#gravesite memorials

[gracefireheart]

Time for yet another Sea Grunkles adventure, 'cause this one I've had in mind for a lil' while. It's a long though, so I'll put it under the keep reading line.

It revolves around the whole "I'm still on your mind" poem, to which- a few months into Stan and Ford's sea venture- Bill finally finds out how to get back into Stan's mind again from the Theraprism.

The only problem? Well... Bill's essentially powerless there too. Can't really make Stan's dreams chaotic and distressing like he wants to (besides just being there himself, which seems to at least annoy Stan a lil' bit), can't really make a deal with Stan even if he wanted to, can't even float around this damn Mindscape! It was frustrating to be there, especially with Stan laughing at Bill's uselessness. However, it did make him feel immense joy to know that Stan haven't slept well because of him- coupled with the fact that Stan doesn't want to tell Ford about this- so he continued visiting as often as he could.

Of course, Ford eventually notices that something's wrong with Stan. Despite getting more sleep than Ford (old habits die hard and all), Stan still looked more and more tired the more days pass. He wanted Stan to tell him what was going on without any prompting from himself, but after about a week had passed with nothing from his younger twin, Ford tries to confront him himself. Of course, Stan brushed him off.

Being two stubborn old men, they do end up arguing out on the deck of the ship. A lot of "I just want to make sure you're okay!" and "I don't need someone to take care of me, I'm completely fine!" and so on, until Stan spots something out the corner of his eye. Looking over- and upwards, upwards, upwards- Stan looked up to see a massive pink axolotl, staring down at them with a smile.

"Ah, there you are." Echoed through the air, yet the axolotl didn't move it's lips as it spoke. And of course, Stan screamed at it as he had no clue what it actually is nor why it's here.

Ford, however, looks at Stan in confusion- wondering why his brother was suddenly screaming out of nowhere. They very quickly find out that Ford can't see this giant axolotl- which was very unfair, in Ford's opinion- because, apparently, it had come here to kinda see Stanley, not Ford. Something about how Bill is breaking some rules by half leaving the Theraprism- several times- without an authorized figure with them or even knowing about it, and this axolotl's here to try and fix that. Also, Bill wasn't allowed to visit the Pines Family (or any of the Gravity Falls residents) at all to not make them relive old trauma- or give them any new trauma.

As this big axolotl spoke, Ford wanted to hear from Stan what it was saying, but of course, Stan doesn't want to say shit considering the subject matter. The Axolotl, having paused it's speech for a moment, looks sadly at the two twins- telling Stan how despite how happy this boat adventure seemed to make them, they still want to do everything in their power to "be better" for their twin. Whether by not being an inconvenience, or trying to pay back for past mistakes.

No matter, this wasn't why the Axolotl was here- the twins would have to figure that part out themselves once the Axolotl was done here. They shake their head before informing Stan that they need to be in his Mindscape for a bit to figure out how to get Bill out of there. Stan had no clue what to say to that, but even before he could try to say anything, the Axolotl surges forward and goes into his head- making Stan fall into Ford's arms, his eyes glowing bubblegum pink as he went unconscious.

This was pretty alarming for Ford to see- yelling out a distressed "STANLEY!" as he held his younger twin- but he quickly realized what was happening by the glowing eyes and remembered one of his own journal entries that could help in this situation. Carrying Stan's body to their shared bedroom, Ford places his twin's unconscious body onto the lower bed before he sets everything up with the lit candles. As Ford held his hand to Stan's forehead, it took a couple of tries to recite the exact latin words he needed to say. The moment he got it right, Ford was transported into Stan's mindscape- ready to face whatever was going on with this Axolotl he had heard high praises about in his travels through dimens--

"Hey Fordsy." "Hey. ... YOU--"

[thebreakfastgenie]

18 years ago I read this at a funeral and I have basically no memory of it whatsoever. I have been told I was too short to reach the podium and someone had to get me a box to stand on.

[graveyardrabbit]

Woodlawn Memorial Park, Colma, CA

10/30/2024

[knifeslidez]

swifties destroyed kurt cobain's memorial..

[crossmanufacturing]

personalized memorial cross

blue personalized gold

[at-this-point-i-dont-even-know]

Always and Forever

Jack Abbot x Reader

About: Jack Abbot lost his wife in the war, and her memory haunts him for six years, three months and twenty four days.

Warnings: I don't know anything medical or anything military so everything is just a guess , this also might get angsty

Six years, three months and twenty four days.

That was how long Jack had been considered a widower.

Six Years, three months and twenty four days since he kissed his wife goodbye and put you on a helicopter never to see you again.

And every night, for those six years, three months and twenty four days, he has woken from the same nightmare.

He’s standing in the desert, the camp behind him as he waves his wife off, your face smiling down at him from the open door as you yell out something he can’t quite hear. He smiles up at you and then turns his back, just slightly, for a half a moment to talk to someone whose face he no longer remembers, and then the blast forces him onto his back, his face burning from the explosion and the helicopter he had just put you on is alight in the air. Your screams cut through the ringing in his ears as he tries to crawl to the rubble falling from the sky. Trying to get to you as you fall, gracefully and lightly to the ground. A dead weight against the world as he finally gets to you, your face and body burnt beyond any recognition.

Every night he would wake screaming from the dream, his hands clutching the sheets and his breath ragged as he tried to pull himself back to reality.

A reality that didn’t have you in it.

He hadn’t been there the moment you died, no one had, your helicopter had gone down over enemy territory after a routine day. There were no survivors and no opportunity to retrieve your body. 

So every day Jack got out of bed, poured a strong cup of coffee with equal amounts of coffee, sugar and milk, before turning on his police scanner and doing the work outs given to him by his physical therapist. Every day he goes through the motions, eating, drinking, chatting to friends, talking to his therapist, helping in the ER and every single day he is reminded that you are gone.

He moved to Pittsburg once he had been honourably discharged a year after your death and after his reckless actions had cost him his foot. Before Pittsburgh, your home had been an army issued backpack and whatever tent you both collapsed in after performing surgery for 23 hours straight in a makeshift hospital. Your address in the States had been a house in Arizona that you both had put all your life savings into, bought without seeing and sold before either of you had moved in a single box. You were gone before the ink had dried and Jack couldn’t go there without you, so it had gone back on the market and he had moved to Pittsburgh at the insistence of your sister, a woman so much your polar opposite he could not believe you were related let alone see you in her.

Emery Walsh was a force to be reckoned with, and while she may never forgive Jack for talking you into another tour (in her opinion, you were going to go no matter what your husband decided), she had taken one look at him at your gravesite, an empty coffin below his feet, an empty wine bottle in his hands and moved him to her city. Got him a job in the Emergency Room, where she could keep an eye on him without hovering. 

And the days went by.

Six years, three months and twenty four days to be exact.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It was a better day than most when everything changed.

Jack had been rostered on the day shift, which he was starting to think wasn’t as bad as he had originally thought. His friend Dr Michael Robinavitch had brought him a coffee and the Nurse Dana manning the ship it was easy to fall into a comfortable banter with his colleagues. 

“I don’t know how you can drink that stuff!” Dana quipped, as she scrunched her nose at Jack's coffee order, and sipped her own black coffee.

“It brings me joy- which is a good thing i’ve been told.” he laughed as she rolled her eyes.

“If you keep seeking joy, people are going to think you’re more than a grump.”

“Who called me a grump? I am a pocket full of freaking sunshine!” he said, as dryly as possible.

“Sure-” Dana said before her next words were swallowed up by an incoming emergency. 

And the day continued on, Jack was working on a teenager with too many bullet holes in his chest to survive, when Walsh slammed her way into the Emergency Room, it was her day off so instead of the surgery scrubs she normally wore she was in jeans and a fluffy jumper.

A joke about her outfit was on Jack's tongue when it faded away the moment he caught her face.

Emery Walsh was a stone cold bitch, with a face that normally gives nothing away as she deals with life's challenges. 

Jack keenly remembered her face on the day of your funeral, dressed in Military garb she had remained stoic beside your parents, she had made an emotionless speech about your character with no stories of your shared youth and when your empty coffin had been put in the ground she had simply walked away. 

Jack had never quite forgiven her for that, but on the other side of that argument, who was he to judge, you died, he drank and then marched head first into a firefight with no backup and no worries for his own safety. It was Walsh’s unit that had pulled him out, screamed at him and then Walsh had taken leave of her own tour to stay by his bedside, not for emotional support but by some kind of twisted familiar duty for her sister.

But today, her face is white, and her eyes bloodshot red as she scanned the ER, her hands wringing as she fidgeted on the spot.

Jack moved towards her, ripping off his bloodied gloves and apron and yelling at someone else to help the kid, and grabbed her by the shoulder pulling her attention to him.

“What's wrong?” His voice is commanding, military, which pulls Walsh a little bit back to herself.

“I need Robby, now.” She says, each word an effort.

“Emery-”

“I need Robby- not you!” she hissed before turning on her heels and marching to another end of the ER.

“Dana?” Jack called out as the Charge Nurse rounded a corner.

“Yes?”

“Where’s Sad Boy?” The nickname had stuck months after the Pittfest Shooting much to Robby’s disgust. 

“Ambulance Bay- I think he’s trying to get some second hand smoke.” she laughed as she wandered away. 

It was a running joke, Robby trying to quit smoking, every couple of months he goes a few weeks before giving into the temptation. Jack always thought it was the biggest joke in the medical world, the fact that so many doctors, who all know the risks, still smoke so much. But who was he to judge, he ends most of his shifts at the edge of the roof. 

“Marsh!” the brunette turned to him, her eyes wide and her hands still shaking, “Ambulance bay!”

He wanted to follow her, to find out what had made the woman so shaken up but as he stepped forward he was bowled over by Dana who called him over to the incoming trauma.

