#my house is falling in to disrepair

[mbrainspaz]

ok I don't really feel like I had a choice in One Piece suddenly being my new hyperfixation in the first place but one week and 183 issues in I'm definitely starting to feel like a prisoner here.

[sodrippy]

not being able to eat half the major food groups is fine for me actually. eating anything sucks in general so its fine. its fine and i feel great about it.

[cicadaknight]

I finally fixed up my workspace so it feels cozy

[miodaisgay]

Part of my brain is telling me to just go away

To just stop fuckin existing delete everything and vanish into the void

I won't but I

Feel like I should

[goatsorcery]

reasons i never want to be a home owner:

i doubt i'll ever be in a position where i'll have enough mental/physical energy to hold a full time job and do regular yard work

the idea of having to pay for constant repairs and replacements makes my wallet shake in fear

the process of maintaining and fixing up a house so that it's in shape enough to sell also would cost more money than ill ever have

there's no guarantee that a house will be worth more when sold than when bought, even with all the repairs to make it sellable

most mortgages are cheaper per month than rent, but the total cost of maintaining a house (with taxes, repairs, utilities) is often more than rent

[peachesofteal]

The House

The Crypt anthology Simon Riley / female reader

The House was a gamble.

Tucked away in a thicket of forest, boxed in on the side of a hill, it stands alone at the mouth of an uneven gravel road. The porch tips to one side, the front door to another, like the wood is weeping. White, stained paint contrasts with faded black trim, all of it peeling away.

“Not sure how old it is, to be honest. It’s been back there for years, owner let it fall into disrepair.” The realtor hesitantly dropped the keys in your hand with a grumble under his breath. “Good luck.”

The living room is habitable, barely, along with a single bedroom that has managed to fend off the rot and decay. After the floor is swept, cobwebs cleared, you rub your hands together trying to spark some heat between your palms. You didn’t think it’d get this cold, this fast, but the weather has turned in the last few days, and the furnace in the basement patiently waits for you.

Best to get it over with.

This isn’t the first house you’ve rehabbed. You’re familiar with weeping trusses, creaking stairs, raccoons curled up in kitchen cabinets, dirt floor basements and cellars. You’ve battled a furnace or two, cleaned a fireplace, nearly fallen through a rotten floorboard. It should all be old hat.

Should be.

Something about this house is different. Shadows dance in the corner of your eye, gone when you turn to look. Windows whistle without wind, and at night, you swear you can hear breathing.

It’s all in your head, of course. A house stuck out here in the woods is bound to have some quirks, some unexplainable moments, passing as quickly as they came. Pipes, foundations, doorframes, they’re all shifting things, never truly solid. There are always growing pains, even in something old.

Besides, old houses always have stories. They have bones.

So, it should be old hat, but a wisp of a feeling so unnatural gives you pause at the top of the stairs, and a shudder rockets down your spine.

Suck it up, you chastise. You’re an adult for fucks sake.

The furnace is a monster. It’s big, and ancient, and rusted, and to your delight, still operational. Old furnaces, old washers and dryers, all the things made in the seventies and before, last forever. No LED displays, no excessive electrical hookups, no songs to announce the end of a cycle. Lack of extensive wiring leads to a longer lifespan.

It kicks back on with a loud groan, hissing and rattling, and you roll back on your heels, satisfied. Easy enough, you think, tugging your tools up and turning to leave.

Something catches your eye. A black scrap of cloth, haphazardly ditched in a corner of the basement. The light casts it in shadow, and the room goes cold as your knuckles graze the fabric, turning it to reveal faded white teeth and bone.

It’s a skull mask.

You chalk it up to being something left over from the last owners, a Halloween costume, or prop as you carry it up the stairs. Just another thing left behind, like the house itself. You toss it on one of the tables, making a note to throw it away later, distracted by the thud of a fist.

Someone is knocking on the door.

“Can I help you?” He’s too big. Too tall. Shoulders too wide. Chest too broad. There’s a curve of fat around his belly under the unbuttoned jacket, and you try to look away at how hips give way to too thick thighs. You’re not a small girl, by any means but this man… this man is a monster.

“Just wanted to come by, meet my neighbor.” Your heart pounds, so loud it rattles your eardrums, and your mouth dries. “I’m Simon.” You manage to spit your name out in response.

“Your neighbor?” You squeak in disbelief, and he nods.

“I live on the next property over. Over the hill.” Over the hill? The realtor said no one lived around here, and he must read the confusion on your face, because he chuckles. “I don’t live too close, it’s still about ten miles. You’ve got a lot of land here.”

“Oh. Right.” He takes you in from head to toe. There's a tenebrific flicker in his eyes that you barely catch, gone when the front porch creaks under your feet, a sharp whine forcing you to step off the board, lest you fall right through.

“How’s it treatin’ you?” You think you’re supposed to step off the porch. Be friendly. Extend a hand, but you can’t. Something roots you to the spot you’ve chosen.

“Good. Fine. It’s uh… not my first rehab.” He nods thoughtfully.

“Well, just wanted to drop by.” He gives you a smile. It’s not warm, or welcoming, but grim. Haunted.

You watch him disappear down the road, still stuck to the porch. Wondering.

Your dreams are caked in mud.

Held down by the earth, dirt wet between your teeth, grit and gravel clogging your throat.

You scratch and claw and scream but it only grows heavier, quicksand turning to cement, burying you deeper and deeper until you’re six feet under. Listless. Resigned.

Dying.

Dreams are always the same. Just when you get to the point where you think you might die, when you’re past the point of no return, the last sliver of life slipping away-

is when you wake up.

This dream is no different. You come to screaming, gasping for air, tangled in your blankets, heart racing in a gallop. You need the sky. The sun. The moon. Anything to prove you’re not buried alive.

The window suffices.

It groans as you throw it open and shove your face outside, cool breeze soothing your stomach, the roar of panic pounding between your ears. You breathe deep again and again, the trembling in your hands tapering off, feeling of impending doom, of collapse, leeching away.

You get yourself settled when the stairs creak.

Growing pains. The house is old.

It’s a manageable explanation, until a boot steps on the landing outside your room, just beyond the door. You fumble with the flashlight on your phone. “Hello?”

Nothing.

And then-

The steps move away. Down the hall. It’s certainly a person now, walking, and you fly out of bed, fumbling with your slippers, your sweater, throwing the bedroom door open and squinting the down the hallway.

There’s nothing there.

No one.

You’re losing it.

Days pass, and the nights tick by the same.

Same dream. Same footsteps. Same nothingness at the end of the pitch-dark hallway.

You start to stay up, drinking coffee late at night, sitting up at the head of the bed. Waiting.

The steps never cease. But you never see where they come from.

The neighbor, Simon, comes around again. He takes stock of you and comments on how you look exhausted, sickly.

You snap back with some smart-ass comment and a suggestion, mind his own business. The sleep deprivation builds into agitation, and then into tears. It’s embarrassing.

“Is something wrong?” He asks gently, stepping close, close enough you can smell him. Cedar. Flame. Charred wood in the bottom of a firepit, the leftover remains of a once loved campfire.

“I’m sorry, I… I haven’t been sleeping.”

“Why’s that?”

“You wouldn’t believe me. It sounds pretty crazy.”

“Try me.” He’s at your shoulder now, tilted down, trying to meet your eyes. When you refuse, he tips your chin backwards, baring your face to him. It’s too intimate. You can’t pull yourself away. “Go on.” The birch trees sway in the wind.

“It’s the house. I keep… I keep hearing things.”

“Things?”

“Footsteps, but no one is there. And I’ve been having the same dream, every single night since I got here.”

“What do you dream about?”

