#i always felt the force ghost thing kind of killed off the joy of a good old fashioned haunting but this… delicious

[stinkythehutt]

the part of my brain that loves a tragic ghost story is so intrigued that what we see in this episode is what death is like for anakin - in a place between places, repeating and reliving the past for its lessons, reaching out to loved ones on the rare occasions they come close enough to touch. those same attachments that made him such a threat, those hideous things he did, now make him a mentor and a guide - but he’s still trapped in the endless replay because he’s waiting for someone: luke. there’s a story here somewhere about what it takes to finally free him from that & i think it would be sick if it involved him and luke, after luke dies. freeing one another from purgatory - the final path they walk together.

[runwayroadkill]

Black Summer - Part Two

The gang all slept in one room, but the occasions when all six of them spent the night together under that same roof were rare. Sometimes, Roadkill would be out hunting for that night’s fuck, Poison would be selling himself for drugs, Jet would sit for hours on the roof, looking at the stars. Kobra would join him often, and the others would hear the faint reach of conversation, sometimes even laughter. Skull spent a lot of time outside, Roadkill slept most of his nights in her bed. He made a pact with the rest of the gang not to tell her that he and Poison had had sex in her bed, Skull hid the fact that she already knew really well. Her bed was pretty damn comfortable.

That night, Poison and Roadkill were outside, with no intention to even cross eyes with the others. Enveloped in the throbs of power play and all those beautiful painful delights, they had been switching power positions since the moment they got there. In that moment it was Roadkill’s turn to be helpless. They were on all fours, in the dirt, with Poison’s boot resting on their neck. He pushed them down, going for the classics of degradation, the well known hits such as:”Pathetic little slut.” and “Beg for it, mutt.”. Well, that last one was more specifically tailored on Roadkill. After a couple of blows to their body, Roadkill was reaching that completely blissful headspace that she oh so dearly missed, that deep bond he shared with the infamous redhead. A state of mind that allowed them to completely give herself over to Poison, while still being able to answer to a simple stoplight safeword system. Poison leaned over them, a satisfied grin on his face, while pulling at the collar and leash that Roadkill always brought with them:”Good pup, you know you want to be-” he stopped, and Roadkill immediately looked up, confused. It took a second to shake off the haze and, when the fog cleared over their mind, she noticed Poison expression. It was this kind of forzenness, but not quite fear. Roadkill still had his boot on his neck, by then it had slightly moved over to his cheek. They pushed it down and sat up right to look at whatever it was that shook their weird psychic best friend so much. Then they froze as well.

“Please, can you help me? I’m lost.”

It sounded just like Roadkill’s voice, but not quite. It rang in their brains, as the grey matter itself was the source of it. Roadkill felt Poison’s hand on their head, and wondered if maintaining a dominant role to make sure that he as a sub was alright was what made P snap out of the hazy state. Nevertheless, it was comforting. She didn’t have to face it alone. She stood up, slowly, taking a couple of shaky breaths. She did wish she hadn’t just taken two quite forceful blows to the ribs, after asking explicitly to be kicked like a stray just like some song she’d heard on the radio and taped. It was the best before facing a double of oneself, a glitching ghost that looked just like them but at the same time not quite. She opened her mouth, then closed it again.

“Wait. You’re the hooky spooky vision I got in the car the other day!” Poison exclaimed, while Roadkill pulled out their raygun, just in case.

“I’m- I’m tired. I think they killed my friends.”

The ghost didn’t move a step towards them, it stood still and with a terrifyingly good posture. Poison lost a bit of his eerie enthusiasm. The other ‘joy took a couple of steps forward, treading carefully like you thread when approaching a wild horse.

“Do you want to explain it to us so we can help you? Who is they?”

But the ghost said nothing, looking right through her and Poison. Roadkill thought that it looked as if she was experiencing connection issues, but on her existence. However, that was a silly thought: ghosts didn’t work on data, didn’t they? Wouldn’t be the weirdest thing they had seen out in that circus they called the Zones.

In the meanwhile, and a bit stupidly, they had been steady steps towards the ghost, approaching it slowly. Roadkill reached, a bit insecure. 

Poison’s breath caught in his throat:”You are not.”.

Roadkill held a hand up to the ghost of himself, who had an open gash on its forehead, she felt the stickiness of the blood on her fingers. Alright, by then she had started to get pretty fucking scared, but she was decided not to show it. That ghost seemed as terrified as them two were. The presence looked at the hand, then leaned in ever so slightly, and closed its empty eyes. And started crying, just like Poison had, in the car. 

“They’re just scared. I think.” his voice shook as he spoke. “We got you, ghosties. We can help you.”.

Then, just like Fake Poison did when Roadkill showed them kindness in the car, the presence started glitching. The moment it realized it, the physical killjoy felt the matter she was holding disappear, and the ghost started screaming. It screeched, loud, with an electrical ringing. They tried to push through it and reach the ghost, but fell right through it. Roadkill hit the floor, Poison stumbled, cursing and jumping to not step on his head. 

“Shit.” Poison said, when his unstoppable tumbling movement had finally found a halt. He rested his hands on his knees, as if he had just ran a marathon. 

“Fuck.” he added, breathlessly, after a bit. What else was there to say?

Roadkill found no reason to get up, they stayed in the dirt, their body finally relaxing. The two killjoys looked at each other, confused beyond reason. Then they heard another screeching, metallic sound. It came from the other side of the Hideout.

“Ghoul and Skull! Fuck!”.

@crowskulll​

[whimsicallyreading]

An angsty one-shot for your day. I stayed up way too late to write this.

CW- drinking

Aelin keeps the letters stacked neatly on her desk.

Each letter is stamped, addressed, and ready to mail. In tiny marks on the back, she writes the date every individual one was written. The envelopes are his favorite shade of green. A deep, pine color that she’d painstakingly scoured every stationary shop to find.

Delicately, Aelin seals the latest envelope and adds it to the growing pile.

My Love,

It’s almost winter here in Orynth. I know it’s your favorite season and you are probably sad to miss out, so I took a Polaroid of the clouds coming in over the staghorns for you.

Do you remember how we’d sit in front of Mistward every year and watch the first snow storm come in over the peeks? We would drink hot chocolate and talk for hours. About our families, our futures, anything and everything. It’s still one of my favorite traditions.

In fact, it’s where I am right now. Writing this letter to you. Just because you are overseas doesn’t mean you get to bail out. I bought two hot chocolates, but I suppose I’ll have to drink yours for you. What a shame.

Writing to Rowan was her weekly tradition since he got deployed. No matter how busy life got, every Friday she wrote him two full pages front to back. Whether she got to sit at her desk or had to scribble against the rusty bench at the bus stop, every inch was covered in her hand writing.

That was her personal rule. They had to be handwritten. Aelin felt it meant more that every piece of the letter was entirely from her. So she keeps a collection of colored pens handy for whenever the urge to speak to her husband grows to be too much.

At the bottom of the last page, next to her signature, Aelin always kisses the paper with red lipstick. Maybe it’s cheesy, but it’s the same shade she wore at their wedding.

You could see the ghosts of the color along his jawline in their favorite photos together. His beaming smile, the smudges of red on his face and the collar of his white dress shirt. A remnant from the happiest day of her life she thought would bring him comfort.

My love,

Winter is here! It’s so cold outside. You would say it’s this frigid every year, but it just feels different this time. Maybe it’s because you aren’t hear to snuggle up with and your side of the bed is empty? You were always so warm.

I keep your slippers by the couch. They are ridiculously huge on my feet, but I swear they still feel like you just walked in them. Your warmth is still there.

You would laugh if you saw me hobbling around the apartment in them. My toes slide all over the place. Truthfully, your feet are atrociously large, dear- Still they remind me of you, so I love them.

Aelin gets home late from work that night.

Humiliated tears sting her cheeks, even as she rubs them away. The feeling of that creep, Cairn’s, hands lingering on her ass.

She was used to fending off handsy patrons. What bothered Aelin is that when she complained to her boss, Erawan, he publicly berated her for instigating the customers.

None of the other waitresses would meet her eye when she looked for back up. Grave, the bartender, sniggered through the entire dressing down. Aelin could still feel their eyes on her skin as Erawan accused her of being provocative.

Rowan would have demanded she quit the job. He would have marched down to the bar and broken Cairn’s face. Possibly even held him back so Aelin could do it herself.

Aelin needs the money, though. Rowan’s accounts were frozen due to some stupid technicality at the bank. Without her paycheck, she would lose the apartment.

Sniffling, Aelin slides her feet into Rowan’s slippers and plops at her desk. It isn’t Friday yet, but she’s desperate to speak to him.

As her hand flows across the paper, Aelin knows she won’t describe the days events to him. He’s under enough stress without her work drama adding to his worries.

My love,

Yulemas is next week. Aedion is in Caraverre with Lysandra and our new nephew. Lorcan and Elide are going up from Perranth to stay with them, but the roads are so frozen in Orynth I may just stay here this year.

Besides, work is busy right now. They need someone to man the place for the people with nowhere to go for the holidays.

Maybe I’ll host a little celebration at the bar. Like we did that one year when we got stuck in the Hostel in Rifthold. We made the best of a bad situation, and it was the first time you told me you loved me. I think I’d like to relive a little of that this year.

I miss you. Please come home.

Aelin lays in her bed the night before Yulemas and sobs.

Ugly, guttural noises spill from her chest and she soaks their pillows with tears. The newest envelope is clutched against her chest, and the building stacks mock her from their spot across the room.

Her heart is so raw. Aelin knew it was a bad idea to count the letters, but there was so many. Curiosity got the better of her, and now she was bleeding for her mistake.

Fifty-six.

A full year of letters she hadn’t been able to send.

Rowan had only ever written her twenty before he was declared missing in action.

A year ago, she’d been hanging bobbles and decorating a tree knowing her husband only had a few weeks left of his tour.

Aelin had painted a welcome home banner, and her whole family made plans to come and spend the holiday with the soon-to-be-reunited couple.

She had his slippers waiting by the door. Rowan’s favorite blanket was laundered and folded on his side of the bed in case he wanted to lay down. Aelin had it on good authority that the bed would be one of the first places they visited when he arrived. Emerys had even given her a mixture of their favorite hot chocolate to make.

Everything was perfectly in place for his return.

That’s what when the soldiers arrived at her door and her world fell apart.

Lorcan came home a week later. He hugged Elide and she cried into his shoulder. Happy tears. So unlike the ones Aelin had been shedding. Her friend beamed ear-to-ear, as the love of her life gathered her into his arms and squeezed.

It was a touching sight, but Aelin could feel the hot knife being twisted in her chest. Elide’s happiness caused her physical pain, and it made her feel so selfish. She didn’t begrudge Lorcan his life, or Elide her joy- Aelin just missed her own husband.

Elide and Lorcan spent Yulemas together. Kissing and holding hands. Lysandra finally announced her pregnancy. Aedion’s expression when he opened the box with the baby onesie inside was priceless. Her cousin whooped and hollered, almost dancing with the prospect of becoming a father.

Aelin smiled. She gave her congratulations and celebrated with her family. They hugged, and laughed. Aedion took care to include her in everything, and she played her part even as she tried to ignore the concerned looks her family exchanged behind her back.

Aelin made it to lunch before she couldn’t take it anymore.

Fenrys was the one to find her having a panic attack on the bathroom floor. She hadn’t even known it was a panic attack. Aelin just assumed the pain of losing her soulmate was finally killing her. The tightening of her chest and the body aches felt enough like a heart attack to be convincing.

He gathered Aelin in his arms and counted breaths with her. His twin brother Connal was lost in the same fight where Rowan had gone down. Fen had seen the whole thing from the cockpit of his plain, and nothing he did could’ve saved them.

He shared his pain, and for the first time Aelin felt like someone understood her.

Fenrys let her lean on him as they excused themselves from the celebrations. They drove to some bar in Caraverre and spent the rest of the day wallowing over whiskey.

Aedion came to collect their drunken asses later that evening. Worry etched into every line of his kind face. It only made her feel ashamed that she’d rained all over their happy day.

He was going to be a father, and she’d forced him to spend his time fretting over her instead of reveling in that news.

Now here she was a year later. Aelin wasn’t going to subject herself to that again. Couldn’t. She wouldn’t force her grief upon anyone else this year, either. Just because she was hurting didn’t mean that everyone else had to suffer with her.

So, as Yulemas Eve came, and before she could finally distract herself with work, Aelin pulled Rowan’s blanket over herself. She’d spritzed it with his cologne, donned his shirt, and pulled his socks over her feet. Aelin did everything she could to feel surrounded by him.

Then, alone in their bed, she watched as the clock ticked down to midnight.

Rowan,

Wherever you are, I hope my words reach you and that you know you aren’t alone. I wish with every ounce of my being that I could trade places with you- would give anything, just to know where you are.

It breaks my heart, to be without you. Every breath seems pointless. I lied in my last letter. The roads aren’t frozen. I’m not needed at work. No one really needs me to be around them. I just couldn’t spend another holiday surrounded by happy people when the other half of my heart is gone from me.

When you come home, I will feel like celebrating again. I’ll wrap my arms around you, and we can make up for lost time. Just please, don’t make me wait too much longer.

Merry Yulemas, my love. We will be together again one day.

Until then, I’ll keep on writing, only so long as you don’t yield.

Sincerely, your loving wife

Aelin

[five-rivers]

I hope I haven't sent this yet: idea for a Fenton-family-roadtrip fic, maybe Doorways: The Fentons stop at an inn that is allegedly haunted. And indeed there is a ghost there that tells them to "GET OUT!" Either Danny or Jazz thinks there's something off and they investigate. Long story short, the owners are killing guests to enslave their ghosts. The one who told them to get out was WARNING them (the only one not enslaved) but was too fresh dead to do more than repeat one phrase.

This doesn't quite get to the payoff, but I think it's a good start.

(Also for Dannymay 2021 Day 5: Doorway)

.

Danny pulled himself out of an uneasy but necessary nap as the GAV came to a stop. Last night's encounter with Superbia had left him drained, and, unlike his battle with Gula, he didn't have the advantage of being at home, in his haunt, near his portal, the other expression of himself.

“Time to wake up, everyone!” said Dad. “We’re here.”

Danny wanted to just go back to sleep, but Dad opened the door, so he peeled himself off the car seat and stumbled out. He smacked his lips loudly, yawned, and looked up at the building they had parked in front of. It was a pretty house. Three stories, painted blue. White trim. A wraparound porch with a swing bench.

“Where’re we?” he asked, rubbing one eye. Fighting Superbia had taken a lot out of him, and he’d only been able to doze on the subsequent drive to… wherever this was.

“Borden Bed and Breakfast,” said Dad, with only a shadow of his usual enthusiasm. “You don’t, er, sense anything, do you, Danno?”

Danny blinked sleepily at the building. “No,” he said, finally. “Need to look around t’make sure, though.” He yawned again. “Sleepy.”

“Wait, wait,” said Jazz, “this’s another one of your friends? Already?”

“Well… Yes? Eliza and Bethany own the place.”

“They’re twins. They were interested in telepathy and other psychic abilities,” said Mom, pulling luggage out from the back of the GAV. “At least at first. Later, we were able to turn them on to ghosts, a little but they were… How would you describe it, Jack?”

“Wishy-washy,” said Dad. “Always had an excuse not to do work. Fun to be around, though.”

Mom leaned in conspiratorially. “They were the two laziest people I’ve ever met,” she said. “Wanted to use ghosts to, I don’t know, make bargains with to do chores. Like they were some kind of, I don’t know, demons that could be summoned to do things.” Mom snorted. “Completely wrong-headed. Even if they got their hands on something real, they wouldn’t put the effort in to use it.”

“Mhm,” said Danny, dubious, but too tired to argue. He really didn’t sense ghosts, or anything else for that matter, so it was probably fine.

“Come on, we’ll introduce you while we check in. Don’t be surprised if things are a little… dusty.”

Jazz muttered something about cleanliness and beds. Danny had stopped listening and was now just following along behind his parents, almost blindly. Everything just sort of buzzed in the background.

They went up the stairs on the porch and Mom rang the doorbell. Was it normal to ring a doorbell to get into a bed and breakfast? It wasn’t normal for hotels. Danny rubbed his eyes and endeavored to be a little more self-aware and less zombie-like. Even if he was a member of the living dead.

A rotund woman opened the door and greeted Mom with surprise and joy.

“Maddie!” she said. “We weren’t expecting you for another two days.”

“Sorry, Eliza. Our plans changed,” said Mom. “I hope it isn’t a problem…”

“Not at all! We’re having a bit of a slow stretch. You’re our only guests right now. We’re wide open.” A smile stretched across her face. “Come on in.” She stood to the side.

“These must be your children,” she continued, as Danny and Jazz passed her. The entryway had a set of stairs and a little balcony on the second floor. Danny watched idly as one of the doors clicked closed. Eliza’s sister, maybe?

But, then, another woman, identical to Eliza in all particulars walked in from what looked like a formal dining room. He frowned. The wind, maybe? A draft?

He still hadn’t felt anything from his ghost sense.

His parents and the Bordens negotiated something about dinner and eating together as Danny had a staring contest with the doors on the second floor. Dad had to prompt him to follow the rest of the family upstairs.

“We all have our own rooms,” said Mom. “Isn’t that nice?”

“Not really,” said Jazz, in a low tone.

“But you always want your own rooms,” said Dad.

“Yeah, and then I get attacked,” said Danny. “Jazz, can I share with you?”

“Okay,” said Jazz, who was also listing to the side. “Whatever.”

The room was clean, as far as Danny could tell. Not a spec of dust anywhere.

He dropped face-first on the bed, Jazz hitting it soon after. He didn’t stay awake long after that.

.

Jazz woke up groggy and disoriented, the dregs of her dream still lingering in the back of her brain.

Get out.

She sat up, blinking. That hadn’t been Danny’s voice. He was still out cold. She looked around the room, edging towards their bags. They had ectoguns, which weren’t effective on everything, but still packed a good knockback, if nothing else.

But nothing else jumped out at her, and she tentatively concluded that she must have still been dreaming. Anything dangerous would have woken Danny up.

She sighed. She wanted to go back to sleep, but… She was awful and grimy, and this was a prime opportunity to avoid getting edged out by one of Danny’s marathon showers later. Regretfully, she levered herself off the bed and dragged her feet as she walked into the bathroom.

Still feeling bleary, she groped for the light switch.

The words get out were drawn on the mirror in soap. Something moved. Jazz brought the ectogun she was still carrying up and fired. The blast bounced off the mirror (for reasons never clearly explained to Jazz, ectoplasm behaved strangely with regards to reflective surfaces and especially silver) and hit the lintel of the doorway.

There was a silent, tense moment where Jazz realized she had shot at her own reflection.

She was becoming her parents.

Danny groaned from the bed, breaking the silence. There were some thumps from the other side of the wall as Jack and Maddie burst through the door.

“Okay, spook!” shouted Jack, “you have five seconds to… There’s no ghost here.”

“Um,” said Jazz, weakly.

“What happened, sweetie?” asked Maddie, swiping hair out of her eyes.

“I just… Was a little tense, I guess, and—” She turned back to the mirror, expecting to see the writing.

There was nothing there.

“Huh,” she said. “I was going to take a shower and I… Thought I saw something,” she finished, lamely. She must have been more tired than she thought.

Danny made another muffled sound and rolled over, taking the blankets with him and turning himself into a human burrito.

“Okay,” said Jazz. “That’s… Usually he’d wake up.”

“He’s used to ectoblast sounds,” said Maddie. “I know I don’t wake up for every one. We’re always testing new weapons after all.”

“Yeah, exactly,” said Jazz. “Normally, he wakes up. It’s kind of a self-preservation thing.” She walked over to the bed and poked him. “Danny?”

He let out a small grunt but otherwise didn’t respond.

“This is weird,” said Jazz. “This is weird, right?”

“Do you think he’s being effected by something?” asked Maddie.

“Definitely,” said Jazz. “Is it something here? I don’t know. I mean, that was only the second time he’s fought one of those… things.”

“You think he’s just recovering from that?” asked Maddie.

“Maybe,” said Jazz.

“I don’t like this,” said Maddie. She stepped closer to the bed and shook Danny’s shoulder, obviously hoping to wake him. After a few seconds, Danny turned intangible, forcing Maddie to let go.

He did not show any signs of wakefulness.

“That really isn’t normal,” said Maddie, biting her lower lip. She looked to the door. “I don’t like that Eliza and Bethany haven’t said anything, either…”

Jazz winced. They had made a lot of noise.

“You don’t think something got them, do you?” asked Jack.

“I don’t know,” said Maddie. “But we should probably check.”

“We won’t be able to move Danny if he’s phasing through us,” said Jazz.

“Right,” said Maddie. “You and Jack stay here, and I’ll go downstairs.”

“No, you girls should stay here, and I’ll go downstairs,” said Jack.

“Really, Jack, that’s…”

Jazz tuned out her parents’ argument. As much as she hated to say it – because it wasn’t fair to put so much pressure on Danny – the real problem was that the only person who could reliably deal with… things was out of commission, and for who knew how long.

The three humans would have to solve this by themselves.

[d-criss-news]

Actor And Producer Darren Criss Reveals His Creative Process

The producer, singer and actor talks his approach to songwriting, discovering his sound and how he’s ready for the next chapter.

We don’t know about you, but we’re currently experiencing the Bank Holiday blues. With the realisation that our days of summer maybe coming to an end were in need of uplifting sounds and singer-songwriter Darren Criss is keeping the energy going with his fun-filled EP “Masquerade”. Between the slick alt-pop productions and high-octane energy, the artist puts his theatrical abilities and prowess at the forefront of the EP. Laced with serene dance floor-ready melodies, the actor and musician instantly gets the party going on the project, kicking it off with “f*kn around”.

“The dirty secret is that every song is character-driven,” the artist revealed when discussing the project. “I just chose wording that could perhaps aid people into understanding this exploration of genre, this self-aware exploration of genre a little more. For those people that only know me as an actor, I’m trying to guide them into this notion of music and songs being a form of acting.”

No newcomer to the scene, the artist has spent the past decade gracing our screens in the cult favourite Glee and the thrilling Assassination of Versace: American Crime Story. Wanting to continue his musical journey in the form of producing and writing, we caught up with the multi-faceted artist talking his growth over the years, staying creative in a pandemic and how he’s ready for the next chapter.

Check out the interview below now…

Hey Darren, how are you? How has this past year been for you? It’s a strange question to answer because everybody’s answer is so much more complicated than what you can say in a quick easy tight polite answer. You know, I’m well, as well as one could be given the situation. I feel, you know, luckier than most. Even with the music that I just put out there’s still more that I’d like to do, but I got to do even more than I thought I’d be able to. So that tends to be kind of the theme of the past year and a half. I feel like I’ve been so consumed by working on so many things for so long, that not a lot of people outside of my inner circle know about that. You know, it’s been a lot of high output but seemingly low visibility. So now finally getting to put out some of these things and talk about them… tipped scale of visibility versus output is hopefully having a chance to even out for a bit, to where the amount of work I’ve put in can somehow match that people you know may or may not know about what I’m doing. You know, I’ve been really busy. I’m the kind of guy where if you give me a white canvas it’s a more…I wouldn’t say stressful, but I’m more likely to fill up a blank canvas immediately with as much shit as possible – I guess that is more stressful than having only a few places to fit things in, and I usually keep pretty busy. Ironically when I’m really busy, that’s when I can get stuff done. Like you know that phrase ‘if you want something done ask the busiest person in the room’, and I think there’s a degree of truth to that because you know, the chaos kind of begets chaos, and productivity begets productivity, and in a lack of anything else to do it was like ‘I wanna do all these things!’ and then it gets really crammed, so it’s nice to be kind of simmering down from this overwhelming call to arms to get as many things done as I could with this new unprecedented free time that I had. So, in short, I guess, am well if you wanna use that! I feel, I’m just relieved that a lot of this stuff can exist somewhere outside of my head but it’s a complicated answer, I’ve been able to do a lot more than I thought I’d be able to.

