.

“WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE?”

Pinky blinked the stars out of his vision, pressing his back against Papa, wordlessly urging him to dart to the back corner of the cell for his safety. But Papa tightly gripped Pinky’s shoulders, and Pinky winced as Papa’s fingers dug into a sore spot.

An enormous shadow loomed above them, its shape melting into the darkness. The only features Pinky could see were a pair of sharp, white fangs and the trailing end of a purple cape.

Pinky’s ears flattened, his heart pounding out of his chest. “Who are you?” he called out, trying to keep his voice steady. He had to be brave for Papa.

“The master of this castle.”

Every word was accompanied by a low, animalistic snarl. Pinky caught the gleam of long, twisted horns atop the shadow’s head.

“Please, let Papa out,” Pinky begged. Another growl cut him off, and Pinky’s throat tightened in panic, but he continued to plead his case. His words were useless. He was use-no, not now. He couldn’t afford self-doubt. “It’s cold here. Can’t you see he’s sick?”

“THEN HE SHOULDN’T HAVE TRESPASSED ON MY PROPERTY!”

More cruel white fangs were exposed.

“But he could die!” Pinky pleaded. “Please, I’ll do anything!”

“There’s nothing you can do. He’s my prisoner.”

The shadow moved again, always skirting the edge of the light.  

“There must be something…” Pinky murmured. But he had no money or valuables to offer, and trading Pharfignewton when she was a valued member of the family was out of the question. He looked down at his hands…and he had his answer. “Wait!”

Pinky reached for the shadow’s cape, but a bloodshot glare made him stop and think better of it.  

Pinky closed his eyes. And he sealed his fate.

“Take me instead.”

The shadow turned away with a scoff.

“YOU!”

Pinky tried not to flinch. He didn’t have much value. He could keep house, but that was hardly a unique skill in the village. But he had no other material besides his clothes and fur.  

“You would…take his place?” The harsh tone and growl vanished. The shadow’s deep, guttural voice sounded more confused than furious, as if he hadn’t expected such a trade.

And why should he?

Even so, Pinky had to push forward. There was no turning back now. “If I did,” Pinky said, just wanting to make sure before he agreed to anything. “Would you let him go?”

“Pinky, you don’t know what you’re doing!” Papa hissed.

I’m saving you. That’s what I’m doing.

Complete silence. Pinky bit his lip. Finally, the shadow spoke. “Yes,” the shadow drawled the word softly. “But…you must promise to remain here for the rest of your life.”  

Pinky gripped the folds of his dress.

Rest of my life?

Would he ever see Papa again? Pharfignewton? The little cottage in the countryside?

Trade everything to be trapped with this shadow?

A shadow had to belong to somebody…

“I’d like to know who I’m speaking with,” Pinky said. “Would you come into the light, please?”

For a moment, there was nothing but an anxious growl. Then a pink, hairless foot slid into the colorless light.

A human?

Couldn’t be. The feet were tipped with sharp claws, and the heels lifted off the ground. Nor did they look like they belonged to any sort of rodent Pinky had ever met.

A pair of ragged black trousers. A long, crooked tail with many sharp bends. Grayish-brown fur over a large chest and pudgy stomach halfway covered by the purple cape. Arms that were far too thick, long, and coarse for even the largest rat.

The shadow slowly raised his head, curved black horns adding to his already intimidating height. Large, rounded ears. A broad, wide face with sagging cheeks and thick, furrowed brows.

But what struck Pinky the most was the creature’s unreadable expression. Though he was obviously angry, it was impossible to tell if those narrowed pink eyes were glaring at him with disgust or hatred. Despite the light, the eyes were partially hidden by dark patches of fur. He was silent, but a pair of fangs were still exposed.

Placing the species was impossible. He seemed to be many animals at once.

“Narf,” Pinky whispered.

The monster’s brows lifted in surprise, and if Papa weren’t locked away right now, it might’ve been comical.

Pinky turned away, unable to brave through the staredown, but he felt the monster’s gaze boring into his back.

“I won’t let you do this!” Papa cried out.

But he had to. For Papa’s freedom.

Pinky lifted his head. He stood up, gently sliding Papa’s hand off his shoulder. He let the touch linger for as long as possible and gave his Papa one last smile before turning around.

The monster was hunched over, one clawed hand resting on the ground. It wasn’t a bow of courtesy, but he seemed to have trouble with his balance. He growled in warning, as if challenging Pinky to say something about his position.

Pinky approached slowly, each step echoing in his ear. The monster didn’t move. When their faces were just inches apart, Pinky closed his eyes.

“I promise,” Pinky said. He stuck out his hand to shake on it, because that’s what people did when they wanted to set their deals in stone.

“DONE!”

The monster snarled and shoved past Pinky. Unable to keep standing much longer, Pinky dropped to his knees and wept, unable to hold back his tears anymore.

He wouldn’t see the light of day again. Trapped forever with a monster in this lonely, dark place.

There was a squeak and the sound of frantic scampering behind him, and Pinky opened his eyes to see Papa’s desperate face, pleading with him to reconsider. “Pinky, listen to me! I’m old, but you have so much to-“ Papa’s words cut off as the monster dragged him off Pinky, lumbering towards the stairs on all fours with a hand clenched around Papa’s cloak.

“Wait!” Pinky shouted.

But the monster didn’t care. He and Papa disappeared down the stairs, their pleas for mercy falling on deaf ears.

He never got to say goodbye.

o-o-o-o-o

Papa was thrown into a carriage that moved on spindly, wooden legs and carried across the stone bridge. The carriage disappeared into the forest, Papa’s cries fading away.

Pinky clung to the barred window that was several feet off the ground and several stories high. It didn’t allow him a wide view, and he wasn’t sure where Pharfignewton was. Still looking for grass to eat, he hoped.

He slid to the floor of the cell, huddling underneath the window in a tight ball. His tail was always a source of comfort for him, and he twisted and wrung it in his hands. The sun started to go down, and he imagined how beautiful it would’ve looked from the sweeping grassy hills just outside the cottage.

Beautiful rolling clouds. His cozy bed in the upstairs loft. The sound of Papa tinkering on a machine as a vegetable broth brewed over the stove.

The door slammed against the wall, and the crash startled Pinky out of his fantasies.

It was the monster.

Something inside Pinky snapped. Now he was angry, and angry was a feeling he didn’t like, but this…this cruel excuse of a…whatever he was stole his freedom and his Papa.

“You didn’t let me say goodbye!” Pinky screamed. “Now I’ll never see him…I-I’ll never see him again.”  

He expected the monster to roar in defiance or deny the truth, but he did neither. He only leaned heavily against the doorframe in complete silence. His ears dropped, and something akin to remorse flashed across his face.

But that new emotion quickly disappeared. “Come,” the monster said, dropping to all fours. “I’ll show you to your room.”

New room? It was such a sudden offer that Pinky forgot his anger completely. So he wouldn’t have to live among old chains and damp stone?

“I thought-“

The monster arched an eyebrow, a dangerous edge creeping into his voice. “Unless you’d prefer these accommodations?”

Pinky shook his head.

“Then follow.”

His captor crossed the room without pausing, and Pinky realized he’d never asked for a name. If he was going to live here for the rest of his life, he wanted to at least have a name.

“Hold on,” Pinky said. “I never got your name.”

The monster’s hand hit the floor with a resounding thud. “Call me the Beast,” he growled. Pinky stepped back in surprise, but the mon—the Beast didn’t turn around. “And don’t ever ask again.”

There was a tinge of bitterness in his tone, as if he hated his requested name. But that didn’t make sense. Why call himself a name he hated?

“Poit. Well, my name’s Pinky so-“

The Beast was halfway down the stairs already. Pinky folded his arms. Well, that was very rude. His captor didn’t have manners at all!

Pinky hurried after him. The Beast didn’t turn around. He was a very poor conversationalist.

Another candelabra stood just outside the door to the spooky hallway. It hadn’t been there earlier. “You really shouldn’t put your nice decorations on floors. What if someone stepped on them?” Pinky said.

“So we’ve got an interior designer for a long-term guest?” the candelabra asked. “Now we can finally replace the doom and gloom with something different! Maybe an indoor jungle with monkeys!”

The candelabra could talk! That was pretty cool!

His waxy face was eye level with Pinky. His grin was a little lopsided, his candleholders folding against his gold and brown body with an easy, light confidence.

“Yakko, this castle can’t possibly tolerate more monkeys, nor does it require the aesthetic of a jungle to be one,” the Beast huffed. He still sounded irritated, but less so. “And while we’re on that topic, Wakko and Dot need a reminder to not engage with outsiders. Where are they?”

“A real spoilsport, isn’t he?” Yakko whispered to Pinky.

Pinky giggled, and Yakko’s grin became wider. Alright, so not everybody in this big scary castle was a mean ol’ grump. It was good to know.  

“Oh, they’re just telling Scratchy the news,” Yakko shrugged. “He’s a real couch potato these days. Anyway, maybe you oughta tie a string around your finger, cause you’re clearly forgetting something.”

He waved a flame like one would wave a finger to scold.

“But I patched the leaking roof,” the Beast said. “My work was thorough.”  

Yakko coughed and pointed a flame at Pinky.

The Beast only stared. Then his pink eyes widened as whatever he’d forgotten finally dawned on him.

“Mouse.”

“Where?” Pinky whirled around.

Oh, right. He was a mouse. Silly him.

The Beast growled, like he didn’t know what to think of Pinky. Well, neither did Pinky know what to think of him. So there.

“You owe Yakko for your new room. Let’s go. We’re wasting time.”

With that, the Beast stalked off.

“So…thanks for the room, I think. Poit. Is he always like this?” Pinky asked. He kicked at a speck of dust.

Yakko gave Pinky an encouraging nudge with his candlestick holders. “The Master of the Castle he may be, the Master of First Impressions he is not. If his rawwwwr-fear-me shtick gets to be too much, say the word and I’ll set his cape on fire for ya.”

“Is that a good idea?” Pinky asked. Despite his worries, he couldn’t help but laugh at Yakko’s attempt at roaring.

Yakko nodded, or as much as one could nod when one’s head was a wax candle. “It’s amazing what you can get away with in this place.”

o-o-o-o-o

Pinky was led down to the second floor, into a corridor with the most frightening gargoyles he’d ever seen. But he had to be a good guest, right? Good guests knew the names of every gargoyle, as Yakko was trying to teach him.