“Being buried alive.” His brows crease, framing fleeting caliginous shadows in his irises, mouth turning downward.

“I’m sure it’s just an animal in the house,” he glances up at it with a scolding, resolute glare, before returning his attention back to you. “As far as the dream, it’s probably just your subconscious telling you this house was probably more than you bargained for.” His mouth quirks to the side and you’re struck by it, confused. You didn’t notice earlier how handsome he is in a scarred, rough edged sort of way.

“Sure, yeah. You’re probably right.” He fishes out his phone and passes it to you.

“Put your number in there, I’ll text you. That way if you ever need anything, you can give me call.”

“Okay.”

A hand holds yours in the night. It’s warm, and heavy, and you squeeze it, curling your chin over it, a soft blanket of solace in a turbulent dream.

Old houses have bones.

When the nightmare wakes you later and you rocket out of bed, sweating and startled, you don’t hear the footsteps.

Instead, you hear your name being called. You stumble from your bedroom, frantic. The floor tilts between your feet, hallways contracting, crowding around your shoulders, ceiling weeping from the pressure.

You’re still asleep. You must be.

They breathe around you, expanding, narrowing, a dry rasp echoing from the bowels of the house.

Someone-

Something-

Calls your name.

It groans from the basement, floorboards singing under your heels as you trip down the stairs, turning the corner to crash through the door.

The light is on.

Did you leave it on?

You can’t stop yourself. Fear wraps a rope around your neck, but there’s nothing to tether you to the world above, nothing to prevent you from going down there.

But nothing prepares you for what you find.

In the dirt floor of the basement, a rectangular hole is dug. Long enough, wide enough for a body.

A grave.

Beside it, sits the skull mask you found when you fixed the furnace. The one you left upstairs.

You retch, skin prickling from a howling cry, ice cracking up your back, and turn to run. To flee, to fly back up the stairs like you did when you were a child, running from invisible monsters, trying to make it to the top before something snatches you around the ankle and drags you down into the abyss.

Instead, you collide with a wall of muscle.

You scream, pull away, only to be tugged forward.

Simon.

When he looks at you, he almost seems sad. “I told him not to do this.” He sighs, and you blink. He grips your upper arms, strength unnatural, fingers burning against frozen skin. “Told him it was too fast, y’know? You just got here.”

“Wh-what?” He’s walking you backwards, step by step, and no matter how hard you struggle, you can’t break free. It’s hard to breathe. “Simon, stop. Let go of me.”

“When I let ‘im go, freed him, I never thought he’d turn into… this. But it all worked out for the best, I think.” His mouth is moving, and you hear him, but the words string together into mush, and you can’t hold on, trying and failing to make any of it make sense. The only thing that registers is the horror blooming in your heart, the sweat slicking down your spine.

“L-let me go.”

“Can’t.” You teeter on the edge, heels suspended over the dirt pit. Simon is still holding you by your arms, balancing you above, and you cling to him.

“Stop- stop-“ He ignores you, grabbing your wrists, widening the gap between his chest and yours. His thumb finds your cheek and strokes away the tears there, the touch gentle, sympathetic.

“It won’t be too bad. You’ll be with him, and I’ll have you both.” The house groans again, and the lights flicker. You’re still suspended over the hole in the ground, flying, stomach turning over and over again, motion sick.

“With who?”

“Ghost.” He looks around, gesturing to the basement like it’s obvious. “This is where I buried him. Scratched him out of my soul and gave him peace.” Your head spins, and he holds you close for a second, cheek on your head.

“Simon-“ The protest is cut off by his lips on yours, impassioned, aggressive. He draws back, cradles your face with his free hand and then-

let’s go.

You land on your back with a scream, trying to scramble to your feet only to find yourself weighed down by some invisible force, the same cold clinging to you again, holding you like a lover. “G-get me out, get me out this isn’t funny.” He ignores you, stepping out of sight. Your chest explodes with agony, terror spilling from your eyes in rivers of salt, vision going so blurry it’s impossible to see.

Someone-

Something-

Holds your hand.

A shovel clangs, damp dirt crumbling into a blade. Simon looms with a heaping pile of earth. When he throws it down into the grave, onto your legs, you thrash. Scream. Beg.

No one can hear you.

No one can save you.

He goes about his work in silence, ignoring every plea, every bargain, every cry. The cold never leaves, only tightens its embrace. The weight of the dirt crushes you, compacts your diaphragms, your breaths growing more and more shallow with each passing second.

“Please,” you croak when it meets your chin. “Please.” The shovel pauses, shadowed over your face, small clumps and rocks falling over the edge onto your cheeks. It’s the next to be dumped, the next layer, the one that will finally hide you from view, from the world. Bury you. Alive.

Before it drops, you peer up through dusty cobwebbed lashes. There’s another man beside Simon. He wears the mask, the skull one, eyes glistening above the hem. They’re haunted, heavy with desiderium, but shining with something else, starvation, desperation. Lunacy.

Love.

He disappears in the next moment, and Simon looks down at you one last time. “This is the only way we can keep you, ‘m afraid. Have to make you a part of it, just like him.” You choke.

“A part of what?”

“The House.”

[starry-bi-sky]

I'm in A Mood™ (stressed) so im going back to my roots of melting two character together into one person. So bruce wayne!danny fenton. Danny Fenton who, for eight years, grew up in a beautiful gothic manor with his mom and dad under the name "Bruce Wayne". Playing piano with his mother, running around the manor with his father.

Then when he's eight it's ripped away from him. There's blood on his hands and pearls pooling at his feet, and both his parents are dead in front of him.

And he gets shipped off to distant relatives "the Fentons" shortly after, Alfred close on his heels because someone needs to take care of him, someone that knows him. Bruce goes to the Fentons for the safety of anonymity. Gotham's press wants to sink its teeth into him.

Danny misses his city even if it took everything from him. There are shadows in his eyes and he's pale as a sheet even beside his distant cousins, and they change his name to "Danny Fenton' because nobody should know that their newest child was illustrious orphan Bruce Wayne.

They call him Bruce behind closed doors. Danny prefers it that way, he clings onto the name -- the one his parents gave him -- like a lifeline. He makes friends with Sam and Tucker. Tucker takes one look at the willowy, morbid little boy standing in the corner like a shade, ghosts in his eyes, and drags him out into the sunlight, and takes him over to Sam.

When Danny is twelve, he's still not over it -- and he's a little obsessed with the Fentons' research, with the morbid. He has books upon books on death, murder, detective work. Anything he can get his hands on. And stars. He loves stars.

Alfred owns the apartment next to them and comes over regularly. Danny clings to him.

When Danny is twelve, he's still quiet, meek, a shy little thing prone to being bullied. Freaky little Fenton with the night in his eyes and too-cold skin even before he put one foot in the grave. in a sleepover in his room with Sam and Tucker, he tells them the truth. They're his friends, he trusts them.

"My name is Bruce." he murmurs, voice quiet as the breeze, always quiet. he's staring at his star-covered sheets.

"Like Bruce Wayne?" Tucker asks, a joking tone in his voice.

Danny smiles a little, lamb-like with insecurity. "I am Bruce Wayne." And he takes them down to the lab, disrupting Maddie and Jack, to prove it. Sam tells them of her own wealth then shortly after. They start calling Danny "Bruce" in private too -- its trust. Thats what it is. It's trust.

Sam goes to media functions and comes back with aching feet and complaints on her tongue -- and Danny soaks it up all like a sponge, splayed across a beanbag chair with Tucker in her room. He's not envious of her, he used to go to events with his parents and they kept him safe from the ugly of Gotham's Elite. For the most part. He's had comments made at him, he doesn't miss them.

