#ghosthood

[beesbiteandwillowrites]

"The Beating Heart"

The thing about scars is that they reveal a story to the observant onlooker. And this one tells the most fascinating tale. Between the location and the amount of scar tissue, it’s not hard to figure out that this wound was meant to be lethal. And Khoa knows of only one weapon that can leave such distinct markings. This kid had his throat slit by a batarang. Khoa wants to know who got Batman to finally try and break his number one rule.

Rating: Mature

Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Characters: Jason Todd, Minhkhoa Khan, Bruce Wayne

Relationships: Jason Todd/Minhkhoa Khan

Additional Tags: Jason Todd is Red Hood, Bruce Wayne is Batman, Developing Relationship, Friends With Benefits, Alcohol, Human Trafficking, Torture, Murder, Temporary Character Death, Serious Injuries, Identity Reveal, Secret Identity, some descriptions of a rotting corpse (it's minor, but still)

[regretfulpentimento]

i just watched the new ghostbusters movie and. phoebe and melody were so gay

[sakebytheriver]

*Gets on my soap box in front of the crowd ready to be pelted with rotten tomatoes and holds a megaphone to my lips*

If the CBS Ghosts writers had any guts the one who got sucked off would be Isaac

*I open my arms and close my eyes awaiting the tomatoes like christ on the cross*

[beforus-for-real-justice]

??? How do youn lose a ghost??? Come onu.

You forget to care about him and cherish her.

[eruhamster]

this is why i dont touch that fandom though bc i swear theres been too many occasions where i just rant about what the text itself says and then someone on tumblr gets irrationally angry about it and "the curtain is just blue"'s me. what the hell do you even mean that it's an AU. what else do you think it means that it's made abundantly clear in explicit detail that shi wudu switched sqx and he xuan's fates? what do you think that means? it fucking means that the fates they ended up with belonged to the other person. it isn't just that he xuan was meant to be a god. that's only one half of the switch.

[clockwayswrites]

Birds and wings and hope Part 13

Masterpost

Danny had thought hat if he finished with Frostbite early that he would spend a few days in the zone to catch up with some of the other ghosts. He hadn’t wanted to with the wings. It wasn’t that Danny was ashamed of the wings, not from the fact of having different features, but Frostbite had seemed certain that Danny was in a heavily mutable state right then. The more people that knew Phantom with wings, the more likely they were to stick as they cemented in consciousness and identity.

Or something like that.

Danny had a whole stack of reading tucked away in his chest to go through later.

Just wanting time alone, Danny had given himself somewhere between an hour and a day (time was hard to tell in the zone) to sulk among the sparks and dust that were long dead stars before forced himself to get a grip and go home. He was an adult for, well, him sake he guessed. He could deal with this.

The reading set on the left side of the coffee table with a fresh notebook next to it. It wouldn’t do to mix up this work with his actual work, so Danny was sure to pick out one with a green cover from the stash that he kept on hand of his favorite dot patterned paper notebooks. He’d draw a blob ghost or something on it later. A few color pens and a highlighter joined the little pile, set in a battered and chipped Amity Park tourist trap mug.

Sam had gotten it for Danny as a present due to the so hideous it was funny caricature of Phantom on it.

On the right side of the coffee table went a box of protein bars, electrolyte drinks, suck’em candies, and Danny’s well stocked pill container. He moved the coffee table a little closer to the couch, turned the TV on to a playlist of Mythbuster episodes, and made sure he had his favorite blanket in hand before he transformed back.

And fuck that hurt. Pain shot up Danny’s back, radiating up through his shoulders, and shooting along his Lichtenberg scars so intensely that they burned. Danny collapsed inelegantly onto the couch with a defeated whimper.

Maybe it was the wings? Did having a different set of limbs as a ghost cause transfered muscle aches to his human form? He didn’t even have muscles as a ghost, not really, but the mind was a very powerful thing and not even Frostbite was entirely sure of how exactly the two parts of a halfa effected each other.

After the worst of the pain had dulled slightly, Danny managed to toss back his medication (missing doses while Phantom never did him any good) and pulled the candies close enough that he could use them as a distraction for his senses. Slowly the muscle relaxant worked its magic and Danny became a boneless lump. The episodes of Mythbusters idly distracted him as he just let his thoughts drift over what Frostbite had said.

Frostbite was sure that there had to be a reason— or several— that Danny’s form had shifted into a bird and after retained the wings still. Frostbite felt the first step to this all, if Danny was determined to either control or to get an understanding of where this all was going, was to understand the subconscious or symbolic particulars of the change.

The why Frostbite felt was clear: Danny had been without a haunt for too long now. Yes, he accepted, the pollen may have certain accelerated matters (hence the full bird then and only the wings now), but Frostbite was admit that the change wouldn’t have been occurring at this stage if Phantom had still been the protector of Amity Park.

Phantom had a purpose in Amity Park. Phantom was a protector and guardian. That guardianship extended to a very limited range. Now that Amity Park was many, many years behind him and Danny was living in a place already full of its own protectors, the Phantom part of Danny was left adrift which allowed for this new stage of ghosthood.

Why couldn’t his ghost half just be happy with a nice long nap?

“Fuck you, Phantom,” Danny grumbled as he watched a car be vaporized upon impact on the screen. Idly Danny wondered if he could get an object up to that speed if he flew fast enough.

Several hours and several protein bars later, Danny was managing to sit up enough to start going through some of the reading Frostbite had sent and make notes. Two more episodes and delivered Indian food later, Danny scrawled on the top of a fresh page ‘The Subconscious & Symbolic Particulars of Wings’.

Why on earth and beyond did he have wings?

‘Flying’, Danny wrote first and then as many reasons he could think of why he loved flying from the freedom of it to space to the way that it felt to move through a cloud. ‘Freedom’ branched off into movement and escape and getting to become his own person without the weight of Amity. ‘Gravity’ and ‘Identity’ sprawled into transformation and his death and the million of ways that it had changed everything about his life.

It was hard to think about.

Danny turned the page.

‘Wings’. Wings and feathers. Birds. Pigeons and crows and ducks and robins. And Robins. Biblically accurate angels who created the cosmos. Hope. And always hope.

“‘Hope’ is the thing with feathers — ”

Hope and Robins and Bats.