He tried so hard to pay attention, but he wouldn’t be able to remember which one was Hugo or Goliath or Laverne or Brooklyn. Yakko didn’t seem like the type to hold it against him though. He talked a lot and knew a lot of things Pinky didn’t know, explaining things like he was used to explaining things.

He seemed awfully young though.

Ahead of them, the Beast lumbered with a heavy gait. His strides were long and lacked the lightness of a rodent’s steps. Though he’d locked Papa up, he seemed more awkward than scary now.

Papa.

Was he home now? Would he be alright? There were chickens to feed and cows to milk. He hoped Papa wouldn’t put his noisy milking machine on Moo-Moo. She didn’t like that.

A tear ran down his cheek, then another. Pinky clutched his tail, staring down at the floor to avoid all the glaring stone eyes on him.

Yakko’s hopping sped up, the brass sounds muffled by the carpet.

There was the smell of slightly singed fur, followed by an irritated grunt. Pinky realized the Beast was watching him from the corner of his eye. A tiny cloud of smoke trailed from his right elbow.

“You can…make yourself at home,” the Beast said, brushing off the tiny fire. “As your new residence, you have free reign of the castle and the surrounding property. You may go anywhere but the West Wing.”

The West Wing?

“What’s in the-“

“IT’S FORBIDDEN!” the Beast bellowed, his massive hand slamming into the carpet and leaving long clawmarks behind. Pinky flinched.

The Beast kept walking. Yakko filled in the silence with chatter.

To Pinky’s relief, his room wasn’t far.

The Beast opened the enormous door, which led to a bedroom that was twice as large as the cottage.

The cottage was home. Not here.  Yakko meant well, but this would never truly be Pinky’s room.

“My servants will attend to your needs,” the Beast said. There was nothing harsh about his words this time, but servants? Pinky didn’t know if he could get used to that. Nor had he seen any servants around. Was Yakko a servant? He never asked for his job title.

“Don’t worry! The toilet’s not alive. None of them are,” Yakko added.

It was probably meant to be helpful, so Pinky did his best to smile at him, but he could only manage a weak nod.  

Then Pinky noticed the giant bed, with thick comforters and a dozen pillows and velvet curtains around the edges. Though fancy and straight out of a fairy tale, it wasn’t his tiny bed tucked in a cozy corner. Meekly, he stepped inside.

“Psst! Invite him to dinner, Romeo!” Yakko hissed. 

“I order you to…join me for dinner,” the Beast demanded. “THAT’S NOT A REQUEST!”

The door slammed, and Pinky was once again left in darkness.

This wasn’t home. It was dark and cold. Homes were cozy and happy and loving. No walls, no prisons, no locks and keys to be thrown away.  

Home was elsewhere. His heart was elsewhere.

Pinky curled up on an unfamiliar pillow. His heart was broken, his chest ached, and there was a deep longing within him. For Mama’s laughter. For Papa’s joy. For the hills and the meadows and the open blue skies.    

His tears flowed. They were many and endless. He felt they would never stop. He’d cry for the rest of his life, for as long as this exile from the world beyond took.

Outside his window, the first snowflakes began to fall. They marked the start of a very long, very cold winter.

AN: Let it be known that this AU is the only place, besides maybe anything involving Brain Meets Brawn, where Brain’s size can be described as intimidating. I want him to be, you know, like an actual monster and not just a big mouse with horns. Don’t get me wrong, tiny beast!Brain is cute, but that would just be more comical than dramatic if I tried to play it as such a serious moment.

For my personal Beast!Brain, I combined elements from @deez-art and @sleepy-hooves art. Deez for the overall look, and the way he glares at Pinky during the “come into the light” part comes from sleepy-hooves.

In this AU, rather than appearance, Brain fears the loss of control the most. He knows his mind is dwindling away unless he can break the curse. Unlike Disney’s Beast, he’s a bit more proactive with trying to break the curse and tries to keep busy instead of brooding in the West Wing all the time, though some tasks can be very difficult for him.

Yakko is the candelabra, Wakko is the mantle clock, and Dot is the teacup. You’ll have to excuse them for following Pinky around. They’re curious kiddos.

Yakko calling Scratchy a couch potato is literal. Scratchy was turned into a p-sychiatrist’s couch.

No matter what happens, Brain always has a soft spot for the Warners. The Warners aren’t scared of him and will snap back.

Poor Pinky gets put through the wringer. But y’all know the story. Eventually they fall in love and get their happily ever after.

[zhong-taro]

shotaro as a friendly ghost

 this is 2.8k words of shotaro and taeyong interacting and yes it’s all self-indulgent

tw: small mention of suicide, but it’s marked very clearly!

Ok so this is definitely part of a longer, more detailed AU that I’ll probably go into more later (like way later)

bUT let’s start here - Shotaro is a friendly ghost

Oh my g o d he’s such a sweetie you have no idea

When he dies, it’s something really dumb

He and his parents had moved to Korea after his father had sold his company and suddenly come into a significant amount of money 

It’s enough that they buy a large plot of land in Korea

Shotaro is about five years old when they buy the land and start construction on the house

It’s positioned at the top of a large hill that looked down over a small Korean town, and in the hot summers the house provided shade for a park, and when it rained the house blocked from too much flooding

Well, once it was finally built it did

It took five years for this absolute MANSION of a house to be built. Shotaro and his family had lived in a small rental home in the town, acquainting themselves with everyone and becoming established members of the community

When the place was finally finished, Shotaro was ten and the Osaki’s would have large gatherings of people at their home most weekends, with large parties every holidays

Originally, the family had built such a large home because they planned on taking in many foster children and helping to raise orphaned children

They never get to

The 1950’s were an absolute golden era for the Osakis, they’re loved by everyone around them and their perfect little boy Shotaro shines in Korea like he never had in Japan

Until in 1959, when they suffer great tragedy and the family is never the same again

Personally, Shotaro thinks he couldn’t have had a dumber death

He was nineteen and it was the night before the town dance contest. He was more than nervous - his parents had already been taking him out of town for dance lessons because he was too scared that the entire town would think he was bad at dancing, but now he was actually facing them

All of these people had known him since he was a toddler, he couldn’t handle the idea of all of them thinking he was bad at something he had found he loved

So he couldn’t sleep

And he had wandered downstairs, grabbing a cup of water and taking it back to his bedroom

However, he had tripped on the top step while going back to his bedroom and spilled water all over the hardwood floor

When he took the last step to try and clean up the spilled water, he slipped and fell down the stairs

Unfortunately, the Osaki parents woke up to a gruesome scene of their son dead at the entryway to their home

Shotaro thought he woke up, but when he stood up and his body didn’t stand with him, he knew something was wrong

And when his mother walked down the stairs (through him, mind you) and screamed, sobbing into his body, he realized that things might’ve been worse than he realized

It didn’t take long to figure out that he had died

(( tw // suicide for the next two bullet points ))

His parents couldn’t handle the pain

After his funeral, it took less than a month for both of his parents to commit suicide

Shotaro had been hoping that they would also become ghosts, but no such luck

So he was left alone, in a huge house that hadn’t seemed nearly as lonely only a month before

Of course he tried to leave, but he could never get past the gates that marked his parent’s property at the bottom of the hill

And so he sat in his house

For decades

Throughout the years, the house decayed and became decrepit. The chandelier fell one year, leaving glass scattered across the front entryway

Books became dusty, all but the ones in the library because Shotaro spent most of his time in that room and watched the days go by through the stories he would read

And when he opened up the windows on a nice spring day and leaned out, looking over the small town that he had loved so much, he heard the rumors

Tales of the haunted house at the top of the hill, told by a new generation of children who had never seen the Osaki home in its original glory

And Shotaro felt the repeating disappointment when a child would look into the windows, seem to spot him, and yelp before running away

So Shotaro becomes a recluse - not because he wanted to, but because he has to

After about 15 years, people start trying to sell the house

He doesn’t let that happen. Shotaro had become quite the… depressed person since his parents death. He had never really been given the opportunity to react to things as they happen. He’s always to put down the book and take a few deep breaths before continuing, or just walk away from the window when the rumors become too upsetting

But when that first person - a potbellied, middle aged man - comes to see the house in the interest of buying it, Shotaro sees red

And so he does what he thinks ghosts are supposed to do

He scares the man off

Years later he looks back and sees how bad of a ghost he was, but that just means that the guy must’ve been real cowardly

Because all he has to do is open a few windows, move around a few glasses, make some scary noises, and the guy is turning on his tail and sprinting out the door

More people come back - a family of three very wealthy foreigners who don’t speak the language, one rich old woman who decides the house would be too much upkeep six sons with two tired parents who decided there was too much room for trouble, and probably dozens more

The ones that don’t decide to move out on their own, Shotaro scares off

He gradually gets better at it - it’s hard to learn how to keep himself transparent at first

He thinks that he can become completely invisible, slightly translucent, or almost-solid but he’s never spoken to someone to figure it out

But as he watches the house crumble more and more around him, it gets more and more difficult to scare away the shoppers

He just wishes somebody other than pretentious jerks would come looking. He likes the original gothic architecture his parents designed, and he knows the house would be beautifully unique if somebody came along to restore it. But he’s not sure if he likes the idea of someone else coming into his house

Although he doesn’t have much of a choice after a while

The man comes along with the same real estate agent who’s been trying to sell Shotaro’s house for at least five years now

He’s pretty sure the woman knows he’s haunting the house, because she shoots glares into the empty air where he makes strange noises or moves furniture, but that sure doesn’t stop him from scaring all her clients away

When she steps in, she holds the open for a red haired man with a sharp jaw

He whistles as he looks around the large entryway, the noise echoing. He looks down at the large chandelier, still shattered on the marble floor, and raises one eyebrow at the agent

“What happened there?”

She shrugged. “I’m not sure. It’s been there ever since I started trying to sell this place.”

“Have you tried to have it cleaned?”

“Of course,” she looks a little insulted. “But the… ghost,” she glares into the empty air, across the room from where Shotaro is currently floating, “Seems to scare everyone off before they can get much done.”

The man smirks, turning away from her and looking around the entire room. He stands in silence for a few moments, scanning everything (Shotaro tries to ignore how nervous he feels when the man’s eyes briefly pause at his place at the old dining room table, but he tries a lot harder to not think about the point of his teeth)

“I’ll take it.”