--------------------------

It was almost an hour before he was finally back into the bullpen and away from any patients. 

Jack couldn't get the picture of Emery’s pale face and shaking hands out of his mind the whole time he coded his last patient, he didn’t even celebrate the small moment when they came back to the world of the living, instead briskly walking away leaving one of the residents to tell the family the good news. 

As he walked past Dana’s desk, he couldn't locate the charge nurse, Robby or Walsh. 

Where is everyone he thought to himself as he looked subtly behind curtains.

He wandered through the ER, nodding to people and stopping to ask some where Robby or Dana was but everyone was none the wiser.

He was starting to get frustrated, it was unusual for both leaders of the ER to disappear at the same time, normally they take turns having little meltdowns. 

As he headed towards the peds room he finally stopped the Charge Nurse. Dana was leaning against the door and typing quickly on her mobile.

“Hey! Have you seen Robby or Walsh?” 

The nurse looked up, like a deer in headlights, she went immediately ridged and stood between him and the door.

“He’s busy, can you man the front?” she asks, gently trying to push him back but he pushes his heels in.

“Dana? Where is Robby?”

She flicked her eyes between him and the shut door behind her.

“Please Jack- Go back out the front.”

“Why?”

“Jack-”

“What's going on Dana?”

“Sweetheart, I need you to go back out there.”

Icy filled his veins and suddenly he felt like he was back in the desert, having the worst news delivered to him by a patchy radio and uncaring radio operator who didn’t know who they were talking to on the other end. Whatever was behind that door was enough to have Dana calling him a pet name, and her eyes almost brimming with tears. 

He gently moved her to the side and slammed the door open to peds. 

The sight before him stopped him in his tracks. 

Robby and Emery stood over a bed, Robby putting in an IV line while Emery sat on a stool holding the hand tight of the person in the bed. 

“Who-” he whispered before taking one further step into the room and Robby turned to look at him. The attending eyes are wide and filled with emotion as he realises who walked into the door but Jack couldn’t look at him further. 

Jack felt his knees buckle as he took in the patient in the bed.

Pale and sleeping with a ragged breathing pattern, covered in black and blue bruises and a scar now running from brow to lip but he would know that face anywhere.

Jack Abbot had been a widower for six years, three months and twenty four days.

But it was you.

You were there, in the bed.

Alive.

“What the fuck-” he whispered before his knees gave out and darkness took over.

[awordsmith]

haunted 𝜗𝜚 r. spencer

it gets tiring… the sleepless nights, the waking up in cold sweat, not being able to sleep without dreaming about that wretched man... you can’t seem to remember what life was like before you smelled her perfume and felt his gangly hands slipping under your shirt.

the terrors follow you despite neglecting them time in the dark, and when you receive a phone call from Spencer in the middle of the night, you understand that he too, is being haunted.

who? spencer reid x bau!reader when? s10 genre: angst (comfort) content warning: sa trauma, a little grappling with depression-anxiety-insomnia. facing, switching povs, kind of proofed . . .reid with incredible care !! word count: 4.3k a/n: finally got the second part out!! i pushed this off for a long time, not just because of school, but because of how depressing it lowkey made me. . .enjoy!!

 …and that’s when I woke up, he slipped me something, somehow. I don’t know how long I was asleep for,” you rambled, trying to recount everything that had happened up to this moment.

“What happened when you woke up in the cell?”

“I–” you paused, trying to remember, “there was–the girl–

“Avice Diericke?” The cop pulled out a file–likely a report, “the most recent missing victim.”

“Were they–did you find their bodies?” He paused. You were sitting in a hospital bed, the lights above you weren’t ideal–they hurt your eyes, but every time you closed them, you saw her hair swishing into that dungeon, and you smelled her perfume mixing with the stench of smoke and human remains.

“I cannot disclose that information…” he glanced around the room, and you were alone. He sighed and leaned in, “I’m not supposed to talk about it with you because–” he faltered, his eyes showing remorse, “all I can tell you is that they found what looks to be a gravesite.”

“How many?” Your voice was less than a whisper, and tears pooled in your eyes.

“I’m sorry, I…don’t know.”

You nodded against the pillow. 

“A 2, almost 3-month case, that would have anyone feeling like they were suffocating. Especially agents such as yourself and Dr. Reid.” The therapist paused, assessing your expression, “You don’t seem fazed, though. Do you want to talk about it?”

You shifted, tugging the gloomy sleeves of your sweatshirt further downward, “I can’t think about it.”

“That’s completely understandable,” she nodded. The gray and blue room had your eyes falling shut. Your mind was cold, you didn’t know how to think without those memories surfacing. “You might want to shove those thoughts away, to shy away from them, but that is not how you are going to heal.” She shook her head, “It’s not going to be easy, but I’m here for you. And we can take this as slow as you need to.”

You shivered, he was a flash of a memory–you had to continuously tell yourself. He was still in custody awaiting trial. 

It wasn’t enough.

“Are you cold?” Your therapist asked; she’d been handpicked by Deputy Director Baily himself. 

You averted your gaze, “not particularly.”

Spencer knew it too–when he saw her on the bed, looking so helpless–he knew when he saw how she looked for him in the crowd and how his eyes landed on her as if she was his connection to the living.

But she was.

After coming to terms with everything they’d been through, Spencer knew he could trust her. Only when she was near did he know for sure he was him and only him.

He gripped the railing of his balcony; if he had the strength, he would have broken it without a moment's hesitation. He didn’t. Instead, the saint spritz in his hand twisted halfway. He chugged the rest, threw the can to the floor–remnants of alcohol hitting the concrete path–and stomped on it.

He heard the final crunch, he wondered if that’s what it would sound like to crush a bone. There were 206, not including teeth and small bones lost in tendons. Spencer yanked his sliding glass door open and walked back into his darkened apartment, not a single lamp on nor a single candle lit.

His eyes clamped shut, and he fell to his knees, gripping his temple as a sharp pain shot through his skull. In his demise, he couldn’t help but picture one face.

He swallowed and tried to pretend she was there, he tried to imagine her hand reaching out, stroking the wisps of hair at the back of his neck, whispering his name into his ear until he didn’t have it in him to question anything anymore.

Spencer reached for the pill bottle–still full since he’d been prescribed it. He had to remember where he was. he lifted his head, and his eyes caught on his reflection in the glass of the bottom of the shelf across the room. Inside were books, but rather than seeing them, he watched his dark, cold eyes look back at him in the blue night. 

He ground his teeth and snarled at the image before him. His hands dropped from his side, and he turned away, now on all fours. He couldn’t barre to look at himself. 

He loathed it. 

The look of desperation.

A loud crash sounded throughout your flat. You gripped your hair and yanked, the pain forcing tears through your eyes. The oversized t-shirt fell to one side, and you could see the bra strap you were wearing. A bubble of whimpers wracked around you and you fell the the bathroom floor, the storm outside flickering across the mirror.

You curled in on yourself and rested your back against the wall near the open door. Disregarding the thunder, it was quiet; disregarding your thoughts, it was quiet.

Wails echoed around the space between you and the walls closing in. His hands. His hands were everywhere. They were crawling all over you–they were spiders, you were in a web built for girls just like you–and you–Oh God–

Your hand came up to your mouth as you pushed off the wall and crawled toward the toilet with one hand; the thin fabric of your pajama pants was not going to save you from any of the bruises you were attracting with your careless actions.

Your heavy breathing did nothing for the foul smell. It came and came again–you heaved again, but that was the end. Forcing yourself to your feet and flushing the vomit down the drain, you thought to call him.

It was a thought that had kept you up for the past few nights, even though you’d been able to sleep in your own bed. You had just been friends before, and not even good friends. You didn’t know; you couldn’t really remember at a time like this. Your palm ran over your mouth. You made a face–it reeked.

“Uh–” you fell forward and gripped the counter to right yourself, your head was pounding. You jumped, knocking your hairbrush to the floor–“God,” you breathed, heading for your phone. You swallowed, but it hurt; you were picking up a sore throat, cough drops–you steered toward the kitchen when another ring shot through your brain.

You spun around and beelined it for the phone you’d set on the table near your front door. Your fingers twitched, and your lips pressed together before you ultimately decided to pick it up and answer the call.

Quiet breathing, you could practically see the breath coating around the glass or blowing out smoke. You forced yourself to inhale and exhale, “...Spencer?”

A sound, almost like a sigh, could be heard from the other line. “Hey,” his voice was gruff, nearly identical to yours, only deeper.

“Hey,” you made your way back into the den, rounded your couch, and curled up in the corner, “are you okay?”

“–Yeah, just–” he cut himself off with another sigh, “just��can you meet?”

“Now?” you bit the nail on your thumb, checking the time on your phone, “it’s kind of late, no?”

“Yeah, but I–,” another pause and another sigh, “no, you’re right–

“You know what? It’s fine…I think I could use some company, too.” He kept quiet, and you grew a bit nervous, “Spencer? Where are you right now?”

“...Home…I’m at home.” He sounded as if he must have been crying, you couldn’t help but wonder if he, too, was being haunted.

“Okay,” you stood, your sore throat in the back of your mind now, “I’m on my way.”

Spencer raced to the door as soon as he heard the first knock. He reached for the handle, then pulled back as if stunned. He wondered if he looked alright, he hadn’t looked in the mirror since… He couldn’t. He just couldn’t. But maybe, with her here…

Spenc ran his hands through his greasy hair, trying to ignore the length it had grown to. “Hey,” she shook the plastic bag in her right hand, “I brought food.”

For the first time since the rescue, Spencer felt a sliver of a smile. “That smells delicious.” He stepped aside and through open his door, letting her and a bit of midnight into his already black abode.

“It’s dark,” she noted, taking a turn about his place. She wore a white cola t-shirt and a pair of pajama pants that couldn’t be warming her in any type of way. The smell of the Chinese food in the bag wafted through his apartment as he shut the door.