Alfred returns to the manor semi-regularly, Danny goes with him. he wanders the hallways and helps Alfred clean, the last thing either of them want is for their home to fall into disrepair. He brings Jazz with him next time, then Tucker, then Sam. They all help him clean, and he shows them his room. The one across from his parents', it feels strange.

When Danny dies when he's fourteen, the first adult he tells is Alfred. He and Jazz go over to his house more often than they stay in the Fentonworks building. At least at Alfred's, the food doesn't come to life. Alfred sits at the kitchen table and weeps when Danny tells him, Jazz is upstairs, and its just the two of them.

Danny's ghost form wears pearls around his wrist and the gloves look stained with some kind of black substance. He looks like a child who died in a lab accident, but he also looks like a child who has shadows dripping off his shoulders, curling at his feet, hanging from his eyes.

because amorphous blob batman has my heart always and danny/bruce will not escape it even in death even if that IS the only reason im giving him Mild BatBlob Vibes...so far

when they go to the manor, alfred helps danny make a pile of stones between Martha and Thomas' graves, nobody but the two of them (and sam and tucker) will know what it means. (not even bruce's children later down the line, not for a long, long time)

danny dives into ghost fighting on shaky feet and not half as witty as he once was in one world. he's skittish, skittering between blasts from shadow to shadow and clumsily making his way through each battle. but helping people lights a fire in him. he still has shadows dripping off his feet but there's a purpose in his eyes.

and god help him, he's going to help people.

[ceilidho]

Ok if this doesn't sound like an idea you'd be interested in then disregard, i don't want to bother you 🙂 BuT! It's been itching the back of my brain since forced throuple au and creepy-apartment!ghost has compounded it so:

Forced throuple but a sort of android verse with some body snatching horror thrown in for flavor. Reader's husband (Soapy boy) dies suddenly and in their grief a lot of stuff has gone into disrepair, so they mail order an android to help around the house and with crippling loneliness. The company sends Ghost, a refurbished security model now named Simon, and he ends up being pretty helpful despite the silent brooding. Hell, sometimes that even helps as scary dog privilege so you let it slide (big mistake dumby, that android is falling for you in the process of taking care of you ohhh no-).

But maybe Ghosts old security features make him super observant (obsessive) paired with his new "fix it" code make him come to the conclusion that, actually, reader could still use her husband and mail orders a Soap-bot-3000 without letting them know :O. Watch the horror unfold as Reader wakes up one morning to her VERY NOT dead husband in bed and both Ghost and Soap acting like nothing is wrong :)))), maybe some "Simon reverts fo Ghost" too as the story progresses

this is from awhile ago (apologies, anon) and so wickedly weird and cool :)))

androids that are so realistic and bodies so malleable that they almost feel lifelike, like they're flesh and blood. you never wanted to actually give in and purchase one because you have personal qualms with the idea of something so human-looking being programmable and subservient to you; it's just always felt wrong and borderline cruel, and johnny used to concur with you when you spoke about it. that was then though. years and months and weeks before the accident.

now it's midday on a tuesday and you can't even get out of bed. there are two weeks of dishes in the sink and the lawn is overgrown and the feral cats haven't stopped by in days because you haven't had the strength to get up and feed them. your voicemail's been full for days. your sister stopped by and insisted when she saw the state of your house. "at least for a few weeks," she pleaded with you. you can always return it when you're back on your feet. she's already ordered you one from 141 Labs before she's even out the door, making you promise to give it a shot.

when you open the box, you worry that you might've ordered the wrong model. the size of the android they sent you feels out of place, like he's meant for private military companies or as a bodyguard for celebrities. not depressed accountants who can't get out of bed because their husband died two weeks ago. but it's your name on the receipt, your address. so when his blue eyes flare neon when he's first activated and all six feet and four inches of him sit up in the crate (that had to be wheeled in by two delivery men, you recall with a small amount of horror), you wait patiently to introduce yourself.

maybe this one was sent to you because of the defect. he wears a mask because the only layer of skin on his face starts from the bottom of his face down. at first you roll the mask up only to shudder at the exposed wiring and metal where cheekbones should be. you roll it back down.

he comes with a name. Ghost. that's his model, you surmise from the lengthy instruction booklet you're provided. the whole situation feels weird at first; his presence in your house always catches you off guard, even though, you suppose, it's his house now too. you jump whenever you walk into a room and he's just there, silent, so large that you nearly always think Threat first before you recognize him. maybe it's not fully your fault. he makes no effort to signal his presence, moving silently from room to room when he helps carry out the garbage or swifter the living room. sometimes you catch him staring at the photos of you and johnny that still line the top of the fireplace.

you try to be equitable, insisting that he take the guest room as his own. Ghost won't hear of it, following you into your room when night falls; ominous. you have to lock yourself in the en suite to change, heart beating away because you know he's standing just outside the door, like a cat waiting to be let in. shaking hands drag your clothes down. you stare blankly at the door while you shower, fingers twitching when you pass a washcloth over your nipples.

you think there's something wrong with you. you're sick or something. you're sick or something worse because your husband died two weeks ago and the thing in your house isn't even a human and still your stomach clenches when you think of him waiting for you in your room, knowing that you're naked behind the door. it's taboo; it's not something that's done, at least not something that's spoken about. people don't sleep with their androids. recent widows especially should not be thinking about fucking their androids.

two weeks go by. you can't even think about johnny without wincing these days.

"he was your husband."

you look up. Ghost says it like a fact, not a question. you're in the living room sorting through insurance papers while Ghost vacuums under the sofa (he lifts the corner up with just a single hand; you swallow, throat already dry). neon blue eyes zip across your face when you look over at him. you wonder sometimes what he sees there, etched into the plains of your face.

"yeah." your smile is tight, pained. "johnny."

he looks back down to the framed photo in his hand, studying it. you wish you could ask him what he's thinking about, but you worry that would be just another privacy stripped. you can't ask more of him.

"what happened to him?" he finally asks, looking up again.

you feel it catch in your throat. "he, um - he." it doesn't come out. your nose stings before you can even try to get more out. you grimace, shrug instead. you try to smile again, but it's warped, unpleasant to form much less look at. don't ask, it says, whatever you do, please, please don't ask.

"you miss him?"

you blink at him, misty eyed. "ye - of course."

his eyes are so, so blue when he stares across the room at you. it's unnerving to look at; terrifying to find yourself under his scrutinizing gaze. what do androids even think about?

"I understand." he puts the photo back on the bookshelf and walks out of the room.

sometimes you catch him watching you too intensely; rare moments when he doesn't seem entirely mechanical. you wonder if one day you'll roll the mask up and there'll be skin there suddenly, a real flesh and blood person. it feels entirely possible some days. he moves too fluidly, has his own quirks and intricacies that seem newer each day.

you don't try it. the minuscule amount of professional space between the two of you is an absolute. you worry sometimes what you'll let happen if you ever let that distance collapse. already he sleeps motionlessly in the chair beside your bed, refusing his own room. he powers down with his eyes still open, the blue flickering away to a dark grey. it's only mildly reassuring.

when you open your eyes in the middle of the night though, he stares back at you, eyes dark and sightless.

you worry sometimes that you might have made a mistake, letting your sister talk you in to this.

it's the arm tucked around your waist when you're doing the shopping, freezing for a second before the hand on your hip squeezes and he pulls you towards the fruit and veg. it's the menacing stare from over your shoulder when a man approaches you in the checkout lane, offering his condolences (an old colleague of your husband's, he says) and an invitation to dinner. you open your mouth only for Ghost to answer for you.

"No." it thrums out of him, a different modulation. you stare helplessly as the man's face goes white and he makes an excuse to leave, offering you another lame apology.

it's the hand that tugs you out of the store by the back of your shirt, Ghost's voice rumbling like he doesn't know you can hear him. saying something about how you don't need another man in your house. that you had johnny and now you have him.