And always hope.

Was Gotham his haunt?

Was he the thing with feathers?

---

AN: shhhhh I've been writing as my wind down before sleep. Also special prize for @stoiczee. I promise we'll see more batfam next part. Danny just needed some time to react!

[roanofarcc]

UNFINISHED BUSINESS

pairing. sasappis x ghost!reader

summary. (requested) as the two youngest ghosts at woodstone, you and sasappis understood each other and your laundry lists of unfinished business. at the top of the list for both of you? falling in love

warnings. dead!reader, fem!reader, mentions of death, sad sasappis, happy ending!!

masterlist

“Good morning!” you greeted cheerfully as you entered the living room where the rest of the ghosts were hanging out, lounging and waiting for today’s adventure to spring to life. Usually, when you awoke, you could gauge how the day would go from the looks on their faces. More often than not, they were a little bored as they awaited to see what Sam and Jay had on the agenda for the day, but today was slightly different. When you greeted them, the looks on their faces were a mix of boredom, worry, and confusion. 

“There you are,” Hetty said, standing up with a small huff. “Is Sasappis with you?” 

You furrowed your brows. “No, why?” 

“We not know where he is. We thought he with you,” Thorfinn said, looking slightly distressed at his seemingly missing friend. 

It wasn’t possible though for Sasappis to be missing. If he had been sucked off, or passed on to whatever awaited you after ghosthood, someone would have seen it. And it wasn’t like ghosts could wander off the property. You thought for a moment, longer than it should have taken you to realize just where Sass had run off too. 

“I’ll get him,” you said, starting toward the back door. The other ghosts began following you, but you paused and turned to look at them. “Um, maybe I should talk to him first.” 

You hadn't known Sass the longest, not by a couple hundred years, but the two of you had bonded as the youngest ghosts to haunt Woodstone. All of them had unfinished business, that’s why you all were stuck in the mansion, but you and especially Sass had so much unfinished business that it felt overwhelming at times. That was when you’d each need to get away from everything to mull it over. But as you quickly learned, mulling it over alone was even more isolating. Then, one day you stumbled upon Sass sitting alone by the large pond on the property. From that point on, whenever the two of you felt extra jaded about your untimely deaths, you’d find yourself by the lake with each other, slightly soothed by each other's company. 

There were protests from the other ghosts, except Thor. He knew Sass the best since they had been dead together the longest. He stepped forward and placed a heavy hand on your shoulder, offering you a nod before he turned around and did his best to explain to the others why it was best that you go speak to Sass first. While he did that, you slipped outside and headed toward the lake. 

You found Sass in his usual spot, with his feet pulled up to his chest and his chin resting on his knees. 

“Hey,” you greeted quietly, as to not scare him, before you sat down beside him on the slightly overgrown grass. 

He offered you a weak smile in return before his gaze returned to the rippling water. The rising sun glittered across the surface and it bathed everything in a warm orange glow. 

“Everyone was worried about where you ran off too,” you said. “I think they thought you got sucked off or something.” 

Sass shook his head. “Like that’ll happen.” The edge in his voice made you frown. “I’m never leaving this place.” 

“You don’t know that,” you said, gently. 

He laughed bitterly. “I’ve been here 500 years and still have unfinished business. I don’t think I’ll ever finish it all. It's not like it was one thing I wanted to do; I had everything left to do.” And it wasn’t fair. All of the ghosts at Woodstone had potential in their lives, lots of it, but died before they reached it. But Sass, one of the youngest at the mansion, had his whole life ahead of him. He had hardly started it before he passed, and after five hundred years it was probably hard to see a point of even trying to continue completing any unfinished business in a world so different than the one you’d been alive in. 

There was little you could say to make him feel better. Instead, you scooted closer to him and placed an arm around his shoulder. Like second nature, he shifted his head from his knees onto your shoulder, melting into your side as you both kept your gaze on the lake. You stayed like that together for a while, until the sun had risen, and the sky was a brilliant, cloudless blue. Only after that did he lift his head and turn towards you with a small, sheepish smile on his lips as he rubbed his eyes. 

“Sorry,” he muttered. “I didn't mean to dump that all on you. I just…” he trailed off with a sigh. “It’s just nice having someone who understands.” 

You brushed a couple of rouge pieces of hair from his forehead and smiled. “Don’t apologize. That’s what I’m here for. We both have unfinished business, a lot of it, but at least we died on the same property. I think that makes up for some of it, us getting to be…friends.” Friends didn’t quite feel like the right word. What you and Sass had was more than just friendship, it was a connection that no one else really understood. You were still practically just kids who had died on the verge of their lives starting and you were trying to figure it out.

Sass’s expression became unreadable for a moment before it turned into a small smile. “Yeah. Friends.” He stood up and offered you his hand before pulling you to his feet. Together, you walked back to the mansion, where Sass was swept up in whatever daily plan the other ghosts had to keep their boredom at bay. You, however, broke off from the group and found yourself in front of the series of photographs that Sam had put up along the upstairs hallway. She said it was a little homage to the ghosts of Woodstone, some of them anyway. She had found old photographs abandoned in the basement from the many lifetimes of Woodstone. There was a family portrait of Hetty that Sam had smartly cropped in the frame not to include Elias. There was a photo of Alberta on stage and a hand-drawn photo of Isaac and his regiment that Jay found for a couple bunks on something called E-Bay. It was sweet, you thought. There was even a photograph of you when you were a little girl at your aunt's wedding that took place at Woodstone ages ago. In the picture, you stared up at the bride with a stary gaze full of admiration and hope that one day you’d fall in love and have a wedding of your own. 

The list of your unfinished business was long, but near the top of the list was to fall in love. You’d come close in your lifetime, a couple of times, but you had died before anyone became serious enough to plan a wedding. As a ghost, you still sometimes felt like the little girl in the photograph, captured by the idea of love with a dream to feel it yourself. As foolish as it was, you still held out hope that it would still happen to you. How, you weren’t sure. But the large and bleeding heart of the little girl you had once been still existed inside of you, underneath cobwebs. 

“There you are,” a voice came from behind you. “We’re about to play charades.” 

You threw a glance over your shoulder as Sasappis approached you, seemingly in better spirits than earlier. “I might pass today,” you replied. 