“You want me to turn a light on?” He turned back to her, feeling the oddest wave of calmness.

“No,” she snorted, sitting on one of her legs and letting the other dangle out in front of her.

Spencer wondered if she had gotten slightly used to the dark as well, for him, it was the only time he felt…real. He’d been going to therapy, recommended by the assistant director, but it’d only been a week now, and Spencer found himself still unable to sleep during the hours of dusk.

“Hey, Spence…” She bit her lip; he could see it in the little light that filtered in through his balcony windows.

“Yes?” Spencer took a seat across from her and leaned forward on a palm, not knowing how he looked in her eyes, but hoping it wasn’t as pathetic as he felt.

Her eyes glinted–they didn’t shine and that wasn’t to say she wasn’t pretty because she was–well, she was more than pretty and if Spencer analysed her features anymore–though he could only make out the features the were in the light and he had to imagine the rest–he’d be able to say exactly why she looked perfect.

And maybe a part of the reason Spencer thought that was biased, because she looked like him with the way her eyes were sunken–with the way they ahd adjusted to the night–and with the way she looked almost relived to see him–like she’d been living in a world of ghosts and he was the first real person she’d made contact with.

Beauty was subjective, always swaying a certain way in the eye of the beholder. Spencer liked to think he had an exceptionally fair rationale when it came to deciding where a person fell on the scale of beauty–but even he had to admit, he was probably being biased when it came to her, though he had no doubt others saw her just as such–she had that type of beauty that could only be found in castle in Rome and Greece.

From where he sat, she looked like she’d crawled out of an old Renaissance oil painting. It unnerved him, but he had to remind himself that she was real and he was real, and that this was reality–not fiction; not a campfire ghost story.

“What?” Spencer blinked. “You want to–”

She shook her head, “You don’t have to come with me, but I thought you should know.”

“Will they even allow it? I mean–”

“–I have to do this, Spencer…I…” her bottom lip quivered and she looked away. Spencer found himself reaching out, reaching out to make sure he was still there–that she was still there.

He breathed when he made contact. She glanced up, lips pursed in determination, but eyes watery, full of fear. A shuddering breath escaped him, “I know.”

She wallowed and nodded, and when she squeezed his hand, he felt tears prick the corners of his own eyes, “I knew you’d understand.”

His lips pulled together, and he tried not to break down right there–he wanted to confide in her like he had in that place. He was still struggling to grapple with the fact that he wasn’t Savino–that had been a persona he’d taken on. He knew that, and he told himself that daily, but with her, it just seemed so much easier to let go. Around her, he wasn’t fighting with his brain, he was still working out the why.

“…Spencer–

“–I’ll go with you.”

“Spencer–you don’t have to.”

“No, but I want to.” He tugged on her hand, and she smiled. He loved that smile, he always had…

“Ugh, you’re so annoying! Hotch, tell him to give it back!”

Hotch raised his eyebrows and shrugged, Morgan snickered in the back. You glared at him as Spencer raised the book higher–

“Come on! You guys, seriously! Oh–wait till Penelope gets here!”

“Oh uh uh,” Spencer grinned and wagged his finger in your face, “no snitching–”

“Snitcing?!” A goofy grin tugged at your lips. You glanced around at your coworkers–your friends and family–around Rossi’s kitchen. 

It was noon in August; Morgan had convinced Rossi to host a barbecue. You had been in the middle of reading a spicy book, and Specner–the little rat!–had been silently reading it over your shoulders

Of course, his innocent mind couldn’t handle a little spice, so he’d called you out on it and snatched the book when you had denied and defended your case. “Spe-hencer–” you laughed, chasing him around the large, brown leather couch.

“–to talk to each other is buy a more animated–I thought this was supposed to be a classic–” he scoffed, his shit eating grin the last thing you needed to launch a pillow at him.

Rossi cleared his throat, having even Hotch straighten up, “uh–the term 'throw pillow' is not supposed to be taken literally.”

Laughter spilled from the memory. Spencer felt himself wishing he could go back in time; he felt his mind reaching out for the memory, not wanting to lose it, though despite his efforts, it slipped through his hands and faded away.

“What was that just now?” She tilted her head.” You looked so happy.” Her gentle smile nearly pushed Spencer over the edge. Was he not on a cliff already? Was he not underwater? He was suffering, but… “but then you looked so sad…”

Spencer didn’t know what to say. It was funny. He knew the rates of school shootings in America and every state individually. He knew so many violent facts, he knew so many things he wished he didn’t.

“Spencer?” A gasp. Where was he just now? In his head? What time was it? “Spencer…” he turned to the side, feeling something cold on his temples. Fingers, hands–” hey, it’s okay…” she murmured and ran her hands through his hair; they were cold, but they were the only thing Spencer wanted to feel.

“Thank you.” He heard. “Thank you,” he said.

“Oh, Spencer,” she pulled his head into her chest and murmured his name like a prayer–or maybe it was a wish. Spencer could die like this. He could die knowing who he was, but he didn’t want to. And that thought–that knowledge…he just wasn’t prepared to understand it.

You didn’t have a fear of flying. Taking off and your time in the air did not relatively affect you… It was the landing that had always gotten you to brace yourself. The slight jolt forward, that sinking your stomach did when it knew something was wrong–it all got you holding your breath and gripping the seat.’’

Spencer slipped his hand into yours, and your eyes fell to his. A tight-lipped smile and an expression that reassured you. You were not alone, and you were alive.

Despite yourself, you shivered and unbuckled your seatbelt.

The trial was meant to take place in two days. You had gotten clearance to watch it, but you weren’t sure you wanted to face him like that. If you were too weak and broke down in front of him— in a courtroom where you couldn’t show him just how much damage he’d done— you would never forgive yourself.

Spencer knew this, though he couldn’t relate exactly; he knew what it was to feel helpless, and though Bobefitz had gotten Spencer to feel more anger than he had ever thought possible, Spencer could never compare what he felt to what you did.

He could be angry for you, he could be sad, and livid, but he could never be able to speak for you, Spencer knew that better than anyone.

“Are you sure about this?” Spencer’s lips pressed together as you hailed a cab.

“I am,” you met his gaze with one unmoving. “Thank you again.”

“You don’t,” he shook his head, almost offended, “don’t thank me, please.”

“Why not?” you murmured, eyes tracking the cab pulling up to the two of you.

“Just,” a shuddering sigh fell from his mouth as you popped open the boot of the car and slid in your luggage. 

“Well?” You smiled up and him, but it was all wrong. 

It wasn’t real–he couldn’t look at it, he didn’t deserve to. He should have been faster, he should have–it should have been him! “You have nothing to thank me for,” he glanced away, voice low.

You went quiet, assessing his aura, “Spencer, are you okay?”

“What? Yes–”

“You’re lying,” you frowned, holding your hands behind your back. You couldn’t look at him, you could tell somewhere deep down he felt guilty–but how could you let him feel guilty when you felt guilty yourself? You should have been able to save her. 

Your therapist had tried to convince you to stay home, but you owed it to her, and all of those other students who would never get a chance to say their peace–if you were the last of his victims, if you were the only one to make it out alive, then you owed it to them, you fellow victims–they were just children.

“Hey,” Spencer’s thumbs wiped across your face, “you’re crying, why are you crying? Do you want to go back?”

You shook your head, bottom lip wobbling, “I can still smell it.”

“What?” He leaned downward, pressing his ear to your lips.

You ran your hands through his tousled brown curls, you felt him tense a second before relaxing, his body almost melting into your hands, “her perfume, Spencer…”

Spencer’s attention snapped to his companion, his brain racing around the meaning behind her words. He hadn’t experienced what she’s experienced, and if she’d spoken about it, he hadn’t heard–logically, Spencer would have no idea what she was talking about–but she would know that, so why–

“I’m sorry,” she pulled away. Spencer held his breath, unsure if he’d be able to make sense of what she’d say next. She turned away and slipped into the cab. Spencer, despite himself, forced his throat to clear and follow her.

Rain pounded the window, and you sat at your small, circular table, eating cherries from a bowl and spitting the pits in another. The air was cold, but it smelled of coolness. It was morning, you could tell, though it had taken you a moment to figure it out.

A flash of dull yellow caught the corner of your eye, your head jerked, and you couldn’t move. You winced against the paralysis that had come over your body, and you grunted, fighting against the imaginary chains. A yelp flew from your mouth, and you began hyperventilating when Bobefitz's large face came into view.

You were trying to sit up, but he had you trapped in bed. Tear sprang up and dripped down your cheeks near your temple.  “No,” you were saying, shaking your head against the hard pillow, “no, no–”

“–Are you okay?” He called your name, and you jerked awake. Hotel desk and chairs sat in front of you, to the side, another bed, right, you were with Spencer in Australia, in a hotel. You were in a queen-sized bed, not the skinny pallet made up in Gentry’s basement, and you were wearing your regular pajamas, not the white, cotton nightdress you wore in that place.

Spencer knelt beside you, though it didn’t appear he had been sleeping–if the still-made-up bed was anything to go by–you felt bad.

“You look pretty shaken up.” You watched his eyebrows furrow as he focused on your forehead. His hand lifted, and soon the back of his cold palm met your temple. “I guess you’re not coming down with something…but,” he looked down, and you followed his gaze. “You sweated through your clothes, do you have another pair?”

You sighed and held a hand to your chest, dropping your head. You didn’t want to think about that. Why couldn’t you just forget it all? Why were you plagued with remembering every single detail–and her smell–why was it–

“Hey, hey, don’t cry,” Spencer said, lifting you into his lap. “It’s okay, you’re okay,” but you didn’t feel okay. Why couldn’t you just feel okay? That–all that was a job; it wasn’t real!