With everything that happened last year, was your creativity affected? The time that it yielded is the kind of time that a lot of creative people fantasise about. Of course, we would have all preferred it in a very different way when you say ‘if only I had time to sit down and work on this’. I think we all have; I say creative people but we all say, ‘if only I had time to paint the kitchen, learn a language, get in shape’, you know do something different that requires a bit of time and focus. We were all given that golden ticket, of course take that with a massive grain of salt, I’m fully aware of the price with which that came, of course if we had the choice, I don’t think any of us would have wanted it to happen the way it did. But none the less, for those of us who did take the time to focus, to hopefully be productive and proactive with the situation we were thrown into, it was creatively beneficial to finally get to address things that had been sitting kind of on deck and dormant in my mind, and it was just a matter of having the time to give them any attention. One of the joys of jumping between acting and music is there is a battle of time commitment, because neither one is a thing you can do casually. If you’re acting in something, there’s a great degree of scheduling that really eats up a large chunk of your day. While I’m in an acting project, I’m writing stuff and playing music but the actual logistics of producing music is as time consuming as the acting. I am envious of people that can kind of just show up, sing a song and leave. I, unfortunately, am not that kind of person. Writing a song is only a small piece of putting music out. Production really does take a large part of my emotional and intellectual efforts, and I really dive in head on. And that’s not even mentioning the promotional side of it. So, it really does take a lot of time to dive into those things, and I was finally given that. If anything, it was hard to decide what part of my musical menu that I wanted to serve up. It just came to a matter of what felt right at the time, what seemed fun. I kind of wanted to put out something that was positive and fun, and unapologetically so. And something that really showed up for a side of me that I felt like hadn’t been represented in the past. The musician side, and unfortunately, we haven’t been able to perform these very much. We’ve done little videos here and there. Stuff that really showed my roots as a musician, a garage rock guy, a guy that really likes getting in the weeds of production. In the past I’ve put up things that are a little more analogue, singer-songwritey, and this is more me as a producer and a musician.

How did you first get into music, what sparked the interest? Well, I’ve been playing music my whole life, and not casually either. It’s such a massive part of my identity, and that’s one of the main driving forces of me wanting to put out as much music as I possibly can. These five songs on this EP are a small part of a much larger body of work that I’m dying to get out whenever I can. When you’re a songwriter, or just in general a creative person, you have more ideas back logged than your body can execute. This is only a small part of a much larger puzzle, and a lot of these songs, the ones that I’ve put out and the ones I’m still trying to put out, are ghosts that have been haunting me however many years., some more than a decade, some more than two decades. The reason I mention this is because I’m trying to illustrate how pivotal music and making music has been throughout my life. I started playing violin when I was 5, and that was a big part of my cultural education, learning how to play an instrument that is so dynamic and requires a pretty specific ear and technical ability. Now I’m not saying I was fantastic at the violin, but I think the training that I had on it from 5 until my late teens really shaped the way that I would create music and think about music, certainly as a writer and a producer, but with just how I would jump between other instruments as well, because the violin was such a great touchstone for me to end up taking up the piano or guitar, or drums, or other instruments that would really formulate how I create music. Between being the orchestra nerd kid that played a lot of music throughout my young life, and also being the guy that would play in bands, its just been such a huge part of my life. As I’ve gotten older and gotten to understand this other version of myself that exists in more of a public view, that has little to do with that I know, I have started to notice that person, that avatar of myself, isn’t necessarily associated with music. And that was troubling to me, so I wanted to rectify that.”

And now you’ve just dropped your EP, talk us through your mindset going into the project? If I was just a recording artist, and that’s all I did, I’d like to think that I’d have a much larger body of work to show for. I feel like a lot of songwriters feel this way. There is just simply too much music…now I’m not gonna say it’s all fantastic, there’s a reason you have to triage the ones that you think are the best at the time, and there are many songs that I feel would be outdated, they feel very of the time 10 years ago. But you’re always trying to put your best foot forward with the pile you have lurking behind you. So, it is a hard thing to decide which thing you want to put out. Killing your darlings is always a hard thing, figuring out which ones to really focus on is difficult and it usually comes down to who you decide to collaborate with – right before the pandemic was one of the most tumultuous times of my career where I was producing and acting in a show for Netflix, and I was also kind of show running, acting, writing music for, editing, doing everything for this other show I created called ‘Royalties’ on another platform. I was doing both at the same time, and one of the things that made this possible was the people that I would collaborate with. A young man by the name of CJ Baron who I produced and wrote this EP with, he’s sort of the midwife that I chose out of working on Royalties because we had a lot of great songs together. I keep referring to myself as a producer, but I do it from a much more cerebral space, whereas he is a much better technical producer than I am. We really shared a lot in common, so by the time I realised that I wanted to make a piece of music you have to decide ‘who do I want to go down this yellow brick road with?’ And when I decide with CJ, that kind of already hinted at the kind of music that I would put out because he has his own fingerprint, and so I thought there’s something that I have that might mesh well with that fingerprint, so that kind of helps the decision process along of what songs am I gonna put out. But in another world CJ wasn’t interested, so then I think ‘Okay let me try and produce an album with this person’, and that person would reveal a different selection of songs. I’m very open to seeing what the universe is allowing and pushing towards, and I kind of follow that northern star to figure out what songs I’m gonna put out. But the mindset was always ‘put something out’, on a completely pragmatic level. What did I want to have to show for if whenever we got out of this crazy, new age of ‘what does this pandemic mean? We have time to do stuff, when it’s over what do I want to sit there and say that I accomplished?’ And at the very least I needed to put out a few songs, so that was really my mindset – no excuses, this is the time that you used to hope for, and so what are you gonna do if you’ve got the golden ticket, you’ve won the time lottery – so don’t fuck it up Darren! That was my mindset.

You describe them as character-driven singles, why is this? The dirty secret is that every song is character-driven, I just chose wording that could perhaps aid people into understanding this exploration of genre, this self-aware exploration of genre a little more. For those people that only know me as an actor, I’m trying to guide them into this notion of music and songs being a form of acting. The number one question I always get it ‘which one do you prefer?’ and I always say they are the same to me. When I’m an actor I treat characters, characterisation of my voice and body, characterisation of how I deliver words like a piece of music. You’re scoring it the same way, there’s cadence, dynamics, volume, nuance, all kind of things that can make ‘a piece of music’ unique to a person. And that’s how I treat dialogue and characterisation. The other side of that coin is I treat music like I’m acting, like each song has its own character when you’re playing live or recording in a booth. You are donning the proverbial mask of that character and what it requires. I really wanted to keep people into this idea that at the end of the day, it’s all performative and all part of a narrative that don’t necessarily have to do with each other and the way that if you ask Alexa to play a ‘Jack Nicholson playlist’ it would be very disjointed. It would be like okay The Shining, that’s a vibe, and then it would go to As Good As It Gets, and that’s a completely different vibe. They wouldn’t necessarily be on the same playlist, but they are distinctly and undeniably Jack Nicholson. So I always thought that it was a bit of a double standard that actors can do this but in music, you know, I’m proud of this but it’s also very annoying – a lot of my songs would probably not playlist together on the same genres because you have more jazz songs, like a trip hop chill tune that might end up in the back of a Starbucks, but that wouldn’t necessarily go on the same playlist as a tune like ‘I Can’t Dance’, which is a crazy song because it doesn’t even sound like me, I’m literally putting on a different voice, I’m singing like two different people putting on an affectation. There’s a lot of things that are very different but uniquely and distinctly me. The word masquerade is a celebration of a lot of different masks, and in theatre we talk about ‘The Masque’, and how each Masque has it’s own style, history and culture, and I really love the genre, and I love Masques, and I love things that make them interesting, and celebrating things that make them unique, and really trying to maximise their effectiveness as a genre with whatever tools I have as an artist, so that’s really what I’m trying to go for, this whole character driven idea is – it’s all a masquerade.

It very much has a fun-filled vibe to it, was this your intention and why? I’m not gonna sit here and pretend I sat in a studio saying ‘Hey lets not have fun!’, especially during a time that was as fraught with a lot of troubled times. This EP was recorded during very troubling times, so I think I’d be delusional to think that whatever joy is in this EP was not some kind of reaction to that, trying to offer something positive is definitely my MO in life in general, so that’s always gonna bleed its way onto my records. Like it or not. The intention is to record things that can be effective. If the vibe you feel is fun, great. If you feel any vibe at all, whatever the fuck that means, that’s a win for me. If that happens to be the word ‘fun’ then awesome, there’s a lot shittier adjectives that can be derived from this body of work so I will absolutely take it. My intentions are again to try and honour the songs. When you write something it has its own magnetic pull, it has it’s own gravitational pull that you have to kind of follow. If a song sounds a certain way, you want the lyrics to feel the same way that it sounds, and you want the production to feel the way that it vibes for lack of a better word. All songs have different body types and dressing it up and knowing how to tailor it to accentuate the things that make it fun or sexy is really sort of a strange alchemy. It’s not up to me how people experience it, but that’s what makes it fun. Once you put something out into the world it’s up to other people to use their own adjectives of the suit you tailor. I’m always excited when it leaves my head and becomes somebody else’s experience. So hey, if it’s fun – great!

What do you want people to take away from the project? Obviously, I hope people enjoy themselves. Any musician or artist would hope that there’s some kind of memorable experience to be had from it. If I was talking about what I hope people take away from it, that doesn’t have to do with the music itself, I hope that every time I put out music it’s me broadcasting this notion that this is something that I do, and that this is a big part of my identity. I think the songs themselves and what they’re about and how they feel are less of an insight into my identity as the notion of me putting out music is, because I feel like for any artist your journey is a constant negotiation between how you see yourself and how you would like to be seen, and how audiences are willing to see you. And you know, sometimes that balance is not always even. Sometimes the way they see you isn’t the way you see yourself, and sometimes the way you see yourself isn’t the same as the way they see you, so you want to be somewhere in the middle. And ‘Masquerade’ is a huge step forward for me to try and represent who I am and what I’m about to folks who might not see that. So that’s the biggest goal I think with any release but particularly this one.

Who would you cite as your inspirations? I’m one of those people that, when I say that everything inspires me, I’m not trying to be cute. It’s a problem. It’s an actual scourge on my life, where I find everything interesting. I find everything inspirational. It’s such a core belief that I have that there is inspiration to be derived from every walk of life. Stuff like from a lawn chair to a Bach cantata, there are so many things that can be interesting and incorporated into some creative output. It’s just all about how you look at it and how you can perceive and understand where it comes from. There are so many things that are inspiring to me. Of course, this is the massive macro answer that you weren’t looking for, you’re probably looking for ‘what artist are you inspired by?’ I think I’m just inspired by people who are really genuine to themselves, and this is an ironic answer considering that I actually try to be as many different people as possible. It’s a strange thing that actors are celebrated for not being anything like themselves professionally. And musical artists are separated for being as close to themselves and putting their souls as close to the chopping block as possible. I think I’ve really found my niche as a storyteller. I’m envious of some of the great troubadours of history, that can put their souls out on the record for us and put their own personal experience into things. Leonard Cohen and Joanie Mitchell, and Carole King, more modern people like Taylor Swift who really can just bare their souls for us. I really admire them because that’s not a muscle I have. And when you’re an artist I think ‘Okay so what muscle do I have?’, and I think ‘Okay I’m like a playwright, I can make each story for these songs and try and bring them to life with as much accessible ability and reality, and as much truth as I can convey, that’s not to say they’re disingenuine, they’re born from a genuine idea but they’re supported by my background as an actor. Baring myself isn’t something that comes as naturally for me, I really admire those people and I try and perhaps emulate a lot of their song writing in whatever limited way that I can. Genres are inspiring to me, lets talk about song writing, and then there’s producing which are two different things to me, because when I hear music I hear chords, I hear melody, I don’t listen to the snare sample, but I always hear the bare bones and then I think about production. So as far as producing is concerned I think it’s really important to know all genres and to listen to what makes each one interesting and respecting those genres, and then when you are producing something yourself, and then taking from each thing by knowing why and how they work within that genre, so again to use a song like ‘I Can’t Dance’ which is a nod to late 70s/early 80s, somewhere between disco and new wave, I’m employing the things that make those genres fun, to me at least, and trying to smoosh them together in a way that sounds cohesive. So…everything is inspiring to me, it’s hard. But each song has a different source of inspiration, but they don’t transfer between all songs.

You’ve also wrote for animated series and for Glee, is the process different for producing? “This is actually a very good question. I think this ties into what I was saying before about writing for narrative is something of a calling that I think I’ve realised more recently is kind of where I can plant my feet more easily than any other type of song writing. I was mentioning the people that can bare their souls, some people have a really good ability of putting themselves out there but also writing as a satirist of character that he creates. The person that is a master of this is Randy Newman, he’s one of the greatest American songwriters of the 20th century. He has an amazing ability to create these scenarios or create first person accounts of people that aren’t actually him, but he can contextualise with his literal voice, his song writing voice, and make those their own sort of satirical version of himself. There’s a lot of layers going on there, but I’ve always thought of him as really excellent. He’s like a playwright with music, he’s writing musicals, I mean he’s won Oscars for writing music for narrative! That’s something that I’d really like to do – from a technical standpoint it’s actually very liberating because when you’re writing music with your name on it, you’re the artist, then there’s this sort of weird expectation that you’re trying to service which is why I like this idea of putting the mask on and separating the songs from my own personal experience, because I need to separate myself from my own experience of the music you’re hearing, at least on the surface. My big break was A Very Potter Musical, that I feel to this day are my biggest hits because I don’t really have hits, but as far as the songs that people know that strangers know of songs that I’ve written, they were songs that were written for characters. It’s a bit like painting by numbers. If you just write a song from scratch about anything, it’s like the canvas I’m talking about again. You can do anything, or go anywhere, and that’s overwhelming. Having parameters, knowing where the gates are, is extremely helpful, knowing when the deadline is, knowing how long your party can go for. It means you can maximise the space you know you have. When you write for narrative you go ‘this is the character’, ‘this is how they speak’ – so you already have your lyrical information there – ‘this is how they talk’, ‘this is the singer, the singer has a great range that goes from this note to this note’, ‘in this scene we need the character to go from point A to point B, and we want it to be a song that sounds like X’, so you create all these amazing little ingredients, and I look at artists like a service industry, I really enjoy servicing what the person or the experience requires. When I have a menu of ‘we want this, this, this’, it’s like okay great I’ve got you! A three-and-a-half-minute song that sounds like this song, but has to be in this key and has to be a duet, I really thrive on that. And it’s probably one of my more favourite versions of song writing. And usually there’s a deadline, so I can get it done! Because I need to get it done for production. I really enjoy coming back to writing for narrative, because I did that for Royalties with CJ, and when I realised how much I enjoyed doing that and how productive I was when I was writing for a narrative, that’s when I got into the idea of ‘I need to stop trying to bare my own soul in music’. I think if I treat it like I’m writing for a character, not only can I get it done faster but I feel like I can make things stronger. So that’s when I decided that’s what I’m gonna do for this next EP. Writing for other shows and characters is what helped me realise my strengths as a songwriter.”

What is next for you? What are you most excited for? “As I mentioned I think productivity begets productivity, and that’s exactly what happened with this EP. Even if the pandemic hadn’t happened and I didn’t have the time, I think I would have been just as emboldened from working on Royalties with CJ and it got me very excited about working on music and how much joy that gives me. Any artist will say the same answer, but I think by the time stuff comes out artists are already over it because they’ve been living with it for a year and a half, and in my case over a decade with these songs, so I’m always ready to move on and go to the next thing. Everything is a stepping stone, so I’m very happy that this EP is out, I think it’s a great representation of a lot of stuff that’s been unaddressed for far too long. I just wanna get going, it gets me excited about keeping the ball rolling as a songwriter or as a producer, I just don’t want this to be like ‘This is the thing I did during the pandemic’, I want to keep it going and be more proactive about keeping time aside for it, because that’s the name of the game. When you’re acting or doing music, you have to balance it with time, and this pandemic has shown me how much I enjoy spending time on music, so I’m gonna carry that on. But of course, as soon as I say that, that’s when something unexpected and something too juicy that I can’t keep my hands off it happens on the acting side. One learns to be pretty flexible, because as soon as I say one thing something else will happen, and that’s been the narrative for the past decade of my life. I hope to just keep going. I’ve been this lucky for this long so I’m not gonna pretend like I’m going to keep being this lucky. If I get to act great, if I get to do music great. I can’t believe I’m in a position where its like ‘oh if the acting thing doesn’t work out, I’ll just do music!’ or the other way around, it’s a highly privileged list of options, and I’m fully aware of that. So as long as I can have one or the other to fall back on, I will always be excited about option. It’s not always up to me, so we’ll see. Everything that I’ve put out is just a way for me to renew my lease with my ability to show up for myself as well as people that I don’t knows ability to be interested in what I have to do next. But I won’t flatter myself, I’m not gonna say that lease is forever, so I’m just trying to put in the time and work to keep it at the very least somewhat interesting.”

Photography - Amanda Demme

[castiel-left-his-mark-on-me]

Because Jensen said that the thing he was most excited to tackle this season was “Cas”…

__________________________________________________________

He was happy—of course he was happy. They were all back, Donna, Bobby, Charlie, all the other people from the apocalypse world. They all came back with the rest of the human race, and Dean’s heart felt lighter every time his or Sam’s phone rang with another familiar name; but even with his heart as light as it’s ever been, he knew it could never be weightless… and it wasn’t until Eileen facetimed Sam, and his little brother’s eyes lit up, and his grin threatened to break his head in two, that Dean couldn’t take it anymore.

He had to walk away.

He had to get far from all those people that only a day ago, he’d have given anything to see, because none of them possessed the name that he wanted most to hear. None of them were the one that he knew he’d never see again.

Sam didn’t even notice him walking off, and Dean is glad—he may be hurting, but he wouldn’t want that to dampen his brother’s joy. He’s thrilled that Sam has Eileen in his life again; lord knows the kid has lost enough love in his life. He deserves a happy ending … the thing is though, Dean kind of thought he deserved one too.

He walked a few blocks until the small-town’s buildings turned into homes, that then morphed into barns, and then farmland that stretched as far as the eyes could see. It was beautiful and peaceful, quiet—but still full of enough bird calls and buzzing insects that Dean didn’t fear Chuck had come back and taken everyone again. 

Soon, the air begin to fill with the pungent sweetness of the onion fields that engulf this area, and it made his stomach growl-- and he realized it’s been a solid two days since he last ate; but for the first time in his life, Dean didn’t really feel like eating. He didn’t feel like anything—he just wanted to walk and try to forget the pain that he knew would never leave him.

The sun tilted lower in the sky, shining orange and gold in his eyes, so he looked down to his feet, noting each pebble and clump of dirt he kicked, envying their ability to just be or crumble, never needing or knowing anything more in life; and he became so lost in each of his steps, that when his phone rang, the trilling sound made his heart nearly leap out his throat. Dean stopped walking and fished his phone from his pocket, seeing that it was Sam calling him—but he didn’t want to answer it. A moment later, a text popped up.

“Where’d you go?”

Then another text: “Going to go meet up with Eileen. You want to come with?”

Dean sighs. He knows Sam will worry if he doesn’t respond, so he taps out a quick message back, hoping it’ll be enough. “Nah. Go ahead. Goin for a walk.”

Three little dots pop up on his screen, but then quickly disappear again. Sam knows him well enough to know when Dean needs to be alone, and this is definitely one of those times.

A bird swoops down in front of him, dive bombing the gnats and ladybugs flitting from the onion spears, and as he puts his phone away, Dean lifts his other hand up to shade his eyes and watch the hunter work. The bird is silent, tactical, seeming to hover in mid-air for moments at a time before spotting another target to take down. It’s impressive, and Dean smiles to himself, happy that he knows enough about this skill to appreciate the natural ability in others, but then his smile fades … because, what does he do now?

Will he still hunt?

Will there still be monsters for him to hunt?

What would he even do if there isn’t?

He tried living a normal life once—with Lisa, but that didn’t work out. Dean used to tell himself that that was because Sam came back without a soul and a whole new slew of monsters came about because of it, but if he’s being honest with himself … truly honest, he knows he really didn’t want it to work. He knows that he didn’t feel quite right if he wasn’t out there killing something.

But he feels different now. He feels more at peace, and part of him thinks that if he never had to lift a blade again, he’d be okay.

He huffs a laugh, surprised by how true that is, but the soft noise is just enough to startle the bird, and it takes off across the field, shrinking to a black dot in the distance.

Dean watches it go, eyes eventually dropping to something else stranding up in the middle of the field—a bit of tan disrupting all the green. At first, he thinks it’s a scarecrow; but then it moves.

The thing takes a step, and then a step closer—and then it lifts its arms to cup its hands around its mouth.

“Dean?” the thing calls from the distance, and Dean’s eyes go wide when the sound finally meets his ears—audio clicking with visual, putting together the total image in his mind until he finally sees it, sees him.

“Cas?” he breathes, feet already moving before he even finishes saying the short name.

Soon, he’s running at full speed, heart pumping faster and faster as tears stream from his eyes. Dean cuts into the field like a knife, breaking onion stalks like twigs with every fall of his foot. The dry ground echoes his thudding pace through the rows, but Dean doesn’t slow down, he can’t. He won’t. “Cas!”

Castiel—clear now, eyes as blue as ever, shuffles forward, seeming dazed by where he’s standing, but Dean is laser focused and on him in a second, tackling him to the ground with a hug so tight, he might’ve broken the angel’s back if he were a human.

The dirt and rocks cut into Dean’s knees but he doesn’t care, he just pulls Castiel up and hugs him harder.

“Dean—what happened?” Castiel asks, sounding a bit strangled by his friend’s death-grip.

But Dean can’t answer him yet. He can’t risk words ruining this, so he keeps holding on until he feels Castiel finally smile against his cheek and lift his arms to hug him back.

“Dean” Cas chuckles, eventually squeezing him just as tight.

“I didn’t think I’d get you back” Dean finally says after they’ve kneeled there holding each other for well over a minute. “I didn’t think I could.”

“Dean…” Castiel says again, more somber now, “Tell me what happened. Where’s Chuck?”

Dean finally peels himself away to look into his friend’s eyes, but it just makes him want to hug him all over again, but he stops himself, knowing that Castiel needs to know that everything’s okay now. “Chuck is powerless.”

Castiel tilts his head to the side—confused, and it makes Dean’s heart flip.

He smiles. “Jack … Jack took his powers. I guess, the kid is pretty much the new God now.”

Castiel’s mouth falls open, but a moment later, he looks up to the sky. “So, that’s what I’m feeling.”

Dean furrows his brow in question.

But Castiel continues to look up into the blue and then smiles. “As soon as I woke up here, I felt a new energy in the world. It was calm, happy. It never felt that way with Chuck in control … but, Jack?” The angel grins wider, like the proud father he was always meant to be, and it warms Dean to his core. “I knew he was destined for greatness.”

Dean watches him—this being that didn’t even know what emotions were a decade ago. An angel who he thought didn’t even have the equipment to care, he’s kneeling here in the dirt and earth with him, so full of love for his son, for the world, for everything, that Dean forgets about every other wonderous impossibility he’s seen in his life. This, this right here is the truest miracle. 

Castiel is the greatest wonder.

Castiel’s eyes drop back down, warm and wandering over Dean’s face. “I never thought I’d see you again” he says, voice low like the breeze winding through the stalks.

Dean tilts his head with a sigh, feeling all the words he wants to say scratching at the base of his throat, but none of them seem right, none of them are what Castiel deserves—not after everything he’s done, not after everything he gave up just for Dean to still be here. His breath begins to feel heavy in his chest, his heart races, and with one last swallow to choke down his nerves, he leans forward and presses his lips to the angel’s. “I love you too” slips over his tongue just before he can kiss him again. “Cas, I love you more than anything.”

The birds and bugs and breeze move around them in harmony, and the world carries on like it always did, spinning forward and unaware of the supernatural forces at work within it ... like monsters and ghosts, and demons and gods, or even just a man and his angel, finally knowing what it is to be truly happy.

[sixteenthshen]

my rant on episodes 31/32

I feel so conflicted about them.