The man shows up again the next day, and Shotaro is not happy about it

When he arrives, Shotaro is standing on the stairs and glaring at the front door

After unlocking the doors and stepping in, the red-haired man placed his hands firmly on his hips and smiled while looking around the room

“My name is Lee Taeyong.” the man announced loudly. The smile didn’t slip off of his face as the silence of the house continued. “I was born in 1995,” (how has that much time passed since he died?) “I’m a vampire, and I promise I will treat your home with respect.” 

Well. That’s interesting

But Shotaro chooses to gloss over the vampire thing and scoffs, storming up the stairs

The man - supposed vampire - doesn’t go into any rooms or even go upstairs on the first night. He just sleeps (pretends to sleep? Do vampires sleep? Are vampires even real? Shotaro stows all these thoughts away to deal with later) on the couch after ordering food in.

When he wakes up in the morning, Taeyong still has that obnoxious smile on as he looks around at nothing. Shotaro is there, watching and making sure the man doesn’t mess anything up

So when Taeyong fiddles at the dining room table, which only has three working legs and is almost broken in half, and asks the room “Would you be ok with me getting rid of this table?” Shotaro throws a glass at his head

He misses, intentionally obviously, and the old glass cup shatters against the peeling wallpaper of his dining room. Taeyong snorts and holds his hands up in surrender “Alright, no table. Hey, can you throw another glass if you’re a male ghost, please?”

Shotaro throws another glass, and once again ignores the point of the new man’s teeth

Later in the morning, early afternoon, Taeyong starts looking around the house.

“Are you  gonna try and kill me again if I go upstairs?” He asks, and Shotaro does nothing but cross his arms from where he’s sitting on the dusty banister

“I’ll take that as a no.”

And so they head upstairs. Taeyong stops in front of every doorway, and if Shotaro doesn’t want him going in the room he makes the door shake and bangs on the wall a few times

Taeyong doesn’t understand this message at first, and when he almost opens the door to Shotaro’s parent’s room he loses it

The ghost bangs on the door so hard the whole thing shakes, making what little art that was still hanging shudder. He yells for effect, coming out more of an angry groan (because he still can’t quite talk to humans when he’s invisible), and shoves Taeyong away from the door

The older (well, physically older) man looks shocked and stands still for a moment staring at the door, before shaking his hand and smiling a little. “Alright, I get the message Mr. Ghost.”

Shotaro only stops him again at his own bedroom door and his library, everywhere else he lets Taeyong explore. The vampire goes back to one of the guest rooms with an en suite and asks if he can keep this room as his own

Shotaro reluctantly lets him take the room, and tries to tell himself that this man is not going to be the one who ends up staying in his house

Again, the night Taeyong orders food in and eats on his own

Although before ordering the food, he grabs a box that had showed up on the front doorstep when Shotaro wasn’t looking

He floats around Taeyong as the other man carried the box to the only table not broken (a coffee table) and opens it with his unnaturally sharp nails. Shotaro’s nose crinkles at the bags of warm blood, and he reaches in to shift them around

“Animal blood,” Taeyong says quickly. “I promise I’m not a murderer, ghost friend.”

Shotaro has to look away as Taeyong drinks it, and gags for the first time since he’s died when he uses the animal blood as a topping for his burger and fries

The next morning, Shotaro comes out of his library after a night of reading and smells breakfast. When he goes downstairs, he’s greeted with Taeyong, dancing a little to a song playing out of a small metal box that Shotaro doesn’t understand and making breakfast

Shotaro peeks over Taeyong’s shoulder to see the bacon, eggs, and pancakes he’s making

He lets himself float up a little and pushes open the window open right above the counter

“Oh!” Taeyong looks up with wide eyes, looking around. “Hello, Mr. Ghost!” He smiles and his eyes pause where Shotaro floats before continuing to look around. “I’m not sure if you can eat, but if you can you’re welcome to some of the food.”

Shotaro can’t eat, but he appreciates the gesture

Through the next few days, they fall into a rhythm

Taeyong doesn’t seem to sleep, but meditates. He never goes fully unconscious but he does seem to float a little bit. Every other day the box of blood arrives and Taeyong drinks some with every meal, plus three full glasses throughout the rest of the day, and Shotaro learns to live with it

Shotaro won’t let Taeyong into only two rooms, but lets the vampire look around the rest of his home

They fight over a few things, like fixing different things up, but not much. Eventually Shotaro lets him buy new furniture and doesn’t object when the man adds a few new paintings to the walls

Shotaro finds himself thinking that maybe this one person (undead vampire?)  might not be so bad to live with - for now, at least

Shotaro walks into his library one day, about a month into living together, and finds Taeyong already there. He tries not to get angry, and feels a wave of emotions when he sees that Taeyong is staring up at the portrait of the Osaki family hanging between two large windows. He distantly notices that the man is sitting on the only section of couch without direct sunlight landing on it

He lets the door creak and close noisily as he steps inside, tries to will the wind from the open windows to grow a little colder as he floats next to where Taeyong is sitting

“Which one are you?”

Shotaro wishes he could respond, and looks around desperately for a way to show him

He grabs a dead flower from a large vase sitting on the end table and uses it to point to his face, the painted-him smiling slightly between his two parents and looking as awkward as he always felt in life

Taeyong sighs a little. “You must be so young…” He stares at where he must estimate Shotaro’s head is, judging by the floating flower, and smiles sadly. “I can’t believe the ghost haunting my house is a teenager.”

The painting rumbles a little as the wall shakes.

“Fine, sorry,” Taeyong chuckles a little. “Your house.”

Shotaro can see a shift in Taeyong’s behavior after that

The man seems to actively seek him out and starts talking to him more and more

He starts asking more questions - mostly things Shotaro can’t figure out how to answer - and becomes more joke-y with him

“Can I see you?”

Shotaro freezes from his perched position on a chair across from Taeyong.

“I don’t know if you even know how to show me what you look like, but I’ve been living here for 3 months, don’t you think it’d be more comfortable if I actually knew where you were?” Taeyong is looking at where Shotaro has his book propped up as he marks his page and puts it down

With very little effort, he wills himself into view. Not fully - he still isn’t sure he can even do that - but enough that his features are visible

Taeyong stares for a few moments before speaking

“You’re a baby.”

Shotaro gapes for a moment before laughing, a soft sound that sounds muted in his non corporeal form.

“You can’t be anything but a teenager, how old are you?” Taeyong’s surprised look has slipped off his face and now he looks more curious and excited.

“Well, physically 19,” Shotaro speaks slowly, trying to get used to the way his voice sounds - he hasn’t spoken much since his death. “But I died in 1959”

Aaaand Taeyong gapes again

“Holy crap, that was 50 years ago!”

Shotaro tilts his head to the side a little, thinking. “Really? Hmm, I didn’t realize it was so long ago.”

Taeyong smiles again, leaning forward as he pushes away his breakfast plate. “What’s your name, ghost-teenager?”

“Shotaro, Osaki Shotaro.”

“Nice to meet you Shotaro,” Taeyong grins at him, hair falling into his face. “I’m Taeyong.”

[doomedandstoned]

Italian Doomers BRETUS Tell Ghostly Tales on New LP, ‘Magharia’

~Doomed & Stoned Debuts~

By Billy Goate

Artwork by DamianaMerante

Hailing from the City of the Two Seas, Italian doomers BRETUS return with a new album of ghost stories. Longtimers know that Bretus and Doomed & Stoned practically grew up together. Though the band has been active since the turn of the century, our first exposure came with their debut full-length 'In Onirica' (2012) and subsequently we formed a friendship with the Catanzaro doomers that continues to this very day. It's hard to believe they're already over two decades old (okay, 20 years young, if you like). And what do they have to show for it? A handful of LPs, an EP, and a split with fellow Italianos Black Capricorn.

If you're as much a fan of vintage horror movies, H.P. Lovecraft lore, mysticism, and the occult as Zagarus (vox), Ghenes (guitar), Janos (bass), and Striges (drums), there's a whole world of story and sound awaiting your deep dive into the Bretus catalog. Adding to their already excellent discography, a fifth album now reveals itself: 'Magharia' (2021).

I won't spoil my interview with the band (see below) if I tell you that the album concerns, shall we say, several tales of the supernatural variety. An ominous gong is struck to the backdrop of monastic chant as Magharia opens in epic fashion "Celebration of Gloom," a song characterized by a chugging proto-trash tempo, trve metal stylings, and Gothic vocals appropriate to it's subject. It's a rather grim account of a certain sacrilegious priest and his daliences with young women of the church. As a preacher's kid, I've seen this kind of thing play out a hundred times and can assure you these sweeping romances between clergy and laity never end well. In this case, it winds up with a ghoulish rite and a victim's vengeance.

"In the sky lightning strikes...wicked laments rise from the ground." Welcome to "Cursed Island." True to the spirit of the lyrics, this track really let's it all hang out, with quasi operatic vocals that occasionally erupt in maniacal laughter (reminding me vintage Reagers-era Saint Vitus, with its lusty swagger). And why not? This is after all about the mystery that surrounds one of the most haunted islands on earth.

Thus far, the record's been sporting a pretty up-beat pulse, so surely you're ready for some good old fashion doom? "Moonchild's Scream" concerns a albino girl accused of being possessed by the devil for her appearance. One day, she disappears in the dungeons of a castle and legend has it that her cries can still be heard every five years during the Summer Solstice. Doesn't get more doom than that, folks!

After a brief interlude ("Necropass"), we arrive at my favorite track of Magharia. "Nuraghe" concerns the spirit of a woman judged and condemned for a crime she was innocent of still roams among the ancient stones. Boy, the ancients sure did have a hang-up with free-spirited, independent women, didn't they? The song itself is possessed by the spirit of Pentagram in its biting guitar work and rhythmic attack. Love the riffage on this one! Some of it could have been played out just a little more for my taste, like the all-too-brief Soundgardenesque motif at the two-minute mark. It returns a minute later, again in brief. C'mon Ghenes, let your inner Kim Thayil loose! Maybe we can convince them to improv at this point with a bitchin' guitar solo at their next festival appearance. Then again, perhaps this fits artistically with the song, which speaks of obscure "grim dancing bats" and a ghost that haunts through swift shadows passing over glimmers of light. Once again, Zagrus expressive song style comes through to distinguish this as a gem of the genre. I shall be revisiting it on my personal playlist often.