But it was real. The story you’d given had been fake, but the experience? The victimization, the helplessness? That had all been real, and for some reason, everyone but yourself could come to terms with that. “How long have I been asleep?” You panted, rubbing water and crust from your eyes. You felt sick, like you might throw up, but it didn’t faze you much anymore.

Spencer glanced at his wristwatch. You squinted at his pursed lips. Your hand was outstretched before you knew what you were doing.

Spencer flinched, his eyes tracing your hands up to your chin, your lip, your eyes–your lips–your eyes again. His breath caught as he took in your tearstained face. He shouldn’t be having impure thoughts, not like this and certainly not now, especially with all you’ve been through. Despite knowing this, however, his throat still went dry with fantasies of kissing you.

“Spencer?” He coughed. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” he cast his gaze downward, he felt horrible–this wasn’t him. It couldn’t be him. It was sick–oh God…was he sick? Did it all fuck him up more than he’d led on? More than he could tell? Spencer bolted for the bathroom, and you jumped, standing to chase after him.

You stopped in the middle of the room, the world spinning and pain wreaking havoc on your mind. “Spencer!” Holding the other one out for balance, you pressed a hand to your head.

Slowly, you went to the bathroom door, shivering at the cold, blue morning. It might have been morning, it was either really late or really early, though you weren’t inclined to dwell on it much longer.

“Spencer!” Your fists collided with the weak wooden door. " What’s—” you huffed, pausing to catch your breath. It was quiet for the most part; the only sounds evident were your breathing and whatever Spencer was doing on the other side of the door.

“Just a se–” you pressed your left ear to the door, trying to focus.

“Are–Are you oka–”

“Eugh,” he was not. Spencer was throwing up whatever he’d eaten in the past twelve hours.

He was a devil. There were so many cruel things in this world, people without human sympathy, the cruelest. How could he sit there? How could he sit there with a grin on his face and lack any and all emotion? He wasn’t even trying to hide the fact that he’d hurt so many people, so many children.

It made you sick–he made you sick. Spencer led you down the aisle. You turned at the very front and sat right behind the prosecution table. You hadn’t eaten anything. You couldn’t. You knew it was bad for you, but this morning, you thought one more day wouldn’t be too bad.

The courtroom seemed to expand. It was a sea of fish and sharks, a field of wolves and sheep.

Bobefitz stood and pleaded not guilty. You didn’t understand how he thought he’d get away with it. Despite believing they hadn’t cared for their kids, the families of the victims littered the area around you. When he approached the stand and sat, his eyes fell to yours. You wanted to look away, tears pooled in your eyes. It was the first time you realized you were afraid.

You were angry, and hurt, and you felt guilty for not being able to save Avice. You hadn’t been able to look to see if her parents had arrived, and you couldn’t face them. What if she had her mother’s face? What if she had her father's eyes? What if she spoke as they would in sync?

Bobefitz stared you down. Your bottom lip trembled. You had never hated someone so much as you did the man in front of you. With each statement made by each party, it felt like the walls were getting smaller and smaller, your breathing grew rapid, and the people around you began to fade away, leaving only you and Bobefitz.

You gasped, recoiling at Spencer’s touch. He snatched his hand back and gave you a once-over, not looking offended, but unsure of what your actions meant. You watched his lips press together–you knew that meant he was having a debate with himself in his head. He glanced toward Bobefitz for a second, still sitting on the stand.

You wanted to stay, Spencer knew better than anyone how much it meant for you to state and face him, not just for yourself but for all the others. But Spencer couldn’t let you continue if it meant risking your health. You were likely oblivious to the fact that you were crying, and that had Spencer’s stomach on fire. He’d thought he might throw u again, or that perhaps you might.

“Spencer?” You reached for his hand, his eyes fell to where your skin met his, his name echoing within the space between you.

“I’m here,” he squeezed once, then again. And he always would be.

You wiped your tears, tugging Spencer closer. He wrapped his arms around you as you muffled your whimpers into his shoulder. He caught the sound of sniffles and then, “I want him dead.”

Spencer tensed, pulling back to look you in the eye. There was something in them, something he could only describe as destruction, and for a second, he thought he’d lost consciousness. He nodded, swallowing down the knowledge that he would never say no to you ever again, that for him it was physically impossible. “Okay, how?”

a/n: don't hate me for this ending

@bmyva1entine @darkmatilda @theylovemelody @kennedy-brooke @maisyyyyyy @mggspo @3amcloudss  @23moonjellies  @watercolorskyy

[ghost-1-y]

Depths

Sea Serpent!Obanai x AFAB!Mermaid!Reader

Content Warnings: MDNI, thalassophobia, nyctophobia, manga spoilers if you squint, sexual content, monsterfuck!ng, penetrative sex, consensual sex, oral sex (m! and f! receiving), 69’ing, tongue-fucking (Obanai has a really long tongue), bondage (via Obanai’s tail), light choking(?), sensory deprivation (it’s dark and reader can't see things unless they’re close by), degradation (reader-receiving), self-degradation (Obanai), breeding k!nk, creamp!e, mentions of exhibitionism (doesn’t really happen), uh- reader almost swims back home naked(?), minors and ageless blogs DNI!!!

Summary: Your father had always warned you of the dangers of the deep ocean, demanding that you stay within the safe borders of the underwater kingdom. However, one day, you become curious and secretly travel into waters untraversed by any merperson still alive today – wishing to know what lies beyond the safe confines of your home, not realizing that the countless warnings from your father had been given to you for very good reason.

Word Count: ~2.8k

Divider Credit: the wonderful @/benkeibear

Whatever you do, please, for the love of Poseidon himself, do not go past the borders of the kingdom.

Whenever you left your family’s underwater cave, your father would always warn you of the dangers of leaving the safety of your home. It was, of course, something every merperson was warned about: to not travel into the depths of the ocean, or so much as pass the coral reef that bordered the edges of the region.

For every single merperson that disobeyed this rule disappeared without a trace.

You were unsure whether or not that meant they’d died, but it seemed that was the general consensus of the merfolk in your community. Even the king himself decided to create gravesites for those lost to the depths, as a way to commemorate their memory and contributions to the kingdom. What’s more is that the royal family decided to keep guards posted at the edges of the reef in order to prevent anything from coming in, as well as anyone from going out.

Most merfolk heeded these warnings without question – as the pressure of the water would have killed them anyway should they have traversed a little too deep. However, you – always the curious one – wondered what exactly happened to those who did decide to enter the endless blue and swim into the dark. While the others considered them to be foolish individuals, you thought them to be brave, courageous adventurers who wished to know more about what existed beyond the borders of your home.

But, in order to not upset your father – you couldn’t bear being the cause of his misery and grief – you stayed put. Always looking but never acting upon your desires.

And so you performed your usual daily tasks, collecting sea grass and other marine vegetation as food for your family. You’d swim along the coral reef, not going so far as to reach the outskirts of the kingdom; yet, just as you were about to pluck yet another piece of kelp from its roots, a dark shadow crossed over you from above.

By the time you turned around to see what it was, however, the shadow was gone – it had, like those who’d gone beyond the reef, disappeared without a trace.

You never considered yourself to be foolish, but even little merchildren who spoke excitedly about the mysteries of the ocean depths would question the actions you performed next as you tossed your little woven basket filled with vegetation to the side and swam to the edge of the kingdom, hoping to catch sight of whatever creature caused the shadow.

As you swam to the very edge of the reef, miraculously evading any guards posted in the area, you looked out into the deep blue as it turned to black beneath your tail – never having realized before that your reef had stood on the edge of a precipice that overlooked a vast, endless abyss – unknowing and shrouded in mystery. You shivered, an indecisive feeling striking at your heart as you questioned whether or not to follow it – before you noticed the slightest movement in the dark below.

Fuck it, you thought to yourself as you embraced the vastness of the water and swam into the depths where light began to dwindle, wishing to know what exactly lived down there. You swam, and swam, and swam – feeling the pressure slowly but surely digging into your skin – a force that, despite the small discomfort, seemed to be pushing you further downward rather than ushering you back to the safety of your home, and a sense of freedom started to flood through you – because you had done something that was unthinkable, and you were alive. 

Yet, as you continued your journey into the abyss, you noticed movement just out of the periphery of your slowly diminishing vision, and you realized how what you’d done could be perceived as foolish – because you were not alone here; there were beings lurking in the dark that engulfed you – watching you as you traversed through the unknown – or at least, what was unknown to you.

“You’re an interesting little thing, aren’t you?” a voice from behind you hissed. “Not a care in the world for what could be lurking within the shadows – stalking their prey as you go about swimming in waters that aren’t yours." 

Your blood turned to ice as you slowly turned around to face the voice’s owner – only to find nothing as you’d gone too deep into the dark, just barely able to make out the tips of your fingers as you stretched your arms out in front of you. The voice chuckled, as though it could smell your fear.

“Where– where are you? Who are you?” you hesitantly asked the voice, only for it to answer – sounding from your right this time.

“Hm? So demanding,” the voice admonished you, “I should ask you what you’re doing in my waters.” It was behind you now, “tell me, how did you find yourself so far away from your home? Are you lost? Or, perhaps you came here – came to me – on purpose…” it drawled, and you felt an uncomfortable shiver move up your spine. 

“I–” you swallowed, trying to ease the developing knot inside your throat, “I came here on purpose…I wanted to explore– I was curious of what lived beyond the reef.”

The voice hummed, “I can’t tell if you’re incredibly brave or insurmountably stupid.” It was in front of you this time, and you could just barely make out the silhouette of its figure before it shrouded itself in darkness once more.

“Can I– can I see you? I’d like to know who I’m talking to,” you insisted, trying to calm the shakiness of your voice. 

You were met with silence – had the creature left you? Were you alone again?

“Surely a thing as pretty as you would regret looking upon something as hideous as I,” it responded, nearly emotionless – as though it were stating a fact of nature itself. “Why don’t you swim home, hm? I’d spare your life just this once – next time, I won’t be so forgiving.”