On the one hand, I wanted to watch the shared horse scene so much. On the other,  there were so many inconsistencies and WTF moments. I can't bring myself to touch those episodes again to make more gifs, which is such a pity because WKX falling down the cliff? SO PRETTY. 

Spoilers behind the cut. If you do follow the drama with Chinese fans, you’ll probably have heard the same things like a million times. To save yourself more angst/stress, skip my post. 

The upside is that the director took the fans complaints to heart. They were making edits until 2am last night. I heard it’s already live, but I’m still trying to prepare myself. There’re some things that can’t be fixed >< 

*hopes for the best on Tuesday* 

In episode 11, WKX wanted to tear the Scorpion assassins into ten thousand little itty bits because ZZS had some blood on his lip, which made me mentally scream so much from joy. In episode 31, he  LETS Duan Pengju, that evil dickface(TM) go, just like that? Where's the rage? Where's the anger? Do you see the colour of ZZS's face? Can you see what he's wearing? Do you know what dickface did? 

Although it's a very touching moment when WKX decides to acknowledge the shixiong/shidi relationship, it's super weird that the ghosts are behind. I mean, I suppose it can make sense if we focus on the fact that he's planning to "retire" from being the big bad CEO of Ghost Valley. But it seems careless to expose a weakness in case someone tries to take advantage of it since they have to kill you to get to be the new CEO. 

There's no follow up on the injuries sustained from being tortured by the evil dickface(TM). How could they make WKX seem so callous? Maybe a scene where ZZS asked Wu Xi to hide his injuries from WKX, but WKX's right outside. He overheard ZZS telling Wu Xi to hide it from him, so he pretends not to know. *cue angsty scene for WKX here* 

The only thing related to injuries was when Wu Xi said ZZS could be saved from his self-inflicted nailing. Okaaaay. What about the piercing of the scapula? (穿琵琶骨 (piercing pipa bones) - it's supposed to cripple your martial arts ability until you heal ok) 

WKX suddenly decides to go off and be a career man, which is perfectly fine. But he suddenly has Gu Xiang watch over ZZS like a hawk, not letting him drink. (Seriously, I forgot if this belongs in TYK or if this is yet another thing stolen from Sha Po Lang) Where is WKX showing any concern over ZZS's total loss of 2 out of 5 senses? I ASK YOU MS. SCRIPTWRITER. What have you done to WKX's character??? Poor WKX, poor ZZS. 

And did everyone laugh off the fact that ZZS can't taste, so why should he drink wine? Ok, I can make myself accept this if I remind myself that ZZS would not like people making a fuss and pitying him anyway... (but shouldn't someone, anyone care???) 

We get many hints that WKX has a sneaky scheme, but he doesn't tell Gu Xiang, his closest friend since childhood. He doesn't talk to his soulmate about this either. 

WKX and ZZS's dialogue just before he falls down the cliff... Seriously reminiscent of Silent Reading, when Fei Du makes the same self-flagellating confession & Luo Wenzhou stops him. 

ZZS draws his sword and stands beside WKX. What is going on?! How does he still have his martial arts ability? Did months pass since WKX saved him from evil dickface (TM)? Nothing makes any sense!  

ZCL's hidden weapon is what forces WKX over the cliff. If ZCL did not know about the sneaky scheme, then WTF is this kind of scriptwriting? ZCL's character turned from a good, young child to a prop-causing drama and angst. Even if he felt betrayed, was he not there to see how depleted WKX made himself trying to save Han Ying? Did he not see how WKX tried to keep his shifu safe? Or taught him how to fight? Did ZCL become stupid all of a sudden just to create angst? 

 It only makes sense if ZCL knew about the scheme because of all the info he was privy to, such as Zhao Jing as the villain behind it all (when he heard WKX and ZZS talking). How would he go from knowing that to thinking ZJ should be the new head of the alliance? As a matter of fact, how could Shen Shen?  

Ye Baiyi has to be in on it unless WKX suddenly gained so much martial arts ability in the short time since they last fought. I mean, it only makes sense that WKX got so much stronger because he got injured by YBY, then depleted his strength saving Han Ying. 

So ZCL, YBY, Scorpion King and his buddies, fellow ghosts, possibly Shen Shen... WKX only kept it from the two people closest to him? The two most likely to do something stupid when they find out? *flails at this logic* 

The scene where ZZS's nails magicked their way out of his body... It's so awkward!!! I mean, we're supposed to feel emotional, but the special effects are just awful. I tried not to skip through it, I failed. 

So now what? ZZS essentially sacrificed himself to help WKX complete his goal. He gave up on his chance to be saved to fulfil WKX's pursuit of revenge (and take revenge for WKX's death). And it's all because of a misunderstanding. 

Between ZZS's nails and the ZCL-issue, I'm drowning in dog blood. What happened to WKX and ZCL's characters/personalities???? 

Also episode 32 is VERY choppy, it seems like we’re jumping to scenes randomly, the flow isn’t there. 

I can only say that the "Priest" spirit is gone; it's not a bad drama by any means. I'm still watching & I'm still going to buy the new episodes on Tuesday. But the random angst and abusive scenes inserted without no reason nor much logic are very un-Priest-like. 

I feel a little cheated about the scriptwriter being a fan of Priest. Priest's novels always feature couples who communicate. The supporting characters can come off flat in a drama sometimes because they're so normal. They don't have ridiculous backstories that make them tragic villains, and they behave logically. 

The angst "created" in Priest's novels makes sense. Characters don't suddenly change their personalities so that we can watch something exciting. The "dog blood angst/drama" is the big failing of so many Asian dramas. *CRIES* 

Now, the GOOD & HAPPY STUFF. 

WKX SAVING A-XU. *heart eyes* 

NGL, no matter how short it was, I liked the horseback scene 

There was a cute moment between Qi Ye and Wu Xi, scriptwriter knows how to ship!! & knows how to make it clear who’s gong/shou lol. 

THE HAIRPIN SCENE. IT’S EVERYTHING.

Even though I’m 90% sure the no-alcohol thing is copied from Sha Po Lang... I have so much love for Gu Yun and ZZS that it made me happy. My drunkards <3 

Did I mention WKX looks extremely pretty when he falls down the cliff? How do you fall so prettily? Plz teach me. 

WKX also looks pretty fake-dead. ZZS looks pretty when he’s heartbroken

I ship xiangcao so hard even though I know what’s gonna happen. (Cao Weining & Gu Xiang) They’re too cute.

I love the Poisonous Bodhisattva, I thought the Tragicomic ghost would be my favourite because of how gorgeous she is, but she’s too tragic & not enough comic. Poisonous Bodhisattva is my new goddess.

[eclecticstarlightconnoisseur]

VISIONS IN THE SNOW

Good Evening All! I have a new one-shot that was inspired by the horrific weather that recently swept across the U.S. It caused so much grief, suffering to so many people. I hope this would bring a smile to some faces. This was written with one particular person in mind (and you know who you are) and I’m glad you like it.

Thanks as always to @scubalass for the read through. Your suggestions were, as always, spot on. It made the final story so much better.

Status of Edinburgh to Boston: There is progress but it is painfully slow. There are two characters that are essential to this chapter whose voice I do not hear as well as I do Jamie and Claire. I write something, then I delete it and I do the same thing over and over. We will come to an understanding at some point so dinna fash. There will be A/N at the end to explain words or terms.

Without further delay I give you Visions in the Snow.

Here goes nothing:

VISIONS IN THE SNOW

February 1968  - Boston

The responsibility for hosting this week’s poker game fell to Joe Abernathy.  He took his duties in this regard very seriously. It was the way the surgeons decompressed after a week of stressful surgical procedures and this week was no exception. 

“It must have been a full moon,” he thought. Motor vehicle accidents, stabbings, gunshot wounds, volvulus, a ruptured esophagus, the works. It was during these times that he dearly missed his friend. Claire. He cast his glance over to the card table set with one extra place, Claire’s place. On the seat was her green visor that she wore when she played poker with the boys. It sat in repose like a memorial to a fallen comrade.

Silly thing! She believed wearing it masked her glass face.  Nothing could be further from the truth, but none of her colleagues had the heart to tell her. They all knew what Claire Randall was thinking. So much so, they often let her win which caused her to think she was good at playing poker.

He glanced around the room and saw that everything was in readiness for the evening. The sideboard groaned beneath the bounty of food, snacks, and brews.  

Outside, the wind blew fiercely rattling the windows drawing his attention. Joe looked out the window watching the two front trees bowing to the brute force of nature. Their skeletal fingers scraped at the roof almost as if trying to gain entry. It had been snowing for the last six hours with no sign of it letting up. He had considered canceling the game but a majority of his colleagues soundly vetoed that idea. Only Callahan and Peterson dissented. Callahan’s wife would kill him if he left her alone to deal with their six small ones while he went to play poker. Peterson lived thirty miles away. The remaining players all lived a short walking distance from his home, on Doctors Row. It was so-called because many of the physicians who worked at the hospital lived on the same street.  These surgeons were gambling men betting they had enough time for some comradery, hands, and beers before the brunt of the storm arrived.   

For a Boston snowstorm, it hadn’t accumulated very much. Yet. Regardless, it would not hamper these hardened surgeons accustomed to driving through Boston’s worst to get to the hospital. Without warning, the storm picked up intensity driving the snow hard enough to erase the landscape before him. Amid the squall, a hazy light glowed like the high beams of headlights in the snow. A wraithlike figure emerged from its center. Joe wasn’t able to make out any of its features. Man? Woman? He wasn’t sure. But one thing was for sure, it was headed directly toward his house. 

Joe leaned closer trying to see if the person was in distress as they were caught out in the snow. Maybe they had abandoned their car and were seeking help.  His warm breath met the cold pane fogging it, wholly obscuring his view.  Using his shirt sleeve, he wiped away the condensation hoping to improve his ability to see. As the person drew closer, it became apparent that it was a young woman and her attire was totally inappropriate for the weather. She wore a long dress whose hem floated across the snow. It looked like a green and black plaid and a white scarf crossed her neck to cover her bosom. Her hair was dark, curly, piled high on her head, and tendrils framing her face. She looked a lot like… It couldn’t be, could it? She came closer. So close that he could see her eyes. Eyes the color of a fine whisky. Claire? Claire! How? She had left for Scotland, disappearing into the past, to find her true love.

Anxiety flowed through him. He needed to speak with the woman. He needed to know if it truly was Claire. Joe tried to open the window, but it wouldn’t budge. The frame had swollen from the moisture, he thought. He rapped on the window calling her name, but she paid no heed.

Claire was running and laughing bright and merry. Stopping suddenly, she turned and extended a hand into the haze. A man appeared laughing and chased after her. He was a big son of a bitch standing at least six feet four inches and as big as a brick…Well, he was big. He had a mop of red hair, but to simply say red would deny the richness of the color. It was a curly thick mosaic of cinnamon, auburn, gold, and cinnabar.  And his eyes were the deepest blue Joe had ever seen. The man was kitted out in traditional highland garb right down to the sword strapped to his side. Reaching her, the young man made a courtly bow. He straightened, then took her hand to bestow a kiss. A moment later, he lifted and spun her around. She tossed her head back and peals of joyous laughter rang through the air. He set her down gently settling his hands on the swell of her hips. His eyes danced with love as he lowered his head to kiss her most thoroughly. Joe felt his cheeks burn as he watched such intimacy. 

Time advanced in front of him. He became witness to a lifetime, to a marriage, to the bonds of love that could not be broken. The vision changed from the blush of first love through to a life fully lived.  He wept at their trials, tribulations, and heartbreak. And he reveled in their accomplishments, triumphs, and joys. But through all their hardships, and there were many, their love for each other never wavered, never changed. 

The final event showed the couple had aged. The woman, Claire, had streaks of grey in her hair while the man’s hair had lightened. They stood atop a ridge overlooking some land. The man had his arm securely around her waist pulling her protectively close to him. Claire stood on her tiptoes wrapping her arms around his neck and pulled him down for a fiery kiss. She nodded her head and started to pull him toward a cabin. He scooped her up and carried her across the threshold kicking the door shut. 

As the vision faded back into the vapor as a voice called out, “I am happy Joe. I found my Jamie.”

Resting his head against the cold pane of glass provided a sense of comfort to his unsettled mind and spirit. Uncertainty gripped him as he grappled to understand what happened. Had this been a dream? Or a hallucination? Or had the fabric of time somehow been rent apart? He shook himself, much like a dog dispelling the rain from its coat, hoping to lift his state of bewilderment. 

Psssst, pssst, ssssssss! The homely sound of the radiator hissing brought him back to himself and away from his ruminations.

Mercilessly, the wind blew about the house ferociously shaking the windowpanes in their frames then suddenly died away. Out of curiosity, Joe tried to open the window. This time it slid open with ease. The blinding snow stopped returning to light flurries. As he turned to walk away from the window, he noticed the clock on the mantel. It was one minute later than when he last looked at it. “Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ,” he muttered.

Joe walked over to Claire’s chair and picked up the visor cradling it to his chest,  “Wherever you are Claire, I’m glad you’re happy and you found your Jamie. Jamie, if you can hear me, take good care of our girl.”

With that, the doorbell rang and Joe went to greet his guests.

                                                        *************

Claire woke with a start bringing Jamie to instant alertness. He grabbed the pistol he kept by his bedside in preparation for any threat. Seeing none, he turned to look at Claire. She looked like she had seen a ghost.

“Sassenach, what’s amiss? Are ye alright?”

“I dreamt...I dreamt I was back in Boston going to play poker with the other surgeons. It was our regular night to play. The game was at Joe’s house and there was this blizzard.”

“Poker? What kind of game do ye play with a poker?” he was afraid to ask. Claire had told him so many peculiar stories about her time that he thought this would be another one. The only poker he knew about was the kind used in a fireplace.

“It’s a card game. I was rather good at it too. Someday I’ll have to teach you.” Claire snuggled up against Jamie seeking his heat, his comfort. She yawned greatly, “Except I will miss my green visor.”

 “A vi-zor?” All he could envision was a knight’s helmet with a visor covering the eyes and face.

“It’s a sort of hat with a green brim. It shades your eyes and some of your face. People use it to hide their facial expressions when they bluff at cards.”

Jamie looked at her as if she were a bit daft. He knew nothing could hide her thoughts on that glass face. He tucked her head under his chin, “Come, Sassenach, rest yer head, aye? I think ye had a bit of the nightmare. I’ll keep ye warm and safe.” He lowered his head placing a kiss on the top of her head.

Jamie closed his eyes and thought about the black man he had seen in his dreams too. “Aye, dinna fash, Joe. I’ll care for her with my life,” he whispered just before lapsing into sleep.

A/N:

VOLVULUS: A volvulus occurs when part of the colon or intestine twists. The twisting causes bowel obstructions that may cut off the blood supply to areas of the bowels. This can cause the bowel to die or left untreated the person can die.

RENT: This involves a story. When I was in catechism class the teacher was telling the story of Christ’s trial before the Pharisees. When Jesus was condemned one of the Pharisees was said to have rent his garment. You say that to a bunch of kids and they start to giggle. They wanted to know who he rented his clothes to and for how much. So the teacher explained that to rent something meant to tear it apart violently. I fell in love with the word’s usage and I never thought I would get to use it in this way. But I did!

And poor Jamie, Claire’s stories always leave his surprised, confused, shocked among other feelings.

The truth behind this story was that it was supposed to be smutty. Instead, it evolved into this. It was supposed to happen that the Ridge was also snowed-in. Claire was bored with playing chess with Jamie and wanted to play something else. She wanted to teach him strip poker. So I left myself an opening if I chose to do a second chapter. But I have to finish E2B first.

I hope you liked this and it brought a smile to your face.

You can find me on AO3. There I am LadyJane518.

Thanks for reading!

[arcticfox007]

The Wych Elm and the Cemetery

Happy Christmas @aibari! I’m you’re secret santa and I hope you enjoy your gift!

Thanks to @destielsecretsanta2020 for putting all of this together :)

Wishlist fulfilled: Angst with a Happy Ending, Case Fic, Weird Small Towns (well city in this case), Weird Angel Lore, Hand holding, and Americana (I tried to work in as much as I could) – if you want specific info on all of the Americana I tied in, check out my endnotes on AO3 😊 Also, @aibari I’m happy to list you as the giftee on AO3 if you have a name over there.

The is roughly set during early Season 12, but I’m not married to canon or anything.

***

               Dean wasn’t easily impressed these days, but even he had to admit that the tree growing out of the grave was unlike anything he’d come across before. The historic cemetery in the middle of Missouri had its fair share of trees, but they had come here for this one. Cas stood next to him looking like he was attempting to interrogate the tree with his mind. For a moment Dean was distracted by the angel, smiling a bit at the memory of the time Cas had insisted on interrogating a cat. Luckily, Cas had gotten better at blending in, so at least he wasn’t actively asking the tree questions. There was the sound of someone clearing their throat to Dean’s other side and Dean directed his attention back to the cemetery’s caretaker, Mrs. Paige.

               “I’m not sure why the FBI would be interested in something like this.” The older woman sniffed and looked at both Cas and Dean suspiciously. Dean turned on the charm and gave her a warm smile.

               “Unfortunately, we aren’t at liberty to discuss the details of the case, but we’d appreciate anything you can tell us about this tree Mrs. Paige, or the woman who was killed, Louisa Abbot.”

                We’d also like any information you might have on the person who was buried here,” Castiel interrupted. “Most of the marker seems to be missing, perhaps destroyed by the sudden growth of this tree.”

               “Well, I can certainly get you the information on who was buried here, this was one of our more famous gravesites. The man buried here died in the early 1800s, he is one of two Revolutionary War veterans laid to rest in the cemetery, his name was William Abbot. I believe he held the rank of Captain. The Boone Historical Society may have more information about him, but he is one of the earliest burials in the cemetery and a lot of those records have been lost over the years.” Mrs. Paige chewed on her lower lip for a moment, staring along with Dean at the tree once again. “The tree will have to be removed to restore Captain Abbot’s grave.”

               “Was Captain Abbot an ancestor of the victim?” Cas’ question caught Dean off guard. There was something strangely mesmerizing about the massive twisting trunk rising out of the ground exactly where the remains of Captain Abbot would have been. Dean registered that Cas and the caretaker were continuing to talk, but Dean stepped away to examine the tree more carefully. It’s roots, on the surface at least, didn’t seem to spread out much. Rather they seemed to go straight down into the Earth. Its trunk was thick enough to have been there for hundreds of years despite having only appeared a few days ago. The tree itself was knotted in appearance, with ugly, twisted branches shooting out in all directions. For some reason it occurred to Dean that the tree looked like it was screaming in pain. Dean jumped when he suddenly felt Cas’ hand on his shoulder.

              “Dean. Are you listening?” Dean pulled his eyes away from the tree and turned towards Cas who continued to keep his hand on Dean’s shoulder.

               “Ah, no, sorry. This,” Dean waved vaguely at the impressive scene before them, “is kind of distracting.” Cas nodded seriously. Dean noticed that the caretaker had left, but was distracted again by Cas pulling his hand back. They always touched a bit longer than was probably normal, but Dean still regretted the loss of the warmth on his shoulder.

               “Mrs. Paige said that the victim may have been a descendant of Captain Abbot, but she wasn’t sure. She suggested the Historical Society again, if we needed further information. She did say that she knew Louisa Abbot when she was a teenager. She was one of several teenagers she used to call the police on for breaking into the cemetery after hours to party. Mrs. Paige said she hadn’t really seen her in more recent years.

               “Is there any way to tell if the good Captain is still here?” Dean waved towards the roots of the tree. Cas shook his head. “Ah well, I’d be surprised if they were still here. I guess we better find out what exactly Louisa Abbot was into.” They started walking back towards the car.

               “I agree. I’d also like more information on the tree. I know it’s a type of elm, but I’m not sure of the significance, if there is any.”

               “Call Sam and get him to work on it.” Cas let out an exasperated huff in response to Dean’s delegation of research to his brother.

               “Dean. The entire reason we are here without Sam is so he can rest. He needs to sleep to get over the flu, especially since he refused to let me heal him. I am more than capable of finding the information, perhaps while you visit the historical society.”

               “Alright. You want me to drop you off at the library?”

               “That would be acceptable.” Cas paused to look out over the cemetery again before opening the passenger side door of the Impala. Dean noticed the angel’s hesitation.

               “Everything okay man?” Castiel turned towards Dean upon hearing his words and Dean notices the sadness that ghosts across the angel’s face. “Seriously, Cas, what’s going on with you? You seem more, I dunno, out of it than usual.”

               “I – this place is a lot like the cemetery where Mary was originally buried. I don’t like the memory of you leaving to die.” Cas looks away abruptly and climbs into the passenger seat. Dean is at a loss for words, so he doesn’t say anything at all. He drops Cas off at the library with all the things left unsaid hanging between them.

***

               It’s off season for the small college town, most of the students having gone home for winter break, so the hunters end up with better than normal accommodations. Dean is more than happy to discover a decent grill-themed restaurant practically in the parking lot of their hotel, and Cas is happy to wait until his companion is content with food before telling him what he’d found during his time in the library. Dean talks ideally about the pie store the server had told him about, wondering if they’ll have time to check it out before they leave. Cas lets Dean talk, he finds himself still grateful that he can have these moments, he truly thought he was going to lose him in the attempt to destroy Amara.

               Ever since Castiel’s brief time as a human he’s found that the emotions he’d been slowly acquiring over the years have amplified at a rate that he has had difficulty adjusting to. He’d hoped at the beginning that regaining his grace would have given him back some of the control that had spiraled away from him, but he can’t help but dwell on almost losing Dean.

               When they reach their room, Dean opts to take a shower before swapping case notes so Cas tries to take that time to compose himself. When given moments away from Dean, where there is a chance for quiet, the angel forces himself to let the feelings he has for the infuriating man wash over him. He lets himself feel the pain at having to let him go up against Amara alone. He lets himself feel the overwhelming joy at seeing him alive once again. He lets himself feel how much he’s fallen in love with the beautiful human being. He recalls talking to Anna at the beginning of what would become his fall, her telling him it only gets worse. He has no doubt now that she wasn’t just referring to his struggle with doubt. An angel that can feel things akin to a human can easily become overwhelmed. They were not built for these sensations, and so, every time Castiel lets go to indulge in the wash of his emotions he pulls on his grace and works to reign them in one at a time. By the time Dean emerges from the shower Castiel has regained some semblance of stoicism.

               “So, this lady at the historical society was great. She apparently teaches genealogy classes for free to the public or something, so she was able to pull up the victim’s ancestry pretty fast. Captain Abbot was her ancestor all right, so at least we have that connection. Couldn’t find much out about the family besides that, so we should talk to Louisa’s next of kin tomorrow. I think the police report said she had a sister locally.” Castiel agrees to the plan and pulls out some information he had printed at the library.

               “The tree is called a ‘Wych Elm’ and is a common wood used to build coffins, which may explain it’s presence. It’s possible, if Captain Abbot’s coffin was made from this wood, that whatever spell was cast had the side effect of growing a new tree from the wood.” Dean raises his eyebrows skeptically when Cas shares this information.

               “It’s called a witch elm Cas; do you really think it’s there because of the coffin wood?” Castiel rolls his eyes at his companion.

               “W-Y-C-H Dean, not witch. It means pliable, it’s named for the characteristic of the wood. But no, to answer your question. I doubt it has anything to do with the coffin wood. It’s not a tree common to this area.” Dean waves his hand to indicate Castiel should continue. “You are not the only one to mistake the name of the tree for something else. More recent lore does associate the tree with actual witches as many of them seem to like these trees as ritualistic sites. The rest of the lore associates them with melancholy and death, especially because the trees are known for unexpectedly dropping branches and injuring the unsuspecting people standing below them.”

               “Yeah, okay. Does that mean that Louisa was some sort of witch, and grew the tree there on purpose?” Cas thinks about Dean’s suggestion for a few moments.

               “Possibly. The other thing these trees are known for is guarding the entrance to Hades, so it may also be a result of an attempt to raise the dead. I cannot be certain as this seems unlike any other necromantic ritual I’ve heard of. I am also uncertain at to the motivation of raising someone who died over two centuries ago, as the more recent dead are usually preferrable to necromancers.”