"Headless Ghost" strikes graceful Goatsnake groove as the yarn is spun about the restless and tormented soul of an ancient Roman warrior who has risen from his place of rest. All he wants is the skull that was looted from his place of burial. Give it back to him! "No one will be spared tonight," the lyrics warn, as the song shifts down to a dire doom dirge as the night unveils a strange moon and the wanderings of a cursed soul, seeking his head and not more. "He is living again in this hell."

"The Bridge of Damnation" is one of the creepiest of the record, said to be about "a bridge, a young boy, and his three torturers." The mood is quite dark, with esoteric atmosphere, reverberating vocalizations, guitar and bass trading off notes. Oh, and did I mention this tale from the crypt involves death and resurrection, as well? The riffmaking and drumming are absolutely on point, as is the singing -- which by now in the record I'm not only am accustomed to, but have grown to admire. Another keeper!

"Sinful Nun" winds and grinds as Zagarus croons about the inner torment of a Sister who has never gotten over her beloved, who died under such unspeakably tragic circumstances that she decided to consecrate herself to God in celibacy. However, her vows are in vain as she still pines for her long lost lover. The verses are sung to the accompaniment of a galloping tempo, which seems to represent the fevered anguish of a soul forever stricken by grief and the haunted memories of lost love. This is juxtaposed in the chorus by a cursed riff that seems to speak as the Hand of Fate itself. "Farewell to this life," are the Sinful Nun's final words.

At last, we reach the album's namesake and though "Magharia" is entirely instrumental, it would be a mistake to assume you know what it's going to do. Around the four-minute mark, I had to check and make sure I was listening to the same album, as dark synth busted out a metronomic rhythm, leading to a declamatory section of keyboards to accompany the math-like guitar play and an improvisation of almost creepy seventies-sounding prog, which after its playful fit dissipates suddenly in a bluesy collapse.

Bretus have cooked up a remarkable horror soundtrack that, though it speaks of ancient lore, is very much a fitting backdrop to the unreality of our own times. Fitting somewhere on the stylistic spectrum between Candlemass and Paul Chain, Reverend Bizarre and Cardinals Folly, Margharia may be the band's finest effort to date. Certainly, it rewards repeated listens, and will haunt you for many years to come. Look for the record to drop this weekend (pre-order here), with multiple physical formats releasing via The Swamp Records (compact disc), Burning Coffin Records (cassette), and Overdrive Records (vinyl). Until then, you can stream it all, right now, right here!

Give ear...

Magharia by BRETUS

An Interview with Bretus

What is the concept behind the new album and what themes do you explore?

Musically the new record is most "in your face" than the previous album. Also our approach to the recording was different. We rehearsed and arranged together more than before. The result is an album more raw to us. It is a concept album born around different italian old ghost tales. Some of these is supposed to be legend or myth, who knows.

When did you write it? Was it during the pandemic lockdowns?

We had more ideas about new stuff long before the pandemia arrived. We spent this time working on the pre-production of the tracks.

Can you give us a track-by-track explanation of each song on the album?

For sure!

"Celebration of Gloom" is a strange song because there are many influences in it. Including a solo flute in the middle of the track. However is a very loud and gloomy song.

"Cursed Island" probably is the most rock 'n' roll song of the album. If you know what I mean. Rock in the attitude. Also the first video of the album.

"Moonchild's Scream" is 100% pure Doom with a heavy mid-section.

"Necropass" is like Caronte travelling the damned souls across the Stige River.

"Nuraghe" is a heavy oriented track with a very dark feeling.

"Headless Ghost" has a more stoner trend than the others and in the end there is a psycho riffing.

"The Bridge of Damnation" includes our '80s dark influences into our sound, probably the most haunted track of the album. The story is based upon an old weird story that happened in our native city, Catanzaro.

"Sinful Nun" is like an experiment and neither of us can explain really what it is... ah ah aha! For sure the most heavy track of all.

Finally "Magharia." You cannot believe it but the idea comes from a Who's album, Quadrophenia. Either of us wrote a part of the song. The result is a kind of horror soundtrack.

Magharia by BRETUS

How do you feel that your basic style or approach to song composition has changed since you first started writing songs in the early days?

You already know a lot of things about us, we know you from so long ago! Please don't ask how old we are. (laughs) Basically our approach is the same from the beginning. Of course we listen to a lot of new stuff during these years so every album brings different "colors."

Where are you most looking forward to playing live once pandemic restrictions are eased?

Everywhere! We are angry for live gigs or simply to drink beers with friends.

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[atamascolily]

more CotJ meta, because apparently I cannot be stopped

I don't understand how essence transfer works in Children of the Jedi.  It seems... wildly inconsistent depending on what is narratively convenient at the time.

I don’t know why Callista is able to make the jump from her original body to the Eye of Palpatine’s gunnery computers and then from the computers to Cray’s body without (much) issue, while poor Nichos couldn’t. Maybe it's because Callista had received secret Jedi training from her master that Nichos didn’t have access to? Or because it would interfere with Hambly’s plot to give Callista Cray’s body? 

(I think we all know the answer to this, but I’m gonna go through all the arguments anyway.)

Luke does float the idea of Cray creating a droid-body for Callista to inhabit, which Cray and Callista both reject, but for wildly different reasons.

   “You said Djinn Altis showed you—taught you—to transfer your self, your consciousness, your … your reality—to another object. You’ve done it with this ship, Callista. You’re really here, I know you are …”

   “I am,” she said softly. “There’s enough circuitry, enough size, enough power in the central core. But a thing of metal, a thing programmed and digitalized, isn’t human, and can’t be human, Luke. Not the way I’m human now.”

So Callista’s argument is basically that a giant ship is big enough to contain her spirit, but a droid wouldn't be? How did Exar Kun manage this, then? I mean, granted, he was evil, and had low standards for ethics, but still... I don’t get it.

I get her main point here: she believes she's more "human" as a ghost than she would be as a droid, or with her spirit somehow “translated” as a series of zeros and ones, as Cray was somehow able to do with Nichos. And I can see why she wouldn’t want that kind of existence for herself. But I still don’t get how consciousness works in this novel, and why Callista can’t transfer herself--her real self--into a different object, the way she did before, instead of being “translated” by Cray into a digital copy.

This also begs the question of how much Callista's HUMAN spirit is influenced by thirty years in the computer core, which the novel doesn't address, but fics like Deaka's "Blue Screen" on FFN are fortunately there to fill the gap.

Here’s Cray’s take on Luke’s request to “fix” Callista:

   “To turn her into what Nichos is? To cannibalize parts from the computers, wire together enough memory to digitalize her, so you can have the metal illusion around to remind you what isn’t yours—and can’t be yours? I can do that … if that’s what you want.”

   ...“Not the way you and I are human.” Cray came over to them, her blond hair catching fire glints in the greasy light. “Not the way Nichos was human. I should never have done it, Luke,” she went on. “Never have … tried to go up against what had to be. My motto was always ‘If it doesn’t work, get a bigger hammer.’ Or a smaller chip. Nichos …”

   She shook her head. “He doesn’t remember dying, Luke. He doesn’t remember a switchover of any kind. And as much as I love … Nichos … as much as he loves me … I keep coming back to that. It isn’t Nichos. He isn’t human. He tries to be, and he wants to be, but flesh and bone have a logic of their own, Luke, and machinery just doesn’t think the same way.”

   Her mouth twisted, her dark eyes chill and bitter as the vacuum of space. “If you want me to, I’ll make you something that’ll hold a digitalized version of her memories, her consciousness … But it won’t be the consciousness that’s alive on this vessel. And you’ll know it, and I’ll know it. And that digitalized version will know it, too.”

So Cray rejects it because she doesn’t want Luke to make the same mistake she did: of seeing a replica as the original. And she makes a point of calling herself out on her attachment to Nichos, so much so that she warped and twisted her life to try and hold onto to him when she couldn’t. And she’s telling Luke not to do the same thing with his own life--which he will of course ignore.

I'm used to thinking of identical digital files as interchangeable, but that's not the case here when you're downloading human consciousness. There's also this idea that the droid/digital versions isn't "real," which is also worth chewing on, but a whole 'nother philosophical debate in and of itself.

But Cray's other point is also worth considering: the body we inhabit has qualities of its own that are impossible to deny; they shape our experiences of the world. This is why I'm absolutely floored that nobody ever follows up on Callista's experiences in Cray's body--how she's able to just smoothly take over, and the only issue ("software bug"?) is that she can't access the Force. This is... probably not how it works. I wrote a fic about this, but it only scratched the surface of the story possibilities for dysphoria and "body-as-a-character".  

(I solve this problem of essence transfer in other fics by arguing that it only works smoothly--i.e., with minimal dysphoria and a complete transfer of Force powers--if your spirit jumps to a physical clone of your original body. This explains why clone!Palpatine can access the Force, while Callista can't, because Cray's body 'recognizes' Callista's spirit as foreign to itself and is continually fighting her, so much so that all her Force abilities are tied up in holding her in that body--which is also Force-sensitive.)

Also, re: robot bodies and human consciousness, I’m reminded of a passage in Yeats’ “Sailing to Byzantium” here:

   Once out of nature I shall never take    My bodily form from any natural thing,    But such a form as Grecian goldsmiths make    Of hammered gold and gold enamelling    To keep a drowsy Emperor awake...

"Sailing to Byzantium" is all about what it means to be old in a failing body, right from the opening line--"That is no country for old men". And while it's poetry and there are a lot of ways to interpret, one valid take is that it's about shedding your bodily form to become a robot/artificial construct so you can live forever, and I have a lot of Feels about that in relationship to Star Wars. (Paging Anakin Skywalker!) But I digress.

Going back to CotJ.  an additional problem is that any physical components will be carrying the malvirus of the Will:

   “Thank you, Cray. And don’t think I’m not tempted. I love you, Luke, and I want … I want not to have to leave you, even if it means … being what I am now, forever. Or being what Nichos is now, forever. But we don’t have the choice. We don’t have time. And any components, any computers, you take from this ship, Cray, will have the Will in them as well.

I don’t know why she can’t jump to an object unconnected with the Will--like, say, her lightsaber. Isn’t Exar Kun using a big statue of himself as an anchor? I mean, it’s kinda of impractical compared to being inside a computer, but maybe it could be a temporary thing until Luke is able to build her a ship of her own??