He stepped in line beside you, nervously playing with the beads on his clothing out of habit. “I didn’t bum you out earlier, did I? Because I’m sorry if I did-” 

You cut him off with a shake of his head. “Stop apologizing for how you feel, Sass” 

“Sorry-” You shot him a look and he sighed, hanging his head. “What I mean is, I didn’t want my bad mood to rub off on you.” 

“There was a lot on both of our lists,” you said, earning a slightly confused look from him. “Our list of unfinished business. There was a lot we both wanted to do. I really wanted to fall in love like my aunt in this picture. Look how happy she looks.” Your aunt was practically glowing beside her partner, dressed in white with a look of pure admiration and love that one could feel radiating off of the framed photo. 

He gazed at the photo for a moment. “You looked happy too.” 

“I was. I remember that the whole day here felt like a dream. That’s why I came back a couple of years later. I didn’t know I’d end up dying here. though.” 

After a beat of silence, Sass said, “It was on my list too, falling in love. Well, technically I was but I was too scared to tell her. Then I died and that was that.”

“Looks like we both fell short there, huh,” you said, laughing breathily in an attempt to lighten the mood. 

Sass’s brows furrowed and he pressed his lips together in a thin line as he stared at a spot on the floor for a prolonged moment. “Maybe…Or…” He snapped his gaze upwards, falling onto you. “Can I say something that might be, uh, a little crazy?” 

You smiled. “We’re ghosts living in a haunted house, Sass. There isn’t much you can say that could be crazier than that.” 

“I wouldn’t say that yet,” he muttered under his breath, but you still heard it. He turned his body toward you and rolled his shoulders back. “I missed my chance when I was alive to tell someone I liked them. I was scared and a little bit of a coward. But, you know, I’ve had five hundred years to think about what I would have done differently if I ever liked someone again. But I never thought it would actually happen.” He spoke quickly like he was trying to push out his thoughts before they got too jumbled inside his head. Even as he took a quick breath, there wasn’t enough time for you to say anything before he started again. “And maybe this isn’t…I don’t know. Maybe it’s a long shot and a stupid one. Maybe you just see me as a friend and that’s fine. But I,” his breath caught in his throat for a moment as his gaze fell off of you. “I like you.” 

Your eyes widened at his admission; speechless and breathless. You body moved without help from your brain as you stepped right in front of Sass and placed on hand on the side of his face, getting him to look at you. His eyes were swarmed with unease and nervousness, like the young kid he was and not a five-hundred-year-old ghost. 

“Really?” you asked, voice just above a whisper. He nodded. Your lips curled up in a smile. “I like you too.” 

He let out a breath in relief and matched your smile for only a moment before his arms encircled your waist and pulled you in closer before he pressed his lips for you. You hugged your arm around his neck and kissed him back like you had silently wanted to do for years. 

The kiss was short but sweet, as it was interrupted by a hardy laugh that startled both of you. “Thor knew it!” You both spun around to see all of the ghosts as they made their way to the usual room for charades. 

“About time,” Hetty scoffed. 

You gazed back at your photograph and smiled brightly at the little girl. You had been wrong. Not all of your unfinished business had to stay unfinished. Perhaps there were things you weren’t to accomplish in death just as the things you had accomplished in life. 

[absolutelynotsanebaby]

Okay so this started as me musing on the different colors and tones you get with ghost cole depending on the lighting but turned into a whole ramble so, uh, bone-apple-tea?

So, obviously lighting effects the colors of all designs but because of the ghosts transparency, it's espicially apparent.

All the top color swatches are of Cole. His base tone is a greyish-green so in most lighting he retains that, except nightime. He can become very blue in the night. Which is a qualiy he actually shares with Yang!

It's interesting to note because both Cole and Yang actually lack a qaulity a lot of other ghosts in the show share! Most of the other ghosts in the show are a bright green with a lime-y shine and glow (except Clouse and Yang's student but I'll get to them). You can see that here,

I neglected to put Cole here but he shares a similar tone to Yang anyways. If I had to guess, I'd say they're brighter to appear more 'villainous'. Cole doesn't get the same appearence because he's a "good guy" and this still is a kids show lol. It doesn't really explain Yang but, there's a decent chance he was modeled similarly because he and cole both share the same point of origin in ghosthood (and he became "good" by the end of dotd).

There is another difference between Cole and (I believe) every ghost in the show is -- eye marks!

Forgive the poor qaulity on these but, every ghost but him has some sort of eye-marking. It's a pretty common ninjago design convention for villains but it is also interesting to note lore-wise. Again, this is likely to do with the fact that Cole is a "good guy" but in universe there's interesting theories to be had about it. As for Clouse though, he already had eye-markings / bags before becoming a ghost so I'm pretty sure that just translated over. They probably didn't want to make a whole new design for him or apply that bright-lime effect onto him for his short-apperance lol.

I also compared some of the mini-figures.

Here you can really see the difference color and transparency wise. Cole and Yang also have more solid forms (along with Yang's student). Yang's students actually have something kind of really interesting about them too.

They're incredibly greyed out! It's partially because of their white gi but from their hair to skin they're all the same tone.

Here you can see that they all have different hair colors, so that at least should make their hair different values but, nope! I wonder if it has to do with the fact that they're not independent and controlled by Yang. And also what those cracks on them mean.

Anyways, this whole ramble didn't really have a point desides writing down some of the things I've noticed about the ghosts. Other people have definitely said all this better but I figured I'd get it out lol. Bye bye.

[illuminatedferret]

With the new edits to Xie Lian's request to be banished again rather than fight Lang Qianqiu, I'm really struck by the gravity of Hua Cheng rejecting his ascension again. We conflate being a Heavenly Official with being a god, being a god with being beneath Jun Wu's dominion, but that's really not the case. Ascension and godhood are natural consequences of diligence and cultivation, not something handed out because you impressed the right person. And yet as more people ascend, they fight, they bump elbows, they learn to live among one another, regulating each other and developing a 'status quo' for godhood.

This is the Heavenly Court- not a natural location, but a system constructed to exercise control over gods and godhood. A place just as coveted as it is full of rules and expectations, just as unforgiving as it is illustrious. Yet the violence inherent in the heavens, in Jun Wu's rule, is never truly addressed. And that violence can be boiled down into one simple question:

Do people have the right to say no to godhood?