               “Alright, well there’s not much more we can do tonight.” Castiel nods and watches Dean dig through his bag. Dean hesitates for a moment and Castiel begins to wonder if he forgot something at the bunker. Dean shakes his head and pulls a bundle out of his bag, tossing it to Castiel.

               “Here, I forgot I brought this for you.” Dean looks expectantly at the angel as Cas looks at the material in his hands.  

                “Clothing? Dean, I have no need to change clothes.” Castiel’s confusion is evident on his face. Dean sighs rubs the back of his neck.

                 “I know man. Just try though, you’re more human-like than before with Heaven losing power. I know you don’t want to talk about it, but I noticed that you eat more often, and even sleep sometimes. I think you’ll actually appreciate relaxing in something that isn’t a suit and trench coat.” Cas looks at the clothing in his hands, dismayed that Dean has seen the weakening of his connection to Heaven. He hadn’t wanted Dean to think him less capable but at the same time he’s touched by the thought the man had put into the angel’s situation.

                 “Thank you, Dean. I will try.” Castiel goes into the bathroom to change and when he emerges, he finds Dean sitting on one of the beds flipping through TV channels. Dean slides over, indicating that Cas should sit down as the TV is only visible from the one bed. Dean complains that the only thing on is a Law & Order marathon because the hotel doesn’t have a streaming service on the TV. Cas doesn’t mind though, sharing the bed to watch television gives him an excuse to watch over Dean as he sleeps without Dean complaining about it. Even nicer is how Dean falls asleep gradually in the middle of an episode and doesn’t seem to notice how he curls into Cas’ side as he does it. Cas smiles and allows his feelings to wash over him again as he thinks about how the softer PJs must be more comfortable for Dean to lay on.

***

                  The following evening found the hunter and the angel at a place called Warm Springs Ranch. When they called Louisa’s sister, she told them she could talk during her break. The ranch ran some sort of Christmas event and Janice Abbot was one of the people in charge of it. Dean tried to play it cool, but he couldn’t help getting a bit excited over the chance to see the Budweiser Clydesdales. He did remind Cas that interrogating the horses was unnecessary to which he had received one of the angel’s full body eyerolls. Dean would never admit it out loud, but he really enjoyed Cas’ sarcasm. He thought the eyerolling was kind of adorable.

               Dean hadn’t meant to spend last night half snuggling with his best friend, but Cas didn’t seem to mind so he wasn’t going to worry about it. Dean figured his secret crush on the guy was his problem, not the angel’s – as long as it didn’t mess up their friendship it wasn’t worth agonizing over.

               They had unexpectedly spent the morning at the morgue. There was another strange death last night, something had eaten the victim’s spleen. They’d only received a call about it because the original victim, Louisa, had also been missing her spleen along with several other organs and most of her blood. If it was the same creature it certainly seemed to enjoy the bloodier organs of the body. The only other thing the victims had in common was proximity to the cemetery. The most recent victim had visited the cemetery the previous day according to her wife.

               After that trip, they had gotten access to Louisa’s duplex and were now in agreement that she had been a practicing witch dabbling in necromancy. Cas had been on the phone with Rowena during the drive to the ranch giving her a rundown on the information they had in the hopes that she could help then understand more of what was going on. Eventually Cas had given in and called Sam, admitting that the younger Winchester had a much easier time getting Rowena’s cooperation.

               When they finally arrived at the front of the line of cars entering the ranch, Dean began to understand why there was a crowd. The lights draped everywhere were impressive and Dean was happy to note that Cas seemed taken in by the display. It always cheered Dean up to see Castiel happy, it felt like those instances were all too rare in their line of work. Dean and Cas showed their badges at the entrance and asked where they could find Janice. They were directed to a side road for staff and Dean noticed the small frown of Cas’ face.

               “Hey, want to ask if we can drive through the light display if we have time before we leave? It looks kinda awesome.” Castiel didn’t exactly smile but Dean could tell the suggestion pleased him. Dean wasn’t always sure why, but he was much better at reading Castiel than anyone else. Dean drove around to the back to park his car in what he assumed was the employee parking lot. They made their way through the staff entrance and asked around until they found Louisa’s sister.

                “I honestly don’t know what I can tell you guys that I haven’t already told the other cops. I’m sorry she’s dead but Louisa and I were not close. She and I have barely spoken since we were kids. She was friends with some really weird people and did a lot of drugs when we were younger. I’m really not surprised she ended up dead in a cemetery.” Janice was clearly frustrated at her sister’s death and the notoriety it had brought with it. They did manage to find out the names of some of the ‘weird’ friends Louisa hung out with but beyond that she had been more than happy to offer them free access to the Christmas event just to be rid of them.

                Dean was fairly certain the interview had been a dead end outside of assuring himself the sister wasn’t also a witch, but he didn’t feel their time had been wasted as he watched Cas roam through the stables. Cas attracted the few colts in residence leading to the kids in attendance following him around so they could see the young horses up close. Dean felt a soft warmth spread out from his chest as he watched his best friend talk with both the children and the colts. The children didn’t think anything of Cas having conversations with horses.

              They eventually made their way back to the car and drove through the light display. Maybe they should have talked about the case, but Dean didn’t want to ruin the moment. Cas gazed out at the decorations with a look of quiet contentment on his face and Dean reached for the angel’s hand without thinking about it. Cas threaded his fingers through Dean’s without even turning away from the window.

             Later that night, after grabbing burgers at a drive thru, they poured through the case notes together hoping to find something they had been missing. Dean didn’t even remember falling asleep until he woke up to Cas rolling him onto a pillow and laying a blanket on him. He mumbled a drowsy thank you and sunk into a dreamless slumber.

***

               Cas thought that maybe it was a mistake, but after last night he didn’t want to be away from Dean. Once he had pulled a blanket over his exhausted friend, Cas changed into the pajamas Dean had given him again and laid down beside him. He stayed above the covers and just watched Dean sleep. He didn’t tell Dean anymore that he’d watch over him as he didn’t enjoy being called creepy. Dean didn’t seem to understand that watching was part of who Castiel was as an angel. While he had rebelled and fallen it didn’t change his need to watch over the man he pulled out of hell. It would be like going to long without air for a human. Cas needed to watch Dean, to protect him, to assure himself that he was safe.

                He noticed Dean shivering despite the blanket draped over him and Castiel found himself giving into another impulse that he wasn’t sure Dean would appreciate. He pulled on the smallest amount of his grace to give some substance to his wings and dropped one of them on top of the man he loved. They were broken and battered, but over the years they had healed enough to fill out a bit. Dean quieted as he felt the weight of the wing, and Cas saw a small smile ripple across his face. The angel would just have to pull his wings back from the physical realm before Dean woke up, but it was worth the grace to keep Dean more comfortable as he slept.

***

               Dean opened his eyes in the morning to find a sleeping angel next to him. He froze as soon as he saw Cas there, more worried that the angel had fallen asleep than about the fact that Dean was all to happy to wake up to his best friend lying beside him. He reached over to see if he could wake Cas up and ran into – feathers? Dean quickly rubbed his hands over his face and woke up more definitively. Yup, those were feathers. Large, gorgeous, black feathers that shimmered like obsidian in the sunlight. It was as if every color that had ever existed had come together to create the shimmering black of Castiel’s wings. While concerned about why Cas was sleeping and why his wings were manifested when Dean had only ever seen shadows, Dean couldn’t help but be enthralled with the things. His hand reached out to pet the one blanketing him before he actually thought about it. He had just enough time to appreciate how amazingly soft they felt before Castiel awoke with a gasp. The wing pulled back suddenly and Cas was sitting up staring at Dean in shock.

               “Sorry, sorry! Did I hurt you? I didn’t mean anything by it, they were just so amazing… I’m so sorry Cas!” Dean held up his hands trying to placate the angel as he also sat up. Cas looked at his wings as if he had just realized they were physically present. Surprise travelled over his features and with a roll of Cas’ shoulders the wings disappeared. Dean tried not to look as disappointed as he felt. Cas turned back to Dean and briefly touched his jaw.

               “It’s alright Dean. I was just surprised. They were manifested more than I intended and the sensation of you touching them was unexpected.”

               “Did I hurt you?”

               “No, like I said it was just unexpected, not harmful. I apologize, I didn’t mean for them to be out for so long.” Dean was surprised to note that Cas looked embarrassed.

               “I – I’m glad I got to see them. They’re fucking awesome Cas, the shadows were badass enough, but wow. If I had known you could manifest them like that, I’d have been begging you to show me for years.” Cas laughed and the tension between them evaporated. Dean got ready in the bathroom and found Cas back in his regular clothing hanging up the phone when he’d finished brushing his teeth.

               “Rowena thinks she knows what happened, or at least some of it. She’s not completely sure about the role of the Wych Elm, but she did say that it’s likely we will need to use wood from the tree to kill the creature that was raised.”

               “Did she say what it is?” Cas nodded in response to Dean’s question.

               “She thinks Louisa was trying to make her own vampire. Ties of blood are necessary for control and the age of the corpse increases the power of the risen dead in a ritual like this. Rowena said that no one tries this type of thing though, because the amount of power and control needed are astronomical. She said she wouldn’t try it herself, that there are easier ways to get a loyal servant. Then she said something about how maybe Louisa didn’t have the ‘assets’ Rowena had?” Dean broke into laughter and Cas tilted his head in puzzlement. Dean always enjoyed Cas’ air quotes.

               “Don’t worry about it, Cas. Okay, so Louisa was trying to make her own breed of vampire.”

               “It would seem so. Obviously, she wasn’t successful, and not just in regards to her lack of control. Whatever the creature technically is, it’s not just drinking blood.” Dean chewed over Cas’ words as the angel did something on the laptop. All Dean could think is that this thing seemed to be some sort of zombie vampire. It didn’t really make a difference though, as long as they had a way to kill it. Or re-kill it as it were.

               “So, Rowena said we can use the Wych Elm wood to kill the thing?” Cas didn’t even look up from the screen to answer Dean’s question.

               “Not exactly. She said it had to be the specific tree that grew out of the grave. She also said it wouldn’t be enough by itself. I’m looking at the spell now.” Dean decided to leave Cas to it and work on getting their gear together. It was still a vampire after all, even if it was some sort of mutant version.

               “Dean. I think this will work. Dead man’s blood should still help to incapacitate it. We also need the ashes of it’s creator and the blessing of the divine.” Dean widened his eyes at that list, but he supposed it was doable. They could steal Louisa’s body from the morgue if necessary. “We use the spell to seal the ingredients into the wood of the elm. Then we have to stab the creature with the elm wood through its heart.”

               “So, we have to stake the vampire? Seriously?” Dean was amused at the idea of staking a vampire actually working.

               “Yes, Dean. Afterwards I’d still suggest decapitation and burning whatever is left, just to make sure it stays dead.” Cas closed the laptop and pushed it aside.

               “Sure. You have a plan for blessing of the divine?” Cas smiled at Dean.

               “That’s easy enough.” Cas didn’t even warn Dean, one moment he’s standing there looking at the angel expectantly, the next he has a faceful of feathers.

               “Um, I thought you didn’t want me touching them.” Dean couldn’t see Castiel, but he could hear him snickering. Dean pushed the wing away from his eyes in time to see Cas laughing at him.

               “I said it was unexpected, not that I minded you touching. Anyway, this will work.” Dean watches as Cas runs his finger through the feathers and finds one that comes loose. In between one blink and the next the wings are hidden once again. Cas hold a single feather in his hand, the echo of his earlier laughter still present in his smile.

               “What about the ashes? Do we need to break into the morgue?”

               “We don’t need a specified amount; we can get away with most anything. Maybe just hair or something small, we needn’t steal an entire corpse.” Dean sighs in relief, that’s one less complication.

               “Well let’s head out then, I’d like this taken care of before sunset. Wait, how are we going to find the thing anyway? You think it’s prowling around the cemetery?” Cas nods.

               “Yes, Dean. Rowena seems to think it’s probably tied to the elm and with the other victim also being close to the area I’m inclined to agree with her. Using the tree for the spell may even be enough to draw it to us. If you want to drop me off at the cemetery, I can start preparing everything while you get the ashes.” Dean agrees and grabs his keys.

***

               Cas is somewhat relieved to be dropped off at the cemetery. While Dean hadn’t reacted poorly to being draped in an angel wing this morning, or the fact that Cas was asleep in the same bed, he couldn’t help feeling that he had been pushing things too far. He hadn’t meant to fall asleep while also solidifying his wings. He needed to conserve his grace for more important tasks. While Castiel was truly content to just be a part of Dean’s life it was difficult to remind himself that he could not have more, especially with his poor control over the very human-like emotions he now experienced. What was really tipping him over the edge though, was how Dean kept reacting. Dean did not react with anger or defensiveness when he found himself in situations that hinted of a more intimate relationship with Cas. He acted as if it were normal and even welcome. It surprised Cas, but it also gave him some of the hope that he had never really allowed himself to have. It was distracting, which made it all the better that he would be prepping the spell by himself.

               Cas collected a branch from the Wych Elm growing out of Captain Abbot’s grave, mindful of the tree’s reputation for dropping branches on unsuspecting passersby. Then Cas took a few moments to make sure the caretaker knew that he and his partner may be around afterhours because of the attack yesterday and was happy to find out that she had already decided to stay with a friend until she felt safer. Cas made quick work of the elm branch, pleased with how easy it was to shape into a stake. The sun would set soon so Castiel got to work engraving the sigil they would need directly into the tree trunk. Once Dean brought the last ingredient it should only take them a few minutes to complete everything. With any luck the vampire would come to them.

               He was so absorbed in creating the sigil that he almost didn’t hear the movement behind him in time.

***

               As usual, things had not gone according to plan. Dean had arrived to see Cas holding the mutant-vamp at bay, but clearly struggling to gain an upper hand over the creature they didn’t yet have the means to kill. Dean knew better than to jump into the middle of that fight, it was more important to finish Rowena’s spell. He dumped the ashes in with the rest of the material. Luckily Cas had left a copy of the actual spell out by the bowl with all the ingredients. The incantation was pretty straightforward and Dean quickly scooped up the resulting concoction on two fingers and began filling in the sigil carved into the tree. Dean picked up the branch Cas had sharpened into a stake and touched it to the sigil, running through the incantation one more time. In a brief flash of light, the sigil was absorbed into the stake.

               “Cas!” Dean threw the stake towards the angel who managed to catch it neatly without even looking. Ducking down as the creature threw itself towards him, Cas pushed the stake up and underneath the monster’s rib cage with more force than a normal human could have managed. Dean breathed a sigh of relief too early, the vamp surged back up and made another run at the rapidly tiring angel.

               “Rowena may have overlooked something.” Cas sounded remarkably composed considering how ragged he looked. Dean looked around them desperately for something they had missed. Then he saw how the tree was shivering and pulsing as if trying to reach out to the vampire. Of course!

               “Hey asshole, leave my goddamn angel alone!” Dean knew the shotgun wouldn’t work against the creature but it got his attention, and with the impact to its shoulder and the stake still protruding from its ribcage the monster snarled as it barreled towards Dean. Dean was backed up against the tree as Cas turned on him with a horrified look on his face.

               “DEAN!” Cas sounded both angry and devastated as he chased after the vampire, but Dean just yelled out instructions, all too aware what this probably looked like from Cas’ point of view.

               “Stake it to the tree!” Cas caught on quick and as Dean threw himself out of the way Cas leapt after the thing that had once been Captain Abbot. Cas reached down to where the stake was sticking out and wrenched until the creature’s back was on the trunk of the Wych Elm. Pushing off from the ground Cas slammed the stake further in, until the vampire was stuck to the tree. It screeched as light pulsed from the stake into the tree. The Wych Elm seemed to come to life as it collapsed in on itself, dragging the mutant-vamp back to wherever the tree had come from. Within moments all that was left was a broken gravestone.

               “Huh. Guess we don’t have to worry about burning it,” Dean quipped. Castiel rounded on him, clearly not feeling amused.

               “What were you thinking? What if I hadn’t been fast enough?” Dean let Castiel rant at him for a few moments, standing up and dusting off the dirt from the back of his jeans.

                  “I’m sorry, man. I didn’t want to tip it off.”

                  “So instead, you made it look like you were drawing it away from me? Getting yourself killed for me!?” Castiel’s eyes flashed dangerously blue.

                   “Yeah, and it worked. For the record, I’d have done that even if it wasn’t to trick the thing though. Better me than you.” Dean was maybe angrier than he expected. He realized he’d been worried about how long Cas would last against that thing as he noted cuts that weren’t healing and the way the angel was swaying as he tried to hold himself upright. He also noticed that the blue in Cas’ eyes was in no way diminishing as he glowered at Dean.

                    “You. Are. Absurd. You are worth everything to me.” Then, rather abruptly, Cas fell over. Dean’s heart was pounding in his ears, both from what the angel had said and the sudden alarm he felt at a cosmic being fainting. He pulled Cas up into his arms, and damn, he was heavier than Dean had expected. Not just the muscle that Dean could feel, but he idlily wondered if the wings somehow added weight. Either way, Dean eventually made it back to their hotel room, although his back wouldn’t thank him for it later.

***

               Cas woke up in the pajamas Dean had given him with an arm thrown over his chest. Confused, Cas turned slowly and realized that they were back in the hotel and Dean was asleep beside him, curled around the angel’s torso. As small rays of sunlight peeked through the curtains Cas could see his normal clothing folded nearby on a chair. He noticed that the wounds his grace hadn’t healed yet had been cleaned and bandaged, and that the blanket was pulled up around both him and Dean. As Dean let out a contented sigh in his sleep and burrowed closer, Castiel thought that perhaps he too was worth everything to someone. Smiling the angel allowed himself to drift back to sleep, happily thinking about how Dean had told the vampire to stay away from “his” angel.

***

@destielsecretsanta2020, @aibari

[wlw-lovestruck-fiction]

Ngl, the Nadia anons and fic have me in a Nadia mood. Can we get a fic where MC and Vivienne aren't dating, but Nadia thought they were and finds out they aren't, so she tries winning over MC, and MC is both wary and slightly charmed, despite the entire Poppy being exasperated, and finally agrees to a date? It could be a follow on from the other fic or it's own thing. (If you receive this ask twice please ignore the 2nd one, tumblr gave a bad request message for the first so idk if you got it)

Pairing with: “Can we have a Nadia stalking mc instead of Vivienne? Getting intrigued by the mc and then wanting her to join her instead“

...

Written by @an-awkward-ghost

“I’m a bit confused.”

The voice is firm, perhaps even a bit harsh, and it has Nadia instantly on edge. Were it not for the small, almost imperceptible hint of playfulness, the blond thief would have already brandished her knife. Instead, she just freezes there, wide eyed, letting the voice wash over her and awaken a torrent of feelings she had buried deep within her. Emotions only brought problems, only made her pick all the wrong options. She couldn’t trust something as fickle as that. She knew that. Well. At least she thought she knew that.

Yet here she is, eagerly spinning around after a moment’s hesitation, seeking the owner of that sweet, sweet, harsh voice.

It had only been a month, but Karina seemed to have changed drastically. Gone was the insecure little girl she had been, wrapped in Vivienne’s shadow. Now she stood strong and unflinching just a few meters away, shoulders thrown back in attempt to look taller, brown eyes calculating Nadia’s every movement like a predator. One wrong move, and it was over.

Nadia didn’t want to underestimate a woman like Karina ever again.

“You said you weren’t after Vivienne anymore… but here you are anyway.” Her eyes flickered up and down, her expression softening with a small, unconcerned smile. It didn’t look cocky, nor did it look happy. It was teasing, meant to irritate Nadia to her very core, but she found she couldn’t quite look at it without feeling butterflies rise. It was unfair. Nadia pursed her lips and looked away, and Karina continued. “What am I supposed to think?”

She felt like she had been put under a microscope, left there to be picked apart by the artist.

“It… was a coincidence?” She finally said, voice surprisingly steady despite the turmoil of emotions she was experiencing.

Karina hummed. “Yeah, I don’t really believe in coincidences and that only leaves me with plenty of creepy alternatives. You might want to explain yourself.”

“I didn’t know you would come here next.” Nadia forced herself to meet her gaze, half-wishing she could just burn the butterflies in her stomach so she could actually concentrate, half-berating herself for not realizing where her true affections laid sooner. “I had planned to stay away from you – that’s why I decided to come here in the first place.”

“Sure. Awfully close to our next target, too. How convenient.”

Frustration could not begin to convey what Nadia was feeling right now. Hot-headed indignation, barely held at bay by the cold, murky feeling of rejection. Her hands closed into fists, then opened, then closed again in quick motions, as if she were trying to grasp her conflicting feelings and bury them even deeper.

“I didn’t even know you had a target here.” She spat at last, scowling. “Look, I won’t get in between your relationship with Vivienne anymore. I won’t even stay here, if it bothers you so much. I could probably pick the next flight to–”

“My relationship?”

“Yes, your– why are you looking at me like that?” It takes a few seconds. Nadia has never had so many conflicting feelings in her entire life. There’s the bubbly, blissful hope that lifts her spirits and spreads over her whole body like a blanket of pure joy, warm and fuzzy, but there’s also the sinking, bitter sensation of a misunderstanding. Of not reading the room correctly, despite that being Nadia’s forte. “You aren’t dating Vivienne.”

Karina’s smile seems a little less detached, bordering on genuine. “It’s true I had some interest in her at the beginning, but I quickly realized a relationship wasn’t the best choice. Hey, maybe we should start a club or something! God knows there’s enough people interested in Vivienne to get plenty of members.”

“Then… but she didn’t– you were jealous!”

“Yeah, I can’t deny that.” A sheepish shrug. “But in my defense, who wouldn’t be?”

Nadia takes a deep breath. “You were jealous.” She repeats, more to herself than to Karina. She’s trying to make this whole situation make sense. “Of Vivienne…? Because I was giving attention to her.”

A light blush that might be Nadia’s imagination appears on Karina’s face. “I think we might be getting off topic here. You, uh, you said you were going to leave?”

“I was, but there’s no way I’m doing that after this revelation.” After a month of aimlessly swimming through the situation, Nadia finally thinks she might have found her footing. She smirks. “You are interested in me.”

Karina looks her up and down again, wary. “Was. You know, before I found out you are an obsessive asshole.”

“Believe me, I’ve learnt my lesson. I’ll respect your boundaries.” She takes a few steps closer. Karina seems rooted in place, body angling towards the end of the alleyway they are in, but making no move to leave. “But I can’t let this chance slip me by.”

“Chance? So because you couldn’t get Vivienne, now you are after me?”

“Ah…” Nadia hesitates, all confidence wavering. The other woman narrows her eyes. “No. No, I…” The words were right there. Somehow, they wouldn’t come out.

“You…?

“It’s just. I didn’t– I…” She lets out a small grunt of frustration. “I wasn’t interested in her. I thought I was. Turns out she wasn’t the one that interested me at all.”

“But then… why did you…” A beat, and Karina’s eyes widen. “You were projecting your feelings onto her.”

“Yes. And now that it’s come out into the open that you are also interested-”

“Was. I was interested. Past tense. Nadia, I’m saying no. Can you respect that, please?”

Nadia pursed her lips, feeling her good mood dissipate. This was what had ruined her chances in the past, her near violent approach. She backed the subject of her interest to a corner where they would have no other choice but to pick her, because the alternative was even worse.

That’s not something she wanted for Karina. Whatever this affection was, it felt far more fragile and precious than any of her other obsessions.  Far more real. Worth treasuring. Nadia wasn’t sure she could even call this feeling ‘an obsession’.

She couldn’t force something like this. She didn’t want to.

“I understand.” She said. “And you have every right to say no, but I want you to give me a chance to prove that I’ve changed.” That had been mostly thanks to the sheer number of sleepless nights she had had, just thinking about everything. Her ideology and how it clashed with the Poppy’s, mainly. That was why she had scrapped the video her crew was working on, why she had put on hold the heists they had planned.

She knew she still had a long way to go, but she was willing and raging to go. A change was long overdue.

“Just one chance. I won’t let it go to waste.”