(A lightsaber would be a really good choice as an anchor because of the kyber crystal inside, which Callista may or may not have a working relationship with if you hold them to be sentient or partially sentient beings...? There's fic potential there, that's all I'm saying.)

(As a further aside, in my Star Wars/Portal crossover “Testing Limits,” I postulate that the Will is a GLaDOs-like uploading of a human consciousness into digital form. I still believe that holds true for canon, even though there’s not much supporting evidence other than that the Will is set up as foil to Callista and it adds to the incredibly Gothic atmosphere. Either the Will is human consciousness, or it’s modeled after human consciousness for maximum Uncanny Valley effect because Luke is always describing it as having a presence and malevolent intentions, and Callista is always fighting it.)

So Barbara Hambly spends a lot of time establishing that Cray's body is the only viable (hah!) option for Callista, which will be important later on. But let's get back to Nichos for a minute, and his failure with essence transfer. 

It's weird because at the beginning of CotJ, Cray talks about Nichos transferring his SPIRIT to the droid body using the Force and Ssi-ruuk entechment--which sounds eerily identical to what Callista did thirty years earlier--but they know something's wrong right away when Nichos can't use the Force. Cray's all "I can fix that, it's a technical difficulty!" but Luke knows better. Everyone knows, except for Cray.  

I think THAT is the moment where Luke and Cray should have had a Talk, when it was absolutely clear to everyone that whatever Cray was doing hadn't worked--that she'd succeeded in making a digital copy, and the original Nichos was actually dead.

Instead, Cray buries all her considerable energy into "fixing" Nichos mechanically. She believes with enough research, she can shape the droid Nichos into a human being... which doesn't solve the fundamental problem and misses the point entirely.

He heard her voice, its usual brisk sharpness honed to the brittleness he’d heard in it more and more in the past six months...

“It’s really just a matter of finding a way to quadruple the sensitivity of the chips to achieve a pattern, instead of a linear, generator. ... Hayvlin Vesell of the Technomic Research Foundation spoke in an article of going back to the old xylen-based chips, because of the finer divisibility of information possible. When I return to the Institute—”

“That’s what I’m trying to impress on you, Dr. Mingla—Cray.” Tomla El’s voice was a murmuring concert of woodwinds. “This may not be possible no matter how finely you partition the information. The answer may be that there is no answer. Nichos may simply not be capable of human affect.”

“Oh, I think you’re wrong about that.” She’d gained back the smooth control in her voice. She might have been speaking to a professional colleague about programmatic languages. “Certainly a great deal more work needs to be done before we can dismiss the possibility. I’m told also that in experiments with accelerated learning, at a certain number of multiples of human learning capacity, tremendous breakthroughs can occur. I’ve signed up for another accelerator course, this one in informational patterning dynamics …”

Her voice faded down the corridor. A great deal more work, thought Luke, hurting for her, pressing his hand to his brow. It was Cray’s answer to everything. With sufficient effort, sufficient maneuvering, any problem could be surmounted, no matter what the cost to herself.

And the cost to herself, he knew, had been devastating.

I actually really like Cray's arc in this novel--that she's forced to drop the perfectionism and workaholism she uses to block her considerable pain, and comes to accept the situation as it is, and finds peace in doing so. I just wish this realization didn't culminate in assisted suicide, that's all.

(That said, this scenario gets 100% creepier if you imagine flipping the genders here--if “Dr. Mingla” was a male scientist resurrecting his female lover in a droid body. I wonder if Luke would have intervened sooner in that case, instead of just assuming Cray had everything under control because she was an expert?)

While we're on the subject of "by any means necessary" and "avoiding one's problems": in contrast to Cray, Callista's original decision to transfer her spirit to gunnery computer to watch over it is framed as laudable. But even there, there are hints all is not well:

“It wasn’t … so bad, after a time. Djinn had taught us, had theoretically walked us through, the techniques of projecting the mind into something else, something that would be receptive, to hold the intelligence as well as the consciousness, but he seemed to regard it as cowardly. As being afraid or unwilling to go on to the next step, to cross over to the other side. Once I was in the computer …”

I.e., there's a reason why essence transfer is mostly practiced by the Sith--because it's a kind of clinging to life, or a version of life, rather than embracing what is and moving on...

Also, I don't see anything in this explanation that requires computing capacity, as Callista will claim later, so... *shrugs* I don't know what's happening there. CotJ has this weird relationship between the Force and tech, where Luke can physically manipulate objects with his mind, even though the Force is only generated by "life", but Irek remote-starting the Eye of Palpatine or controlling Artoo-Detoo is seen as "impossible" and novel. And yes, Irek does have special training and tech augments to help him, and I like the implication this is a specialized skill, but...like I said at the beginning, I don't get how this all works except for “narrative convenience” and “authorial fiat”. 

Anyway, CotJ strongly implies that Cray was misguided to cling to Nichos and to pursue "life" for him at all costs, for both Nichos and herself. Yet somehow when Callista does it, it's okay, because Luke loves her... even though Callista herself is way more ambivalent about what she's done, and her acknowledgment that

“Everything has to be paid for... I should have known there would be a risk... I might have guessed there would be a price.”

And I think that's one reason I like Children of the Jedi so much: that there IS a cost, that there ARE consequences, and not even magic space wizardry can fix or solve every problem. I like that Callista pays a price for the ethically dubious act she does--somewhat, but not entirely mitigated by circumstances, and by Cray's eagerness to participate in this (unprecedented?) experiment.

Also, you want more nightmare fuel? I just realized last night we only have Callista's word for what went down on the ship in its last moments--that, and it seems 100% in keeping with Cray's state of mind leading up to this, to the point where Luke was afraid to leave her alone because he was worried she was going to hurt herself. It gets even creepier when you realize Callista's ghost immediately volunteers to sit with Cray after Luke realizes this,  and I can't help but wonder what happened between the two women when Luke isn't around to witness it.

Callista's account at the end makes it sound like Cray realized at the last minute that she wanted to follow him--that it was an impulsive decision, somewhere in between stunning Luke and stuffing him into the shuttle and the destruction of the Eye of Palpatine--but I wonder. I really wonder. Cray and Callista clearly had time to plan a "what if Luke doesn't cooperate?" scenario and leave a recording for him to find in the shuttle, so I wonder how exactly the whole "you can have my body, I don't want it" conversation went down. There's a fic in there for sure.

But even taking Callista 100% at her word, I like the irony that she chooses to go along with Cray's scheme in part because she's so in love with/emotionally attached to Luke (just as Cray can't let go of Nichos and Luke can't let go of Callista)--only to eventually realize that there's something she values more than her relationship with him, namely her own life, and her own relationship to the Force, which has always been a part of her life and is now "missing". Cray chooses to die for love, Callista chooses to live for love... only to set it aside, because LIFE is more important to her than her love for one specific human being... just like she sacrificed her own life to destroy the Eye, and left her first lover in the process... PARALLELS, Y'ALL. I LOVE ME SOME NARRATIVE FOILS, YO.

Anyway, this got long and rambling, but I believe my initial thesis that essence transfer is wildly inconsistent and the results depend almost entirely on narrative convenience still stands.

[aion-rsa]

Rebecca: Leaving Hitchcock Behind for Something Darker

https://ift.tt/37sEQVx

This article contains spoilers for the film and book versions of Rebecca.

Leave it to Ben Wheatley to remake Alfred Hitchcock. The younger British filmmaking iconoclast has been nothing if not provocative with his filmography so far, which includes the disturbing horror-crime hybrid Kill List (2011), the serial killer black comedy Sightseers (2012), the psychedelic, very weird A Field in England (2014), and the unsettling dystopian nightmare, High-Rise (2015). But with Rebecca he takes on not just a classic Hitchcock film, but the master’s sole Best Picture winner. Why not, right?

We’re being facetious, of course. Wheatley’s version of Rebecca (now on Netflix) is not a remake of the 1940 film but a new adaptation of the 1938 novel by Daphne du Maurier on which it is based. Both films are mostly faithful to the book (with a couple of notable exceptions), but Wheatley and his screenwriters (Jane Goldman, Joe Shrapnel, and Anna Waterhouse) coax a moral ambiguity and feminist twist out of du Maurier’s multi-layered Gothic romance that wasn’t permissible in the 1940 film.

“I mean, it’s the same conversation I have about every film,” Wheatley says when we ask him over Zoom what drew him to the project. “It’s like, ‘Oh it’s a comedy. The last one you did was a horror film,’ or, ‘Oh it’s a fashion movie and last thing you did was a family drama,’ or whatever. I try and choose stuff that’s at 90 degrees from the last thing I did every time, and I’ve been lucky enough to do that.”

Wheatley adds that reading the script led him to rethink his assumptions about the story and the Hitchcock film. “What attracted me to it was initially Jane Goldman’s script,” he explains. “When I read it, I was really surprised by it. I felt all the twists and laughed at all the right bits of it. And that surprised me doubly because I had seen the Hitchcock film and I’d read the book. So I thought that was really odd, that I would misremember it in that way. I talked to a few other people and they were kind of like, ‘Yeah, Rebecca. It’s just this beautiful romance, isn’t it?’ And I’m like, ‘No. That’s not the half of it.’”

It’s fair to say that Rebecca deceptively starts off as a “beautiful romance.” In the new film–as in the book and the 1940 version–the main character is an unnamed young woman (played now by Lily James), who is working as a personal assistant to a wealthy older American (Ann Dowd) on holiday. In Monte Carlo, the young woman meets Maxim de Winter (Armie Hammer), also rich, who is quite dashing and recently widowed.

The two strike up a whirlwind courtship that results in de Winter whisking the young woman back to his ancestral estate, Manderley, as the new Mrs. de Winter. But once ensconced there, she discovers that the house is permeated with the lingering presence of her predecessor, Rebecca, who still commands the unhealthy loyalty of the mansion’s housekeeper, the sinister Mrs. Danvers (Kristin Scott Thomas). It is here that Rebecca pivots from romance to thriller, with the plot turns and psychological subtexts piling up like the waves crashing at the bottom of the treacherous cliff upon which Manderley sits.

“When I reread [the book], I just imagined du Maurier had written Rebecca as a dare or something,” says Wheatley. “That it was kind of, ‘You like romantic fiction? Well, I’ll write a book that will stop you reading romantic fiction forever. I’ll take the tropes of it, which is the widower and the holiday romance, and the rags to riches, and then I’ll really smash it and rub your nose in it.’ I loved it.”