For all intents and purposes, it seems that few people view ascensions as a bad thing. The only case we have of someone outright rejecting the heavens and doing so on their own terms is Hua Cheng. And as far as we can tell, no one ever follows up with him over this, but we can't forget his unique circumstances: his ghosthood, his place in Mount Tonglu, his soon-to-come power as one of the strongest men in the world, all allow him to pull off this escape and land himself a position where the heavens cannot afford to punish him, even if they want to. But for a more average person, what would happen if they said no?

And if Jun Wu accepts that "no" (if he accepts any no), does it come with no strings attached? What are the odds he allows this mold-breaker to walk out the doors without some sort of condition in place? Let me remind you, godhood is not contingent on his approval- rejecting the heavens doesn't make you stop being a god. Really, isn't rejecting the heavens rejecting him and his rule, more than anything else? He cannot make someone a god, and he cannot truly make them stop being a god, either. It is a privilege of his position (and power) that he can pretend otherwise, and he has to go to extreme lengths (the cursed shackles) to do so.

What ruler wouldn't see it as an act of disrespect that someone wants to leave their court? What ruler would willfully allow someone to leave the heavens and become what is fundamentally a rogue agent? It flies in the face of the purpose of the Heavenly Court. Surely this hypothetical person allowed to leave ends up like Xie Lian: shackled, deprived of at least the ability to hear prayers. At worst, Jun Wu may decide someone who rejects the heavens rejects the cultivation that brought them there as well, and seal their spiritual power too. But with those sorts of caveats, who would choose to leave? And to deprive people of choice is inherently violence.

In one act, Hua Cheng not only rejects the heavens but bucks their yoke, escaping the system of power and control that demands obedience from everyone unto the man on top. This is a far, far more significant and noteworthy act than is addressed. While he clearly cares little for it, Hua Cheng is a god, making him the only god in the world truly removed from Jun Wu's control and influence. He exists outside of the heavens' system, and thus paves the way for a space similarly divorced from the control of the heavens, where people can live without fear of censure or persecution from the people the world insists are their betters.

[tunemyart]

there's a lot of discussion about agatha's "calculated risk" in choosing to die, and specifically to die the way she did, and then turning up as a ghost

but can we also talk about the rio factor here, because aside from rio having been successfully distracted by agatha to enable the escape into ghosthood there's two other possibilities

one: it was rio's failure to act that didn't just allow agatha to become a ghost but forced her to become one, and now agatha's just like "yeah I was in control the entire time - you know, like I always am!" about it - e.g., rio was so heartsick over agatha's extremely recent and cruel "I don't want to see your face when the time comes" jab that was technically part of the terms of the deal rio's upholding in letting billy go

two: rio realized there was more agatha shenaniganery afoot and said you know what, absolutely not, I'm taking a break from you, enjoy being a ghost or whatever, see you in a couple decades when I can stand to see your face again (btw hope you don't regret not availing yourself of my services before then!)

[untulithed]

i have a question for the people who read the comics/have better media literacy skills, cause i was just reading a dbd fic and got curious. When we see Edwin meet Charles for the first time he tells him about 'ghost rules', and basically teaches him how to be a ghost.

But like, i thought that Edwin JUST got out of hell, and went to the school first, and in the 7th episode we are shown that in hell, where edwin was ever since his death, their bodies were a lot more corporeal and probably did feel stuff like touch and pain, so very far from how he described ghosthood to be.

So did he learn all the 'ghost rules' in the few maybe hours he's been out of hell, or went to the school actually weeks after his escape, or did he just come up with them on the fly for Charles to make his death less scary and more cool?

[owletstarlet]

patron saint of the lost causes (2/2)

“You can stop looking at him like that.” Taki’s voice is frank, but not unkind. Katsumi could not be less in the mood for whatever the hell kind of conversation this is about to be. “Like what,” he replies anyhow. “Like you broke his best friend."

ao3 link | part 1

Given every piece of information Katsumi knows or can infer about Tanuma Kaname, it is the most on-brand thing in the world right now for him to be looking both embarrassed and apologetic while also lying in a goddamned hospital bed. Still very much connected, he might add, to all the equipment necessary to prevent his own body from cooking up his brain and all his organs. Doesn’t mean it isn’t weird. And bad. Very weird and very bad.

They’re allowed in to see him in groups of no more than three at a time, and for no more than ten minutes each. He’d been awake and asking about them, but his fever’s still high if no longer imminently lethal, and he’s apparently still groggy from coming off the tail end of some sedative they’d pumped into him hours ago to keep him from shivering while they’d worked to combat said fever. He’s with Natsume, and they’re the first ones in, and that really, truly and honestly blows. Because Natsume’s silent and tense beside him, because Tanuma’s somehow managing to both look like a ghost and also like he really wouldn’t mind ghosthood all that much, eyes that he can’t even keep open all the way fixed on his lap. At least if Nishimura had come in before him, he’d have had a handful of stupid jokes up his sleeve.

Doesn’t help, obviously, that they’ve seemingly got him hooked up to the complete goddamn works here: the IV drip, the cords of the vitals monitors snaking out from the rumpled neck of the yukata-type gown they’ve got him in. The low beeping from the absolute behemoth of the monitor itself beside the bed that’s got to be 15 years old at least, blocky numbers and jagged lines, hills and valleys in neon colors scrolling the tiny black screen. The chunky wired clip on his finger that Katsumi vaguely recognizes from TV but cannot for the life of him remember its purpose. And to cap it all off, the oxygen tube thing—cannula?—under his nose (which, what the hell, can he not even breathe properly right now). Like it’s all been pulled from some film set for dramatic flair. Maybe less sleek, with more underfunded-isekai-emergency-room vibes, but if anything that just piles on the nightmare fuel.

And he looks embarrassed about it. The fuck.

For few vastly uncomfortable seconds, nobody says anything at all. He’d thought Natsume would take the reins on this, but he doesn’t even look to see what the holdup is, because Katsumi himself is still mucking through what there even is to say.  No matter that he’s had hours to prepare, even practiced it once or twice in the bathroom mirror like an absolute lunatic, but he’s also been roundly warned by the others that any variation of why the fuck didn’t you say anything was off limits.  