…

“It was creepy enough when it was Vivienne, but I didn’t expect to endure this type of thing again.” Zoe holds up a gift for everyone to see with a small grimace. Jett takes one look at it and whistles in appreciation.

“Those are some quality paints, alright. You’re going to have a field day with those, Kar.”

“Who said I was going to use them?”

“So I can throw them out or-”

“What? No! Zoe, don’t!”

Vivienne smirks from where she is curled up on the couch, amusement crinkling in her eyes. “Now this is a development, thought I can’t say it was unexpected.” The mirth dies down soon enough. To anyone else she’d look composed, detached, but the members of the Poppy know her well enough to detect the hint of worry clouding her expression. “How do you feel about this, Karina? Would you like us to handle it?”

“I can think of a few ways that might be effective.” Leon adds, from the other side of the room, a frown firmly in place.

“She just can’t give up, can she?” Remy huffs. “First Vivienne, now Karina… When do you think you’ll have your turn, Zoe?”

Zoe gives him a dry look. “Never. Not if I can help it. But seriously Kar, what do we do? If I have to see another gift from that woman, I swear-”

“No, no, it’s okay.”

The living room is always alive with noise when the Poppy gathers in it, sharing laughs, the atmosphere light and welcoming. All of that skids to an abrupt stop as soon as Karina has finished talking. Silence reigns so perfectly it becomes deafening, all eyes on her, searching, prodding, as if they were trying to find out when Karina had been replaced by some kind of impostor.

The artist laughs. “Seriously. Just give me at least a week with her. I want to see something.”

“Something?” Nikolai repeats, one of his eyebrows so far up into his hairline Karina is almost expecting it to fall off. “Not that I don’t trust your judgement, but you must remember who we are talking about. One week is plenty of time for her to kill you.”

“One week.” Karina says again, resolute. “That is all I ask.”

The rest of the Poppy sputters in a chaos of half-shouted reasons why this won’t work, and half-muttered inquiries regarding Karina’s sanity. She takes it all in stride, mostly because they aren’t telling her anything new, something she hadn’t considered before making the decision. Curiosity kills the cat, some say, and Karina is definitely curious to see how much Nadia has allegedly changed.

…

“I’m definitely surprised this time.”

Nadia gives her a curious look, her smirk firmly in place. The confidence she exudes is something that had interested Karina from the moment she had first seen the blonde woman, an unhinged storm worth admiring from a distance.

She had certainly mellowed out. There was still a dangerous undertone to her every action, but it was more controlled. Karina wasn’t naive, she knew Nadia could still kill people if she wanted to, probably with no remorse whatsoever, but she had the impression she would at least consider other alternatives before rushing in for the kill. Nadia hadn’t been lying – she had changed.

Or she was a really good actress, but Karina was willing to give her the benefit of the doubt.

“I didn’t think you’d have such a drastic change in just one month.”

Blue eyes shimmer with delight. Nadia practically preens.

“I’m full of surprises. You’d better get used to that.”

“Good! That just means I won’t get bored anytime soon.”

“I’ll ensure you don’t.”

The chill of the night makes for an excellent excuse to get closer, not that Nadia really needs it. She moves closer to her in one smooth movement, but Karina catches the look the blonde woman sends her way, making sure she’s not overstepping any boundaries. It’s a sweet gesture, something she wouldn’t have expected from Nadia in the past.

They’re on top of the Eiffel Tower. Leon is somewhere near, out of sight, and Karina can just imagine him staring at them from wherever he is with a concerned frown, ready to intervene at any sign of trouble. But nothing of the sort happens. Instead, Karina stands there, transfixed by the anecdotes Nadia is telling her, eyes tracking her every movement with a shocked wonder she hadn’t felt before. There had been a spark with Vivienne, all those months ago, when the Poppy had recruited her, but nothing like the emotion she feels now. There’s a raging fire somewhere in her soul she had ignored until now, emboldened by Nadia’s smile, by her touch, by her mere presence.

And when the date comes to an end, and she stands inches away, blue eyes searching hers for permission?

Karina can only nod, eyes fluttering shut as Nadia slips one finger under her chin, directing her face up, expression softening as she leans in.

She feels like she is on cloud nine.

[thebadchoicemachine]

For the writing prompt, what about ghost!Robin and Catboy!Corpse seeing present day Cornelius/Dream? Like Dream being confused and happy about his Partner and Son’s Ghosts being there and everyone else being v confused about the two random people calling him Cornelius and knowing him from a hundred years ago.

anon im so sorry. This has been sitting in my inbox for months now but I just cannot finish this story. it a really cool idea though. Here’s my incomplete first draft. I just copy and paste it from my wip to here so this is it, notes and cuts and typos and all. 

The idea is Karl shows up when they’re in the prison and they see the false timeline where Cornelius was a killer and are forced to accept he sucks

_________________

- The execution cell was supposed to be merciful, a more civilized solution than being beat to death, but everything about it made Robin gag. He hoped he would never ever end up in it. 

tw: implied indirect suicide, major death but they’re ghosts(?) 

--•-•-*-•-•-- 

Colors and colors and colors wouldn’t stop melting and mixing and swirling. They surrounded him. They were in him. They were him. He breathed them in without breathing, he bled them without blood, he was falling and flying and stood completely still. 

And then it was dark. No, then it was light. White and clean like the marble of a palace Robin knew he would never get to see. 

Where... where was he? He’d won hadn’t he? They’d... killed... him. They’d killed everyone. 

He wanted to die. He had to. There was boiling in his blood he couldn’t ease, he had to die, he needed them to hate him. To end him. The Jester’s Curse. Cursed to be wronged, to be hurt, to be freed. 

He’d always had it, as far as he was concerned. He didn’t know why he resisted for so long. Perhaps, despite everything, he’d enjoyed living at one point. Despite what he was, despite his curse, despite bring a jester, he wanted to live! At some point he couldn’t care less about tricking others into condemning him to the grave. 

After Cornelius, after Cat, he didn’t even fight it nor could he fight for it. He didn’t even care. Even as the ground swallowed him up in flames of the execution he held no harmony. No peace. There was no joy in his victory, there was no meaning to his death. Even in fulfilling it, he’d denied his curse. 

That’s why he was still here, wasn’t it? Jesters want to die, they want to transform, to be released into vengeful spirits of lies and trickery. He was... dead. He was also... still here... why? He knew why. He didn’t think he liked the answer. 

Robin couldn’t stand it. He couldn’t stand to bother mourning anymore. Not himself, not his long-dead family, not his new fath- he choked. He didn’t know know on what, he had no air, no lungs. He just couldn’t finish the thought. 

“We never did make it official, did we?” A solemn, comforting, voice rang out.

Robin spun around. No. What? No, it’s not. It is. He is. Right there. Standing- no, not standing. Neither of them can stand. Not floating either just… there… was Cat. 

Robin felt his eyes fill up with tears, he didn’t know how, he didn’t care. He flew into his friend’s arms. 

“Woah! Ah, be careful, child.”

“H-how,” Robin sobbed into his chest. “How are you…”

“You’re here, aren’t you?”

“I th-thought that was because of my c-curse.”

Cat sighed, gently ruffling the child’s hair.  

“No,” he spoke, finally. “I don’t think that’s why any of us are here.”

“Then-”

“No, I don’t think it’s what happens to everyone either. I’ve been alone as far as I can tell. I haven’t found anyone else. Not even…” he sighed again. 

Robin understood. Cornelius was gone. 

“I’m so sorry, Robin.” Cat tightened his grip. “I’m so sorry for what we put you through. We promised we would give you a better life, a safer one, but we left you in the worst way possible. You were executed because... because of me.”

“Oh,” Robin stared down at his feet. “You... were there for that?”

“No. I wasn’t- I can’t- I don’t know how to explain it, I only know what happened. Exactly what happened. It was like living a story being told to you, as though a nar- narrating...

Narration. Something clicked in both of their minds. Wasn’t there some strange… the spirals… the colors… he didn’t have a name, not one he ever told them. He had simply showed up one day, right before it all began. He wasn’t there, not properly anyway,. but he was there. He was there in the backs of everyone’s minds. He was there as he explained away every awful thing like it was a footnote in a novel. He was there as he made and told truth. He was the Narrator. 

He had such an air of control, such an air of change. 

Thoughts (memories?) of a past that never happened flashed through Robin’s mind. Cat was out investigating, Robin was carefully looking over his medical supplies. He couldn’t risk- NO. No. He swept the distraction from his mind. He wouldn’t get carried away, not this time.

The narrator. The Narrator. He had a book. A swirling and swishing mash of colors cover on his book he scribed all their horrors into. That’s where they were. 

“Cat, we need to go. He made a mistake. This… was his first time. We are not supposed to be here. We were never meant to leave. We should try to get out.”

Cat only nodded. Robin didn’t know why he understood or how deeply, but he did. This was a mistake.

The two began wandering the halls. It was strange, being able to think and move again as though his body was still his. To have his mind and thoughts working in a stream of consciousness instead of a thick muddy bog of echos. If he didn’t know any better he’d describe it as feeling more… alive.

He even reached out to guide Cat out of habit. How amazing was it that he had habits again? Cat allowed him to because he knew the comfort it gave him to have something so familiar. Although, of course, not really needing him to. They were both still dead, spirits, memories. Living- not living like this, detached, was like existing with a million tiny radars reaching out all around you. It wasn’t a matter of seeing or feeling, simply knowing. When you were so disconnected from life and itself you were able to get a much clearer and instant idea of the world, he supposed.

They walked and wandered in silence for a while. At least, a while from their perspective. Even with no real idea what or where they were Robin could tell time was… off… here. 

Eventually, they found their way out. There was no exit or pathway they walked through nor was it a sudden jump. They had just… made it out. They were standing beneath the shelter of some trees. It was raining. They were surrounded by unfamiliar structures and landscapes. Of course they were, but this wasn’t just some distant biome or kingdom it was…

“Robin? Are you alright?” 

“I- yes. I’m fine, Cat. This is- I mean, that place is just… wow.”

“It’s... different, yes. This rain is- hmm, it’s weird. I can’t feel it but I know it’s there. It’s making everything fuzzy.”

Robin stuck his hand out. The raindrops sizzled against his skin. He was so focused on the odd sensation he jumped when Cat yanked his arm back.

“What was that? Are you alright?”

“The rain, it stings.”

“Badly? Are you hurt?”

“Not really. It feels like I’m a bar of soap being whittled down by the drops but I’m fine. It only feels strange.”

“Oh, good,” Cat breathed a sigh of relief. “In that case, let’s keep moving.” 

Robin agreed. They didn’t have anywhere to go but neither felt like standing under the tree for all eternity. Besides, they were in a whole new world, maybe even a whole new dimension, and Robin was really curious to see what was with those strange building 

It all seemed impossible. 

His breath was taken away at every turn as they walked. Structures like nothing he’d ever seen before. There were so many colors, so many shapes, so many mechanics, so many things, and all so high and huge. It was amazing. 

“Slow down a little, this rain is really disorienting.”

“Sorry! Sorry, this place is just… wow.”

“So you’ve said,” Cat laughed. “What exactly is so amazing about it? Describe it to me.”

“Well, there’s so much of it. It’s like a town but nothing like a town at all. More like a whole kingdom. A very strange kingdom.  There’s no uniform to it, every build is unique. There was a castle we passed, it was huge and had so many colors! There were just rainbows and rainbows pouring out of every-”

“Mmm, interesting.”

“Oh, sorry.”

“This castle though, it felt like regret, didn’t it?”

“Y-yeah? Kinda,” Robbin had been trying to avoid thinking about that, how he could feel every building. “Uh, over to your side there is a pit, a giant crater bigger than our entire town! It’s tragic. It’s refreshing a little. It’s kind of…”

“Familiar. I- I don’t want to be near that, Robin. Let’s keep moving.”

Robin didn’t agree. He wanted to get closer, to feel what was so sad, so new, so ended, what about whatever tragedy there was familiar. He wanted to understand what he knew would hurt him, and why. 

*****

“No! He would never!” Cat’s voice was rising. It was honestly scary, Robin had never seen him so wrathful. “He is the kindest person you will ever know! He is a protector! He’s- he is-”

“Do you really believe that?” The Narrator asked, calm and unfazed, sorrow creeping into his question. Robin couldn’t shake it from his mind. His thoughts were ruffles like pages flipping backward in a book. Like a pencil rubbing revealing words erased and undone but that had still been written. He was sent back to his flashing memories, his lies, unable to stop them.  

Cat was out investigating, Robin was carefully looking over his medical supplies. He couldn’t risk choosing wrong tonight. He’d been right to focus on himself. No, he’d been lucky. He’d panicked. Cat was out to the town now. Robin was out now. The killers knew they could stop them, they would be targets. The killers…

Part of him wanted to ignore it, to go back to thinking it couldn’t be one of them. That no one would do something like that, that is must be some outside force but Jimmy… they’d gotten him right. Robin winced at the memory of Helga, at how it had almost been him, but they’d gotten Jimmy right. He knew they had, the Narrator said so. 

The next morning, no one had died. Robin hadn’t needed to heal anyone. Cat reported Jack hadn’t left his home. It seemed like, well, it must be Jack. It just had to be, didn’t it? Robin frowned. He liked Jack enough, he didn’t want to kill anyone. He didn’t want to be wrong again but what choice did he have?

Jack was fighting. He was shouting, angry, scared. He was in the exact same place Robin had been a few nights ago. The familiarity burned inside his chest. He couldn’t stand any more of this, it needed to end tonight. 

“IT’S CORNELIUS!  IT’S HIM! IT HAS TO BE! Look at me. Look at me! You know me, I’m simple, I farm potatoes. If Helga was still here she’d remind yall I ain’t good for much else. You really think I could do this?”

Robin couldn’t comprehend what he was hearing. He wanted to believe it. He wanted to spare everyone he could but… Cornelius? Could he really condemn him any more than he could Jack? Could he any less? 

“What makes you think it’s me and not one of them? I know you’re a killer, Jack. You guessed Cat would be on your trail tonight and didn’t kill. Why else wouldn’t someone be dead today?” Cornelius’s voice was as calm and upbeat as ever, if not a bit exasperated. 

“He’s smart! He’s too smart. Look at his freaky, calculatin’ eyes, if you can ever see them. Look at him! Hiding behind that mask, wearing that ridiculous green hood, what’s that smile for, huh? None of us should have trusted him the day he set foot in this town, make up for it now. C’mon! Cat, I know you’re better than murderin’ folks for mayhem. Bob, you’re as simple as me! Robin,” Robin froze up as he was addressed directly “You’re a child, a sweet one. I’m sorry you have to live through this. I’m sorry you’ve been where I am now but I only hope that gives you the empathy you need to make the right choice. It’s him. I swear it’s not me!”

Everything felt stifled. He muffled the distraught protests of Cat in favor of listening to his own. No. No, it couldn’t be.  Everyone in town used to be friendly but Cornelius was a friend. He and Cat had been there for Robin. They’d taken him in, cared for him, treated him as their own son. Well, Cat had. 

Robin slowly blinked. What had Cornelius done for him? Thinking this way made him sick but he needed to be rational here. Did he really believe Cornelius was innocent, truly? He trusted Cat. Cat had proof he was safe, even if he wasn’t an investigator he had years and years of kindness to back him up. What did Cornelius have, really? He was kind, decent enough, but so was Jack. So were Jimmy and Helga. That wasn’t something he could base his vote on. 

So what did make him so sure it wasn’t Cornelius? The only… he realized the only thing holding him up was Cat. Cat loved him. Robin wanted that to be enough. He wanted desperately to go back home, to lay in Cat’s lap while Cornelius told them stories. He wanted to retreat into his memories but when he tried they felt corrupted, tainted, hollow. 

Every time he tried to imagine the kind way Cornelius had ruffled his hair, how he’d giggle and blush after a kiss from Cat, how he’d take off his mask at home and join Robin sitting on the porch, every time he tried to lose himself in the memory of that soft, humored, smile he was frozen inside by the eyes. Even when they were sad or kind his eyes were always vibrant, sharp… calculating. 

Robin took a shaky breath. He didn’t like this, he didn’t want to do this, any of it. He was filled with a numb resolve as he cast his vote. He had no proof either was innocent but he had no reason to believe Jack was capable of this… he knew Cornelius was. 

“The voting has finished,” The Narrator began. “Jack... Jack is the most suspected but this means nothing. Cornelius, by 3/5ths of the vote you have been found guilty. Please, step into the chamber.”

-

“NO!” A scream cut through the faux memory, just barely. Just enough for Robin to hear it. Who had yelled? Cat? Cor- Dream? Himself? He didn’t know, he was still lost.

-

Lost… Robin was so lost. 3/5ths. Cornelius obviously voted for Jack and vice versa, Bob was on Jack’s side, Cat must have voted for Jack even if only to save his love. Robin had been the deciding vote. What had he done? Was he right? Cornelius gave him no answer as he calmly stepped into the cell. The Narrator blabbed on, explaining the votes and who and what but for the first time since the colorful stranger arrived Robin couldn't listen to a word he said, instead focusing on Cat. 

Cat had run to the jail, his hands reaching desperately through the bars. “I didn’t want this. I didn’t want this,” he kept repeating. His voice was calm and low but Robin could tell that was desperate. He was putting on an act, trying to reassure Cornelius as though it would all solve itself if he just kept together. Cornelius still didn’t speak. He took Cat’s hand and rested it on his face, under his mask.

Then the grate snaped close and Cat was forced to pull his hand back. He barely moved though, pressing his hands against the wire through the bars. Cornelius pressed his hand up from the other side. Maybe Cat could feel it, maybe he couldn’t, Robin didn’t know which he preferred. 

Part of Robin wanted to put him to back away, to warn him the bars and fence was there for a reason, but the rest of him knew he couldn’t. The least- the only thing he could do was allow Cat this brief moment of closure, if you could even call it that. 

Cornelius still kept silent, for just the briefest of moments Robin hated him. How dare he? How dare he sit there, keeping Cat suffering in silence? How dare he keep Robin in this horrid suspense? How dare he not admit his crimes or keep pleading his innocence? How dare he… how dare… then Robin heard Cat whimper and the anger was gone. 

“We’re gonna get you out of here, okay? We-”

“Well, that’s not gonna happen,” The Narrator laughed, almost callously. If he wasn’t so detached from the world, so different from them he felt innocent even in cruelty, Robin might’ve felt like spitting on him. He couldn’t though, he was different. He was detached. He was like a child who didn’t know any better than to hurt others’ feelings. Like a child except instead of not knowing any better he knew too much. 

Maybe that’s why Robin didn’t lash out or protest as the narrator pulled the lever. Maybe that’s why he didn’t scream as the pistons shifted. Maybe that’s why he only closed his eyes and ignored the shouts of triumph. He couldn’t even find it in himself to be angry at Jack and Bob for celebrating, at the moment he was only glad their cries drowned out the sizzle. 

[classic80sand90smovieloves2]

Meeting and Dating Jack Goodman

(Not my gif)(Requested by anonymous)

(Most of these can probably go for both normal jack and ghost jack but the hcs center around him being amongst the undead. I wouldn’t mind writing some hcs specifically for human Jack though)

- You first met Jack in highschool. Initially, you were friends with David who was in a few of your classes, but soon enough David introduced you to Jack and the three of you became a trio.

- Jack fell for you the moment he saw you, or at least couldn’t help but find you incredibly attractive. You probably thought he was just nervous when you first met with the way he was stumbling over his words and acting so awkward. Gosh, David had a field day with him after you left.

- To Jack, you’re completely out of his league and there is no chance that you would be interested in him. But he has to try. Too bad his “trying” isn’t nearly as obvious as he would like it to be.

- The two of you gradually spend more time together, going from only hanging out once in a while; and only with David, to hanging out for hours on your own. Every time you’re together he tries to psychically project his feelings into your mind.

- Its nearly a year later that he actually tries to put the moves on you but at that point you’re such good friends that you don't even notice what he’s trying to do. Every proposition of a date is just him asking to hang out. Every romantic compliment or pickup line results in you laughing and telling him to stop messing around. He doesn’t know how much more of it he can take.

- When the three of you graduated highschool, you’d decided that you’d take a year off and vacation in Italy. The boys wanted to go backpacking so they agreed to meet you there. Of course, they never really did, did they?

- You were beside yourself when you heard about what happened. Here you were, in the middle of a foreign country supposed to be having the time of your life and instead, you find out that one of your best friends is killed by an animal and that the other is recovering in a London hospital. Jack was dead, it was like the idea wouldn’t register in your mind. Jack was dead and you’d never see him again.

“Y/n came to my funeral. Gosh, she really looked torn up,” Jack smiled at David almost sheepishly. “Do you think now would be a bad time to tell her how I feel?”

- It was a few days after his funeral that you first saw him again. You though that you were going crazy, that your grief had gotten the better of you and you were having a serious lapse in your sanity. But it all seemed far too real, too detailed to be a hallucination.

- After hearing about what happened, you’d cancelled the rest of your trip and went back home. You’d holed yourself up in your room for a week before you finally forced yourself to go outside, though it was only to attend Jacks funeral.

- You were curled up on your bed, still dressed in your funeral attire and feeling utterly miserable as you fumbled with a book you’d borrowed from the boy for your plane ride to Italy. The room was quiet, save for you sniffling, ...up until a sudden voice rang out.

“You never did get the chance to give me that back.”

- Your eyes widened as you clumsily sat up and turned around. There he was, standing in the doorway to your bedroom; torn and bloodied but there. You watched as he walked inside the room, smiling at you as he took a seat on the edge of your bed. Feeling the mattress sink under his weight was what fully convinced you that you weren’t just going mad.

- Your mouth went completely dry as you looked at him. You couldn’t think of anything to say even as you tried your hardest. All you could manage to get out was a “how” and a clumsy sounding “what”.

“How ya doin y/n/n? Wonderful service wasn’t it. I was glad to see you there. I think my parents were too, they always liked you,” he said sweetly though the words held a bitter air. “You know, I was thinking about sticking around here a bit. You said I was always welcome and, well, being around the dead all the time is really starting to bum me out. I much prefer your company.

- You inched closer to him, placing a tentative hand on his cleaner shoulder before moving it to touch his undamaged cheek. His skin was cold but you could touch it as though he were really there. Letting out a sob, you lunged forward, smushing you’re lips against his cheek and pressing your forehead to the side of his head.

“Well don't get all mushy on me now.” 

- True to his word, he did stay, albeit in intervals. Every now and again, he’d disappear for a while but he always came back and was seemingly content and relieved to be around you.

- Its not very long after he comes back into your life that he finally confesses his feelings. He figures that, hey, he’s dead, what else has he got to lose? So one night, just as you’re drifting off to sleep, he enters your room and kneels beside your bed, delicately shaking you awake.

“Y/n/n? I know its late but I’ve been sitting up and thinking. Thinking about my life, all the things that happened, everything I should have done. I realized that I didn’t do much at all. I mean; I should have met more people, went out more, slept around more.” he chuckled softly though it sounded more like a scoff than anything else. 

“But you see, I can live with all of that, or, well... nevermind! The point is, that there was one thing that I should have done that I never did, something that I can’t just let go of. …I should have kissed you Y/n. I should have kissed you and never stopped. I was an idiot, I was an idiot because I never told you how I felt when I had the chance. Well now I’m a lousy mess of ghostly meat but I’m going to finally tell you.” He paused, taking a deep breath and trying to calm his nerves. Even in death, he was a coward. 

“Y/n. I love you. I’ve loved you since the moment I saw you and never once has that love gone away; …not even in death. I know this isn’t very orthodox and that I’m not a very nice looking corpse either. …And maybe this whole thing is insane and I never should have said anything at all!” He spoke as though he finally realized how bizarre the situation was, an nervous edge in his voice. He paused and collected himself before speaking again. “…but I did say it, so now we’re just gonna have to move on from here.” 

- None of his dreams could have ever prepared him for the sheer shock and joy that he felt when you told him that you liked him too. 

“So you’re saying we could have been together all of this time?” You couldn’t help but laugh at the look on his face. With a tired smile, you beckoned him into your bed and laid back once again to go to sleep, this time with him by your side. 