In the book and both versions of the film, it’s revealed that Rebecca was not the perfect wife and society hostess that she was reputed to be. In fact, she was a cruel, selfish woman who claimed to Maxim on the night of her death that she was pregnant with another man’s child and would force Maxim to raise it as his own, a revelation that leads her tormented husband to shoot her dead. He disposes of her body at sea, but when the corpse washes up a year later, Maxim reveals the truth to his new wife.

Hitchcock’s film, due to the moral decrees of the Hays Production Code that was in existence at the time, had to change Rebecca’s death to a suicide since movies were not allowed to show murderers going unpunished. Under no such constraints, Wheatley takes his Rebecca a step further: The new Mrs. de Winter evolves into a protector of her husband, taking action to clear his name while at the same time fully aware that she is complicit in the cover-up of a murder.

“The moral structure of it is very different because of the things that were missing from the ’40s adaptation due to the Hays Code,” says Wheatley. “So the actual heart of the book is the idea that Maxim de Winter has murdered his wife and that you then side with de Winter and the second Mrs. de Winter as an audience member, and basically root for them to win throughout the rest of the story–which is utterly despicable. But I thought that that felt like a good reason to revisit it.”

His reasons to approach the source material aside, Wheatley knew he might touch some kind of third rail of cinema by taking on a story that the general public remembers as a Hitchcock masterpiece (it didn’t work out too well for Gus van Sant and his 1998 remake of Psycho, which like the original was also based on a novel). Getting all that noise out of his head was the first step Wheatley took.

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“Right at the beginning of the process I went, ‘Oh, right. I’m going to get a kicking for this,’” he says with a laugh. “And then I didn’t think about it anymore and I made the film. I put it right to the back of my head.” But the subject inevitably came up as the director began promoting the film. “I saw the reviews [and it was like] ‘Oh my God. It’s all about Hitchcock.’ But that’s inevitable. It’s fine. The audience that’s there for this movie is a much bigger audience than just the audience of people who’ve seen that version of it.”

Wheatley says he’s less concerned with his movie being compared to Hitchcock’s than feeling as if he did justice to the novel. “I had a lot of questions about filling the shoes of Hitchcock and all this,” he remarks. “It really isn’t about that. It’s filling the shoes of du Maurier. That’s the challenge and the fear of taking a book that is so beloved and so central within a culture in lots of ways and so influential. To take that and balls that up is the problem. The other adaptation is done and everyone loves it. There’s going to be no shifting of that from the pedestal of cinema history by anything I did.”

Of course Wheatley wasn’t the only one dealing with the ghosts of adaptations past. His trio of leads–James, Hammer, and Thomas–took on characters first embodied on the screen by Joan Fontaine, Laurence Olivier, and Dame Judith Anderson.

“With Lily, we talked a lot about the agency of the character,” says Wheatley when asked how he approached each actor about their roles. “But there’s the aspect of the book where you don’t know if you believe what the first-person narrative is saying. She says she’s very weak, but at the same time her actions are strong. So is she slightly self-serving in how she talks about herself? And is the whole truth there?”

He continues, “That’s the craft, I think, of Lily James’ performance, trying to be nervous and terrified, but also not capsizing the movie by being irritating or being too confident or strong.”

Kerry Brown / Netflix

As for Hammer’s portrayal of the equally enigmatic Maxim de Winter, “It was more the other way around of taking someone from the position of being completely in control and being like a matinee idol and then just destroying them over the period of the movie,” Wheatley says. “But then as usual, the film is not shot in chronological order. So it’s an absolute nightmare to track all those kinds of performances. But that’s basically what we talked about a lot.”

When it came to casting Mrs. Danvers, perhaps the most iconic of the story’s three leads, Wheatley says he was “totally” enraptured with the idea of the great Kristin Scott Thomas taking on the part. “This version of it is a kind of more sympathetic Danvers,” he reveals. “I think that had come out of reading it and going, ‘I feel like she’s the moral center of it in many ways.’ There was a lot of quite complicated emotional stuff that she had to do–to go from being stern to being vulnerable, from beat to beat to beat. And I think that it took someone of her kind of pedigree to be able to do that.”

Whether viewers come to the new Rebecca with their own memories of the book or the original movie, or tune into Wheatley’s version with no preconceptions in mind, the director thinks that a new version of the story, some 82 years after the book was first published and 80 since the release of Hitchcock’s film, could have a different impact on new generations of viewers experiencing it for the first time.

cnx.cmd.push(function() { cnx({ playerId: "106e33c0-3911-473c-b599-b1426db57530", }).render("0270c398a82f44f49c23c16122516796"); });

“I think every film that you make is putting the film through your experience of the moment,” he explains. “So I think that there are things that are happening now which become more pertinent, and there’s also general universal truths. The idea of, what is your history of your own partner? How do you deal with the jealousy of that and the obsession? What would you do in this situation? How do you compete with ex-partners? That kind of stuff. It’s also a tale of privilege, of someone who can float through life because they’re good-looking and rich, and they do what they like and get away with murder.”

Rebecca is streaming now on Netflix.

The post Rebecca: Leaving Hitchcock Behind for Something Darker appeared first on Den of Geek.

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Existence - Part 1

Summary: After his death, Sungjin had no idea why he was bound to the manor house but meeting Pearl gave him a reason to exist.

Pairing: Park Sungjin x OC, featuring reader & Day6

World: Spiritual Connection

Genre: ghost au / slow burn / romance / angst

Warnings: death

A/N: Welcome to Existence, a spinoff from Spiritual Connection. When I wrote the Brian/Day6 series, Sungjin’s moment with Y/N was actually unplanned from the original outline but it’s one of my favourite parts in the story. A lot of you also agreed and wanted to explore more of what got him to that point. So did I, and so here we are!

Since Pearl was established as a character in the series, I’ve chosen to write her instead of making her a reader insert. This story is also covering from the late 1800s to present time, so there was a lot to fit in, hence why it’s broken into two parts.

Word count: 3886

Index: 1 | 2 | Spiritual Connection

He never thought existing would be so difficult. After all, Sungjin had lived in this world for twenty-five years before he had died.

And in those twenty-five years, he had learned a lot about survival. The Industrial Revolution had made advances to those living after its time, and most noblemen were now focused on living a life of pleasure, parties and prestige.

Not that he had been destined to such a lifestyle.

He was by no means stricken by poverty, working the vast fields and gardens around a large estate was no easy task. Getting recognised for the sculpting he could do of the land meant he had no worries of where his next meal came from. And the Duke who owned the land he groomed meticulously had even gone as far as to build him and his team their own home. It held a grand neo-gothic facade on the outside, showing wealth and power to all those who saw it. On the inside, well, it was merely functional.

And that had been all Sungjin had ever wished for.

As he stared around the house he now sat within, he wondered why he had cherished this place like no either. Its walls enclosed on him and his misery a little bit more by the day. It made no sense to him, to any of them. The four others who had died along with him in the great fire of the main house were all that remained. Where was everyone else? He had woken to find chaos, smoke and ruin all around. His master was gone and left a widow and three children behind. The majority of the fire he had been attempting to put out was now smouldering ash on the ground.

All that was left was the godforsaken tower home, and no power, prestige or pleasure would come from being stuck in it. 

It took what seemed like decades before someone searched for more than cobwebs in their home. In reality, it had only been two years and the land that once was owned by the Duke of the county now had been sold, gifted and divided between many. The portion that was on the hillside closest to the sea had been sold to a small family, so Brian had heard when he was outside working in the gardens out of habit. Sungjin couldn’t face the outside world since passing into the afterlife; not that being indoors did much for him either. But he was fascinated by the changes that started to occur to his little home. The family had big ideas to build on several extensions that would make his functional little tower home into a grand manor by the sea.

And through this process, the walls extended out around him.

“Look, they’re adding on another wing!” Wonpil enthused, the sound of construction pounding from dawn to dusk.

It was rather impressive when they were done, the two bedroom turret tower now a vast, seven bedroom home with multiple day rooms, a study, large kitchen, dining and amenities that would ease the lives of those who would inhabit it. Even his friends were thrilled with the extension of their home, spreading throughout the building and no longer stuck in the same spot. Sungjin had chosen a ground level bedroom to spend his days within. It held a great view of the sea and sky from facing the cliffside and brought him some peace in this confusing overstay on Earth.

The puzzle of why he and his friends remained stuck on this land, as protectors of their home, still eluded him. Acceptance had arrived, as did the new residents.

They were loud people.

From parties to arguments, all this family could do was shrill from the top of their lungs. It had felt promising to have his home grander than ever. Now, he hoped for the simplicity to come back.

It was incredibly frustrating to simply exist in a place that was no longer his.

Still, nothing he or his friends came up with worked.

“I once read we should see a light come forth.”

“Candlelight?” Dowoon asked, pointing to what was illuminating the drawing room they were in. Jae smacked his friend around the head and groaned.

“No, an actual light. Maybe a tunnel and we get to walk through it.”

“Where does it lead to?” Wonpil wondered and Brian shrugged.

“Perhaps it’s towards paradise.”

“Jae, the book you were reading was the Bible and the light would lead us to salvation,” Sungjin announced, sighing heavily.

“Are we the damned then?”

“We only did our best to help our master until the explosion,” Wonpil mentioned with a pout and everyone fell silent.

And then Jae stood up, shaking his head before fetching his guitar from the corner of the room. His tune was troubled, much like their hearts were.

This sombre mood travelled into the new century where the manor house saw several owners come and go. The loud family came into money and moved to bigger prospects. The next fell into ruin and the house went into possession of the bank.

Sungjin watched grandeur enter and leave in an endless cycle until new money arrived in the late 1930s. A family with three children, though only giggles filled the home this time. He was enamoured by the way the light seemed to shine brighter in the manor house. It transformed, carrying a spirit from the past and meshing with the new with every pass of Ring around the Rosie played in the grand entrance.

It was a year later when everything changed.

“Won’t you play with me?” the youngest asked, doors opening and closing as she searched for her siblings.

“Jacob, Ruby, where are you?!” she called out desperately, opening the door to the downstairs bedroom that was now a guest room. She stepped inside, climbing up onto the large bed with a huff, cursing under her breath about being left behind yet again.

Sungjin lifted his focus from the book he was reading and chuckled at her disposition, deciding the youngest child of the family was definitely the most spirited.