It’s Tanuma who eventually speaks first. “I—“

“Save it,” is the first thing out of Katsumi’s mouth, because of course it is. Tanuma winces, and Natsume promptly elbows Katsumi in the ribs. Off to a great start. “We already know,” he amends. “Your dad told us you probably didn’t realize.”

Tanuma looks up, then. And yes, his gaze is maybe still little drug-hazed, but Katsumi’s still not sure how to feel about the look on his face, like Katsumi’s a math problem he can’t quite work out. He nods, slowly. “I’m sorry.”

The room isn’t even a room, really, just one cramped, curtained-off corner of a space containing three other beds. There’s a single, worn chair wedged in beside the bed, and Natsume drops into it now, now at Tanuma’s eye level. He reaches out, and Katsumi doesn’t miss the split half-second where his hand falters midair before coming to rest carefully on Tanuma’s forearm, fingertips just skimming the IV tube taped there.

“Sensei checked around,” Natsume tells him, tone gentle but serious. Huh. Little abrupt, not the first thing Katsumi would’ve expected out of his mouth here. “He said there wasn’t anything he could find, but. You weren’t attacked, were you?”

Tanuma frowns, like he wasn’t immediately expecting the question either, but then something seems to click behind his eyes. “I don’t think so?” he starts, and purses his lips like he’s thinking. His words are lower and slower than normal, but otherwise he doesn’t actually seem all that out of it, just exhausted. “I don’t remember that much. But I think it’d feel…different, than this.”

Something in the set of Natsume’s shoulders loosens, just barely. “How are you feeling?”

“Better,” he says, after a moment of consideration. And Katsumi doesn’t mean to snort, it just sort of comes out, but he immediately feels like a dick when Tanuma’s mouth twists and he drops his gaze again. But before he can backpedal on that, Natsume shoots him a look that could strip paint right off a wall, and he figures that shutting the fuck up is the best course of action.

But to be perfectly fair to himself, the guy can’t even sit up on his own without the raised end of the bed, and his face is the same eggshell color as the cheap sheets tucked around him, wherever it isn’t blotched up from his fever of fucking 39.

“…I mean,” Tanuma starts again, “not great or anything, but. Headache’s mostly gone, and,” he turns his head a little to indicate the blue pillow-like object under his head that Katsumi is only just realizing is an extra large jelly ice pack thing. “These are really cold but they’re helping a lot. There’s some more under my arms and legs.” He raises his shoulder a bit, and Katsumi notices the slight lumpiness of the yukata on the sides of his chest that must be more ice packs tucked under his armpits.

Natsume lets out a breath. “That’s good,” he says, and his smile seems much less forced now, softer. “Before you’re discharged, we’ll make sure nothing was out there, so. Don’t worry.”

“I won’t,” Tanuma says, and he’s clearly picked up on the undercurrent of fear in Natsume’s questions. “Thank you.”

It’s not like it’s a bad thing to see Natsume willing to actually feel his goddamn feelings in front of other people, it’s a definite improvement over the vapid not-quite-smiles and the empty eyes he and his classmates called creepy when they were kids. But this, he can definitively say, also sucks. Nishimura had briefly mentioned something about Natsume having been pretty shaken up when Kitamoto had been hospitalized for some minor accident a few months back, but it seems to go deeper than that, here. As if he’d implicitly blame himself for any and all nasty youkai shit in this apparently nasty-youkai-shit-infested-town. When he wasn’t even there. And, granted, Natsume might not respond well to it coming from Katsumi, but it is dumb, and Natsume should know that he is in fact being dumb.

The thought of said nasty youkai shit makes Katsumi remember to fish the little wood talisman out of his pocket. Maybe it’s not the time to bring it up, when Natsume’s freaked out enough as it is, but they’re going to be kicked out of here in about seven minutes. Some ENT had pried it out of Tanuma’s fingers in the back of the ambulance when they were trying to get an IV into his arm, and had passed it over to Katsumi. He found out soon enough that Taki had made the thing, using some obscure old exorcism texts from her grandfather’s library, which he’d honestly found pretty impressive until Sensei had had to ruin it by noting that the flimsy thing would have about the same repellent power against an average youkai that a squirt gun might have on a bear. Which, at least, made it seem it less likely that he’d been clinging to it because he really thought something was going to attack them. But when Katsumi had tried to return it to Taki, she’d given him a maddeningly incomprehensible look and just said, “Give it to him yourself.”

So he is. Hope she’s happy, because he for one feels some heavy sort of way about it that he does not have the energy to parse out right now.

“You dropped something,” he says, because that’s simpler than the truth. There’s not really room to squeeze himself in near Natsume at the bedside, and the other side’s got that mammoth monitor machine taking up most of the narrow space, so he just sort of hovers behind Natsume somewhere beside Tanuma’s legs. He reaches over, drops the talisman lightly on his knee.

Tanuma blinks down at it, slowly raises his hand to place overtop of it. The movement is awkward and slow, between the clip on the finger of this hand and the gel pack wedged under his arm, but his remaining fingers close around it. He looks up at Katsumi, eyes wide. “You—“

“It’s whatever,” he says with a shrug, before Tanuma can even get the words out. He’s not in the mood to be thanked right now. “It, uh. Looked pretty important, though. You were squeezing it damn tight enough.”

That earns him a sharp over-the-shoulder look from Natsume, a don’t-you-fucking-tease-him-or-so-help-me-god face if ever Katsumi saw it.

Katsumi ignores him. That wasn’t the point. Because despite the fact that Sensei had patrolled the area, and that it made the most sense that he’d been clinging to the talisman out of some delirious attempt at self-soothing, if there was any chance he’d been desperate to grab for it because it was better than nothing at all if something was hanging around, that’d be pretty damn good information to have before any of them have to walk that road again. Maybe seeing it would jog his memory.

Apparently not, though. He manages, awkwardly, to flip the thing over so it rests in his palm, even though it jostles the clip just enough to elicit a few abrupt pi-pi-pis  from the machine beside him. “All I really remember,” he says, at length, “is leaving home, then Lawson, kind of, and then, ah.” His eyes flick upwards, for the barest second, not even making it up to Katsumi’s eyes before his gaze drops right back down like a stone.