[buckgasms]

Once upon a time - Kinktober

Hello!!!

Thanks to everyone who voted in my poll! The winner by far was 'Beauty and the Beast' so I will be starting with that one!

I will be writing some of the other popular ones too so don't despair if this wasn't your favourite!

I'm doing this in two parts because it's just too huge otherwise, so please enjoy and I hope to see you for the next part!

The village of Swanford had once been a prosperous village, lead by the Barnes family, who had not only made their fortune there, but had also been generous benefactors of the town.

But after the wars of Europe and the death of their patriarch, the family and the village had descended into disrepair.

The Barnes residence, once a shining display of wealth and fashionable architecture now stood, imposing and delapidated on the edge of town. It's owner, the reclusive James Barnes, was never seen in the village. Rumours swirled of a beastly nature about him.

Cruel and unkind, a monster returned from war, more metal than man.

You had little interest in the life of James Barnes and his sad house. Your life, and it's problems were far more pressing.

You lived with your father in the poorer part of the village, his health would ebb and flow, keeping him out of secure work, and much of the financial responsibility falling onto your shoulders at a young age.

Since you were able to, you took jobs wherever you could, sewing, serving and occasionally teaching at the local community school. That had been your favourite, but was naturally short lived.

One September afternoon you had been informed by the headmaster that you would no longer be able to work. They hadn't received their usual funding and could only afford two teachers.

You were devastated but swallowed your pain and smiled. Perhaps another year?

🥀

You had just finished a day of sewing that left your fingers red and throbbing, when your father burst in the front door.

"Darling, I've had an idea..."

You strained a smile. These were never the start of a good conversation with your father. As he approached you could smell the scent of liquor on his breath.

"The Barnes mansion... It must be abandoned now. No one's seen sight of the miserable lad for years..."

You shrug and raise your eyebrows. "So? What does that have to do with anything?"

He chuckles and pinches your cheek.

"Tonight... I'm going up there. There must be something I can sell. Then you can forget these silly embroideries and I'll buy you a lovely dress!"

Your stomach churns. Both at his idea and his painful misunderstanding of you and the situation you are both in.

"I don't think that's a good idea..."

But he's already flopped down on the bed, unconscious to your protests, a victorious smile on his sweaty, boyish face.

🥀

You woke in a start, not sure what made you so terrified in your dreams but feeling uneasy as you panted in bed.

It took you a moment to realise the usual sound of your father snoring was absent and that the front door was left ajar.

You groaned and scrambled out of bed, pulling on a shawl and a pair of worn out shoes. Perhaps you could catch him before he made it to the mansion.

In a few minutes you were out the door, surprised to find the early dawn light breaking. How long had he been gone? Your stomach churned again. A familiar feeling when dealing with your father's escapades.

You were panting and out of breath when you arrived at the gates of the Barnes' home. You shivered at the prospect of walking through the overgrown garden but a shout from inside the normally silent house pushed you on.

Ignoring the clawing branches and weeds that tried to trip you until you were at the big wooden doors. Before you could knock the door swung open and you were met with a huge man, hair and beard giving the appearance of something like a wolf and piercing blue eyes burning into you.

"Come for more stolen goods?" He growled as he grabbed your wrist and pulled you into he house.

You cried out in protest until he released you, yanking you into a large parlour. There you found your father standing, looking terrified and sober. Beads of sweat were pouring down his face, and behind him a pile of shattered glass and porcelain.

"What did you do?" You strained as you walked to him, taking his hands in yours.

"He's a thief" a harsh voice spoke and you turned to face the owner of this dark, terrible home. James Barnes.

"His foolishness and avarice has cost me several hundred dollars in damages. Priceless family heirlooms, lost forever..."

You squeezed the eyes shut, hoping just briefly you might still be asleep, but you opened them again, finding yourself still in this nightmare.

"Sir, please forgive us. My father, he...he doesn't always make good decisions, but he means well. He was just trying to support us. It was a mistake..."

"So like everyone else in this village, it is someone else's problem to fix. Forget doing something useful, just hold out your hand and someone else will provide?"

You flinched at the venom in his voice. You had never once complained about your lot in life, it felt awful to be at the brunt of his fury. Despite your fear you step towards him, placing yourself between the two men.

"How dare you... As if you know what it's like to live in discomfort or poverty..."

At your words he holds up his other arm, heavy silver metal and scoffs. "I know something of living in pain....I just refuse to make it into anyone else's problem."

You blink. Shocked at both the appendage and his confession. The silence hangs heavily in the air for a moment.

"I will not let this go unpunished. This is my home and he has caused damage. I will have to report this to the police..."

You whimpered, knowing that this was probably your father's final strike. If he was arrested again, he would be sent away for hard labour. A sentence that would probably kill him.

Your father gripped your elbow and squeezed. "It's ok my love, it's what I deserve..."

You shook your head and approached James, dropping to your knees grabbing at his hands, both to his surprise.

"Please? If they arrest my father.. I'll never see him again. And.... He's all I have left. Please? There must be something else..."

Tears fell from your eyes, but you refused to break your eye contact, gripping his hands as hard as you dared. His face was unreadable, but you hoped there was a good man there somewhere.

"Very well. He can go home."

You heaved out a sigh, moving to release his hands, but instead he gripped you tighter.

"But you have to stay."

Ah perhaps not a good man at all....

You gasped and tried to escape his grip but he held fast.

"You will work off your father's debt to me. You will stay here so I know you aren't gossiping about me in town, or stealing from me. Once the debt is paid, you can leave."

He releases your hands and you scramble to your feet. You turn to your father, standing uselessly in the mess he has created. Your shoulders drop and you turn back to James.

"Ok."

🥀

Spending time in the Barnes household wasn't as torturous as you had envisioned. Bucky, as he preferred to be called, spent most of the day alone leaving you to your various tasks.

The house was a mess, so you were busy dusting, cleaning and tidying. You spent your first week in the kitchen, disgusted by the dirt and mouldy food you found there.

Each morning ready made meals were delivered and you would store and serve when appropriate. Around midweek you were handed three bowls of mushy oats, you recognised as gruel. It looked odd amid the rich soups, stews, bread and cheeses that were stacked next to it.

"Well this looks almost good a new"

His deep grumble of a voice made you jump as you were scrubbing dishes and made it slip from your hand, smashing in the sink.

"Hmm that must be another week's work at least" he chuckled, walking over to you, brushing past you to grab a drink of water.

You scowled and began collecting the shards to put in the bin. He leaned against the counter as he watched you work.

"There was some gruel delivered today. What's that for?" You asked briskly as he slipped slowly.

"Ah yes. That's your's"

You looked up at him and stared. The twinkle of amusement in his eyes was enraging.

"I have a proposal. If you would like to dine with me in the evenings, then we can share a meal. If you continue to eat alone, then it only seems right you should eat just enough to sustain you."

"Why would I wish you eat with you?" You tried to dial down the venom in your words, but he seemed unbothered. A simple shrug and a flash of a grin before he turned to leave.

"I'll leave it with you to ponder, Beauty..."

That was another thing. Despite the fact you had told him your name several times, he insisted on refering to you as Beauty. Perhaps it was some sick reference to a fairytale?

You were beautiful, despite your often disheveled appearance, but it felt more of an insult when he said it.

Either way, you were never going to share a table with such a brute. You were made of tougher stuff that just a bit of gruel.

🥀

By the weekend you were starting to break. The gruel was exactly as he said, just enough to sustain you, but not enough to make you feel good in any way.