“Who are you?” she suddenly wondered aloud and Sungjin looked up again to see who she was talking to. Staring right at him, he blinked, closing the book slowly and then pointed to himself. “Yes, you. I have never seen you before.”

“You can see me?” he tentatively questioned and with all innocence, she bounced her head up and down. Sungjin was amazed. “Really, you can see me?”

“Can you not see yourself?” she replied with a giggle, pointing to the mirror across from him. He smiled sadly and shrugged. Hesitance now gone, the little girl approached Sungjin and sat down across from him. “Do you have a name? Mine is Pearl. I’m the youngest lady of this house.”

Sungjin grinned. “The youngest lady?”

“Of course, don’t you see how much I’m growing? Why, I will be eight this summer!”

“Eight is a mighty fine age to be,” he told her and she grinned, giggling once again. “And my name is Sungjin.”

“Sungjin,” Pearl repeated, smiling as she liked how it rolled off her tongue. “Sungjin, do you know of a game to play?”

“A game?”

Pearl nodded again, leaning forward in earnest. What games did children enjoy these days? He was so out of touch with the world by now. Only one came to mind. “Hide and seek.”

“Will you play it with me? My brother says I’m too annoying to mind and my sister is learning a new skill. They say it will give her marrying prospects. Yuck! Imagine marrying because you can sew well.”

Sungjin chuckled at her open disdain. “Sewing will be a handy skill to have.”

“Can you sew?”

“Some.”

“Then I need not worry about it all. Shall we play now? Oh please, I wish to have fun again now that everyone else is boring and growing up.”

She reached out for his hand then, startling Sungjin at her ability to touch him as if he were among the living.

It was then that he found a purpose for his existence. Although he didn’t need to, he took in a deep breath, renewed by Pearl’s discovery.

And his own.

For years, Pearl enjoyed running around the house calling out to her friends. She would beg Brian for one more game and Sungjin to help her hide. She would always give herself away by giggling, perhaps too excited to have the turn to find her friends instead.

It worried the adults within the home.

“Pearl, you need to go out today.”

“But why mama, Sungjin and I-”

“My dear, I have no idea who your friend is that you talk of but it’s time for you to meet others to play with. Bring home friends from school, won’t you?”

“None of them want to play hide and seek though. They say at age twelve we shouldn’t run amuck as I do.”

“Perhaps they’re right,” her mother agreed, straightening out the collar to Pearl’s coat she had fastened her into.

The young girl glanced up at the five men watching on, Wonpil gesturing with his hands to go out and play. It took a little more convincing, but eventually, Pearl left with her mother to run errands.

“Well, it’s a good thing, right? I mean, how many places can we hide in now? She knows of them all,” Jae surmised, scratching the back of his head.

“I like when she giggles, it’s so easy to find her.”

“Or when she catches us as if it’s the greatest achievement of her life,” Brian added on to Dowoon’s statement, and Sungjin smiled fondly, eyes travelling to the front door.

“She needs to discover the world out there though, playing with us every day won’t be something Pearl can continue doing for much longer.”

He had been right. Pearl managed to make new friends, though it perplexed her whenever they came over to the house. “She said I was fibbing! Me, a liar?! I would never do such a thing!”

“Well, it’s not as if you can show your friend evidence, Pearl.”

“Sungjin, my reputation is on the line here. If Harriet goes back to school and proclaims I see spirits to everyone, will anyone sit with me at lunchtime? What will I do if I get picked last in class for teamed events? This is rubbish!”

“You sound awfully a lot like Jae these days,” he mused, turning back to his book.

“And you remind me of a bear. Are you hibernating? Where is your energy? I thought we would play today!”

“Don’t you have sewing to learn for the next hour?”

“I sew well enough, thank you.”

“Piano then.”

“Surely we can go a day without hearing me fumble through classical music that my short fingers have no part in playing.”

Sungjin grinned at her stubbornness. “Cooking?”

“We have Mary for that, and she’s as fit as a fiddle. Any more excuses? How about poetry? I had a session yesterday with Brian. Gardening? You showed me how to prune a rose bush last week. What else would a young lady of my status need? Ah yes, exercise. Now come!”

“Fussy little thing!”

“I will hold you accountable if you continue to sour my mood, Sungjin!”

They played all afternoon long and heard the scolding Pearl received for acting like a child over dinner. Throwing herself through the guest bedroom door, she came in and dashed right over to where he sat on the floor, diving into his arms.

“I don’t want to grow up. I don’t wish to let go of all of this. They tell me I am going mad, that I made you all up. Maybe I am mad! But to me you’re real.”

“We once were,” he reminded softly, stroking Pearl’s hair. “But now, maybe they are right. I don’t want you to miss out on any opportunities for a good life, Pearl.”

“And I won’t if I remain your friend, will I?”

“You might.”

“I won’t,” she concluded, though an air of uncertainty followed. “Hopefully, I won’t.”

The next morning, Pearl had a new resolve. She ignored Wonpil’s morning greeting. She side-stepped around Dowoon who came to hug her. As she dressed and readied herself for school, Pearl was cold, as if something had come into her body overnight and removed her remaining childlike spirit.

Pearl was the very image of a young lady ascending into puberty over the next three months.

No longer did she learn poetry with Brian at all, and focused on improving her piano skills. Her cross stitch was excellent and cooking ability grew greatly. With all the years of playing, she had somewhat neglected the normal growth around her. And so in those three months, she worked herself day in and out to prove something of herself that Sungjin couldn’t quite figure out.

It made her burn out completely.

Jumping when the door opened in the middle of the night, Sungjin looked up from the bed he laid upon, seeing what appeared to be a ghost in the doorway. Blinking, he realised it was Pearl, her eyes searching slowly around the room. When they connected with his, she started to move, running the distance from the door to the bed, diving into his embrace.

“I can’t do it!” she wailed, echoing around the room. “I don’t want to forget you! How can I? When you are all that brings me joy!”

“It’s okay,” he soothed, running his hand over her back gently. “Calm down, you can be who you want to be.”

“You mean that?” she asked as she pulled back and Sungjin nodded, wiping away the tear-stains on her cheeks. She grinned then, diving back into hug him again tightly. “Promise me you won’t ever leave me.”

“I’m bound to this house, where would I go?”

“You know what I mean, promise me. I can’t live another day without you, Sungjin. Without you all. Please, please don’t let me go.”

Staring at her as she shifted back in his arms again, Sungjin searched her face. If only Pearl knew just how much she has changed everything. Because of her, he no longer just existed. He would do anything she asked of him in a heartbeat. Nodding firmly, he watched as her anxiety eased. “Of course, I won’t leave you. I promise.”

The next morning, there was a lot more bustle on the ground floor bedroom of the estate.

Sungjin rubbed the back of his head as he watched his sanctuary transform. From guest room to feminine touches, Pearl dictated all that happened in here. The only thing that remained was the large bed that he had laid upon every night since Pearl’s family had moved in.

And now, he had a roommate.

“Care to tell me why my space is now yours?” he asked as Pearl returned after dinner, smiling happily before diving onto the bed. His simple blankets were gone and replaced by Pearl’s lush covers. He had to admit they would feel comfortable had he been truly able to feel them.

Since dying, some of his senses had faded over time. Others had intensified. Whilst taste and touch had dulled, his experience of his emotions overwhelmed him.

And right now he was feeling a lot of contempt.

Pearl waved him off excitedly. “This is our space.”

���Ours? Pearl, you’re thirteen. I’m a grown man. I will not share this room with you. It’s unacceptable.”

“You promised!” she whined and stopped his rash movement towards the exit. Watching out of the corner of his eye as she scrambled towards the edge of the bed, Sungjin sighed at her desperation. Turning to face her, Pearl clasped her hands to her chest. “You said you wouldn’t leave me.”

“And you decided last night that meant you would suffocate me?”

“How is this suffocating? We never have any problems spending all day together. When I’m not in school, we often spend from when I rise to when I close my eyes doing just that. How is this any different?”

He wanted to say many things. It wasn’t that she was wrong; he had no problem with spending his time with Pearl, or any of his friends. His years of forced solitude were long over. However, there was no denying that Pearl was growing up. She would need her space to deal with tasks that were far from his comprehension. He had once had an older sister, and whilst they had been close, he had not been privy to her personal experiences through the changes of adolescence. Sure, Pearl had a lot of growing up to do, and right now she wasn’t actively in the throes of it. But this had been his space for as long as the room had existed. He was disgruntled that he would have to give it up for her privacy when the time came.

Pearl’s face contorted and soon she was giggling loudly, rolling about the bed. “Are you… are you shy of a woman’s body?!”

“I wouldn’t be going around calling yourself a woman just yet, Pearl,” he muttered, spinning away from her again. Before he could leave, she had dashed across the room and hugged him from behind. His insides surged and he felt confused as to why he was so delighted by the embrace. “You should be more practical.”

“Sungjin, I’m not going to change my mind even when I’m old and grey.”

“About?”

Swinging around his waist so she was now in front of him, Pearl smiled up at him. “Ever since I met you, I’ve always thought you were the man of my dreams.”

“I am nothing of the sort, for one, I’m dead. And you met me when you were seven. How would a child be sure of anything that young?”

“I’m certain I’ll never meet someone as wonderful as you are in my time,” she stated and Sungjin began to feel faint from all the concern whizzing around inside of him. Shaking his head, he pushed her off.

“I am like a brother; see me no further than that.”

“Wait until I change into a fine woman, then you’ll have problems maintaining that stance,” Pearl told him with a huff, stomping back to her bed.

His bed.

Sungjin groaned, rubbing at his face before retreating to the new armchair in the corner.

“Are you not coming to bed?”

“It’s either this chair or I leave the room,” he announced darkly and Pearl nodded from within her bedding.

“Very well then, I’ll endeavour to make your space more comfortable for you over the next week.”

And that she had. Pearl spent the winter break sewing a quilted blanket that now rest on the chair for him to use at night. She ensured a small table was placed beside it for him to put his glasses and book upon each night, and had even placed a photo frame of herself there.

Over the next four years, she changed out the photo regularly. Because, as she had once stated, Pearl did grow into a fine woman.

Swirling around in her navy polka dot dress, Pearl laughed with delight. “Your face right now.”

“I said nothing.”

“You didn’t have to,” she mused, walking to his side. Glancing up at him with eyes alive, Pearl’s smile grew. “You think I look divine, don’t you?”