“What?”

Tanuma’s fingers close tight as they’re able around the talisman, and he looks so thoroughly miserable that Katsumi’s starting to be sorry he asked.

“I remember throwing up on you,” he mutters.

And that startles a chuckle out of Katsumi. It’s a sharp, awkward sound in the hush of the room. But it feels good, like a crack forming some gigantic dam that barely fits in his chest anymore. Another follows.

Natsume glares. 

And okay, yes, it’s got to be a dick move to be laughing right now. The splotchy bits of Tanuma’s face have grown even splotchier as he stares down at his talisman, and the heart monitor’s tempo has kicked up a bit.

“Seriously?” Katsumi manages, catching his breath, before Natsume gets the chance to declare war here. “That’s the part you remember.” The guy’s subconscious must really have it out for him, because Tanuma legitimately looks like he’s about to faint.

And that’s no good, either.

“Look,” he starts, and drops down to perch awkwardly on the bedside edge somewhere near Tanuma’s shin, opposite Natsume. At least like this he’s not looming like a creep over the foot of the bed anymore. “For life-threatening situations? Free pass. And I got some new threads out of it anyways,” he says, plucking at the sleeve of his borrowed shirt. “Timeless classics.”

They actually look fine, some nondescript green button down and dark chinos belonging to Shigeru-san, though when he’d thrown them on this morning he’d barely even registered what he was wearing anyhow. Nishimura, Kitamoto and Taki are all wearing the same clothes they’d worn yesterday, still a little damp from being hastily laundered and hung to dry indoors overnight, but Katsumi’s things are currently still soaking in a bucket of oxygen cleaner on the Fujiwaras’ veranda, and Natsume’s clothes are all a size too small for him.

“It’s not your fault for getting sick,” Natsume tells him, gentle but direct, when Tanuma doesn’t immediately respond. Which is exactly what Katsumi just said. But whatever. Tanuma huffs out through his nose, a soft halting sound that makes an odd little whistle over the top of the cannula, and finally looks up at Katsumi. There’s something taut behind his eyes, but least he looks marginally less like wants to evaporate into the goddamn ether anymore.

“I, just.” He shifts in his seat a little, swallows, but keeps talking. “This all must’ve been…a lot, for you, so. I’m sorry. Thanks for getting help.”

“‘Course.” Katsumi shrugs, still not really sold on the idea of being thanked right now. “I’m not a total monster.”

That, at least, elicits some sorry little suggestion of a smile from him. He’ll take it.

“But, with your dad saying you didn’t realize, though,” he starts, before he can think better of the question. “Has this happened before?”

Natsume looks a little wary, as though he’s ready to shut this conversation right down if need be—which, fair enough—but is also watching Tanuma like he isn’t exactly not curious, either.

But Tanuma says, “Sort of?” and cocks his head like he’s trying to remember. “In third or fourth grade, maybe. There was this school clean-up event just before the summer break, and…I don’t exactly remember what happened, but I guess the teachers realized when they did a head count at lunch.” He shakes his head a little. “Anyways. That town was…we didn’t live there long.”

Katsumi’s not at all sure what to make of that last bit, though Natsume looks perturbed by it. But something’s not quite adding up regardless. “Wait,” he says, frowning, “if this was a school clean-up, wouldn’t you all have been working in pairs or groups or something?”

Tanuma shrugs. “I guess?”

“You got ditched,” Katsumi concludes, flatly. “That’s fucked up.”

“…I mean…” He’s starting to look uncomfortable again, his fingers picking at the edges of the talisman. “I couldn’t actually attend school there all that often, so. I didn’t really know many people’s names, or anything. It’s okay, really.”

No, it’s fucked up, he wants to say, only to remember the other person in the room right now. Natsume doesn’t look particularly happy to hear this story, but he doesn’t look surprised, either. Like he very much gets it. And Katsumi’s acutely aware that he himself the last person who should have anything to say about any of this at all.

And the kicker is, yeah, he knows how cruel and ugly kids can be to each other, because god knows Katsumi was, but this doesn’t even sound like that. Tanuma had recounted it as though he were as good as a stranger to his classmates, and vice versa.

Katsumi glances at the talisman again, at the marker ink that’s gone splotchy in the corners visible under pale fingertips. And, unwillingly, he thinks of some sickly nine-year-old, lying lost behind some tree or tool shed, nobody looking for him at all.

A long buzz from his pocket punctuates the silence. Then another. Katsumi doesn’t need to fish his phone out to know it’s Mom. Again.

“It’s fine,” he mutters, when two pairs of eyes flick towards him. “I’ll get it later.”

He’s been putting off actually speaking to her; he knows Touko-san called her sometime yesterday and since then he’s mostly just been sending her messages to check in and vaguely reassure her. He’ll have to talk to her soon, but he likes to think he’s got enough dignity left in him to not want that to happen anywhere remotely near any of these guys. The thought makes something itch in his throat.

“You know,” Tanuma starts, after a moment, voice quiet but clear. “It really is okay for you to go.”

“Nah.” Katsumi shrugs. “Like I said. Nothing better to do back home either. Except get nagged about holiday homework.”

Tanuma nods, once. He doesn’t necessarily look unhappy, but there’s a thread of unease in his voice. “You’re welcome to stay,” he says, “but…you’re here for, what, five more days? Six? And, ah.” He casts a glance at that giant beeping machine beside him, then around the cramped room that doesn’t even have a window or real walls. And he looks so tired. “I’ll be here. And then on bedrest when I’m out, they said, so…”

Katsumi frowns. “…so?” he echoes. “Is this about the cleaning? ‘Cause fuck the cleaning.”

Tanuma just blinks, nonplussed, and Natsume sighs and rubs vaguely at his temple like he’s got a headache coming on. “Shibata,” he mutters, but there’s no bite to it.

Katsumi rolls his eyes. “I meant, it’s not your problem right now.”

“But it shouldn’t just be yours, either,” Tanuma says, gaze drifting back to that damned machine again. “You’re here because I asked, and now there’ll be even more, with less time.”

This is starting to feel like a stupid conversation to Katsumi, because he has the suspicion that even Tanuma’s dad wouldn’t be all that bothered right now about offending someone’s dead great-great-aunt on Obon with a dusty altar or two. So it’s probably for the best that Natsume speaks up before Katsumi has the chance to.