Saturday morning came and he had a huge roast delivered, with all the trimmings. You groaned as you set it in the oven to roast for a few hours. It looked so good.

In the afternoon you had some time to yourself and decided to read, finding some of his books left lying around too hard to resist. You didn't care what you read, you just loved it. Losing yourself in a fantastic world, or learning about real life places that you would probably never see.

As you were learning about the rainforests of the Amazon, Bucky appeared, and you did your best not to react as he sat on the couch where you had curled yourself up.

"Dinner already smells divine Beauty. Are you sure you won't join me tonight?"

You closed the book slowly. "Why are you so persistant about me joining you? Servents don't normally dine with their masters..."

"I don't consider you a servant. You are working off a debt, yes, but I still consider you a guest of sorts. If we are to share a home, we could at least share a meal..."

You narrowed your eyes but your treacherous stomach betrayed you, growling loudly.

He chuckled. "That settles it. You must join me. Oh! I have another delivery coming this afternoon. It's for you..."

And with that he left with your rainforests.

🥀

A dress.

It was a dress.

No in fact it wasn't a dress. It was an entire wardrobe of clothes, fit for a woman of a far higher status than you. Annoyingly they were all to your taste and fit like a glove.

You were mortified to find he had also purchased undergarments and threw the parcel of lacy items into the drawer to ignore them for the time being.

You decided on a pale green dress for dinner, throwing it on and brushing your hair through before rushing down to the kitchen to dish up.

He was in his usual simple black trousers and loose white shirt that he always wore, making you feel a bit of a spectacle in your shiny new dress, but he complimented you in a way that felt genuine so you smiled and allowed him to serve dinner.

He was quite handsome, but he was hidden behind a thick scraggy beard and long lank hair. The beard covered scars that you noticed drifted down towards his chest, more on his left side.

His metal arm, made of some mysterious metal called vibranium was surprisingly nimble. Occasionally he would knock something with it but it was hardly the terrifying limb the rest of the village made it out to be.

His eyes were the most wonderful though. Glittering blue that seemed to change with his emotions. Sparkling with joy, or turning grey with his anger.

You wondered what he must have been like before the war. There was definitely a sense of humour there, gentleness and generosity. But like so many men of his time, the things he had seen and done had buried those attributes beneath a surface of blood, mud and pain.

You ate mostly in silence because you were enjoying every single mouthful of delicious food. It was heaven, and even as the cook, you had to admit that this was the best roast you'd ever had. He seemed similarly impressed, mmh-ing at each new bite. It was almost sweet.

Once the plates were clearing he poured you a wine and started probing you. He wanted to know about your life, everything....

You answered briefly and without inspiration until he asked you about books.

"Oh yes I love to read. My mother insisted I learn and I'm so glad I did! I'll read anything I can get my hands on!" You laughed and he smiled, cogs turning in his head.

"I used to teach actually, I loved it. But they had to let me go..."

"Why? That seems crazy?"

"The money. There wasn't enough. I don't understand how people could take funding away from a school. It's so selfish..."

He stopped smiling.

"Maybe these places should learn to save better, and spend more wisely..."

You eyed him. "Well how can they with nothing? Don't be so naive, just because you have enough. Life is miserable enough without more selfish people in the world."

He threw his knife on the table and stood up.

"I knew it. You are just the same as the rest of them... Just waiting for a handout."

You also rose, fire burning in your chest

"I have never in my life asked for anything. I have worked all my life, harder that I imagine you ever have! I think its about kindness. It costs nothing to be kind James. And I'll stick to gruel if this is what dinner with you looks like."

You tore from the room before he could throw another barbed word your way, slamming the door and running to your bedroom. You refused to shed a tear until the door was firmly locked, collapsing on the bed, wishing this would all just end.

You heard a door slam in the distance before more tears fell until you finally drifted off to sleep.

🥀🥀🥀

[ghcstao3]

There’s something almost comical about the fact that Ghost lives in a classic horror movie house, Soap thinks.

When Soap is invited to join Ghost on leave at his place, Soap doesn’t hesitate to say yes. It’s a bit embarrassing, looking back, the enthusiasm with which he accepted the offer—but seeing now as Ghost drives up the obnoxiously long gravel driveway to his home, Soap is wondering if this is where he gets murdered.

Like Soap had immediately thought—the house is straight out of a thriller. Deep red brick walls covered in sprawling ivy, windows with chipped white trim and a black roof that needed to be retiled, even a rusted retro bike leaning against the side of the house—it screams I think this will be good for us just days before yet another family is brutally murdered by some evil demon within the home’s confines.

All that’s missing, as Ghost unlocks the front door with a calm familiarity, is the lightning strikes in the background while the door creaks open into a dark hallway.

At the very least, when Ghost flicks on the light, the home seems a little less in disrepair. A little less haunted, if only coated in a layer of dust since the last time he’d been out here.

Soap has to keep himself from gawking at the house’s interior and its vintage decor. It’s very not-Ghost, yet at the same time it very much is.

“Thought the whole dead-man-skeleton-motif persona was just a work thing,” Soap remarks, closing the groaning front door behind him. His other hand keeps a tight grip on the handles of his duffel.

“It is,” Ghost says, perfectly casual. “Why?”

Soap blinks. He shuffles awkwardly on his feet under Ghost’s gaze. “Nothing, I just… you really live here?”

Ghost frowns at him, wonderfully, miserably maskless, and folds defensive arms over his chest. “Yes. Is that a problem, sergeant?”

Soap is quick to shake his head. He has to remind himself that he agreed to be here, and should be grateful for the opportunity even if he’s ninety percent certain he is not making it out of this leave alive.

It doesn’t help that something suddenly thuds upstairs.

“No, it’s no’ a problem at all, just—this place is fuckin’ haunted, LT.”

Ghost snorts, arms falling loosely back to his sides, that calm, peaceful demeanour Soap had grown to know and love mercifully reappearing in place of the dark look that had briefly shadowed Ghost’s face. “It’s not haunted, Johnny. You’re a soldier—shouldn’t be afraid of the sounds of an old house settling.”

“Yeah, right,” Soap scoffs. “Settling is what makes those noises.”

Ever the bastard, Ghost cocks his head. “What noises?”

“Jesus Christ,” Soap mutters under his breath. He rolls his eyes, and tries to ignore the scratching he definitely hears coming from nearby baseboards. “Just show me to my room, then. But if I find bloody handprints on the mirror after I’ve showered or some shite like that, you’re driving me to the nearest hotel effective immediately.”

Ghost’s lips quirk upward. “Whatever you say, Johnny.”

Soap just might have to strangle the lieutenant himself—if he’s still alive by the next day to do so, of course.

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

Re: the previous anon asking about ramshackle, my personal hc is that it used to be the staff's dorm (I could be completely wrong, I haven't read the early books in a while). Then, when Crowley took over from the previous headmaster, he didn't hire any new staff and instead let the non-teaching current staff retire/quit/otherwise leave their positions and then employed ghosts (since they don't really need a place to "live" (ba dum tss)), and left Ramshackle to fall into disrepair. Whether or not these ghosts were the old staff or were just looking for jobs is up in the air (and also opens a whole can of worms about ghost economics, but I'm not willing to get into that here) For some reason he still hires living teachers and Sam, but I'm not sure if we ever get any details on where they live during the school year.

[Referencing this post!]

I went back into the prologue to check! The dialogue seems to suggest that Ramshackle used to house students. The Ramshackle Ghosts mention that people used to live there, then Crowley tells us "the ghosts scared away all the students." (Note that Crowley does not say “the ghosts scared away all the students AND staff.”) Thinking about it, staff lived at Ramshackle, well... it might be a little strange to have students visit them at their living quarters instead of in the classroom or their offices if they need academic assistance. Most likely Ramshackle served a similar function as the other dorms: student housing.