Yet, when you were met with such an offer, you hesitated. Something in which the words were said made you wonder if there was truly an escape from this.

“What if I refused?” You were beginning to realize how foolish you truly were. “I’m not leaving until I know who you are,” you maintained, and the creature scoffed.

“You merfolk have always been brainless,” it sighed, “I shouldn’t have expected anything different from you.”

“Don’t talk about my people that way,” you demanded, and you were met with what could only be described as a low growl.

“Why shouldn’t I? It was your people who cast me out years ago – who left me to rot in the depths beneath the reef… fucking pitiful, isn’t it?” the voice spat, “you wanted to see me? Surely you’ll understand why they did such a thing when I look like this,” it seethed as it finally got close enough to reveal itself to you.

At first, his outline suggested that he was a fellow merperson, but your eyes widened as he got closer – as he revealed his more reptilian nature. To start, he lacked the forked caudal fin usually possessed by merfolk, instead possessing one more pointed and snake-like – one that merged into a spinal fin that ran continuously along his much longer tail and back. Your eyes ran up his torso, which was scaly and muted in color like the rest of his underside. You looked at his arms, which were surprisingly one of the more mer-like parts of his body – until you gazed upon his hands, which were webbed in between his fingers, and with nails so sharp they could easily slice open the throat of any prey. Last was his face – again, similar to that of a merperson, but his ears were finned and his mouth was wide and serpent-like – almost as if it were cut open along the sides. Your eyes scanned down his body once more until– oh.

His cock was huge.

Embarrassment caused heat to prickle across your cheeks, since merpeople in your kingdom would usually wear loincloths made of kelp to cover themselves in public. You forced your gaze away from his lower half, only to see him glaring at you as you looked up towards his face and into his mismatched irises.

Yet, you didn’t display any emotion of disgust or fear upon seeing him, a reaction which very much confused the serpent before you, as all others before you treated him as though he were the algae stuck to their scales – or worse, something that needed to be killed off, as though he were no better than a barracuda threatening the young merchildren that played along the reef.

“Why do you not cower in fear? Why do you not try to escape?” He asked as you maintained eye contact with him, a pregnant pause ensuing between the two of you.

“Is there a reason I should be afraid?” you asked, and he frowned.

“A horrifying creature such as I should invoke fear, disgust even. Tell me, dear,” he mocked, “tell me how sickening you think I am,” he demanded, bearing his pointed teeth. 

“You’re beautiful.”

He paused, unbelieving of the words that floated across your tongue and through your lips.

“Liar.”

You shook your head, “let me prove it to you,” you suggested, drawing closer to him within the darkened abyss, “may I ask for your name?”

The serpent looked at you with suspicion before conceding to your request. “Obanai Iguro,” he stated. 

“Obanai…” You let the name roll off your tongue, fingers lightly tracing along the scales of his chest, causing him to tense slightly, “such a pretty name.”

He grabbed your wrist with his webbed hand in warning, his grip tight against your skin.

“I’ll break you,” he cautioned, and you smiled, using your free hand to drag the tips of your fingers along his scaled torso.

“Maybe I want to be broken,” you purred.

As though something snapped within him, Obanai coiled his tail around you, effectively trapping you in place, with his narrow caudal fin lightly constricting around your throat. He pushed you against the rocky surface of the underwater massif and met you at eye level, faces mere inches apart from each other before he clashed his mouth with yours, his fangs prickling against your lips as he kissed you fervently. 

“You want me to break you? I’ll fucking ruin you, dear.”

Obanai gripped your jaw and forced his tongue into your mouth, making you quickly realize its forked nature as he massaged your tongue. He ripped his lips away from yours before moving down towards your breasts, grabbing at the shells that covered them with his sharpened nails and allowing them to fall into the darkness below. He latched his widened lips to one of your nipples, his forked tongue flicking the hardening bud as he sucked your breast into his mouth.

“Fuck– so good,” you whimpered, and he hummed before providing similar attention to your other breast, his tail tightening ever so slowly around your body – as though constricting around his prey in order to obtain his next meal.

And a meal you were, as he used his tail to force you further upward until his face was just below your navel, using his teeth to rip away the cloth adorning your waist as though he were haphazardly unwrapping a present. He wasted absolutely no time before plunging his tongue deep into your hot, exposed cunt, his lips pursing along your opening as he collected your juices. The muscle pulsed along your slick walls, undulating inside of you as he began to swallow your sweet nectar. Your eyes rolled back as your body reacted to the unfamiliar intrusion – moaning wantonly as he fucked you along the length of his tongue, before roughly pulling out of you, leaving you to whine at the sudden cut off from your impending orgasm.

You gasped as he turned you upside down and brought you close to his hardened cock. “Suck on it,” he demanded, and you obliged – having to use both of your hands to fully wrap around its girth before suckling at his tip. He plunged his tongue back into your tight pussy, causing you to moan around the head of his swollen, flushed cock. 

“Shit– that’s it, keep doing that,” he groaned as you began bobbing your head along his leaking tip, fitting as much as you could into your mouth while using both hands to stroke the remaining length of his dick. You licked along the underside of his cock, the veins adorning it throbbing against your tongue, his soft groans spurring you on. He started to rub your clit as his tongue entered your tight hole once more.

“Fuck!” you whined, “i-it’s too much! Obanai–!” you pleaded as he stretched his tongue further into your pussy, the forked tip slightly brushing along your cervix. He moaned, sending vibrations deep into your gushing cunt, putting you in a daze as you lazily stroked his cock. You could feel the tension build up deep within your stomach as he continued to prod his tongue through your wet entrance.

“C-Close…fuck ‘m gonna–!” you screamed as your orgasm ripped through you, and Obanai groaned as he lapped up all of your release with his tongue, swallowing all of it. He didn’t let up on the binding he put you in with his tail, but he did position you right side up again so he could kiss you, letting you taste yourself on his lips and tongue.

“So dirty, wanting to be fucked by something like me,” he groaned before pinning you against the rock once more, dragging his cock along your folds. You whimpered, causing him to chuckle, “you want this serpent’s cock? Want to get filled with my filthy cum?” and you nodded, your head falling back before he grabbed your chin, forcing you to look at him. “I asked you a question, sweetheart.”

“Yes! Please! Wan’ your cock inside me– oh fuck!” you cried as he wasted no time shoving it deep inside you, filling you balls deep in a single stroke. You could see the outline of his cock as it pushed against your tight walls, the slightest bulge showing along your abdomen as he pressed inside of you. 

“Shit, even after I stretched you out with my tongue, you’re still so fucking tight,” he panted, his grip that bound you loosening a little as he began pounding into you. “Such a dirty fucking whore, what would your people think if they saw you getting ruined like this?” 

You whined, unable to respond with how well he was fucking into your cunt, easily hitting that one spongy area that caused you to arch your back even further and clench around his cock. “Hm? Do you like that idea? You’re dirtier than I thought.” He increased the intensity of his thrusts, and you could only hear the pap, pap, pap of his balls slapping against you as he relentlessly impaled you on his cock.

His thrusts became sloppier as he got closer to his own climax. “I’m gonna fill you up, you’d like that, wouldn’t you? Hah- gonna breed you with my cum, then everyone will know you got fucked by a nasty serpent like me.” You whimpered and nodded, and he smirked before pressing his cock fully into you, groaning deeply as he emptied himself into your hot cunt, triggering your own orgasm as you gushed all over his dick. He pulled out of you and drew back his tail so you were no longer bound by him, lowering himself so he could lick at your pussy once more, tasting your mixed juices on his tongue. You jolted as he flicked at your clit, and cried out from the overstimulation before he parted from you.

“I’ll let you go – swim along home, dear. I’ll be down here if you ever wish to indulge me again,” he stated before licking his lips, eyes still hungry as he gazed down at you. You nodded and swam back up to the precipice of the cliff, cum still leaking out of you as you started to return home, only stopping yourself minutes later as you shamefully realized that you had nothing left to cover yourself with as you emerged from the depths.

Perhaps you’d stay, you thought, no one ever returned from swimming beyond the reef, after all.

Taglist: @k-a-t-h-r-i-n-a @wow-im-gay, @peanutpunchy, @love-me-satoru, @crazycatlddy, @dinosaur-crime-scene, @llearlert, @thisbicc, @gojoscumslut, @everyonesfinaldestination, @leehoonii-i, @kyojurismo, @briefrebelfanalmond, @izuoyarmin, @ahashiraswife, @d1gitalbathh

(if your name is crossed out, it means that tumblr didn't allow me to tag you! apologies for the inconvenience)

[nevadancitizen]

-> EPILOGUE: WELCOME HOME, OFFICER

synopsis: you and connor visit your parents in chelomey and you ponder about your future alongside him.

word count: 2.3k

ships: Connor/Reader, Hank Anderson & Reader

notes: god, i've been putting this off for so long because i can't believe that it's actually over. i was in such a mediocre place when i started this fic and now i'm enrolled in a mortician training program, i'm interviewing for internships in morgues, and i'm so much happier. everyone, thank you for the comments, kudos, and any other support you've given me. now let's give it up for connor and the officer being mushy and gross and in love!!

HoFS taglist: @catladyhere , @foggy0trees0 , @princessofenkanomiya , @n30n-f43 , @igna4400 , @asleepysouluniverse , @elliesbabygirl , @freddy5bear , @ssnapsaurus , @seasideserene , @h3110-dar1in9 , @harlstiel

HEAD OF FALSE SECURITY MASTERLIST

“You don’t need to be so dressed up all the time,” you say. You reach over and loosen Connor’s tie. “You looked like you were being choked.”

“Did my facial expression indicate so?” Connor asks. He fiddles with his tie, but leaves it as you left it. 