“He is right that you don’t need to worry about it right now,” Natsume tells him. “But, there’s still plenty of time, too. And Sensei and I can try and find some extra hands, too.”

“Extra…” Tanuma frowns. “Would that work, though?”

Katsumi’s not a hundred percent on the specifics here, but he’d heard in passing from Sensei that most of the local youkai population weren’t too keen on hanging out around Yatsuhara Temple. Natsume’s finger drums lightly on the bedrail, like he’s considering, and then there’s a flash of…something…in his eyes, something steely enough to maybe just unnerve your run-of-the-mill forest-dwelling flesh-eating folkloric monster.

It’ll be fine.

“Either way, it’s just an extra day or so, right? We’ll get it done,” Natsume says, decisively.

“Yeah, we spent a lot of the first couple days just kind of fucking around, anyhow,” Katsumi adds. It’s not all that true—there had been a little downtime in the evenings, some idle rounds of shogi on the veranda, placing bets against each other on pocket change and cheap snacks, but they’d all more or less collapsed into the lumpy borrowed futons by 10PM each night. It still sounds like a helpful thing to say. Maybe. “We’ll just hustle a bit. It’s all good.”

Tanuma looks torn. “I…thank you. Really. But, I’m the one that actually lives there.” His expression settles on a rueful smile. “And I couldn’t even walk to the store, so. I’m sorry.”

Okay, yeah, no, this is stupid, actually.

Katsumi huffs. “Yeah, all according to your big evil master plan, huh. Luring us all here just to do all the heavy lifting.”

Natsume’s head snaps up sharply at that, and Tanuma just stares, but Katsumi plows on.

“Because that’s how chronic illness works, right? If you can’t just guess and pinpoint all its exact fucking whims day to day, which, by the way, are caused by invisible invisible monsters half the time anyways, then you’re just a super inconsiderate guy, huh. Oh, and dramatic. ‘Cause that’s totally what we’ve all been sitting out there thinking.”

He’s met with silence, from both of them. Which is, basically, the worst possible reaction to receive when you’ve just been on the verge of shouting at someone stuck in a hospital bed. Natsume had looked, at first, reflexively ready to bite right back, but instead he’s watching Tanuma, like he’s holding his breath. They both are.

It’s not a term he’s given much thought to before. Ever, really. Until earlier, hearing Tanuma’s father’s half of a hushed, somber call with some relative or another from the lobby (“…symptoms of heatstroke, but the chronic illness had exacerbated the situation, so at the moment, he’s…”).

Katsumi wonders, vaguely, how they’ve must’ve had him classified in his charts over the years. Generalized Youkai Shenanigan Disorder must be a real head-scratcher to the medical community at large.

But he looks normal, is the thing. A bit underslept, sure. And lugging heavy boxes around all day gets him winded a little faster than the others. And he takes more care than the rest of them to stop for water, but that’s just being responsible. It wasn’t like he hadn’t kept up, hadn’t been fine.

Katsumi had only got the most cursory of explanations, back when they’d first met. That he’d been sick as a kid a lot, moved around often because of it, that it had gotten a lot better when he’d moved here, met Natsume. And he looks so shockingly ordinary that Katsumi would’ve never known.

And Katsumi doesn’t know if anything really was out there in that dusty field with them. Doesn’t think it matters, ultimately.

Maybe it is better these days. And maybe it’s pointless to even speculate, if he hasn’t lived it. But it sure as hell sounds to Katsumi like living with a landmine buried in your skin. Doesn’t matter how deep down it’s sunk, how quiet it seems. Not like it’s not there.  

Nobody’s said anything, still. Natsume’s watching Tanuma. Tanuma’s watching his own lap.

“Am I kicked out?” Katsumi asks, arms folding.

“No.”

Katsumi barely hears him; his voice sounds half-stuck and dried-up. But then Tanuma looks up, fully, and his eyes are wet.

Shit.

“I mean.” He clears his throat. It doesn’t do much. “Soon? But. Not by me.” He seems to realize about the tears, then, and absently reaches up to scrub at his eyes.

Which, naturally, knocks the mysterious beeping finger clip right off, sending it flying right over the side of the bed.

The behemoth next to the bed immediately starts pi-pi-pi-ing, urgent and shrill, and Katsumi swears, swooping down to snag the little clip by the wire now dangling over the bedrail, and slides it back onto Tanuma’s finger. He doesn’t have a clue if it’s on backwards or not, and is only pretty sure that it had been on his index finger before, but at the very least the noise dies down. And he can’t hear anybody rushing in to check if they’ve killed someone, for the moment.

“Sorry,” Tanuma murmurs, while Natsume readjusts the cannula thing he’d knocked a little crooked. The tube’s kind of misty now, just under his nose, and Katsumi briefly wonders what happens if that thing gets too clogged up with snot to work properly.

Because Katsumi had to go and run his mouth.

Natsume fishes out the talisman from where it’s fallen into the sheets, and presses it back into Tanuma’s palm. “We came to help,” he tells him, snatching a corner of the bedsheet to help mop up his cheeks before he can forget again about the clip, or jostle the IV port or gel packs. “So let us. And rest, okay?”

“Yeah,” Katsumi mutters. “That.” He feels like he’s hovering, blunt and mean and too big for his own skin for this tiny-ass non-room. Glances at his watch, scuffs his heel on the floor. “It’s almost time. You know Nishimura’s probably gonna deck me for making you cry.”

Katsumi can’t immediately clock the sharp little hiccup as laughter. Sounds a little more like an injured corgi to him, but when he looks at Tanuma, there’s a little waver in the set of his mouth, and his shoulders have relaxed, just a bit.

Natsume’s expression is dry—you’d have brought it on yourself if he does—but he seems mollified, his hand having found its careful way back onto Tanuma’s arm like it was coming back home.

Tanuma looks up. His eyes are still red-rimmed, but that desolate look has receded somewhat. “You didn’t—“ he starts.

“I mean, I did,” Katsumi counters.

Tanuma smushes his lips together, tries again. “I’m okay.”

Katsumi raises an eyebrow, makes a vague sweep of the arm around the terrible little space, all the equipment crammed around and connected to him. “Yup. Clearly.” 