As for where staff stay… There was one line dropped by Crowley in the second Halloween event which implies the (current) staff may live off campus. I talked about it in this post!

We’re not sure exactly how long Crowley has been headmaster for or when Ramshackle exactly fell into ruin 🤔 I wonder if the main story (or extra materials/content) will cover that… We don’t even know if there was even a previous headmaster or if Crowley was just always the headmaster. From how he speaks (ie being salty at the 99 lose streak to RSA and honoring Lilia’s invite to NRC despite being hundreds of years later), it feels like Crowley has been in charge for a long ass time. It could be that he’s honoring his predecessor’s legacy or wishes, but he seems to personally be making the shots or reacting in a way that’s quite emotionally invested for someone who is newly taking up the mantle.

Mmmm, I wonder if it’s really as simple as Crowley letting the current staff go…? I’d imagine most can’t afford to quit their job or retire on the spot (unless he incentivized them to leave with a generous severance package). I do think employing ghosts in the place of living people to do odd jobs may be more cost effective though, seeing as ghosts have far fewer living expenses than the living. (No need for housing, food, most material possessions, etc.). Crowley could thus justify paying them less/j Although… This is also most likely an efficient way for the devs to reuse assets and not have to design unique characters or more mobs to fulfill the roles of odd job NPCs.

There is lore which states that ghosts are attracted to areas that are concentrated with magical energy, which may explain why NRC has so many ghosts lurking around. I wonder if Crowley just happened to notice all the ghosts lurking on campus (rather than actively seeking them out) and wanted to give them something fulfilling to do with their time, hence the jobs. (Do ghosts even have a need for employment or money when they don’t really have physical demands??? What would they even buy with their earnings, if they’re being compensated at all?) Some ghosts, like the ones that work in the cafeteria, seem to be brought in from the outside to serve more specific roles (ie as Master Chef/Culinary Crucibles instructors and cafeteria staff). The Ramshackle Ghosts though… I’m not sure about their origins?

So the Ramshackle Ghosts have taken up residence in the dormitory, but we don’t have much in the way of their history. It could be that they were random ghosts that migrated to NRC due to its magical draw?? Other unrelated ghosts seem to have been drawn to Ramshackle in the past (such as Eliza and her ghostly entourage in Ghost Marriage). Some have theorized the Ramshackle Ghosts are dead students, but the closest thing we get to proof of that is a line from book 2. One of the Ramshackle Ghosts says that he was a star magift/spelldrive player when he was alive—but this does not inherently imply he was a student, since the sport is very popular and widely played by mages, student or not.

There’s still so many mysteries wrapped up in Ramshackle… 🔍

[ofthehands]

You know, it's a small detail, but Grandpa Hardesty being mentioned to own and sell cattle (and seemingly being untouched by the poverty that hit the area) is incredibly interesting. I think it plays into the way the Hardesty-Enright family and the Sawyer family parallel each other, and how deeply entwined they are all the way to the bones of the film.

While at first they seem incredibly different, Grandpa Hardesty and Grandpa Sawyer are really surprisingly similar. Grandpa Hardesty is nothing but a corpse when the film begins, a catalyst for action and a sort of symbol of his family, with some past built in, but no real personality of his own seen beyond glimpses. Much like Grandpa Sawyer, who while alive, is ultimately unable to take action and exists more as a symbol of his family than a person. I mean, hell, in his introduction he's paired with two corpses (Grandma and their dog) and he looks no different from them, and reacts the same as they do. Then, of course, with Grandpa Hardesty's status comes another similarity. As a cattle baron, selling his cows to the slaughterhouse, with the brutal work and union busting of the time, Grandpa Hardesty was metaphorically feeding off the blood (& sweat & tears) of his employees and the employees of the slaughterhouse- gaining his fill from the pain of the people of Newt. Not so different, really, from the blood sucker across the field.

I think these Grandpas are, at the core of it, very similar men. There are differences, of course, Grandpa Sawyer is reverently taken care of while Grandpa Hardesty's home falls into disrepair, for one. But, in the end, it can be quite interesting to look at them as two sides of the same coin. The socially acceptable symbolic corpse, and the unacceptable. The blood sucker we've grown accustomed to, and the blood sucker so unusual it's frightening. The Sawyers as every day, deeply mundane evil, reflected in a fun house mirror- distorted and frightening, but still recognizable, in the end.

But those are just my thoughts.

[smnthvxe]

Chapter 1: The Past Echoes

Chapter 2 , last chapter

Readers point to view

The sun dipped below the horizon in Sumeru, painting the sky in hues of orange and pink as I closed the shop for the evening. The little coffee shop, once just a dream, had become my sanctuary, a place where laughter and the rich aroma of coffee beans filled the air. Yet, amidst the hustle and bustle, my heart harbored a quiet sorrow, a longing for the one who had once been my everything—Kunikuzushi.

Our life together seemed like a distant memory, a fleeting moment of happiness that had slipped through my fingers like grains of sand. I remembered his smile, the way his eyes lit up when he laughed, and the warmth of his touch. But those memories were overshadowed by the pain of his departure, the day he walked away, leaving me with nothing but silence and a heart full of unanswered questions.

"I wonder where you are now," I murmured to the empty room, allowing myself a moment of vulnerability. The walls of the coffee shop, adorned with pictures and trinkets from our travels, echoed back my solitude.

Nights were the hardest, when the world fell silent, and the weight of his absence felt unbearable. I would lie awake, staring at the ceiling, imagining scenarios where he would return, where he would explain why he left and we could start over. But as the dawn broke, reality would set in, and I'd brace myself for another day without him.

One evening, as the final rays of sunlight vanished, leaving the world in twilight, a figure appeared at the door of the coffee shop. My heart skipped a beat, a foolish part of me hoping against hope. But it wasn't him; it never was. Instead, it was a traveler, seeking refuge in the warmth of the shop and a cup of coffee to ease their journey.

"I heard this place serves the best coffee in Sumeru," A blond traveler remarked, breaking the silence.

" Yeah! Yeah! I bet her coffee can make Paimon jerk off all of the pain from that mean-rude-annoying hat guy!?" The little fairy spoke

I chuckled, pouring them a cup. "I hope it does little one."

As they settled down, the blond traveler—known as Aether shared tales of their adventures, of the people they'd met and the wonders they'd seen. And for a brief moment, I allowed their stories to transport me away from my sorrow, to remind me of the joy and beauty in the world. The world he promised to explore.

But as the night drew to a close and Aether thanked me for the hospitality, I was left alone once again with my thoughts. I wondered if Scaramouche ever thought of me, if he ever regretted leaving. The rational part of me knew it was futile to dwell on what could have been, but the heart is seldom ruled by reason.

I busied myself with cleaning up, trying to shake off the thought. "You need to move on," I whispered to myself, a mantra I repeated every day, yet found so hard to practice.

One day, curiosity got the better of me, and I ventured out, seeking any trace of him. I traveled to Inazuma, to the places we had once explored together, hoping to find closure, to finally let go of the past. But instead of peace, I found only echoes of our time together, reminders of the love we shared and the pain of his departure.

As I stood in front of our old home, now abandoned and falling into disrepair, tears filled my eyes. "Why did you leave, Scaramouche? Why did you break us?" I whispered, the questions lingering in the air, unanswered.

I realized then that I might never get the closure I sought, that some wounds take longer to heal, and some questions remain unanswered. But I also understood that I couldn't live in the shadow of his memory forever.

"Oh? Who you might be?"

A voice spoke from behind, i turned around to see a Kitsune-like woman with a shrine dress.