-  You had your first date in your house, cuddled up on your couch and watching movies. It was just like any other day yet different at the same time. It felt right. 

- The two of you shared your first kiss that same day when you were saying goodnight to each other. You were going to go to bed and he wanted to stay up a bit longer so he walked you to your bedroom. You both paused at the door before he leant down and kissed you gently, saying goodnight with a smile as you retreated into the room. 

- And so, the dead joined the living... in her small studio apartment. 

- Jack is sort of an indoor boyfriend so to speak. He’s a ghost; and a mangled one at that, so you can’t exactly be seen with him out in public. 

- He’s a bit clingy. He’s pretty much always alone when you’re not around so he hates when you have to leave him.

- I hope you don't mind gore because his isn’t going away anytime soon. 

- Please let him kiss you. Please. He is literally begging you to makeout with him.

“I know the face is a bit messy but my lips are still perfectly intact.”

- Humor is sort of a defense mechanism for him. Whenever he’s nervous or doesn’t know what to say; or how to say what he wants to say, he’ll just keep cracking jokes and trying to make you laugh in an effort to ease the tension.

- Getting surprise visits. He’ll most definitely scare you with the way he just pops up wherever you are, though its hard to stay mad at him when he says that he missed you. 

- Sudden butt pinches and grabs. He puts his hands behind his back whenever you turn to look at him, glancing away and whistling before looking at you with a little devilish smile. 

- Jaw kisses. He loves them and he loves giving them though he uses his for evil. 

- Cuddling? He loves it though it may be a bit difficult with his …injuries. You'll usually lay side by side and hold hands while you sleep or you’ll clutch his hand  to your chest and snuggle into that. 

- You can’t exactly go on dates so you’ll have to find things to do at home, unless you want to go somewhere very secluded. 

- Picnics in the woods. 

- Late night walks. You’re pretty much only able to go out with him when it’s dark, otherwise you’ll have to pretend he’s not there which certainly puts a damper on things. 

- Curling up on the couch together with some hot chocolate and a corny sitcom. 

- Giving him some goddamn toast. There's not much to eat in the spirit world and god does he miss your cooking. Would you mind making him something?

- Talking to a corpse is boring. To him, you’re a much better conversationalist, even if you think you're a bad one. 

- He has a bad habit of speaking when he shouldn't or saying the wrong thing. Nowadays, there’s not too many instances where that's a problem though it’s certainly earned him a few glares from you. 

- Lovingly calling him meatloaf and chopped liver. He …tolerates it; only because you look at him so sweetly when you do so. 

- Is he legally obligated to say your name; at least, twice during every conversation of yours? At this point, you’re honestly pretty sure he is. He doesn’t use nicknames though he doesn’t have anything against them, he just prefers saying your real name. 

- He has kind eyes, doesn’t he? It seems like whenever you turn to him, he’s always gazing down at you with this sincere look of absolute adoration. It makes your heart skip a beat every time. 

- Jack is a bit naive when it comes to girls or, rather, girls he’s in love with. He always believes what you say and falls for your devilish little tricks. 

- David definitely teased him relentlessly for his crush on you and was betting on the two of you getting together. The circumstances aren’t the best but at least it happened, right? 

- He’s a fan of old literature and makes references to it whenever he can. If he finds out you haven't read his favorite novel, he will literally sit you down and force you to.  

- Teasing compliments. They aren’t the most romantic but hey, they still make you smile. 

 “Baby there is nothing mediocre about your body.”

- He likes sitting in your bathroom while you take a shower so that the two of you can talk. He also likes doing it so he can watch you shower but you like to focus on his interest in what you have to say, it’s much sweeter. 

-  He’s a horny boy, even in death. Are ghost boners a thing? Well he’s certainly gonna find out. 

- Being welcomed home by a smooth jazz record and him patiently awaiting your arrival with a somewhat suggestive grin.

- Every time you say something all lovey dovey to him, he swears his heart nearly starts beating again. He never knows what to say back, he usually just turns red and laughs all shyly.  

- He makes a big deal out of your birthdays, he doesn’t let you just forget about them or treat them like any other day. You’re alive! You’re another whole year older! …Fuck! …You’re aging and you’re going to keep aging.... He’ll try not to think about that part. 

- Getting to hear little bits of gossip. No one can see him so he’s certainly witnessed some interesting things, interesting things he likes to tell you about. 

- Nosy ghosty. He snoops around your stuff constantly. He’s practically memorized your entire house down to a T. 

- Having to accept that there’s a lot of supernatural things in the world. Werewolves, ghosts, and who knows what else; they’re all real and your life has just been completely normal up until now. 

- Getting to have all of your questions about death answered though some of the more painful things, he’ll keep a secret just because he doesn’t want to make you upset. 

- I feel as though his looks can depend on his mood and also the type of spiritual day it is. You know how some days are considered more spiritual than others? Well on those days, he’s normal, looking very chipper and with a lot of energy. On bad days, he’s practically a skeleton with a few flaps of dried up skin. 

- He usually hides away during his bad days, not wanting you to see him like that and be scared away. You reassure him that you’ll love him no matter what but a part of you is sort of thankful. You don’t know if you want to see him all horribly decomposed. 

- He does get jealous. I mean, he’s a ghost, you're human. Plus, he was a loser in life, why wouldn’t you pick the attractive living guy whose hitting on you over him. 

- He uses humor to pretend like he isn't bothered by the guys actions but will call him an asshole or something otherwise insulting later when you're alone together. Like out of nowhere, he’ll make some offhanded comment about the guy and you’ll realize he’s still mad about it. You just agree with him and give him a kiss. 

- A part of him; a selfish, disgusting part of him wishes that you were dead. That something would happen to you, something quick and painless but something. On one hand, he wants you to live the life that he couldn't. But he also can’t help but want you with him, encased in eternity as beautiful as always and just how he remembers you. 

- He used to be more of a coward but now that he’s dead, he really has nothing to fear, does he? The only thing he’s worried about is your wellbeing. 

- You’re very good at changing his mind and convincing him to do things. He defends himself by saying its because he likes you so much and that you should consider yourself lucky that he does. 

- He’s not stupid, maybe a bit cowardly at times but not stupid, if something doesn't feel right he’s getting the hell out of there and making sure he takes you right along with him. As much as he’d love an equally undead girlfriend, he knows you aren’t ready to go and shouldn’t be going. 

- He’s quite protective of you. He hates even thinking about you being hurt in any way. He literally can’t even hear about it in hypothetical situations. 

- He cant stand seeing you cry. He never knows what to say or do. He always yearns to comfort you but god, how does he do that? He’ll usually just rub your back and let you cry into his shoulder, trying his best to crack some carefully selected jokes in an attempt to make you feel better. 

- He can be annoyingly persistent when he wants something. He wont let up so unless you’ve got real thick skin and the patience of a saint. You’ll wind up doing what he asks just to get him off your case. If you don’t do it for him, he’ll wind up doing it for himself anyways so don’t sweat it too much.

- There's constant short lived bickering between the two of you. It’s just how he is. He’s a smartass, especially when something bothering him and highly argumentative when something doesn’t sit right with him. You don’t have all that many real fights though. 

- He apologizes when he’s in the wrong or when he feels that he could have handled things better, shyly and jokingly pleading with you to not try and exorcise him while pressing little kisses across your face. 

- He doesn't say he loves you very often. He deems it a very serious thing to say and saying it makes him nervous so he keeps it reserved for special moments. 

- Well, he’s not going anywhere anytime soon so I hope you’re ready for a long relationship. 

[yelenasdog]

man out of time (winter soldier!bucky x fem time traveler!reader)

genre: idk, kinda angsty tbh but it ends w like a weird kind of funky fluff, if u will.

summary: she’s spent 60 years, hopping from timeline to timeline. but yet, she never managed to find james, find the kind of love they had. but what if she did?

words: 1.1k 

warnings: mentions of hydra’s abuse, that’s literally, it but if i missed anything lmk!

a/n: uhhh idk wtf this is i wrote it when i went to the beach like 3 months ago and i didn’t touch it until today to like fix it?? idk it’s not my fav but i hope you’ll enjoy!! the whole time travel thing i thought was a cool concept so yah.

·。·☆·。·。

All that could be heard was the dripping from the pipes, slowly falling onto the concrete, one after the other into the dirty pool of reflection.

Then, the silence was broken.


“Buck?”

The sob was choked out, was strained and sad. She wasn’t quite sure how she had made it into this position.

James Barnes was dead. He was supposed to be dead.

She had long ago mourned him, cried for him, moved on from him (to the best of her ability). She had spent 60 years doing so, hopping from timeline to timeline, unable to find any love like what they had shared.

There was an Italian fellow in 1743. He could play the cello like no other and had the prettiest eyes she had ever seen, next to James’. There was the French man in 1809 who was the kindest gentleman with the purest heart she ever had the pleasure of breaking, next to James’. Oh, and she could never manage to wipe her memory of the 1970s rockstar who managed to show her the world in a simple 4 months. He had the most beautiful locks she adored running her fingers through, smiling when she heard sighs of satisfaction falling from his lips. Just like James would do, but still. It was never him.


This, whatever it was, wasn’t fair. She had thought it must have been her brain playing a cruel joke on her. But it wasn’t, it wasn’t at all.

Whatever it was, was no longer the youthful boy with the full cheeks and playful grin. This was an abandoned shell of the aforementioned, who had been drained of all his worth, been used and abused more times than he could count. Cheeks sunken, eyes dull.

It, he, was a ghost.

It was merely a shadow, somewhat of a whisper in the cool wind of the dark night.

He was muttering something unfamiliar, the sound of his voice weak, and lacking any emotion. Despite that, the sound of its gravelly tone gave her a sense of comfort, healing the wound of longing that had been open to infection for so long.

He stepped further into the dim light of the warehouse, and she watched as it flickered on the cement floor, unable to meet his eyes. 
They were her favorite thing about him in the 40s, how they held so much feeling and joy, so much love for her.

It wasn’t like that anymore. They were empty, a gaze of loss and confusion filling them up completely.

“Bucky, it’s me, it’s Y/n.”

He turned his head like a hound being told to “roll over”, trying to recollect any memory of who she might be (or had been).

“I don’t know you.”

“Yes, yes you do, James. In fact you didn’t just know me, you loved me as I love you. You spent every Saturday evening at my house, went to church the next morning with my mother and I.” She laughed at the fond memories, another tear escaping. “You really were a gentleman.”

It was quiet. He was supposed to kill her, he knew. She was a witness. He should take out his damn gun, shoot her dead. Or maybe his knife, but that would get too messy. Point was, he needed to kill her. But he couldn’t.

He didn’t know why. His head was screaming at him, the small voice insisting that she was against the rightful mission of Hydra, and therefore needed to be eliminated. But his heart? His seemingly stone cold heart that had no place in his work? It was telling him the opposite, reasoning with him. She loved him? Nobody had loved him before, not that he knew of.

It was all too much, he couldn’t take the flood of emotions that was pounding at his skull, forcing its way through the dam Hydra had worked so hard over the years to build.

“No, stop!”

“Bucky?” She cautiously made her way towards him, watching with tears in her eyes as he cried, tearing off his dark glasses and mask with his metal hand, chest heaving. The faint light in the warehouse shone on his knuckles, almost glimmering.

She knew he was wildly dangerous, she knew that this was out of her league. To rescue him, save him.

But she didn’t seem to care as she approached him, thoughts of the rabid man harming her not even somewhat prevalent in her mind. And even if they were, they were squashed down, far away in a dark corner of her brain with cobwebs and thoughts long forgotten.

“James, you’re okay.”

He met her eyes, an angry expression coming across his features. He was beginning to listen to the voice’s angry shouts, believing that she was indeed the origin of these distraught emotions he felt. The voice became louder, covering up his heart’s feeble cries to try to listen to her, to run to her and be comforted by her loving touch that was now waiting patiently for him, just as it had been the past 60 years. He stood up, walking towards where she had been crouching a fair distance away, his boots dragging. In response, she stood as well, taking a dominant stance.

It confused him. She should be cowering, neck down, arms crossed. Not standing before him like she wasn't afraid. 
Why was she not afraid?

Truthfully, she didn’t have it in her to be scared of him. Saddened for? Definitely. Worried for beyond belief? Of course. But scared? Not a chance.

She raised her voice, taking long strides towards him, her mind racing a million miles a minute while not quite having the time to process if what she was attempting was quite the right way to go about it. For Heaven’s sake, she had 60 years to go over her plan, but I guess she never quite considered every possibility, the specifics, if you will.

“Soldier.”

Gears were turning in his head, recognizing the word, as that’s what his handlers called him. And he always complied when they did. He would listen, doing whatever they said. But she wasn’t a handler, if he had remembered correctly.

“Soldier, drop your weapon.”

It dropped, but nonetheless, his suspicions had gotten the best of him. He continued his walk towards her, head tilted. “Who are you?” He spoke in a foreign tongue, the words ill fitting to fall from his chapped lips.

She grinned, once again thinking of the beautiful past they shared.

“Doesn’t matter.” She said, reaching for his hand and gripping tightly, quickly adjusting her dials on her wrist with the opposite hand. He looked over to the small screen above where she was messing around, squinting at the blinking green numbers that read “1943”.

“James, we’re going home.”

·。·☆·。·。

i hope u liked!! make sure to rb if u did :D mwah love u, take care of urself love bug!!

xx hj

[lightningbugqueensfics]

Real Family

Destiel

From the prompt “Cas beating the crap out of john winchester for causing dean so much trauma”(thanks @beautifulsaladkitten !)

*********

When John Winchester comes back from the dead, we get a better look into the harm he inflicted on Dean as a child. Castiel is a good boyfriend.

tw: Homophobic slurs and abuse

Ao3 Link

Dean woke to pounding on the front door. He had chosen this room specifically because it was so close to the entryway of the Bunker, but nights like this it bit him in the ass. Here he was, finally getting a good night's sleep, Cas wrapped around his back, and some idiot hunter just had to show up in the middle of the night. They could’ve at least had the decency to wait until morning.

Cas grumbled against his neck, obviously hearing the noise too. Despite still being an angel, ever since they had gotten together Cas had really taken a liking to sleep.

“Stay here, babe,” Dean murmured, “I got it.”

He rolled out of bed and trudged his way to the door. He yanked it open, still grumbling under his breath about “ stupid young hunter with no regard for their elders. ”

As he walked down the hall, Sam joined him.

“Hey man, I’ve got this, you can go back to Cas,” he offered.

“Nah, I’m up already. Who do you think it is?”

“Claire?” Sam asked.

“No, she’s on a Tulpa hunt in San Francisco with Kaia.”

“Ah, young love,”

“Haha, yeah. Charlie?” Dean asked.

“Remember, her and Stevie are on their honeymoon in Colorado.” The wedding had been beautiful. Both brides radiated joy, and nearly everyone (including Dean, though he would never admit it) cried. How Stevie managed to convince Charlie to go somewhere so far out of cell range still escaped Dean, but hey, it seemed like they were having fun.

“Still?”

“Yeah, they found a hunt up there the day they were gonna leave.”

“That’s rough.” Dean said.

“Actually, they seemed pretty excited. ‘First hunt as a married couple’ and all that.”

“Yeah, well, if that happened to Cas and I, you would be taking care of it.” Dean grunted as they reached the War Room.

“So, have you thought about it?” Sam asked carefully, “You know, asking him to marry you? Fully retiring?” The brothers and Cas were already partially retired, only taking hunts near the Bunker and mainly helping with the research. They were like the new Bobby’s. It was amazing how far they’d come.

“I mean, yeah,” he admitted, “I think I’d like that. I don’t think very soon, but eventually. We wasted so much time already, it’d be nice to make it official.”

Their conversation was cut off as they reached the big iron door. Sam stood in front of his brother to open it, and his back went ramrod straight the second he saw who was at the door. Dean peeked over his ginormous shoulder and felt the blood drain from his face.

“Dad?” 

Dean’s voice hurt him. It was like just the sight of their father turned him back into that obedient little kid, who always did what his father told him to. He was so much more than that now.

“Boys?” John asked, “Why do you look so… old?” Sam was still speechless, so Dean took charge. Fifteen years had passed and it was exactly the same.

“How are you alive?”

“I was with your mother, heaven, I think, there was this bright like, and then poof, here I am. Standing right outside this big ass metal door.”

“Um, Dad, what year do you think it is?”

“2006. Why? How long has it been, boys?”

“It’s uh, 2020 now. What was the last thing you remember?” he asked his dad, then said to Sammy: “Get the holy water, silver, and borax. We can do more tests later.”

“2020?” John asked, shocked, “What the hell?”

“Dad,” Dean said, trying to sound firmer, “What was the last thing you remember before being with mom?”

“The hospital. My deal with Yellow Eyes. I died, didn’t I?”

“Yeah, you did. Then you came back as a ghost to kill the demon, then we went back in time and met you a couple of times, then you came back because of a wishing pearl that we had to destroy because it screwed with time. Things have gotten a lot more complicated since you left.”

Sam showed up with the borax and holy water, which he splashed on John’s face, then he handed him the silver knife, still silent. After a cut proving his humanity, John turned back into a commander.

“Tell me everything. Now, Dean.”

So Dean did. He told him about the end of the hunt for Azazel, about going to hell, about Angels, about the plan to free Lucifer, and about the first Apocalypse. He told him about the deal with Crowely, about the Leviathans, about Purgatory, about Abbadon, and Metatron. He told him about becoming a demon, killing Death and Hitler, and freeing the Darkness. He told him about Chuck, Rowena, and Jack. He told him about Mary coming back and the apocalypse world. He told him everything.

The only thing he left out was his relationship with Cas and that Cas was an angel, because John was sure to meet the man soon, and that would not be a fun conversation if he knew.  

Dean had no delusions that John would approve of his relationship with another man, let alone one that wasn’t human. Hell, his father was one of the main reasons Dean took so long to own up to his feelings.

“So you’re telling me,” John said slowly, “That you two started--and ended--the apocalypse… more than once? Once… because you,” he pointed at Sam, “got addicted to demon blood , and then again because you,” he pointed at Dean, “actually became a demon.” The brother nodded.

“You IDIOTS!” he roared, and Dean flashed back to his childhood. Drunken rages. Thrown beer bottles. Old bruises on his arm blamed on a werewolf, the only thought going through his head protect Sammy . “YOU FUCKING MORONS! Dean - A demon? You became the monster! God, I hope Sammy hunted you,” Sam started to rise to his feet, presumably to defend his brother, when John turned his gaze on the younger brother, “And you ! That demon was right! I told Dean to kill you, he should’ve! Drinking demon blood , Sam? You’ve got to know how broken you are! I was gone, what, two years? You even regret what you did? I bet you don’t you sick bas-”

“SHUT UP!” Dean yelled, shocking himself. John looked just as surprised.

“What did you say to me?”

“I said,” Dean replied, his voice somehow steady, despite the pounding in his chest, “Shut up. You can yell at me, you can tell me how broken I am--God knows that’s the truth--but you don’t do that to Sam. He tried, okay? He tried so hard but I abandoned him. You abandoned him. He’s a good man. All he ever wanted was a normal life, and he never got that. Because of you . So don’t you ever blame him for things that you caused. The pain you put us through. You did this, not us!”

“Get out of my sight,” John growled.

Dean stalked past him, catching sight of Cas in the doorway.

“Is everything alright, Dean?” he asked, “I heard yelling. Is that your father?”

“Yeah, it is,” Dean barked, without the same bite in his tone he had used on John. Cas, perfect as always, followed Dean down the hallway to their room. The tears stung his eyes before he even made it through the door.

Dean sank to the edge of their bed, tears flowing down his cheeks.

“Dean,” Cas was on his knees beside the hunter, a hand resting on his leg, “What happened?”

“He’s back” Dean choked out, “And it’s the same, Cas! I thought we… changed, you know? Got better, stronger. I thought I would be enough to s-stop him!”

“Stop him?”

“From hurting Sammy. Cas… he-he used to hit me. Not Sammy, that I know of, but, not all the bruises I got were from hunts. He would come home drunk and angry, and would always blame me if Sammy got hurt. Even if it was his fault!” Cas rose up and brought him into a hug, “I never stopped him. He did it till Sammy went to college. Then he just left me. I thought, maybe, if he ever came back…. I could finally do something,” he sniffled, “but I guess that’s proof that I’m still the same scared little boy.”

“No, no, no,” Cas whispered into his hair, “Dean, you are the bravest man I have ever met. I heard what you said to him. Dean, that was bravery! That was you standing up for your little brother. Could you have done that fifteen years ago?” Dean shook his head, still crying, “So you see, love? You grew. You are stronger. He hurt you, but you are still here. Still beautiful. Still Dean Winchester.”

“I love you, Cas,” Dean murmured as he shifted his head into the crook of the angel’s neck.

“Come on, Dean, let’s go to bed. We can talk about this more in the morning.”

Dean nodded his head, and Cas maneuvered him under the covers, still wrapped in his angels arms.

With that they settled in to sleep. Dean fell into a peaceful slumber, completely unaware of the fury coursing through Castiel’s veins.

**************

Dean woke to pounding on the door. He grunted, knowing what was coming, and knowing that it was even worse to put it off. He forced himself out of bed and made his way to the door, still half asleep.

If he had been fully awake he might have realized the mistake he was making.

The door opened to reveal John Winchester’s still beet red face, this time the intoxicated kind. It seemed like the few hours since their fight had done nothing to calm him down.

“What do you want?” Dean asked, voice slurred with sleep.

“I want you to explain to me what that was last night!!”

“Can we do this in like, an hour?” he grunted, “I’m gonna need a shower and a cup of coffee to deal with…” he vaguely gestured at John.

“Do you think this is a laughing matter, boy? We need to-” he glanced behind Dean, “Who is that ?”

“That’s Cas.” Oh shit . Dean’s eyes widened with incredible speed and he reached the slam to door shut.

John’s hand shot open and caught it before it could close.

“The same Cas who’s a ‘hunter buddy’ of yours?” his face was now turning an alarming shade of purple as he strode into the room. Dean backed up, flinching away from his father. He heard rustling in the bed, Cas was sitting up.

“You mean to tell me that not only has your brother gotten addicted to demon blood, and you actually became a demon, some hunter turned you into a FUCKING QUEER?” John roared. Dean just kept inching backwards, that same fear from his childhood rearing its head inside of him.

“God, Dean, I knew you were fucked in the head, but this? Sleeping around with some fag, what did they do to you? I knew you were too much like your mom, always a little pansy,” his voice was slurring, just like it did before every beating when Dean was young, “Who knows, maybe I can beat it out of you?” Dean was on the floor beside the bed now, frozen, just like he was back then. Nothing had changed.

As John reared his arm back, ready to bring it down on Dean's face, a calm but lightning fast hand stopped it in its tracks.

Castiel stood beside Dean. His face was devoid of any emotion, but from the look on John’s face, his hand was squeezing enough to hurt. Still dressed in his bumblebee pajama pants and Dean’s AC/DC shirt, he didn’t look dangerous. Dean knew better. John did not.

“Get your hands off me you fucking faggot!” the man snarled.

“No. You will not hurt Dean.”

“Who are you to stop me?”

“I’m the person who saved him. I’m the one who gripped him tight and raised him from perdition. I’m the one who picked up the pieces of that incredible man you broke and helped him fit them back together. I have loved him more than you are even capable of, so I’d say I have every right to stop you.” Castiel growled the words.

“Let me go, you son of a bitch!” John still wasn’t backing down. Castiel pushed him against a wall with one hand still holding John’s fist and the other arm pressed against his throat.

“I’m an angel you ass.” Castiel’s eyes glowed blue, like they did right before smiting someone. He was the most furious Dean had ever seen him.

“You’re a-” John cut off, “You mean to tell me that not only is Dean fucking a man, you’re not even human ? God, you really are fucked in the head, boy.” Castiel pressed harder on his trachea.

“Dean is not ‘fucked in the head’ as you say. He is a kind and loyal man, no thanks to you. He is no longer your son, John Winchester. You made sure to beat that out of him. Sam and I, and the people we have found and lost along the way, we are his family. We care about him. We love him. That’s more than you can ever say!”