“No, you’re regulating them well,” you say. “Your tie just looked tight.”

The corners of his mouth twitch upwards in a smile. “So you’re just nitpicking my appearance.”

“Do you blame me?” You fight the urge to fuss with his jacket, or anything else to do with his clothing. “This is important.”

You turn to scrutinizing your appearance in the mirror next. The lights in this hotel room you rented don’t really provide adequate lighting to allow you to make everything perfect, but it suffices.

You heave a sigh and look over yourself in the mirror. You look fine. You’re just… really, really nervous.

This is the first time Connor will be meeting your parents.

You never really expected to have someone to bring back home to Chelomey. But the travel ban between America and the USSR was lifted a year ago, and you’ve been saving up for a trip ever since. Hank was nice enough to hold down the fort in Detroit (i.e. give Bronislava her anxiety medication every day) while you were away with Connor. It’s not exactly a romantic escapade, but it’s home. In your fractured, artificial memories, this is home.

The date is March 15th, 2040. And it’s a wonderful day to be reliving your former life as a citizen of the glorious Soviet Union.

Eventually, you decide that enough’s enough and that it’s time to go. After Connor gathers your bag, you both leave the hotel and walk the streets of Chelomey, which is just as you remember it. (Well, remember is a bit of a stretch because you technically never lived in Chelomey, but it matches what’s in your artificial memories.)

The four nuclear reactors tower above the rest of the city, even though it’s relatively built up. There’s not many people around – it’s relatively early in the morning, so that’s to be expected. Connor’s hand fits neatly in yours as you walk with him towards the northern reactor.

You squeeze his hand. “Are you nervous?”

“Yes.” Connor squeezes your hand in return. “I can’t help but think that they won’t like me, even though I know it’s illogical.”

“They’ll like you,” you say softly. “Don’t worry.”

The wrought iron fence of the cemetery stands tall, but the gates are already open, as if a morbid invitation. You step through, and Connor follows, looking around.

Most of the cemeteries and graveyards in Russia are state property, and the government can’t really bring itself to care much about dead people. They’re crowded, with tombstones mere centimeters away from touching and many people buried shoulder-to-shoulder at many gravesites.

But not this one. This one is still the property of the state, yes, but it’s a place of respect rather than just somewhere to bury the dead. Few people choose to get buried in Chelomey, but the ones that do are often academics and scientists.

That’s why your parents’ graves stick out. They were laborers in the northern nuclear reactor. Your mother watched dials and your father fetched water to cool the reactors. They weren’t anybody notable.

You didn’t even get the chance to meet them before they died.

You’ve read their obituaries a thousand times, but it’s still weird to see your own parents’ graves. Two tombstones reading Ольга Черны́х and Егор Черны́х, carved into granite and set into the ground. Your mother died in childbirth, going with the child that came out stillborn. You were that child, but… not. Your father took it as well as anyone could be expected to take it and hung himself two months after.

You ease yourself down onto the grass at the foot of their graves, and Connor settles down beside you. He hands you your bag and you pull out a bottle of Stolichnaya vodka, a smaller bottle of Thirium-based whiskey, and two shot glasses.

Wordlessly, you and Connor both pour yourselves a drink (you pour yourself vodka, he pours himself whiskey). You knock yours back, and he follows suit. You take the shot glasses and pour more vodka, then set them at the head of your mother and father’s graves.

“Привет, Отец. Привет, Мама,” you say. “It’s really nice to see you. It’s been so long.”

A breeze picks up and shakes the branches of the tall oak in the middle of the cemetery. It’s almost like they’re responding, but you know better.

“I’m sorry I haven’t visited,” you say. “The travel ban didn’t exactly do me any favors. But now that everything in the Arctic has wound down, I…”

You reach over and take Connor’s hand. “I wanted to introduce you to my partner. We’ve been dating for a year and a half, and – and I think I’d like to marry him one day.”

Connor smiles slightly, a light blue dusting his cheeks. “It’s an honor to meet you, Mister and Missus Черны́х. My name is Connor.”

He squeezes your hand, like a nervous tic. “I wanted to say… I haven’t met anyone else like your child. They make me feel things I never thought I’d be able to feel. Happiness, tenderness, longing… I thought I was just a machine, but they made me see things differently. Thank you for raising them to be the person they are today.”

You smile, brush your thumb over the back of his hand, and ignore the fact that these people didn’t raise you. Yes, you have memories of them being your parents, but you’re a stranger to Olga and Yegor Chernykh. Even though you yourself are, technically, a Chernykh, your connection is purely fictional. That doesn’t stop you from finding comfort in this… ritual, you suppose you could call it.

“Don’t worry, Отец, he treats me better than anyone else has,” you say. “I feel like… like he’s the first one that really understands me. Well, Hank has been an understanding companion, but he’s hardly the romantic type.”

Connor laughs under his breath and you laugh along, leaning into his side. His skin is still cold, but you don’t mind at all. It’s something you’ve grown used to, and something you’ve come to love about him.

“And you’ll be glad to know that Hank took everything well,” you continue. “He kind of… withdrew after the truth came out. But after a few weeks, he saw that I was the same person and we continued on with our lives. And he’s in therapy now – finally.”

A nice, serene silence settles over the four of you – not that your parents are much for talking in the state they’re in, anyway. The wind picks up a little and you feel your internal heater kick on.

“Ever since you woke me up, I dreamed of having a family,” Connor says, breaking the silence with a quiet admission. “Thank you for introducing me to them.”

“I don’t… think that this is really my family,” you say, your voice just as soft and doubly nervous. “It feels nice, but… I think my family is you, Hank, Sumo and Бронислава. My parents were a big piece of my life, sure…”

You sigh and close your eyes, just focusing on his touch. “But that part is over now. I’m not a child anymore. They’re not even alive anymore. I would like to focus on the now instead of the past.”

You lean your head on Connor’s shoulder. He leans his cheek against the crown of your head. He doesn’t feel like plastic – he feels like a man. Like flesh and blood. You feel like a normal, regular, human couple. It’s nice.

“I do think they would’ve liked you,” you say softly. “My parents, I mean.”

“Really?” Connor asks, a bit of hope in his voice.

“Mhm,” you hum. “You’re not so bad… for an American.”

“For an American?” He echoes.

“It’s sarcasm.” You poke him in the side. “They would’ve liked you, despite the fact that you’re not a Soviet. Not that they were overly xenophobic or anything…”

Connor shifts and presses a kiss to your hairline. His lips stay there, a soft smile pressing against your skin.

“Thank you,” you say, your voice quieter than you meant it to be.

Connor’s lips move against your skin as he speaks. “What for?”

“For… everything, I suppose,” you manage. “Everyone treated me so differently, and I could brush it off then, but now? With Mom and Dad, and being in Chelomey? Everything feels so real.” You sigh. “I know, logically, that I’m a machine. That I’m made of plastic and my consciousness was developed by some kook in his billion dollar house. But you make me feel like I’m more than that. And Markus was right all along.”

You pull away from Connor to look him in the eye. “I am alive. And so are you. And what a joyous thing being alive is.”

He picks up your right hand, moving it so that your palm is flat with his. Flush skin peels away to reveal his true, porcelain-white skin underneath. Your skin peels away in response, your palm, then hand, then wrist turning a stark white to match his.

Interfacing was clumsy at first. You were raised as a human, so you were raised with the (admittedly, skewed and false) belief that sex was the closest you could get to becoming one with another person. But with your… revelation, for lack of a better term, you had to learn about interfacing and how to do it. The internet didn’t exactly have tutorials on how to do it well, or how to interface at all, so you had to learn with Connor by trial and error. Even the errors weren’t all that bad.

Connor’s sensors meet yours, raw and natural and beautiful. You could stay with him like this forever, ignoring all that went on around you, staying as a monument and testament of love. That beast within you, once one of anger and jealousy and ugly emotions, now yelps with fervent joy, crying out and thanking every angel and every saint and every god that Connor is yours. He sure as hell is a lot of things, but the thing he’s most proud of is being yours.

And that’s obvious by the way artificial, electric endorphins flood your system, almost sending you into overdrive. It almost feels like he’s playing with the wires inside you, plucking them like a lyre and handling them with the cautiousness of a jeweler handling a million dollar diamond. He’s so careful and tender that it nearly makes you dizzy.

You remember where you are and sharply pull away, your artificial skin covering your bare hand quickly. Your face grows hot in a flash of embarrassed heat. “We… we shouldn’t be doing that in front of my parents.”

Connor opens his mouth to speak, but snaps his jaw shut as a heavy blue covers his face. He manages to mumble “You’re right.”

You shift away from him and reach over to the head of your parents’ graves. With a quick motion, you pick up your father’s shot glass and pour out the Stolichnaya vodka onto his grave, then pour the contents of your mother’s shot glass onto her grave.

You put the bottles and glasses back into your bag. Connor offers you his hand and helps you stand.

“Пока, Мама. Пока, Отец,” you say. “And… thank you for accepting Connor into the family. I think you’ll like him as a son-in-law. I mean, Hank likes him well enough, so… I don’t think he can be that bad.”

Connor squeezes your hand, ticcing again. You lead him out of the cemetery, still holding his hand in yours.

Once you pass through the open gates, you sigh with a smile. “I think that went well.”

“Are you sure?” He asks. That nervousness is back in his voice.

“Mhm,” you hum. “Besides, from the memories Kamski gave me… they were loving people. And I firmly believe they would’ve loved you.”

When you look over at Connor, he’s smiling. It’s an awkward smile, but it’s his smile. Just seeing it causes a ghost of a smile to pass over your lips. 

You tug his hand and draw him a bit closer. He obliges, his shoulder brushing against yours as you walk. There’s no warmth coming from him, but that’s okay. You know he’s here, and you know he’s here to stay.