"I was.." you cutted " Visiting something"

"Visiting you mean that house over there? Sorry to say this dear but that house is already abandoned. "

She pointed to our shared home at the nearby hill.

"Yes, I know. I was just- recollecting some old memories"

By that she smirked and I bid my farewell, walking away.

With a heavy heart, I returned to Sumeru, to my coffee shop, my haven. I poured my soul into my work, creating a space filled with warmth and happiness, a stark contrast to the emptiness I felt inside.

As days turned into weeks, and weeks into months, I slowly began to rebuild my life. I found joy in the simple pleasures, in the smiles of my customers, and also I became good friends with Aether, he would often visit my shop to drink coffee and share his adventures with me. My interest perked up as he said something about fighting a false god along with Buer. You were always a fan of sumeru's Archon that's why you choose to move there.

There are some days where I close the shop, drinking bitter coffee (which reminds you of Scaramouche) alone reflecting every moment I have spent with him.

And though I may never fully understand why he left, I've come to accept that some chapters in our lives must come to an end, to make way for new beginnings. So, I continue to move forward, one day at a time, carrying the lessons of the past and the hope for a brighter future.

In the quiet moments, when the world slows down, and I find myself lost in thought, I whisper a silent wish for Scaramouche, wherever he may be. "I hope you've found your peace," I say, letting my words drift into the ether, a final goodbye to a love that once was. But.. If ever he'll come back ...

A/N : hehe kinda rushed lmao

(You may notice some grammatical errors cus yk im kinda writing this and studying for our exam)

[patchwork-crow-writes]

Possessed by Grief - an essay on MyHouse.pk3

Here's that essay on MyHouse.wad I've kept threatening to drop like a big anvil, which I definitely did not forget about for like a month :P Seems like an opportune moment to publish it, what with all the recent influx of interest in the game - and so I present some more of my thoughts on this masterpiece. Enjoy :)

MyHouse.pk3 is a game about grief.

It is a game about nostalgia and regret, obsession and devotion, confusion and despair. A game that asks if it's ever possible to escape grief's clutches, or if each apparent success only makes the net close tighter around us. A game that compels us to seek answers, and provides only further questions.

This is also a game about love, and how grief scrunches it up impossibly small and stretches it out impossibly thin, as we are forced to reckon with what this person really means to us, what impact they've had on us, and how we can possibly continue to exist in this world without them.

It is by all accounts a common thing for prospective modders to recreate their own houses, or those of their relatives, as part labour of love, part test run for future projects, part rite of passage. I imagine that playing through one is akin to a virtual property tour, with added demon killing and grunting. And perhaps this was all MyHouse.pk3 was ever meant to be - just another map of just another house, albeit uploaded as a tribute to its original owner who passed on.

What we get instead… is nothing short of an electronic manifestation of grief itself. The house changes as we play, as demons thought vanquished return stronger than ever. New hallways jut out at impossible angles while old doorways vanish into thin air. We wander through wildly different versions of the house's floorplan - a brutalist office block that changes in size, a perpetually-flooded bathhouse suspended in an eeriely tranquil skybox, an abandoned daycare falling into disrepair, an empty airport devoid of life, adjoined to a bathroom with a bloody secret. Mirrors become portals to alternate versions of the same house, where everything is the same except reversed. You jump out of a plane and seemingly wake up back at the house, but time has passed and everyone has moved on and the one thing you thought a concrete certainty ("Safe as houses", so the saying goes) is literally sold off behind your back and you turn around and there's nothing there anymore, it's just gone.

No-one asked you. You did not consent to any of this, and yet it has happened all the same.

And life ticks on and you try to move on but you can't. Even the Underhalls, Doom II's second level, provides only temporary respite, as you are immediately spat back out right where you began, and the whole process starts over.

THIS is what grief does to someone. It freezes you in time, folds your mind into endlessly recursive origami shapes that loop on themselves again and again, removes an old keystone from the bridge of your psyche before stepping back to watch the structure slowly crumble to ruins. You flail helplessly as you are caught between trying to invoke what you've lost in meaningful objects and places, and tossing everything aside and trying to escape into some new, different reality. The past contains bittersweet memories of happier times you can never return to, while the future promises nothing but a bleak pseudo-existence utterly devoid of meaning. You cannot go back. You cannot move forward.

And all the while, you torment yourself with the same questions, over and over and over: Why did this happen? What do I do now they're gone? Could I have changed something? Could things have been different, if I had just been kinder/braver/better/gentler/more attentive?

Grief haunts MyHouse. It is the unseen hand that shapes the world and all the artefacts scattered throughout it. It is the force that compels Steve to continue adding to it, convinces him that only he can do what is needed, and he becomes as dependent upon the map to frame his loss as it is dependent on him to shape it. There are no ghosts or demons, no supernatural forces at play here - just one person trapped in his despair and loneliness, pouring everything he has into the one last thing that connects him to his dead friend. And in the finished map, we see exactly what Tom was to Steve, just how precious and irreplacable of a friend they were to him, just how fathomless his depth of feeling for them. So deep that Tom may very well be "the only person I [Steve] ever loved."

Grief and love are intertwined, they cannot be teased apart. The deeper and more profound the love for someone, the greater the agony experienced when they are taken from you. For Steve to have constructed such an elaborate, multifaceted, labyrinthian space, and to have done so deliberately as a trubute, it becomes increasingly obvious that he was motivated by a love and a grief so abyssal and all-consuming that there was no-one and nothing he valued more in life - to the point where it must have seemed that he, too, had died alongside his friend.

This house and all of its impossible multitudes is a digital mausoleum, built not so much for a person as for a relationship, dedicated to stupid in-jokes and childhood traumas and painful secrets, plagued by a burning love that cannot be spoken yet has to be expressed lest it destroys the one who harbours it. It stands as proof that Tom existed, that the bond they shared was real. And through all the confusion, the hopelessness and the heartbreak, a way forward begins to emerge.

Grief never truly goes away, is never truly "beaten" as a video game final battle may be. But it does become easier to navigate, its twists and turns becoming more familiar with each pass, with each story shared between others who are struggling alongside us. Contentment can be reattained. Life does, indeed, go on. Love is not negated by death, but endures forever in how we choose to honour those who are no longer with us.

Thanks for reading.

[burning-academia-if]

Cozy + Rook/Beck poly?

Cozy for the Rook/Beck poly!

The general state of the boys’ dorm room tended to be incredibly clean. Rook, despite how he seemed, always kept his space so perfectly organized it almost didn’t feel like it was lived in half the time. Beck, being Beck, would feel a very particular sense of guilt if he wasn’t matching his roommate’s efforts.

            It was why its current state left you mildly perplexed, “Was there a magical explosion in here or something?”

            Rook’s frustrated groan echoed somewhere within the mess of blankets, pillows and furniture as a response to your question. Beck, beside you, had the widest grin, “I found out Rook never made a pillow fort before and thought it’d be fun but, well, he wanted to try to do it entirely on his own. It’s going well, obviously.”

            “There is not a universe where sarcasm suits you Beck.” Rook’s voice once more echoes from the ground zero otherwise known as the living room.

            You were more caught up on the sudden realization, “You never made a pillowfort with your other friends?”

            “I’ve never been to a friends’ house in my life, let alone have them at mine.” He finally emerged from the depths he’d created, brown hair messy and sticking up in strands as though charged by static. “And fuck you, I think it looks fantastic.”

            You and Beck share a look, the secret of a laugh twinkling in Beck’s eyes, “Of course. But perhaps if you allowed us to help, we could add some finishing touches?”

            “Yeah, just to spruce it up a little.” You chime in, and Rook frowns.

            “I hate you both.”