“Dean,” he gasped out, “tell this monster to stop! I’m your father for christ’s sake!” Dean rose unsteadily to his feet. Heart beating faster than on most hunts, adrenaline coursing through him, Dean did the one thing he had always wanted to do but never had the courage for.

“No,” he said.

“No?”

“No. Cas is right. You only ever hurt me, Dad. It was always ‘protect Sammy,’ ‘do this,’ ‘do that.’ You never cared about me, Dad! You just wanted a good little soldier! You ruined me even more than this life did, than hell did.

“So, no. I let you walk all over me for my entire life. I let you abuse me into my twenties! But you can’t hurt Cas. You can’t hurt one of the few people in my life who genuinely cares about me. He’s made me a better person, he’s healed the damage you did. I love him, and if you can’t accept that and finally become a decent father, then you can get out. Leave. Never come back. I don’t want to see your face again.” Dean pointed at the door, hand shaking with nerves and fury.

Castiel removed his arms from a shell-shocked John. The man stared at Dean with fury and pain in his eyes.

He nodded jerkily and trudged out the door.

Dean watched him go, mind blank. The shaking got worse, and he fell back to sit on the edge of the bed.

Cas settled beside him and wrapped Dean up in his arms, silent for a time. When he finally spoke, he knew just what to say.

“I’m proud of you, Dean,” he murmured, to no response, “I know it doesn’t feel good now, but you did the right thing. He’s gone now, and you can move forward. We can do it together.”

“Thank you, Cas,” Dean said into his chest, “For… stopping him, but also for what you said. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, my love. I meant every word. Now, why don’t you get into bed and I’ll bring you a cup of coffee,”

“Peppermint hot chocolate?” Dean asked.

“Of course, Dean.” With that, Cas left to fetch their drinks and, Dean was sure, to make certain John had left. Cas was perfect in that way.

With Cas gone, Dean was left alone with his thoughts. He realized how far he’d come. Even in these fifteen years since he went and got Sam at Stanford.

He used to water down his coffee with whiskey. Now he was asking for hot cocoa. He would find a new girl every week, sometimes even more often, and wouldn’t even know their names. Now he was in a steady relationship with a guy (well, angel) who he loved more than anything. He used to let John hurt him in any way he wanted to. Now he was the one who kicked him out.

He wasn’t perfect. Wasn’t even close. But he was so much better than he used to be. And Dean knew why.

He found good people. Sam. Jody, Claire, Donna, Charlie, Bobby, Ellen, Jo, Garth, and so many more. Cas. They made him better. They loved him, and helped him start to love himself.

Cas returned with two cups held carefully in his hands, a concentrated crease between his brows. He silently shuffled into place beside Dean. The angel passed over the cocoa, put his arm around his shoulder, and gave him a little peck on the cheek.

For the rest of the day the two watched movies and funny tv shows on Dean’s iPad. They cuddled and kissed and joked. It was perfect.

Because, yeah, John had screwed Dean up. But the people in Dean’s life were fixing that. And they were the people that mattered. His real family.

Tags: @beautifulsaladkitten @icesoulprincess @themoosegoes-deanicandothis @deano-cas @when-humans-were-good

[starstwinkleplanetsshine]

Dear Wormwood

Inspired by the song "Dear Wormwood" by The Oh Hellos, Darth Vader looks back on the last 20 years of his life and the events that led him to becoming Emperor Palpatine's apprentice and wishes he could take it all back. But just when all hope seemed lost, when Vader accepted he was doomed to live a shell of a man, every day filled with pain and regret, a glimmer of hope and Light appears to him in the form of his son, Luke Skywalker.

Luke believes there is still good in Vader, and deep down, he knows his son is right. But is it enough to make things right, or is the Light buried under too much darkness?

Read on AO3

“When I was a child

I didn't hear a single word you said

The things I was afraid of

They were all confined beneath my bed”

Vader awoke from his agonizing nightmare with a start, the same way he greeted every new day. As images of red rivers and blue blades and flowing brunette hair and bouncy lekku and burning suns faded away into the stark grey walls around him, he cursed his sleep for reminding him of a time long gone. In the early years when the weight of his losses still threatened to crush him, when the mere thought of the man who called him brother or the woman who called him husband or the girl who called him master threatened to crumple him into a ball on the floor with a single thought, he never allowed himself to sleep. He survived on hatred and anger alone, letting his suffering be his rest. It was the only way. 

But now, nearly 25 years later, those thoughts brought only a sharp sting. Vader didn’t know if he was becoming numb to the pain or if he wasn’t as affected by it anymore, and he didn’t know which answer frightened him more. And now, nearly two decades later, events had taken place that caused all those old feelings to rise to the surface, all the memories of his life before which he had forced into the darkness were being dragged out to the light, and they were too blinding. 

The first crack had appeared three years ago when he stared into the eyes of a man he thought was a ghost. The moment when the blade of his saber struck his old master for the last time, Vader felt a shattering deep within him, inside a dark and dusty corner of his heart that he hadn’t felt in decades. He felt a thin and decaying string, once golden and shining, finally snap. Vader didn’t even know his bond with Obi-Wan was still there until he felt it break forever. 

The next crack appeared one year ago when Vader had learned of the survival of his son. Being a father was a dream that died alongside the Republic, alongside Padme, alongside Anakin. Just another loss to add to the growing list. Learning that that was not true, that the child born of the only woman he had ever loved was living, breathing, moving with The Force, had awoken something deep within Vader that he thought would stay dormant forever. But Vader could only remember his son in times of absolute strength, for thoughts of Luke always led him back to his mother, and those thoughts led him back to the time when his days were filled with laughter and golden sunlight. A time of blue eyes, not yellow, of smooth skin and golden-honey hair, not black metal and machinery, a time where the world was shades of blues and greens and purples and golds, not red. 

A time of Padme Amidala. Ahsoka Tano. A time of Anakin Skywalker. Obi-Wan Kenobi. Names that all died with the Republic. 

Obi-Wan. 

Now that was a name that caused fire to burn inside Vader, a fire full of passion and hatred and love and regret. They say the line between love and hate is thin, that those two emotions were closer than any other, and since that day on Mustafar all those years ago, Vader knew why. He couldn’t think of the man he once called master without being filled with bitterness and regret, for his betrayal stung so because his love for him once ran so deep. Obi-Wan was the one person the man who had once been Anakin loved the most, trusted the most, the one who could always calm the storm swirling within him, the only one who could contain it when it threatened to erupt and destroy everything good and light. 

Now he was the man who Vader hated with every ounce of metal keeping him alive. 

He thought finally killing Obi-Wan would also kill the ache within him, the pain he blamed on his old master. But it turns out it was never Obi-Wan who caused the pain, it had truly been Vader all along. For twenty years after that dark night on Mustafar, the image of Obi-Wan that was frozen in Vader’s memory was the one who cut off all his limbs and left him for dead, burning and gasping for air beside an unforgiving torrent of fire. But ever since he had struck the fatal blow, his revenge upon Obi-Wan that Vader had dreamed about for nearly two decades, that was no longer the image he associated with Obi-Wan Kenobi. 

For the past few years, the thought of his old master brought back images of warm smiles and reassuring shoulder pats. It brought back fondness and memories of fighting alongside him during the Clone Wars, even memories from before that when Anakin was still a child. Their first sparring match. Sitting across from his old master meditating. The nights Obi-Wan would stay up late helping Anakin with his Temple assignments. All those nights Anakin sheepishly walked into Obi-Wan’s room after a particularly bad dream, his eyes still wet with tears. Remembering how he would let Anakin curl up next to him under his pillow and sing ancient lullabies to him until his breathing steadied and his heart slowed enough for him to finally drift back to sleep.

Only in his moments of strength could Vader remember the words Obi-Wan spoke to Anakin all those years ago, when his old master would remind him he no longer had anything to fear, that no matter what dangers or trials the young boy faced, he would always be by his side, guiding him and protecting him. 

Obi-Wan promised that he would always be there. 

But deep down, Anakin could never truly believe him. 

-----

“But the years have been long

And you have taught me well to hide away

The things that I believed in

You've taught me to call them all escapes”

One year since Vader found out his child survived. Four years since Vader struck down the man he labeled his greatest enemy. 23 years since Anakin Skywalker died on Mustafar. 24 years since Anakin failed his padawan and she walked away from him. 26 years since Anakin lost his mother on Tatooine. 36 years since Anakin first entered the Jedi Temple. 

If only Vader could go back and tell that little boy of nine years old all that was in store for him in the years ahead. All the fear and pain and heartbreak and suffering. But also the joy and laughter and bliss and growth. 

If only he could tell him that it would all be worth it, that he could survive the pain without using the help of the Darkside. That he could trust the people who loved him, who truly cared for him, and that being a Jedi was the greatest gift he had ever been given. 

If only he could say that that was true. 

But time didn’t work like that. 

Vader sat alone in his silent chambers on the very planet where the only thing more red than the lava flows beneath him was the glowing of his lightsaber and the hatred deep in his soul. He thought back on all the years, on all the moments that led him to becoming the empty shell of a man he was, and he wondered just where he went wrong. Looking back, he could see it all so clearly, his mistakes like a map leading him straight to the dark. He often wondered where it all started--if he had never left Tatooine would it still be like this? Was it his selfish choice of love over duty, or maybe it was his first violent outburst of revenge against the Tusken Raiders who murdered his mother? Or was it every soul he couldn't save during the Clone War? Or perhaps the way he failed his padawan and lost trust of the council forever? Or could it have been his outrage at not being granted the rank of Master? 

Or was he doomed to darkness from the moment he was born under the harsh cruelty of the Twin Suns? 

Vader tried to keep himself occupied with anything, everything--military strategies, saber techniques, even tinkering with droids--just as long as his mind was busy so he didn’t run the risk of remembering. He couldn’t let himself dwell on those thoughts for more than moments, for if he did, his strength threatened to fail him. 

No. 

He had to remember the way Obi-Wan failed him. The way Padme betrayed him. The way Ahsoka abandoned him. The fact that Anakin Skywalker was too weak. For if he remembered the truth, then he could never actually live with himself. 

-----

“I know who you are now

I know who you are

I know who you are now”

Vader could feel the shifting tides of the Force like a riptide surrounding him. Ever since he had learned that the young rebel who blew up 20 years of strenuous work with a single shot was his son, Vader hadn’t known peace. 

If he was truly honest with himself, though, Vader had never known peace. But the man Vader once was did, and its name was Obi-Wan Kenobi. Padme Amidala. Rex. Ahsoka Tano. 

He slowly walked to the large window in the side of his ship and gazed down to the Forest Moon below. His son was down there, he could feel his presence in the Force like a beacon of light in a dark tempest, guiding him to safety. 

Maybe, just maybe, could it be possible for Vader to know peace once again? 

No. 

Any hope of that was long gone. 

But perhaps…

Vader closed his eyes and opened himself up to the tides of the Force, just as his old master had taught him to do. For the first time in a long time he didn’t try to control it or channel it through his anger, pain, or passion, he simply let go and let the Force show him what she wanted him to see. He wasn’t surprised when the face of a man with sky-blue eyes and a kind, bearded smile swirled around his memory. 

For the last four years, the face of Obi-Wan had followed him like a shadow he could never run from. At first it only fueled his anger, but now it piqued Vader’s curiosity. Why now, years after his death, years after he killed him, did the face of his old master continue to haunt him? He was beginning to wonder if it was for a purpose, if maybe The Force was trying to tell him something, something he was refusing to hear. 

The Force used to sing to him, back when he was called Anakin, and she would wrap herself around him in golden light and carry him along her gentle current. 

But it had been years since he had unplugged his ears and let himself listen to her song, and Vader wondered if she could still sing. 

He also wondered if this feeling that he felt when he thought of Luke, the ache in his heart he felt when he gazed upon his son, if maybe that was the same feeling that Obi-Wan once felt when he looked upon him. He remembered a time long ago when he felt something similar when looking at a young Togruta with the kindest eyes and an even kinder heart. 

Vader thought he could almost name the feeling. 

Obi-Wan once said he had loved Anakin, and now Vader could admit that that must've been true. 

And Anakin knew he had once loved him too. 

-----

“There before the threshold

I saw a brighter world beyond myself

And in my hour of weakness”

You were there to see my courage fail”

All Anakin ever wanted was to protect the ones he loved. He believed in the hope of a world where he could keep pain away from all those he called his own, a world where everything was right and just and beautiful and safe, all because he had made it so. He was raised to stand up for those who couldn't, to use his gifts and power to help others, both by his mother and his master. He always knew he was special, but he never wanted to be great for his own sake. No, everything Anakin ever did was motivated by those he loved, and he just wanted to create a better, brighter world for the galaxy. 

Everything he did, he did for others. 

Or so he thought he did. 

He thought that by becoming a Jedi he would be able to spread goodness and light, justice and peace to the galaxy. So where did it all go so wrong? 

Looking back on it all now, Vader could see how blind he was. How blinded by fear and possessiveness, obsession and the inability to let go. Like a child who loves an injured bird too much and squeezes it between its fist, never realizing that it was its desire to help and protect that ultimately ended up killing it. He called it the need to protect the one he loved, but now he could name it for what it was: selfishness. And it was that selfishness that brought his whole world crumbling down around him. All that was left in the wake of that dark night on Mustafar were shattered dreams and dashed hopes crashing around the one who used to be Anakin like forsaken ashes, his old life going up in smoke along with the Jedi temple. 

And who was there to watch him burn it all to the ground but the one man he never wanted to let down. The one man he had striven to please since he was a small boy of nine, the one man who he had loved like a father, a brother, a best friend. 

Obi-Wan had sworn to always be by Anakin’s side, so it was only fitting that he would be there to witness his worst mistake. 

Anakin never wanted to fail anyone, especially Obi-Wan. 

And in the end, he failed everyone. 

You're breaking my heart…

You were my brother…

I won't leave you, not this time… 

Vader still couldn’t think of all that he lost without hearing the echoes of his past.

----- 

“For the years have been long

And you have taught me well to sit and wait

Planning without acting

Steadily becoming what I hate”

Vader could remember a time long ago when he confided in a man he thought of as a grandfather, a man who he trusted, who told him he could trust him. He couldn’t see it then, the years of careful manipulation and meticulous planning that Palpatine went through to gain Anakin’s trust. Like a serpent whispering in Anakin’s ears telling him he had to keep secrets from those who truly loved him, making the boy believe he was the only one who would understand. Feeding him the lie that if he ever truly opened up, everyone would hate what they saw. If he shared his fears with Obi-Wan he would be kicked out of the order and sent straight back to Tatooine, back into the chains to which he was born. 

So he kept it all inside. 

And he told his feelings to only one man, the one man who only ever saw him as a pawn, a means to an end. 

But by the time he saw the truth, it was too late. 

It wasn’t until Anakin was gone and Vader was clad in metal and machine, and he felt the first of many lightning bolts that Palpatine used to keep him in line. It wasn’t until he tried to speak of his fears, his losses, his hurt, to the now-Emperor only to receive nothing but punishment in return that he realized it was never real. 

So he retreated even further into himself, for now he was truly alone. 

He looked back in regret on all the years he thought he had no one to turn to, able to see now that that couldn't have been farther from the truth. How had he let himself feel so alone in the days where he was surrounded by those who loved and cared for him, immersed in a community of family bonded by The Force? 

It almost made him laugh to think of how wrong he was. 

For in Anakin’s emptiest moments he still had more than Vader ever would at his fullest. 

Vader stood in front of the Emperor, the man he had called master for the last 20 years but who never truly deserved the title, with his shields high and impenetrable. He couldn’t let Palpatine see the turmoil within him, and over the years Vader had gotten skilled at hiding his true feelings, even from himself at times. But especially now as his master told him of how he would have to either turn his son to the dark or destroy him, he was thankful that his thoughts were only his own. 

The path of the darkside or destruction. 

‘Those are the same thing’ Vader thought to himself. ‘And I will not see my son fall down the same path that I did.’

Vader stared forward, and the smallest part within him was grateful for the mask that hid his features from the prying eyes of Emperor Palpatine. For years Vader had suffered under his hand, doing his will without complaint or hesitation because he had nowhere else to turn. In his greatest moment of weakness he had burned everything good he had ever loved, and so there was nothing left to do but turn away from the light of the flames and follow the dark. It's what he deserved--torment and pain and suffering. 

But now there was the smallest glimmer of light, and it was burning inside Vader once again. Inside the shell which used to be as black as a bottomless cave there was now a long-forgotten ember, lit by the boy called Luke. Luke Skywalker. 

Skywalker. 

But even with the light beginning to glow within him, Vader knew it was too late for him. He was already doomed, and the man he once was had been destroyed. 

Palapatine had made sure of that. 

-----

“I know who you are now

I know who you are

I know who you are now”

Palpatine. 

How many years had Vader spent blaming Obi-Wan, blaming Anakin, blaming the Jedi, the council, the Republic, the war, anything but the one man who’s fault it truly was. 

And why had it taken so long for him to see the truth? 

Why was it not until Vader came face to face with his son, face to face with goodness and light and hope for the first time in decades, that he was able to see his master for who he truly was?

-----

“I have always known you

You have always been there in my mind

But now I understand you

And I will not be part of your designs”

For years Vader played his part, doing his master's terrible bidding without hesitation. Denying the parts of himself that refused to die, the soft spots in his crystalized heart which he could never turn completely to stone. In the beginning he had told himself that he was doing the right thing, that the Jedi were traitors and the reason the Republic fell. That the Empire would bring peace and security to the galaxy, that he was ushering in a new age of prosperity for all. That The Emperor saw things clearly and that he wanted the best for him and the people in the Empire. But eventually he could not be blind to those lies, so he traded his optimism for apathy, following orders out of a sense of duty and the feeling that he was in too deep to get out now. 

When Vader, no, Anakin, was a boy he had been a slave. His life was not his own, everything he did was controlled by another. When he ate, when he worked, when he played, when he slept. He could be beaten or even killed in an instant for something as insignificant as his master's poor temper. It was an exhausting existence, one without peace or rest. 

But he was given a new life when he was nine years old. For the first time in his life, Anakin was given freedom. But even then, even from his first moments of true happiness and liberation, Palpatine was there whispering lies in his ear. 

“You’re still calling someone master” he would hiss. 

“No, it's different. I’m a Jedi now. It’s an honor to call Obi-Wan master.” Anakin would counter, believing every word. 

“You're still being told when to eat, when to work, when to play, when to sleep.” Palpatine’s manipulations started from a very young age. 

“No, it’s different. I made a choice to be a Jedi, I’m not being forced to do anything.” Anakin’s new life as a Jedi was nothing like being a slave on Tatooine.

 Right? 

“But was it your choice? Is this really the life you want? I only want you to be happy, my boy.” 

Anakin never knew how to respond to that. 

Slowly, steadily, over time, Anakin began to wonder if there was truth to the venom Palpatine had been injecting into his brain. Maybe he was still a slave. A slave to duty. A slave to the Republic. A slave to the Jedi. 

Anakin never wanted to be a slave again. 

So he swore to put an end to it. To get out. To be free and the only one in control of his life. But the only thing he succeeded in doing was in tightening his chains, wrapping himself with ropes of metal and locking himself in a prison of hate. 

For Vader could now look back and see what he could not see then, that he was never a slave as a Jedi.

But he was one now. 

And now his master was requiring of him an impossible task, to hand over his son to endure the same fate he did. To doom Luke to serve the same dark master and force hatred and passion and anger to consume his soul and corrupt him into something unrecognizable, twisting him into a monster. 

Vader hadn’t failed his master in years, but he had a choice to make now. Should he continue to be faithful to a man who took everything from him, to an Empire that only left death and destruction in its wake? Or would he finally put an end to it all, finally turn back towards the light that used to be his home? 

Vader had been a mere pawn to Palpatine for as long as he could remember. 

A slave. 

He vowed when he left Tatooine he would never be a slave again. 

-----

“I know who I am now

And all that you've made of me

I know who you are now

And I name you my enemy”

Vader’s heart was a whirlwind of conflict as he stood in front of his son and his master. As much as he tried to fight it, to push it down, to keep his mind focused solely on the Dark, he couldn’t ignore the call to the Light that plagued him at the mere thought of his son. It was even stronger now as Luke stood before him, like a beacon of hope, and Vader didn’t know how much longer he could fight it. 

He couldn’t bear to listen to the words the Emperor was speaking to his son, the same lies and empty promises that were made to him so many years ago. He only hoped that, unlike himself, Luke was able to see through the falsehoods for what they truly were, and he hoped his son could resist. 

For even now the Dark had such a strong hold on Vader that he was still doing his master’s bidding, fighting his son and trying to turn him. But his mind was at war with itself, and his soul was being torn in two, his loyalty to his Dark master being ripped apart by his love for his son and his old connection to the Light. 

His unfocus betrayed him and he soon found himself on the ground at the mercy of his son, bested in combat as he felt anger and darkness swirl around Luke. No, he could not destroy his son, but it was not out of weakness. As he felt the Darkside grow like a rising tide around Luke, Vader’s heart tightened in his chest. He could not bear to see his son fall down the same path as he did, he didn’t want the same pain and torment to follow him and fill his days with nothing but agony and regret. And as he lay with Luke looming over him, hearing The Emperor urge Luke to finish him off, to take his place at his side, to join the darkness and rule the galaxy with fear and terror, Vader, for the first time in over two decades, could finally see it all for what it was. 

For now he knew. 

Vader wasn't born of Anakin, buried deep within the boy just waiting for the right moment to emerge. 

He was made. 

Forged by Palpatine and molded out of the hatred and desperation the Emperor had instilled in the boy, carefully crafted over years of subtlety. 

It had taken decades, but Vader finally saw through the lies. 

In an instant Vader had the Emperor in his hands lifted high above his head. He could feel the Force lightning coursing through his suit, singeing whatever flesh was left of him, overheating circuits and frying power couplings. He knew that this would be the last act he ever did, and yet Anakin felt a peace flow through him that was more powerful than the electricity. 

For the first time in a long time, Anakin was finally doing something right. 

-----

“I know who I am now

I know who I want to be…”

For years Vader had wanted nothing more than to turn back the hands of time and take it all back, take back every mistake he ever made that led to the destruction of everything he ever loved and held close. He wished through strangled sobs that he could hold his wife again, that he could see the smile of his old master with his shining blue eyes, hear the banter of his young padawan who always made him so proud. What he wouldn't do to feel the sunlight upon his skin as he strolled through the gardens of the Jedi temple, listening to the sounds of murmured conversations and ringing laughter as the Force flowed through him like a gentle river, carrying with it peace and love and Light. For twenty years he had cursed himself for his selfishness and greed, for his destruction of anything good and pure in the galaxy. If he could take it all back, he would. In an instant. Without hesitation. Even if it meant losing his life, he would give anything to go back to how it was, before the dark times, before the Empire. 

But he never could, he told himself it was impossible. 

But now, looking at his son, now he saw there was a way. 

He couldn’t turn back time, but he could make a better future, for his son had been right. There was still goodness in him, and Anakin was done leaving it in the darkness.

It was time to return to the light. 

For he finally understood. 

All of the mistakes he ever made he made because he couldn’t let go. He couldn’t let go of his fear of losing those he loved, he couldn’t let go of his pain, his grief, his losses, his doubts. He couldn’t let go of his need to control. And so this refusal of peace had led him to darkness, down a path where everything was gripped firmly in his hands, even if it burnt or cut him. 

But he had finally learned to let go, and in doing so, he could finally make things right. 

Luke saved Anakin, so it was only fair that he saved his son in return. 

Anakin could feel the Second Death Star rumbling around him and he fought the call of unconsciousness as his son dragged him towards a ship, but he knew what Luke did not, that it was too late for him.

No, not too late. It was just in time.

  “Help me take this mask off” Anakin struggled to speak as his life support began to fail.

“But you’ll die.” Luke was still holding onto hope. 

“Nothing can stop that now,” Anakin had accepted his fate, the death that seemed long overdue. “Just for once, let me look on you with my own eyes.” Vader was dead, he fell to his destruction alongside Emperor Palpatine, and that mask belonged to him. But those eyes, those blue eyes who longed to gaze at his son's face for the last time, those were Anakin’s. 