Even in the future, when your systems fail and your motherboard fries, when you’re tired of living and can’t be bothered to be repaired, he’ll be there. You know he’ll be there, dressing you in unhemmed white robes, tying a blue funerary belt around your waist and sitting by your side as your body is laid out for three days.

He’ll be the one to take you back home to be buried with your parents after your visitation in America, even if no one in Chelomey knows you or why you’re being buried with the Chernykhs. He’ll be there, kneeling at the foot of your gravesite, eyes closed and perfectly still. His systems will be running at minimum capacity, exerting the lowest amount of energy possible to keep him alive.

Eventually, his systems will start to fail. He won’t care. Why would he care? The one he loves most will beckon him to the beyond; to the light at the end of the tunnel and the pearly gates and the calm that comes with dying. And how could he resist you? He could never resist you.

He’ll be there. He’ll find you, dressed in flowing white robes held up by a blue funerary belt, smiling that smile he always loved. The only thing he’ll leave behind after being buried next to you is a tombstone with a smaller English translation below the inscription in cyrillic: 

CONNOR CHERNYKH AUG. 8th, 2038 – DEC. 20th, 2074 A HUSBAND SO DEVOTED AND LOVING THAT HE DIED OF HEARTBREAK

[hemlock-reads]

Meeting Simon’s mother

Tw: death. Sadness and depression. Gravesite. Mentions of dead bodies and blood. 2009 ghost.

It was already hard enough for Simon to even explain to you the tragedy that happened to his family. He had sat you down on the couch. He was pacing back in forth in front of you, trying to regain his thoughts he lost the last few times he tried talking to you about it. This has been going on for the last hour. You…you ever so lovely self sat there patiently. You knew whatever it was he was about to tell you was something very important and well guarded in his head. You knew that what he was about to tell you was out of trust and love for you. This was a big step in this relationship. Something that would make the bond stronger. You were glad that he was finally breaking down some of his walls and telling you.

You knew that he had a lot of secrets. He had told you that you would be in danger if you knew some of these secrets. That’s why you stopped asking about his job. His job was highly classified. He wouldn’t even be able to tell you where he’s going when he gets deployed. All you ask of him in return is for him to always come back safe. Now with Simon…he can never truly promise that he’s “safe”. He thinks you and him have two definitions of the word “safe”. He could never tell you that though. So he promises that he will do his best to get back to you in one piece.

Simon couldn’t stop pacing. His mind racing through various thoughts and ways to start this conversation. The memories of that day still hold him down and suffocate him. The scattered bodies. Scattered bloody bodies. He shook his head and sat himself down on the couch. He tried to get a hold of his emotions and his body. He couldn’t control the shaking however. The unbearable uncontrollable shaking that had its grip on him. He didn’t look at you. He stared off into nothing. His mind cesspool of thoughts. Each thought beginning and ending in seconds. His hands gripping his knees. You slowly and steadily find one of his hands. Your hand soft and warm against his scarred and cold ones. He finally looks at you, all of his thoughts slowing. His brain being able to process them. He takes a deep breath and tells you.

It had been a few days since he told you about his family, what happened to them. A few days since you say him cry the first time in his life. Simon never cried but that doesn’t mean he didn’t have emotions. He had shown you one of the many things he had buried deep down. Simon had held you vowing he would never let that happen to you. Telling you that he is going to protect, through his tears and sobs. He won’t let you go, he will never have anyone touch you. Not even his mates knew of you. You were just his. Something to come home too. Something that made him hold on a little longer to this mess he called a life.

You woke up to Simon sitting on the bed. His back turned to you. The silence was eerie, nothing made noise except the buzzing of air that came from the air conditioner that was in the room. The shared bedroom of the apartment was illuminated by nothing more than the moon outside the window. Your eyes had to adjust just to see him.

“Simon?” Your voice was small, barely a whisper. You waited for a response. That’s if he even heard you.

His body turned with him as he turned towards you. His eyes that of softness. You didn’t know what to say, you wondered why he was up so early. Was he about ready to leave on another sudden deployment he just so happened to forget to mention to you? What was wrong? Did he have another nightmare about the atrocities he has seen? You would comfort him if that were the case. You started to scoot your way towards him, thinking that’s what must’ve happened.

He doesn’t stop you from sitting up in bed and wrapping your arms around him. He simply buries his face into the crook of your neck and inhaled softly. He hums a little before he faces you, taking your face into his hands. He stares into your eyes, rubbing your cheeks.

“Get dressed. We’re going to go on a little trip.” The cracking in his voice was apparent as he spoke. He was holding back his tears. He didn’t want to cry again, he needed to be strong for you. He needed to get this done. He was going to show you. He was going to show you something.

He felt like he was across an ocean with the way he was acting. Feeling so far away from you. He didn’t give you anything else to go on. You complied with what he asked of you. Once dressed you were out the door with him and getting in his truck. He drove you both a hour out to a desolate graveyard. It was mostly in ruins and it wasn’t well taken care of. It pulled on your heart a little to see the poor graves crumbling and being devoured by greenery. He had stopped suddenly, you hit him square in the back with your body. He hadn’t moved an inch. He held his ground as you recovered. He was standing at one of the graves. He ushered you to his side, holding your hand. His hands sweaty and cold. He had a dream, a dream about you meeting his family. A family that was still alive and well. A family that greeted you with open arms. They beckoned and pleaded to meet you. They needed to know that he had someone that he was taking…That he had someone that was taking care of him. He stared at the tombstone for a couple of seconds, working up the courage to speak clearly. Then he finally spoke. His voice sounding horse, a lump in his throat, that he swallowed.

“Mum…this is my partner”

[floralmemorials]

Spring Crosses 2.0 FloralMemorials.shop

[crossmanufacturing]

personalized memorial cross

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[angelicguy]

all the toons of toonville USA quickly gathered for my funeral. this was the first death that toonville had ever had within its borders, so the processions were brief and crass. many of them did not know what had happened to me, and arrived jovial with gifts and favors to share with one another.

a whole line of red and blue convertibles filled the one lane street that led to my body. since everyone in town knew each other, they engaged in bright lively conversation about all the sweet memories they had of me. my birthday, my bris, my several rushed visits to the toon hospital were all discussed among the townsfolk who shared their popping candies and hot sodas that they had prepared for the celebration.

Cowboy Frito and Juliet Juniper (one of toonvilles hottest couples) brought a boquet of my favorite treats in apparent memory of me. Dr Lollipop and his beau Beauty Bee were especially excited to witness my body, flayed and broken, as they had never seen one before. Fashionista Frida Frizzlemeister was dressed from head to toe in the most dazzling outfit she had, with a black and white photograph of my own head featured as the centerpiece to her famously glitzy bouquet.

gathered in thousands of seats surrounding my thick, red, plastic coffin, the show was finally on the road. despite being delayed a half hour (the felt arms of the pallbearer made it difficult to actually get the dang thing near my ready grave!), the mood was light, as everyone in attendance were best friends. scattered lines of conversation quickly concluded as Pastor Paisley cleared his throat to begin his eulogy- at least he tried! pranks were all the rage in toonville, and who else but Scoots McBuzz would spit a hot wad of greasegum right at him. Paisley, experienced from his many sunday school classes over the years, grabbed his toupee and ducked down-causing the gum to stick right onto my fisher price brand tomb.

a long pause filled the air, followed by bright laughter at such a farce. in fact, all of toonville decided to cover my final resting place in bits of chewed paper, bottlecaps, smile stickers (the lowest form of their complex currency) and all kinds of knick knacks while hollering with laughter. and what could cap off such a good time like a hearty meal? Chef Al LaRonge had prepared a veritable feast for the hungry attendees, who stuffed their mouths with gooey, cheesy pizza, hot pepper patties and classic peanut butter chocolate superbars.

as the sun set, Mayor Megamouth of toonville declared their first funeral a complete success and thanked everyone for being a part of such a touching event. "he knew every one of you, and would have loved to know he caused such a record turnout among the toontopians!" after cheery "hip, hip, hooray!" and a final goodbye towards my flesh, the now urine-soaked coffin was marched straight into the freshly built mausoleum, the only gravesite to be found in the brand new toonville boneyard.

given the limited use of the land, it was eventually folded into the soda treatment plant. over time, my final resting place became stained with the colors and smell of sarsaparilla, caramel, and beetroot. the foundation eventually buckled beneath the sagging heft of the pop-drenched wood that surrounded my now bleached bones on the fourth of july, the sounds of creaking and splintering masked underneath the no-expenses-spared fireworks show. shapes of cakes and pies filled the air as my remains were carried out to the stinking sea.

[jesncin]

Spirit World, Ride the Cyclone and Death. A weird comparative analysis

Gonna combine my musical nerd and cape comics fixation together for a rambling meta thought. I've been reflecting on how taboo the topic of death is in media after getting into Ride The Cyclone (highly recommend watching the slime tutorial and Waiting in the Wings' documentary on it) but also contrasting that musical with how Spirit World handled similar topics.

Both stories cover characters whose lives were cut short from a tragic circumstance, but while Cyclone directly talks frankly about how each character uniquely grieves over their lost life (and eventually accepts death)- Spirit World uses death as largely an aesthetic to a generic fantasy superhero adventure.

[spoilers for Ride the Cyclone and Spirit World]

Spirit World is about non-binary, half dead half living Envoy Xanthe Zhou, as they go into the Spirit World with John Constantine to rescue Cassandra Cain Batgirl. They eventually go toe to toe with the spirit of a bitter dead poet.

Ride the Cyclone is about 6 choir teenagers who die in a roller coaster accident in their small town. In the afterlife, they are given the chance to vote which one of them they believe should be resurrected.