“It suits you,” he commented dryly, darting his eyes away unsuccessfully. At age seventeen, Pearl was dynamic. And incredibly aware that he often had to swallow back sinful thoughts that had grown over time. He disliked that he had fallen trap to her charms, and yet, looking back over the past ten years, he wondered if there was ever a point where he hadn’t been captivated by her.

“Merely suits me?” she wondered with another laugh, reaching out for one of his hands and tugging on it. He didn’t budge and she grumbled. “Surely, you have more to say than that.”

“It will turn heads at the dance tonight. There, is that satisfactory?” he offered and Pearl pursed her plump crimson lips together, offended he still hadn’t spoken the words that she could see within his warm eyes.

That she was beautiful. The most attractive woman he had ever seen in all of his years, dead or alive.

Her hand was still holding his and she stepped closer, looking up at him, now recovered from her annoyance. “I wish you could be my escort.”

“Don’t be foolish.”

“I know you would dance with me,” she continued and Sungjin chuckled.

“As will many others.”

“Won’t you dance with me?” she murmured, slipping a hand to his waist. He shook his head and pulled away, her touch now burning him down to the soul.

“Go dance with the eligible men and tell me about it in the morning. Goodnight, Pearl.”

He ignored her until she left with an outlandish whine, and whilst he waited at the window for her return all night long, by the time she had made it up the front of the house stairs and into her room, he had feigned slumber within his chair.

“Sungjin, I know you to be awake. You told me yourself, ghosts do not need to sleep, eat or drink.”

He shifted in his chair, angling himself away from her.

Hearing enclosing footsteps, he soon felt her weight across his lap, hands reaching for his face. Sungjin looked at her within the moonlight, enamoured by the young woman before him. Pearl had let down her hair, loose waves framing her face. With the guidance of the natural lighting, he was able to take in everything upon her face.

She was staring at him with a look within her eyes that spoke a thousand words.

He couldn’t avoid her now, even if he wanted to.

“Won’t you dance with me?”

“Aren’t you tired from doing so?” he murmured back and she shook her head, waves of blonde crashing against her face as she did so. He reached out for her cheek and Pearl instantly nuzzled his hand.

There was no return now.

“One dance,” he agreed, helping her stand before joining her at the space by the large window. With the moon guiding their steps, they danced for what felt like forever. Bodies soon drifting together, flush with one another’s clothing.

“I love you, Sungjin,” she whispered as she gazed at him and smiled. Before he could respond, she stretched up and placed those crimson kissable lips he had marvelled over earlier in the evening upon his.

Taste and touch returned, and colour truly morphed around him. As he kissed her back, slow and exploring, Sungjin believed his heart jolted. Somehow the dormant way it laid within his chest now jerked, attempting to beat once more. It was the closest he would get to feeling alive again.

“I love you too,” he told her when his lips separated from her, adoring the dishevelment he had caused. Pearl grinned, pulling him back towards her bed.

“I just want to sleep in your arms tonight, can you grant me that?”

Sungjin nodded, his surprise over her brazen move now easing. “I’ll do anything you ask of me.”

_________________

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If you’re new here (or been here for a bit longer) you’ll have seen me talk about Journeys ‘Verse. If you’re reading @pawsnread‘s new SongXiao fic set in that world, you may, possibly, wonder what Journeys ‘verse is.

I’ve never really sat down and properly written about how and why it came to be, but since it’s growing again, I thought it was time. Below contains both why I started writing the initial story: CW for discussing death of a close relative and how the ‘verse evolved from there:

Back in 2011 my year started off with a tragedy. At the end of January my beloved grandmother died on my birthday. It was a shock. She’d just had surgery the day before and came out of it fine and well. But a blood clot formed and while I was downstairs with Carrie, my twin sister, I heard my mother upstairs answer the call with an ‘oh no.’ I’ve heard that ‘oh no’ before, when I was six and my father died. When I was nine and my other grandma passed away. I knew those words and that tone and I knew what had happened before my mother had even come downstairs. That started a hell of a year that nearly saw Carrie also die (seriously my life went like this that year: birthday/death Jan 30th--funeral that weekend--home for a few days--Feb 12th/13th started Carrie’s months long battle and hospital stay that didn’t end until April) and just, the entire first half of the year was the worst sort of hell I’d been through in a very long time. 

The back-half of the year saw me start to deal with the fall out of all that stress. 

And like someone who has been in fandoms for years uncounted, I started writing a fic. 

My favorite genre of stories to read outside of fanfic is Fantasy. High Fantasy, Urban Fantasy, Southern Gothic Fantasy, Young Adult Fantasy, Historical Fantasy, you name it. I love it. I love it when magic is just an accepted part of life, or when it’s a hidden part of life. When magic exists in the mundane only for people to stumble across it and into something fantastical. Magic in the everyday is a theme that runs through a good portion of my fics (not so much in MDZS/The Untamed, but I’m still new here). It’s a genre I’ve loved since I was a child and the one I will forever be the most drawn to when it comes to the need for escapist pursuits. 

So, taking my love for that, and me trying to work through shit, and being a fanfic writer, I started writing a fic where someone from our everyday world dropped through a magical portal and ended up in Faery. It combined an original story idea I’d had bouncing around my head for years with a fandom that I was in the thick of and let me work through some things.

I was active in the HBO War Fandom at the time and through James Badge Dale’s portrayal of Bob Leckie I found a character just enough of a bitter asshole to work with and to deal with grief, of a life lost--not actual death, but the potential of what could have been, or what was. The burden of trying to be who you think you SHOULD be and what you SHOULD want versus who you actually are and what you actually need. The year was hell so the fic stalled out, but that’s when one of my dearest friends, Nat, decided we’d basically do our own Fic Finishing Fest. If it wasn’t for her support, and the support of so many fandom friends I’m still so close to (hello my darling Kailey and the ever-amazing Ray), the fic and the ‘verse would have never seen the light of day. 

So the first story of Journeys ‘verse, So Spoke the Wanderer, went up in February of 2012. And as I went into other fandoms, other stories followed. As it stands now stories in Journeys ‘verse go from HBO War to Spartacus to MCU to In the Flesh to the Umbrella Academy and now to The Untamed/CQL/MDZS. On Ao3 you’ll only find the HBO War and Spartacus ones, but if you do a little digging on my tumblr, you’ll find the others. 

As for what it’s about?

If you can dream it, be it. Essentially.

Our world, the mortal world, exists as is, but because of the Veils dropping between the worlds four times a year (on each solstice and equinox) there is a long cross-veil travel and trade. People from our world who end up on the Other Side/Faery are called Wanderers. People from that side who end up on ours are called Wayfarers. In each world both of these groups have their own little establishments and communities. Since magic is still ‘hidden’ in our world the Wayfarer establishments serve as sanctuaries, homes, and schools for the Wayfarers who decide to settle down in our world, or have to for political/safety reasons.

Both sides had long-influenced each other: the magical side has a meeting of magic and technology, our side has a few magical things it shouldn’t, and yet does.

There are special people, called Realm Jumpers, who can basically punch a hole through space and time at will, crossing the Veils as needed. They’re rare and it takes a lot of training, but for the right price (or the right friendship), they’ll do it for you. 

As for the type of magical creatures?

Sidhe, Dragons (often in human form, but watch out, they’ll still singe you), and Sirens hold the most power. Wizards and Weres are in the second tier. 

Oracles are of their own class, largely unconcerned with the politics of either world. They’ve got more important, immaterial things to handle.

Ghosts are real and their own form of Undead. They can either stay resting and wait for a rebirth, or they can linger on as ghosts, becoming corporeal during those Veil Drop days. Ghosts can be made alive again, but there is always a price to pay, and that price varies in each case.

Healers and Reapers and Necromancers. Readers of the Last Thoughts, Sprites, and Goodfellows. Pucks (an entire other class of Goodfellow), Bards, and Minotaurs and so much more. They’re all here and they all mostly co-exist. 

And so many Changelings. Children born of human and magical parents or with some seriously magical recessive traits. Changelings are all over both sides of the Divide and a reason why some of those Wayfarer and Wanderer establishments exist. 

Most of the Other World we see is concerned with Ville, a major city where the Sidhe Queen lives, or with Merrymec, a village where a Sidhe Prince and his Siren husband live and where a university and library that are a very safe and welcoming place for Wanderers is connected to their manor. 

For the MDZS/Untamed fics coming, an entire new aspect of the verse is introduced. The Winter Court is the home of the Winter Sidhe. They exist outside of the political realm and intrigue of the Sidhe Queen, long-ago deciding they’d rather stick to their mountains and focus on their magic and their part of the world than get into all the pointless b.s. of  Ville. Our favorite Lans and a few other familiar faces are members of the Winter Court.

In Lotus Pier are the Jiang Wizards, though their family line is a bit more interesting.

The Jins and the Nies are wolves, shapeshifters, and well, their story is for another time.

And the Wens? Either Fire Demons or Healers depending on the branch. So either the problem makers or the ones who have to fix it.

This verse is truly a labor of love and everything I’ve written, probably contains some of the most personal writing I’ve done. I was adrift in 2011, I was 2 years out of grad school with an MA in history and working in a grocery store (where I still am, because, holy shit does life throw some curveballs). I had to move back home, leaving my beloved Boston behind, because I couldn’t afford rent and student loan payments. I felt both stuck and lost at the same time, and a lot of that went into So Spoke the Wanderer, because at the end of the day, some things are about choices, but some things do happen for a reason.

If I hadn’t left Boston and returned home, my sister would’ve died in September of 2010. I was the one who found her after she had a seizure, barely breathing in her bed. If I hadn’t been home, if I hadn’t woken up and gone downstairs---well, choices. And intuition. Sometimes you can’t dwell on the What-Ifs because it’ll drive you mad.

The verse is named Journeys for a reason, from a Frank Turner lyric:

But in the end the journey's brought joys that outweigh the pain.

And as I learned to accept a new lot in life, the stories themselves changed. Not that any of them are dark or tragic, but the subsequent stories are far more light-hearted, and more about hope than the first one.

But the one universal thing in every last one of them: found families.

So, if you’re just coming into Journeys or if you’ve been here for a long time, I hope you enjoy what’s to come. You don’t need to read the previous stories/fandoms to understand the ones that will be posted this year, just treat the unfamiliar names as original characters and you should be fine. (For people who HAVE read the other stories, know that Reaper Roe is going to be showing up, as he always does, in everything.)

Any questions? My askbox is always open.