            “You love us both.” Beck says back, and you think you hear Rook mumble something like ‘unfortunately under his breath, but he doesn’t protest the help. Beck takes your hand without thinking, and the two of you dive in to the mess that Rook’s made.

            It takes a while, in part because of the endless distractions (there was not a pillow fight distraction in the middle of it all), and in part because making a fort big enough for three adults required all the bits and bobs you could manage. There was a break in the middle to fetch even more blankets from your own dorm, along with picking up snacks and drinks.

            By the time it was done, it was dark outside and the living room was in disrepair. The key difference was that it actually looked like a fort, and the three of you could actually go inside.

            It was still a little cramped. Legs fall over legs, and your shoulder pressed against Rook’s on the left and Beck’s on the right. The bag of snacks you guys had bought rested in front of you, as well as a laptop resting precariously on your legs playing a movie the three of you were only half paying attention to.

            Maybe it was all the blankets and pillows and being between two people who meant the world to you, but it was easy to want to drift off. You felt Beck run his thumb over the palm of your head, almost encouragingly, and Rook shifted just slightly that you could rest against him perfectly if you wanted.

            You frowned, “Stop trying to put me to sleep you two.”

            “We’re not.” They said at the same time and you shook your head.

            “But,” Beck continued, “A sleepover sounds nice. We can’t let Rook’s efforts go to waste.”

            “Would you stop rubbing it in?”

            “I mean it sincerely.”

            “That makes it worse—anyway.” Rook huffed. “I’d like that, too.”

            Considering how comfortable you were, you didn’t think you were going to be able to make it back to your dorm anyway, “A sleepover it is then.”

            And the three of you settle in for the rest of the night.

[noxthesleepymoodyoverthinker]

Thinking of the Disney Cinderella Timeline

Here's how I think the Cinderella Disney animated movies are supposed to be viewed -- or basically, how it might have happened in linear time in the Disney Cinderella universe:

First, there's "Cinderella", of course. The one where she meets the Fairy Godmother for the first time and gets a lovely gown and glass slippers to go to a ball.

Then it's Cinderella 2's story "Aim to Please". And it makes sense, as it's clearly stated that the Prince and Cinderella have just returned to the palace after their marriage -- the marriage that happened at the end of the first movie -- before the Prince is whisked off by his father to attend to "Important Matters Of State". So of course that's what happened next.

After that, I'm guessing that "Tall Tail" happened sometime the same year Cinderella started taking over Princess Duties.

Because she says, "We sure have a lot of parties around here," indicating that the Banquet she dealt with in "Aim to Please" was likely not too far in the past. Or else, she's had a lot of parties to plan since then.

Now the next story is what is important. I think "Cinderella 3: A Twist in Time" happened next, not "An Uncommon Romance".

And then, after what happened in "A Twist in Time", with Anastasia not giving in to Lady Tremaine's scheme in the end, and the Prince and Cinderella marrying again, and them continuing to live their lives again...

After all that is likely when "An Uncommon Romance" happened.

So the actual order is: Cinderella, Aim to Please, Tall Tail, A Twist in Time, and An Uncommon Romance.

Let me justify this idea:

First of all, in Cinderella 2, the mice were bringing up random stories they remembered. Except for the first story, where it's clearly stated that it happened right after the married couple returned and Cinderella was officially a princess, the other 2 stories could have happened at any time at all. (We don't know when the mice are writing these stories, after all. How many years it's been, or how much time has passed. We only know that they're writing stuff that's already happened.)

Secondly, look at the state of Cinderella's old house in "A Twist in Time". It's awful and the stepsisters are basically given the tasks of cleaning the large house.

And this actually fits with the first movie, which mentions at the beginning that the chateau was falling into disrepair as Lady Tremaine squandered all their riches on Anastasia and Drizella.

Basically, Cinderella being a servant was all that was keeping the house together. And after she left with the Prince, the state of the house obviously got worse.

But look at how the house looks in "An Uncommon Romance".

I didn't notice this the first time I watched Cinderella 2. But I certainly noticed after watching Cinderella 3.

But, the house falling into a further bad state makes sense since the house was already not maintained by anyone other than Cinderella at the very beginning of her story.

So here's my theory:

After Cinderella was taken to the palace by the Grand Duke, she likely put her family right out of her mind. And that makes sense. She's not vindictive at all. But after being treated as she was, keeping them far away from her and never turning in their direction again makes sense. If nothing else, she lays no claim to her house even though it was rightfully hers and she has been maintaining it for years. She just leaves them be and never interacts with them again.

But after the events of "A Twist in Time", while Lady Tremaine is a world-class b**** and horror, Cinderella, with her kind heart, and perfectly aware of how awful Lady Tremaine can be, likey decided that paying for the house's upkeep and inviting her stepsisters to balls might be necessary.

For one, she likely feels sorry for Anastasia, while also understanding how much courage it must have taken her to go against her mother. She also likely figured that Drizella was in the same position as Anastasia, even if she didn't show it or realize it. Finally, after Anastasia defied her mother in such a way, keeping an eye on them in general might have been necessary to ensure that she didn't mistreat Anastasia.

So, as generous as she is, Cinderella likely put aside her step-family's awful treatment of her to help her step-sisters (and to also likely keep an eye on her step-mother too).

This is further supported by the fact that, in "An Uncommon Romance", Anastasia has a music box with a couple that looks like the Prince and Cinderella. I doubt Lady Tremaine, as vindictive, malicious, and jealous as she is, would have let her have that -- unless she was now living under Cinderella's power.

Lady Tremaine even mentions them going to Cinderella's Ball. Yet another thing I doubt she would have let her daughters go to -- unless snubbing Cinderella that way would be pointedly "not good" for her.

Yet another point was how, when Lady Tremaine finds Anastasia and the Baker together, while berating her and also manipulating her by saying that she only has her best interests at heart, she says nothing more when Anastasia declares that she is going to Cinderella's ball together with the Baker. No declarations of disowning her. No further manipulations or arguments or forbiddances. Like mentioning Cinderella's name and her ball left her with no option but to stalk away while just ordering Drizella to come with her. Like the only thing she could do now was to assert control over the one remaining daughter she still could control.

Very different from the woman in "A Twist in Time" who spelled the Prince's memories when he recognized that Anastasia was not the girl he had danced with at the ball.

Very different from the woman who sent spells right and left when Anastasia refused to marry the Prince in the end.

Rather, she held back probably because she knew she would land in hot water if she tried anything. Something was likely holding her in check: The fact that she was basically under probation and lucky to roam free now after attempting treason and murder in Cinderella 3.

Anastasia's reaction is also telling: She is cowed and sad as her mother and Drizella berate her. But the moment her mother says, in a seemingly kind way, that she only has her best interests at heart, it's like a switch flips in Anastasia. And that's when she declares she's wrong and that she IS going to go with the Baker whether she likes it or not.

It wouldn't be surprising if Anastasia heard her having "her best interests at heart" and remembered how her mother had tried to turn the wand on her when she had not married the Prince and instead said that she wanted someone to love her for herself.

And that, in fact, it was Cinderella who had stood up for her to protect her, and the Prince who had deflected the spell to protect Cinderella.

And finally, at the end of "A Twist in Time", the credits scene almost immediately shows the Baker meeting Anastasia. Which we know happens in "An Uncommon Romance". So "An Uncommon Romance" likely happens after the events of "A Twist in Time".

[ On another note, it really is more poignant when Anastasia tells Cinderella at the end of An Uncommon Romance, "Oh, thank you, thank you! I never dreamed I could be this happy!" and hugs her half-sobbing. Because, in A Twist in Time, she tells Cinderella, "I want what you had," and then, at the end, desperately tells her mother, "I want someone who loves me for me." And Anastasia gets that here. :) ]