As the Force began to swirl around him, gently singing her ancient lullabies, songs Anakin used to hear but had been deaf to for so long now, he needed to say one final thing to his son, the one who saved him, who reminded him of who he truly was. 

“You were right. Tell your sister…” 

How Anakin wished he could look upon her in this moment, too. He regretted all the time he lost, he hated that his only times with his daughter were moments when he was hunting her, hurting her, causing her to fear and hate him. He thought of her resilience, her strength, her determination, her beauty. Her commitment to justice and goodness in the face of tyranny, how she never backed down from a fight. He remembered how she could command a room, how she knew her worth and she never let anyone diminish it. He thought of her love for her family, her people, her planet, and her love of the light, and he was so proud of her. In his daughter's eyes he saw Padme Amidala, and he stole a smile thinking of how Leia was continuing her mother’s legacy, whether she knew it or not. He could only hope that she would listen to Luke and maybe, just maybe, be able to forgive him enough, even though he knew he didn’t deserve it. 

“...you were right.” 

The world around him grew darker now, the Force moving in closer and transitioning his spirit from this world to the next. He looked into his son’s eyes one final time, seeing nothing but goodness and light, and he breathed his last, letting go and releasing himself into the larger will of the Force. 

And as he went, he felt only peace. 

Darkness gave way to light, and as he opened his eyes in a new plane of existence, he was greeted by a face that he would recognize anywhere, regardless of the effects of age and two harsh suns beating down upon it. 

“Hello there, my old Padawan.” 

And without a moment of hesitation, eyes brimming with tears, Anakin Skywalker fell into the open arms of Obi-Wan Kenobi. 

“...I want to be more than

This devil inside of me.”

[erekiosuncreativeideas]

Being Human - Chapter 15

<= Chapter 14

Summary : Snatcher experiences the joys of waking up after a night of crying Also available on AO3 : https://archiveofourown.org/works/24826561/chapters/67470473

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Sorry for the late posting ! Thank you for all your support, I'm glad you like the fanfic so far ! (I know I haven't replied to all the comments, but I'll do it soon, life has been quite... Rough for me during the past few days, but it's going to get better. Also I'm playing Starbound way too much dkjhsqkjdfsdf)

Of course, the “Oh The Humanity” AU belongs to @doodledrawsthings​​ !

Happy reading !

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Chapter 15 - “Do you have any… Theory, for now?”

The first thing that Snatcher noticed when waking up… Was how much his eyes hurt and how much his throat was dry. Confusion engulfed him as his still half-asleep mind was trying to understand why his eyes stung so much. He tried to open them, only to find that his eyelids seemed stuck together, and he only managed to get his eyes open by rubbing them. Why did it-

Oh. Yeah. He remembered now. He had cried a lot that night.

Snatcher took a deep breath, trying to ignore the flashes of memories invading his mind. No, he did not want to remember that dream, or anything related to that time down there. Or in his life in general, actually. The Prince of Subcon was dead, and he had nothing to do with that moron anymore. Nothing.

Well. Except for a body, now. The former ghost sighed, already exasperated. Oh, what an amazing way to start a wonderful day! He scoffed, though it wasn’t really sincere, and eventually looked around. He was still in the kids’ bedroom, however, he was alone. He had probably overslept, something that seemed hard to believe considering his psychological state, but it apparently happened. Huh, who would have thought? Certainly not him.

With a bit of trouble, Snatcher straightened, feeling his skin itching a bit. Oh, yeah, and he had slept with the same clothes as the day before, having no pyjamas in the bag lent by Cooking Cat. So that explained why it was itching so much, the wool jacket sure was comfortable but not on the long term. With a groan, the man took it off, with some struggle admittedly, but it was mostly due to the fact that he still needed to get used to having a body to control.

Funny how it was so difficult when he had actually possessed people in the past. Yet, he supposed it was due to the fact that he wasn’t controlling their body directly but mostly forced their mind to move said body the way he wanted them to. Magic stuff he didn’t want to think too hard about so early in the morning. Well, not that he could know what time it was, considering there wasn’t any clock in the room. With a sigh, Snatcher climbed down the pillow pool and stretched. Okay, that felt good, he couldn’t deny this fact. It was perhaps one of the pros of having a human body again: humans had bones, ghosts did not. Although, he knew how having his bones broken felt like and it wasn’t-

He shook his head. Here he was, thinking of that time again. Damned brain, always reminding him stuff he didn’t want to remember. Snatcher took another deep breath: it wasn’t the time to think of that, now. Slowly, he rubbed his eyes, feeling a bit better just by the contact. Normally he didn’t like the sensation of touch, but… It felt nice, like he was scrubbing his eyes or something. Weird and gross, but, heh, he might as well get used to it… Seeing as the little girls seemed to think it would take a while for him to go back to being a spirit.

He really hoped it wouldn’t last too long.

He forced his brain to focus on the situation at hand. Right, the kids. With that thought in mind, Snatcher left the room and walked to the hub, wondering where they could be. As soon as he entered the huge room, something caught his attention in the corner of his right eye. A bit surprised, the former shade turned in this direction, wondering what it was, only to find the older kid, hatless. This was truly a weird sight, as he only saw her without it when he had tried to kill her and her friend. Hah. Good times.

She was sitting in the pillows in front of the television, eating something colourful in a bowl -cereals perhaps?- still in her pyjamas. The brat glanced at him, her eyes widening as soon as she saw his face.

-“Woah,” she said, raising her brows: “Have you seen your reflection? Because you look like you’ve been hit by a train.”

Oh, joy, a remark about the consequences of his sobs. Great, fantastic. Snatcher rolled his eyes with a groan:

-“Good morning to you too,” he replied, though it was much more hostile than what he had first intended. Well, after such a greeting from her, he wasn’t in the mood to be nice. She winced a bit, and glanced away for a second, a brief flash of guilt visible on her face. When she looked back, her expression softened:

-“Sorry,” she murmured, before asking, putting her bowl on the ground as she stared at him: “Are you okay?”

The question took Snatcher aback, making him freeze. ‘Was he okay’? What kind of question was that? Of course he wasn’t! The former ghost scoffed, ready to make fun of the kid for how stupid she was to even ask something so obvious. However… The way she was so seriously looking at him made him close his lips before he even got the chance to mock her. He didn’t know why he was careful with someone else’s feelings all of a sudden, and yet, here he was. Snatcher stared into space, conflicted, before letting out a tired and frustrated sigh.

Whatever. At this point, his pride was already more than shattered; it wasn’t like something more would make such a big difference. And so, Snatcher sat next to her, on pillows that had been pushed on the side the day before. He brought his knees to his chest as kept his eyes on the floor. Eventually, after what felt like centuries to him, he managed to talk again:

-“No,” he muttered, his tone low: “No, I’m not.”

The kid stared at him for a few moments, as if the gears in her mind were turning in the background. After a while, her eyes widened a bit as a look of realization crossed her features.

-“Rough night?” she wondered with a compassionate voice.

Snatcher couldn’t help but scoff bitterly again. ‘Rough night’ would be an understatement compared to the hellish dream, or rather flashback, that he had. Soon, the sour smile on his lips died down and he shut his eyes, feeling his dream, no, his memories coming back to him. Why wasn’t he able to forget those after hundreds of years? Why couldn’t he move on and forget about the cruel woman that could freeze his entire forest the moment he turns his back- oh wait, that was why.

-“Yeah,” he finally replied with an exhausted sigh.

Silence fell in the room for a few, long seconds, until the hatless brat spoke again:

-“Wanna talk about it?” she offered and, for a moment, he was surprised at how nice and patient she was being. After all this time passed pushing him around, trying to make him do things… Now she was trying to be kind and calm? What was happening here?

-“Who are you and what did you do with the brat?” Snatcher retorted with a half sincere snort.

He had expected her to be mad at his question, but all she did was giggle at his joke. Apparently, someone clearly had a good night’s sleep, much more than him. At least, she wasn’t yelling or anything of the sort.

-“No, but for real,” she replied, her face becoming serious again after a few seconds: “I mean it, you know? Bow and I will always be there if you need something.”

Snatcher took a deep breath. Yeah, he did know that, but the former ghost wasn’t one to talk about his past or, worse, his “feelings”. What was there even to say about them? “Yeah, I dreamt about my ex killing me, it wasn’t very nice, I am weirdly upset by this”? Of course not. He knew the kids were aware of some parts of his past, not everything, but still. No one needed to be a genius to deduct what had happened after a visit in the Queen’s manor, and Moonjumper’s existence was only a proof of what was left of him.

Quite literally, in fact.

He sighed. He didn’t want to talk about any of that. Being forced to be alive again was already a lot to take in already.

-“Speaking about the other brat, where is she?”

The hatless little girl seemed a bit disappointed by the fact that he was still not opening up, but didn’t insist, to his great relief. This really was not a topic he wanted to be forced to talk about. At his question, the kid pointed to the engine room:

-“She’s taking a shower.”

-“Oh, so it’s morning then?” asked the former ghost, really lost with the sense of time on this spaceship. After all, it was hard to tell what time it was without any sun in the sky to give you any indication. But, here again, the child pointed somewhere else, this time on the huge safe behind them. Oh yeah, there was a clock on it. Snatcher wanted to slap himself for his own stupidity, but heh, at this point… In any case, the clock indicated that it was almost nine in the morning, and he couldn’t help but be surprised. He had imagined the kids would be the type to get up really late, but apparently he had been the one to take that role today. Well, not like it helped him to get a good night’s sleep anyway.

-“Oh. Right,” he muttered, more to himself.

Silence fell for a little while, until the hatless child started to eat her cereals again. Suddenly, the sight of the food, despite how disgusted he was of it in any kind, brought back that awful feeling in his stomach. Gods, it was like someone was having fun twisting his guts… Okay, it was fun when you were the one doing it on someone else, but feeling it was not enjoyable. It is at that moment that a loud gurgling sound echoed in the room, making Snatcher clench at his stomach, both ashamed and still a bit confused. The feeling of being hungry was not one he liked, definitely not. And his mouth was dry too, just like-

No. No, he wasn’t going to think of that again.

The brat -thankfully- interrupted his train of thoughts as she asked him something else:

-“So uh,” she paused, glancing at his face then to his stomach repeatedly before finishing her sentence: “Wanna eat something?”

Snatcher couldn’t help but groan, already knowing he wouldn’t have any choice in the matter anyway. He had learnt pretty well that fighting against his body and its urges wasn’t really a good idea, no matter how much he wanted to. So, with great reluctance, he opened his mouth again:

-“Unfortunately, yes,” he answered, visibly frustrated to no end. His reply seemed to amuse the little girl for a few moments but she quickly did her best to hide her expression behind a straight face. Yeah, good choice, given Snatcher’s sour mood. He didn’t mention it, but he was a bit relieved not to be mocked or looked at for how difficult daily human tasks were for him, even the most basic ones, ones that were oh so important to survive.

And so, they both stood up, the former ghost now more stable on his two legs. Yes, he was getting used to those things! Climbing the ladder was a bit harder though, but he eventually managed to get on top of the mezzanine. Just as they were about to enter the kitchen, the door from the engine room opened. Snatcher and the hatless brat looked over the guardrail, seeing the younger kid, all dressed up. She was wearing a yellow tunic with cat paws pattern on it, with dark, plain leggings. Her hair were styled just like usually, and she was wearing a variation of her usual blue bow, this time red. Snatcher couldn’t help but wonder how many of them she had.

-“Hey again!” greeted the hatless brat from above, catching the attention of the other child, making her jump a bit from the surprise. The latter raised her head and her eyes meet theirs. Instantly, a smile made its way on her lips as she saw both of them.

Ugh. Too many smiles for today already, and the day had already barely started.

-“Hey, Hat!” she greeted the older one back, before waving to Snatcher: “Hello! Did you-”

However, as soon as her eyes fell on him long enough to inspect his face, apparently more than indicative about his lack of sleep, she closed her mouth, keeping it shut before asking any stupid question. Although, the worry in her eyes made Snatcher more irritated than he already was. He was already past his comfort zone, so might as well continue, heh.

-“No, I did not sleep well,” he answered as he rubbed his face, feeling how tired he was just by the feeling of his skin, of how cold his hands were because of the lack of sleep, how he could feel some sort of bags under his eyes… Oh, yes, the day was already starting so well!!

Ha. What a joke.

Snatcher half sighed, half yawned in his hands and stared back at the kid down in the hub:

-“And no, I don’t want to talk about it,” he added, just to make sure, in case it wasn’t clear enough from his expression. The worry in the other’s eyes didn’t disappear, but at least she tried to hide it behind a smile, and she nodded.

-“That’s fine,” she simply said, before a short silence fell into the room, as if no one knew what to say anymore. It was only thanks to the hatless kid that the tension was reduced a bit.

-“So uh, now that you’re done showering…” she started, nodding to the man as she kept talking: “You okay helping him to find something to eat? I’d like to shower too, now.”

Snatcher didn’t like to be mentioned as if he weren’t in the same room, but he was too exhausted to care enough. All he wanted was to be done with eating and drinking as soon as possible, hoping he’d be able to rest later.

Not to sleep, however. Oh, no, not after a dream like that. But he was tired and he could feel his eyelids being heavier than normal, or whatever was supposed to be normal. He only had been in this body for two days, it wasn’t like he was the most experienced one to deem what was normal or now.

The bow-wearing girl nodded with much motivation, seemingly very determined to help:

-“Oh, yeah, sure!” She then walked to the ladder and climbed, joining the duo. When she was close enough of her older friends, the two of them high fived and giggled soon after. Somehow, Snatcher couldn’t help but think of them as two fighters relieving one another from their duties. He felt insulted for a moment, but then again, he was too tired to care and just rolled his eyes at the gesture. The hatless brat went down in the hub, walking to her bedroom, probably to get some clothes to the bathroom with her.

The former shade was brought back to reality as he heard the kitchen door opening. When he glanced back at the bow-wearing kid, she was holding the door for him, waiting for him to come in. Without waiting much longer, the man complied, thanking her with a quiet nod. Saying “thank yous” and “you’re welcomes” weren’t something he was used to, after all this time snatching souls and killing people, but he was not a complete jerk. Or, well, he was, but.

Then again.

Snatcher didn’t care and just wanted things to be over with so he could rest his eyes.

-“So, what do you want to eat?” asked the little girl, as she rummaged in the cupoards, “We have cereals, waffles, pancakes, cookies-”

An instant feeling of dread and nausea settled over Snatcher, who couldn’t help but gag at the simple mention of those damned biscuits. No, never, ever, nope, jamais. His reaction caught the kid’s attention, who turned in his direction, while he was covering his mouth, eyes shut and heart beating faster in his chest. Gods, how could he feel so ill just by hearing the names of those things? Well, that wasn’t really hard to know, considering how traumatized this all made him. Of course, cooki-, no, those things were just a part of this trauma, a single drop of water among an entire ocean of terrible experiences. Now, being hungry just made it worse, as saliva pilled up in his mouth, more and more and more-

-“The sink, the sink!” exclaimed the little girl, suddenly pushing him over the counter so he could bend over said sink. As soon as he was in front of it, his body collapse over it, his mouth opening as he felt his stomach contracting, trying to push whatever was inside out of him. Which, quite frankly, was practically nothing, as he didn’t eat much the day before. All that came out of his mouth was a dark-green-to-yellowish-brown fluid, leaving an awful acidic taste on his tongue. He didn’t have more time to think about it as a fit of coughing interrupted him, preventing him from breathing. No matter how much he was trying, another cough stopped him right before he inhaled anything. He couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t-!

He then felt a hand patting his back, rubbing it too in a reassuring way:

-“It’s okay, Snatcher, it’s okay,” said a soft voice behind him, forcing his mind to focus on something else: “Calm down, it’s going to be fine, breathe”, it added, repeating all those words over and over again with that same soft and gentle tone. The rubs were still continuing and, for once, Snatcher was glad his senses were still easily overwhelmed. Soon, the panic died down and he managed to stop his coughing, taking a deep, deep breath. Gods, he had needed that.

It took him a while to finally recover, his breath still heavy for a while. Gods, this felt terrible. The man then eventually noticed that he was handed a napkin to wipe the bile off his face. Silently, he took it with a shaking hand, doing his best to clean himself.

-“You okay now?” questioned the little girl, her intonation full of concern. Well, in that case, he couldn’t really blame her. He was pretty concerned himself.

-“Y-yeah,” he breathed out as he nodded, his eyes still fixed in the sink, sweat forming on his forehead: “… Thanks,” he then muttered, though it was loud enough for the kid to hear him. A little smile formed on her lips as she realized that he had voiced his gratitude, and she rubbed his back more.

-“You’re welcome,” she replied warmly. She then bent over the sink and opened the tap, keeping her eyes fixed on anything else as she did so. Once done, another silence settled in the room, making Snatcher a bit more uncomfortable than he already was. Fortunately, the bow-wearing child started to talk again:

-“Do you… Still want something to eat?” she asked with clear hesitation in her voice. The question made the former spirit think. He didn’t want to, but… At the same time, he knew that he would feel worse and worse if he kept refusing food to his body. Even if it wasn’t much, he could eat a small part of something, just to give his body enough fuel to survive the day.

-“I’ll…” he paused as he tried to stand straight again, still keeping his hands over the counter just in case: “I’ll try the cereals,” he replied, before adding, his voice hoarse: “With a glass of water, please.”

Gods, he really was polite, today.

The kid quickly agreed and started to pour him a bowl, being careful not to give him too much. She then gave him a glass of fresh water, which he immediately drank. Surprisingly, he didn’t choke himself with it. Perhaps he was getting better at this swalling thing. Then again, swallowing liquids was much easier than doing so with solid food.

The duo soon left the kitchen, Snatcher with food in his hands, as they walked to the TV, sitting there once more.

-“You’re not eating?” he asked the little girl as they settled down.

-“I already did,” she said, approaching the television to… Change the channel. Gods, technology was so confusing. He had heard a bit about what a TV was from some of his previous contractor, but being in front of the real thing was much more unsettling than he had first thought. Now, the screen was showing what seemed to be a movie, one featuring birds. A lot of them. Owls, more precisely, in what seemed to be some kind of desert.

What the heck.

After some time eyeing the cereals in the bowl, he finally found the courage to take a first bite and… It was okay. Sure, the texture felt weird, but they were small enough to be chewed easily, and the taste wasn’t too strong like the sandwiches had been the day before. Saying that Snatcher was surprised would be an understatement, but hey, at least he had found something he could eat without too much trouble!

-“Is it good?” wondered the bow-wearing child, interrupting his train of thoughts again.

-“Yeah, it’s… It’s fine,” he replied, doing his best to focus on chewing and swallowing. One second of inattention would surely make him cough again, with food going down the wrong way. This was not something he wanted to experience.

In any case, eating wasn’t “nice” per se, but for now, it was doable. Some part of him couldn’t help but think it was mostly a problem linked to a lack of habit. Perhaps it would improve with time. At least, this time, he had known what to expect, so he now he wasn’t too unnerved at the feeling of something inside his mouth. No need to say that this was some kind of progress, and he felt relieved at the thought. Sure, he didn’t want to stay a human too long, but if he managed to grasp how to operate his weird body, then it wouldn’t be as unbearable as it was when he turned. Just really unsettling, for very obvious reasons.

And that thought brought him to another question, which he couldn’t help but voice to the other:

-“So… You’re both going to try to find a solution again, today, right?” He really hoped they did. The faster he could become a ghost again, the better.

The little girl nodded, a more serious look now on her face:

-“Yeah, we will,” she answered, but then added with cautious intonation: “But we’re still at the very beginning of our research. It’s going to take us a few days to understand how to reverse the process, and more days to figure out how to make it work.”

Snatcher hummed at her reply: yeah, that’s what he had understood from their conversation the day before. He wasn’t particularly surprised hearing that again. Yet, he couldn’t get rid of the fear of having Vanessa freezing the entire forest and all of its undead inhabitants once more… He really hoped she wouldn’t notice anything before a while.

He had to protect his kingdom. His home.

-“Do you have any… Theory, for now?” he still asked, wanting to know more about the little girls’ plans and hypothesises. At her question, the bow-wearing child winced, but still answered as much as she could, explaining what they had found so far:

-“We don’t know much… Yet. We do have a theory or, well, a possible way of reversing the process,” she developed, her eyes glancing at him as she kept going: “See, the Time Pieces work thanks to the sand inside of them. On their own, they’re just basic receptacles, you know? That’s why we were inspecting the sand, yesterday, so we could know if it was possible to, like… Reverse the effect.”

-“What do you mean, ‘reverse the effect’?” he interrupted her, confused. This was much too abstract for him, yet he was doing his best to understand.

-“Hum, well… Look, when you break a Time Piece, it goes back in time, right?” she asked him, waiting for him to nod before continuing: “But actually, there are two options, not just one. It doesn’t just ‘go back in time’. It either does it randomly, going back a few seconds to a few years earlier -in your case, centuries-, either it follows what the person wishes the most while breaking the Time Piece.”

The man’s eyes widened at her words. Oh, so that explained quite well why a war broke out on the children’s planet. In any case, this was a lot to take in, though he remained silent to allow the other to continue her explanations:

-“So, what we’re trying to do is to determine how the sand works. Once we do… We’ll be able to change its properties, thanks to all the stuff we have in the machine room. Of course, this is only a very, very short summary of our theory, because there are a lot more factors playing a part in it. But,” she paused, raising a finger: “But, if we do manage to do that… We might be able to turn you back to your ghost self, thus, ‘reversing the effect’. You’ll have to wish to go back to who you were when breaking the Time Piece, and it should work.”

The former ghost hummed, though it was still a bit hard for him to understand. He did catch the basic information though, and well, at least the girls had a lead. He really hoped this would work… And wouldn’t take too long to execute. They did have a time limit, after all…

Just as he was about to ask for more details, a loud ringing sound echoed in the spaceship, all the lights turning red all of a sudden. The man’s heart jumped in his chest as a startled scream left his lips from the surprise. What was that?! It sounded like an alarm, blasting over and over and over again in the ship. The former ghost turned to the bow-wearing kid, but instead of seeing fear or confusion on her face, all he could see was some annoyance.

-“Gosh, I should really turn that off for good,” she groaned as she stood up. Somehow, the fact that she didn’t seem worried at all reassured Snatcher quite a bit. It sounded like it was a repetitive occurrence, from her expression. Still, the ringing hurt Snatcher’s ears much more than what he’d like, and, fortunately, it stopped after a few more moments. Soon, the ship was filled with silence again, to Snatcher’s great relief. Good. He wasn’t sure he could have handled more of that awful and loud sound.

-“What was that?” he wondered, his voice faltering from the shock. Gods, he could feel his heart pounding in his chest.

-“The intruder alarm,” she simply answered, matter-of-factly: “It means someone came onto the ship.”

At those words, the man felt a twist in his guts. Someone? Who…? In the back of his mind, he couldn’t help but fear for a particular person, though his rational side was trying its best to reassure him. It wasn’t Her, it couldn’t be Her!

He needed to stop having those irrational fears. There were many things more urgent he could be scared about. But not something this stupid or just impossible. How would She even come here? Sure she had magic, but not teleportation spells or anything. Besides, he was pretty sure that She couldn’t even see the spaceship from the mansion. After all, the whole domain was almost completely hidden by a large ice dome…

Gods, why did he need reassurance so much?

The kid seemed to notice his panic and started to rub his back again, the feeling of touch being strangely comforting for some reason:

-“Don’t worry, it’s going to be okay,” she told him with a calming and soothing voice. Although it only made Snatcher feel more and more miserable. He wasn’t some child in need of comfor- oh. He was shaking again.

This body was like an open book, and Snatcher hated that.

-“I’m… I’m fine,” he muttered, gritting his teeth: “So, where is the intru-” However, the former-ghost was cut short as the door from the bedroom opened swiftly, revealing a very familiar face.

Moonjumper’s.

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So, here was another chapter... And another cliffhanger :)c I had to, hehehe In any case, I hope you're still interested in this fanfiction, and I hope you'll like the next chapters too !

See you in the next chapters !

=> Chapter 16