Tanuma sighs, just looks at him for a moment. And maybe it’s not an improvement, Katsumi thinks, if Tanuma’s circling back to just finding him exhausting to talk to, but then that’s no worse than yesterday before all this shit began.

“Thank you,” Tanuma tells him, finally. His voice is soft but sure.

Katsumi shrugs. Always down to bully a hospital patient. I’m your guy.

But the words dig in, stick in place like nettles. And it hurts, kind of, a nagging sort of prickle embedded in Katsumi’s chest.

It’s not so bad, though.

“Sure,” he offers.  “Now rest up, or else. This place is the worst.”

***

[eruhamster]

Just wanted to point out something. And it's probably been discussed before, I'm just not super involved with the fandom, and typically I hear people say that Shi Qingxuan was always meant to be a mortal. But I don't think that's so, and I think about it plenty.

In the arc of Shi Qingxuan losing his godhood ("his" godhood), it's established he was latched onto by a ghost from an early age because he was a "legendary character" and had an "earthshattering destiny"; that's what the reverend that attached itself to SQX liked best, and he could smell it on him as a baby:

This is the reality. He Xuan, in his anger, claims Shi Qingxuan is a common mortal:

But it's stated again later, if it's not clear enough for the reader; Shi Qingxuan was not a simple mortal. His fate was the complete opposite of a god:

IE, if Shi Wudu had not intervened, Shi Qingxuan would be a Supreme Ghost. His legendary, earthshattering destiny was ghosthood. The destiny that He Xuan was given. He Xuan was not just simply so angry at his lack of godhood that he became a ghost, it's that that fate was meant for Shi Qingxuan to begin with. How important, then, that He Xuan never exchanges his fate with Shi Qingxuan. And how interesting that Shi Qingxuan, of all the gods other than the part-ghost Xie Lian, is the one that seems to get along the best with the ghosts we see, including being the only one to be truly personable and even friendly with Hua Cheng.

And, interestingly, while 'Black Water Calamity' or 'Black Water Sinking Ships' is a TGCF character, while I'm no expert in Chinese mythology, 'black calamities' are recurring, and some of this might spark a realization in you:

And take a second to remember the recurring ghosts that He Xuan has domain over and who fight on his behalf - Nothing but black fog.

[terresdebrume]

"I want you to listen to me."

Edwin does. Did. Heard Charles, more conscious than ever that he only had his soul left to receive the words with. He listened, and he didn't think of anything but Charles' voice, and then running... but the time of the soul is not the time of the body, and ghosthood is a funny old thing, when one pauses to think about it.

Later, after no time at all, there is a mirror. Edwin does not travel. He does not go through. His coat, his vest, his shirt lie about him on the floor, dismissed for a time. He looks. At his shoulders, only partially covered by his undershirt. At the skin there, forever whole and unblemished. Most of all, Edwin looks down at his clavicles.

Ghosthood is a funny old thing. The time of the soul is not the time of the body, and ghosts have no bodies. And right there, in the dip of Edwin's clavicles, he can see the thumbprints, bloodless on his already pale skin. He can see the trails, pink with awakened skin.

The time of the soul is not the time of the body. Years ago, right now, at the end of forever: right there, in the dip of Edwin's clavicles, the shape of Charles' love lingers.

(Reblogs make the world go round! Consider reblogging this if you enjoyed the snippet^^)

[lenglengflames]

only hua cheng can eat/ tolerate xie lian's cooking.

but what if this was because he lost his sense of taste when he was alive?

he can only feel textures/ very strong flavours, and xie lian's cooking is the only thing that allows him to taste.

loss of taste can occur from (limited to only to what hua cheng would've potentially experienced while alive): head/ ear injuries, the common cold/ illnesses, poor nutrition and stress/ anxiety/ depression (though this impairs taste, not causes loss, and is rather rare).

though loss of taste may not be permanent, perhaps he'd hadn't gotten rid of it when he died, and this followed him into his ghosthood.

since basic human necessities does not impede him after death, there is no reason for hua cheng to eat. so he probably doesn't eat anything until xie lian offers him something.

thus, xie lian's food would be the first meal in centuries - and possibly since his childhood - that hua cheng could taste due to it's strong and unorthodox taste. he finally gets to experience what salty, spicy, sweet and bitter tastes like again through xie lian's cooking. when xie lian finds out, he promises to cook for hua cheng whenever he wants.

after dubious amounts of salt, chilli peppers, sugar, etc, they realise hua cheng has quite the sweet tooth, and xie lian finds that incredibly endearing. he takes the time to learn how to make deserts (with at least 10 times the amount of sugar than the recipe calls for), and has a new weapon to deal with fengqing's quarrels.

[nerdyenby]

Thinking about how good of foils Cole and Morro could’ve been

I cannot recall any one-on-one interactions between the two but they could be so!!! Their elements — earth and wind — are opposite, as are their primary characteristics. While Cole is repeatedly characterized as being unwaveringly good and selfless to a fault, Morro’s story is one of greed and how it corrupts.

The main thing they have in common is their deaths, or more specifically their fates after death. Both Cole and Morro were ghosts, but the distinction between how this happened to them is critical. Ghosthood is a fascinating concept to me, especially in a world where it is not the norm. Ghosthood is for those who weren’t supposed to go like that, those who either went too soon or attempted to unnaturally extend their lives.

Cole became a ghost as a sacrifice for the greater good. He did it unthinkingly, almost on pure instinct. He saw something that needed to be done and he did it, even at the expense of his own life.

Morro’s death was a more natural one, but by no means was it less tragic. The only person who offered him any kind of love and support has hoped for greatness from him. When it turned out he was unable to deliver, he let rage consume him and ran. He fled the only home he ever had, hoping to prove the universe wrong, that he could be great. He tried and tried and tried but he never succeeded. He didn’t care about his own safety, he only wanted to prove himself, and this intense desire to validate that he is special, that he is great only resulted in his death.

Cole’s death was so instantaneous he didn’t even feel it, Morro’s was slow and torturous. Cole’s was the result of a curse, Morro’s was just a simple, tragic accident. Both men became ghosts because their goals superseded their self-preservation, but the distinction in how and why they died means everything.