For Spirit World, do we even know how Xanthe feels about being "half dead"? What does that even mean? They died as (what looks like) a 3 year old, and have clearly aged 15 more years since then. So they can age? Do they need to eat or drink (they're seen with a drink in a Pride comic)? Xanthe keeps mentioning they're half dead and half living, but the comic doesn't seem to want to discuss what that means. How would Xanthe feel that they were essentially given a job as an Envoy the minute they died as a very young child? Was this even a choice?

We've already covered the numerous plot holes in Xanthe Zhou's poorly thought out backstory so I won't go over that again. But honestly apart from the thematically loose "the dead shouldn't be forgotten" moral, a lot of how death is presented in Spirit World feels so superficial. When Xanthe is formally introduced as this cool character with a giant sword hanging around a gravesite, fighting all these hopping vampire creatures... this scene would play out the same if you swapped the setting with a forest and zombies as bad guys.

The Spirit World is less an afterlife for the spirits to move onto and more an MMORPG setting for our superheroes to travel across and fight generic evil beings and encounter eviler, bigger, boss battles at the end. Then there's the poet clout villain whose problems are just easily solved by Xanthe promising to remember her. I've already covered what a lost opportunity thematically this character was in my last Xanthe essay, but this time I want to contrast her with Ride the Cyclone's Jane Doe. I also want to compare Xanthe with Noel Gruber afterwards.

Ride the Cyclone's musical numbers follow each character performing a song reflecting their wishes, and musings on life (this sounds depressing but the musical handles all this with comedy and wit), hoping to prove themselves as worthy of a second chance at life. Of the characters, Jane Doe is the mysterious odd one out. The accident decapitated her, leaving her to enter the after life with no memories and the people of the living unable to identify her.

You might see where I'm going with this. So in Spirit World, Wan Yujing was this famous poet mourned by an entire empire. She only goes monster mode when a handwave-y "time erodes all" happens in the Spirit World and she is eventually forgotten- so she becomes desperate to demand to be reincarnated by the Jade Court. Because her clout ran out. Again, I already made the critique in my previous essay that this villain would better link to our protagonist if she was a queer poet whose poetry was being purposefully straight washed as an act of queer historical erasure. But I want to bring up how truly unsympathetic this villain is. She gets Shakespeare levels of clout but still demands more because she isn't getting reincarnated fast enough. Xanthe promises that as an immortal "half dead half living" person that they will remember Wan Yujing, so she too can be immortal in some way.

I think about all the Jane Doe-s in the Spirit World who don't get to be famous poets that have Empires remembering who they were. People who died anonymously without a past. In Cyclone, the main character chooses Jane Doe as the person who should be brought back to life. Our cast of teens come to terms with the fact that while it's tragic that their lives ended shortly, they conclude "to say that if one dies young, they die needlessly... that is to discount the years we had. We had a life, she didn't. That's my vote." Since Jane Doe has no memory of who she is, it's only fair that she is given that second chance.

I get that Spirit World is choosing these "larger than life" characters as villains, but it's at the expense of their own supposed themes. Of all the people to die and face off our hero as the villain, a character who's essentially an influencer but somehow has an entire empire forget about her anyway feels thematically hollow.

Modern Superhero comics are suffering from a specific problem right now; they're not really about anything. Characters don't feel like people with interior lives informed by the context of who they are. Class, race and bigotry are only touched upon as lightly as possible. Queer characters are now Pride ads with no personhood or flaws. They punch gentrified crime and fight for no one in particular. Even recent adapted media such as My Adventures with Superman and Caped Crusader follow this. Superman fights white-washed xenophobia, while Batman fights gentrified, white-washed classicism. It's why comics like Superman Smashes the Klan, Catwoman Lonely City and Alan Scott Green Lantern stand out so much. It's been a while since these characters talked about anything that matters. Don't get me wrong, slop that's about nothing exists in every industry. But when these characters and worlds historically used to have more bite- it's especially obvious.

If I could be playfully conspiracy theory-like for a second; I believe Xanthe Zhou was pitched so that DC Comics can buff out their Pride Anthology or AAPI anthology with a new younger character. The company will give this character one limited series, but that's it. Xanthe will appear in the larger DC universe whenever big magic plots happen, but that's it. Maybe they'll get a YA graphic novel. I would love to be proven wrong, but the problems with Xanthe are baked in the dough.

Because they don't feel like a person, Xanthe feels more like an industry planted Pride ad. They're designed to be the most palatable and marketable image of Asian androgyny. They literally have no flaws to grow out of, and their backstory makes no sense. They weren't built to be a sustainable solo character.

So I want to contrast Xanthe Zhou against Noel Gruber from Ride the Cyclone. Because they're both queer characters whose lives were cut short at a young age.

In a dramatic lament, Noel Gruber expresses how if he had a chance to live, he'd want to live the horrible cinematic messy life of a French sex worker woman in post-war France. He struggled as the only gay boy in a small town and never got to kiss a boy before he died. It's a look into a queer life that could've been lived, one with all the messy texture and self destruction Noel couldn't have but desires. We get to see how death and queerness intersect into rich, unflattering, gender-messy themes. "I want to be that fucked up girl." Noel sings.

But what's Xanthe's deal? They died as a 3 year old, got brought back, avoided their family at all costs for 15 years, and then had a transphobic confrontation with their family when they're invited to dinner way later. If Xanthe grew up in a transphobic household, how did they ever figure out they were non-binary when they were 3? Could they even verbalize it? Or did they instead figure out their queerness after they died? But how is that possible when they already held a level of familiar resentment towards their family's transphobia as if they've had several fights about it? It's hard to picture a 3 year old having multiple heated debates about gender with their parents for this level of resentment to make any sense.

Details aside, how does Xanthe's queerness intersect with themes of death and grief? Well, it just doesn't. This scene ends with Xanthe's sister telling them that she bothered remembering them even though their parents moved on from their death (which makes no sense since the parents wanted to have dinner with a random 18 year old they correctly assumed was their long dead "daughter" but whatever). Honestly, the only reason queerness exists in this family drama is so that Xanthe has a tense relationship with their family. The story would be exactly the same if Xanthe was a troublemaker that brought shame to their family. Who they are isn't specific to whatever grief exists in the comic.

When people give the critique that modern Superhero comics aren't about anything anymore, we usually think of these comics as "lacking political bite and commentary". We don't often think of something like Death to be political. And even though it is in many ways, it's also a social taboo to talk about. Death is an uncomfortable thing to confront, even in the safety of fiction. It's what made Ride the Cyclone such a difficult stage musical to market.

So how does a modern mainstream comic like Spirit World fit into that? It just sits there in this non-committal way. Yes, this is a story about a trans teenager who died, but only in a cool Superhero Origin Way, not in any way that would make readers uncomfortable. Bury Your Gays is a stereotype after all, so we can't talk about how queer people feel about death. We don't get to know how Xanthe feels about death as a non-binary Asian American. Especially if it's messy. It's the reason why Wan Yujing's character can never commentate on themes of historical queer erasure. God forbid superhero comics be about something.

I think about how, in the original Hellblazer run from the 80s, John Constantine had an elderly gay friend who was diagnosed with AIDS but was killed by a homophobic hate group. The comic openly talks about the sheer amount of gay people dying of the epidemic, a looming threat that informs John's queer life. It's such a culture shock, to contrast these early comics with how John Constantine is written in Spirit World. A character stripped of his own queer history and is at the mercy of incessant slutty bi jokes. Where is the desire to talk about how death informs a queer person's life? The mourning of a lost generation to the AIDS crisis? Something John lived through?

How about how any of this intersects with being an Asian American queer person? Queer people of color are often erased or purposefully excluded from queer history and communities. As a Queer Asian American, what does it mean to have identities that are often perceived to be in conflict with each other? Would your queer Asian ancestors even be remembered? Cultural differences with how you'd mourn your communities? But answering any of these questions means an uncomfortable conversation for Spirit World. For Xanthe. It threatens to be about something.

Which makes it all the more silly that, of the two stories, a musical about teenagers dying from a rollercoaster malfunction is more willing to have that uncomfortable conversation. You should ride the Cyclone.

[awakentrashpanda]

Dogday headcanons because he’s adorable

☀️Total klutz, this puppy cannot walk 2 feet without, tripping over something on the ground, tripping over his own feet, bumping into some thing, or walking face first into something

☀️Anytime he gets startled he is a yippy little pupper, everybody else will be trying to calm him down, partially because they care about him, and partially because they’re desperate to get the barking to stop, Catnap is usually the best at calming him down 

☀️Sniffs new people

☀️Gives all of his friends, especially Catnap, tons of physical affection both because he loves physical affection and also to get his scent on them… Especially Catnap 

☀️Keeping up with the dog like behavior, sometimes he’ll pee on objects to mark them as his territory…He has been repeatedly told to stop doing this 

☀️His tail wags when he’s genuinely happy, but it also wags when he’s trying to stay positive, or when he is full of false hope (like we see in the VHS when he was telling the others that the wind storm will eventually pass) he also makes it wag on command in order to keep other people’s spirits up or to prevent others from worrying about him 

☀️Has hoodies of each and every one of his friends, blue elephant hoodie for Bubba, green rabbit hoodie for Hoppy, red bear hoodie for Bobby, you get the idea, his favorite is the purple cat hoodie for obvious reasons 

☀️I envision these characters live in the world of their cartoon show separate from the factory but occasionally their memories have a sort of semi overlap with their irl counterparts, and since they are toys made from children, whenever Dogday comes across any sort of item, like perhaps a stuffed animal or an accessory, that belonged to the child that came to be made into the irl‎ Dogday he will sit down next to it and whine sadly for about an hour…He has no idea why he does this (this is because some dogs are known to be so loyal that they will sit at their owners gravesite long after they’re dead)

☀️If you ever mention walks, ear scritches, belly rubs, or treats when he is within earshot he will immediately get excited

🧡🐶🧡🐶🧡🐶🧡🐶🧡🐶🧡🐶🧡🐶🧡🐶🧡🐶