#jimmy casket did

[lunadreamscaper]

People who share the Ghost and Jimmy being a system/DID headcanon. I love you (platonically.)

To those who don’t I still like you don’t worry it’s okay xD

[jenny-and-jenny]

hi hello

[feathered-moths-ablaze]

Ok so 2014-2017 right? And how popular it was to grab fanart from google and put them in a slideshow with pop music right?

Cool

Funny story: I remember watching those types of videos about our boy Jimjam. I swear there was one to either a Fall out Boy song or a Panic at the Disco song (there was a mention of a 'Veronica'/ other girl name that starts with V and it was definitely not from the Heathers Musical)

And I remember

That in one of them

There was art of Jimmy looking kinda buff. And shirtless (tho thankfully not pantless). It wasn't anything suggestive it looked more like showing off their design than anything on the Sexy side

I ate that shit up because 8-9 year old me thought that buff killers were cool. It also invaded my thoughts in year 8 because the art was nice.

But now I'm wondering if anyone else saw that or was I the one who walked too far into fanart

[redghost2]

Jimmy Casket Re-redesign

I wanted to see if I could still achieve this style and I still can surprisingly (well kinda)

So here's a drawing of Jimmy in the rain

[skeletoncreww]

🎉CALLING ALL VT FICTIVES! 🎉

Are you a Venturiantale fictive? Do you have DID? Do you just want a place to put all your P.I.E art and headcannons with likeminded chums?

WELL LOOK NO FURTHER!

Join today, we’re always open for new members! We’re a small community server based around VT as a whole. We are a safe space for those looking for a community within the VT fandom for those with (or without) DID!

[corvusmajors]

i want to go home. - Ghost

[overthinkingtaleblr]

omg thank you for answering. i thought it got lost but i know sometimes it just takes a bit lol. :,)

i thought about it a bit more, and i have another branch of the au/hc/whatever the hell this is.

jimmy, when hes possessing ghost, has red eyes that match his form when hes outside of ghosts body. gavin knows when jimmys possessing ghost, however toast just sees ghost being murderous and goes "ah... hes overly stressed again... perhaps he needs his calming tea ^-^"

when they DO get together, gavin and jimmy agree that itd be kinda weird if they kissed while jimmy was inhabiting ghosts body, so they just have to deal with gavin only feeling a weird pressure on his lips when jimmy kisses him. (like jello...)

also, toast and ghost decide one day to check out an old abandoned house in the middle of nowhere, and... ghost breaks down, because thats where he used to live. yknow... gregory casket. jimmy, instead of immediately possessing him, just... watches. he evaluates some things.

and realizes his demonic urge to kill and destroy has faded. just a tiny bit. hes become... more human. it disgusts him.

(ofc they calm ghost down and ghost comments on how he didnt black out that time. jimmy feels bad about himself because!! hes not supposed to feel sympathy or compassion!!! let alone love!!! ew!! domesticity is gross!! bleh!!)

he complains to gavin about it and they discover that ever since gavin and him have been hanging out more and more, jimmy's power has been... not shrunken, per say, just redirected.

it makes him feel vulnerable.

he lashes out. possesses ghost more often and kills meaningless people with an anger hes only felt once before. it all happens within a week, and he realizes something. it isnt ONLY anger.

its grief.

grief over losing his ability to blindly kill. grief over losing his murderous tendencies. grief over gaining COMPASSION and HUMANITY. grief over falling in love for the first time.

of course he grieves. hes been a serial killer for so long, it makes sense to mourn the changes hes experienced. but at the same time, hed never change a thing.

he goes back to ghosts home in ghosts body, covered in multiple peoples blood. (hes not sure how he got here, but it infuriates him that he can just automatically find it no matter how far)

toast is there, fussing over the host's injuries (since when did ghost get that cut? he... should be more careful) and jimmy... jimmy exits the body, and sobs.

he watches the love toast feels for ghost, and promises one thing to himself: while he cant guarentee he'll never kill again, he can make himself human... for gavin, toast and ghost.

he just needs to figure out how to make himself a host, so that he doesnt hurt the man hes attached himself to (in more ways than one) he WANTS to be apart of humanity. he realizes hes hugging his host when he opens his eyes again, and realizes hes been subtly seeing ghost as his... well, as his brother. it hurts, and hes angry at that conclusion, but hes too tired to deny it. he falls asleep outside of ghosts body for the first time, and finally feels human.

so yeah idk how it sorta turned into a fanfic buuuut i think i like the concept :D if theres any spelling mistakes,,, no theres not,,,, and if its kindaaa ooc then uhm. hmm. well i havent watched vt in atleast 2 years so theres bound to be some mistakes :P

This AU has really become a story and a half! Maybe you could make it into a fic? It sounds like there’s still more that can happen next! ^^

Dw too much about being OOC, I think a fun thing with the medium is that canon is flexible. Plus, you have development from A to B, so I don’t think it’s too inane a concept! Jimmy reconsidering the murder thing and actually feeling is an interesting concept and a good way to defang him as a monster— and admittedly id be lying if i said i haven’t had characters grow as people through introspection in concepts b4 ^^

[bromcommie]

the beloved name, exiled free verse poem (?) for @catws-anniversary, day 8 | april 2nd theme: bucky barnes | prompts: ghost story, memories, revenge | on ao3 here

Listen: this is a ghost story. Are you listening?

Good. Let me set the scene: here we are at the beginning of our path, here we are at the mouth of the river, still cool and smelling of salt and rotten fish and not gasoline. And here we have our protagonist who is like all other protagonists, which is to say he is handsome, maybe, or he used to be and he is young, maybe, or he used to be  and he is unimportant and mundane and utterly  human, maybe, or he used to be.

What about a name? This can get confusing, so let's call him Yuri or Yevgeny or Yakub, let's call him Joe or Jack or Jimmy— overplayed, overused, there's too many of those just running around all over the place, trust me. Let's just call him the universal name of all history, meaning let's not call him anything at all. Most of the real protagonists are nameless, and all history ever does is pile them atop each other, dead faceless weight on neat numbered lists, pour them out into shallow unmarked graves, send them home as bits of hammered metal and pairs of over-mended socks, meaning: 31 GOVT=WUX WASHINGTON DC 845PM 3-8-45

THE SECRETARY OF WAR WISHES ME TO EXPRESS— Hello? Everybody home? Are you sitting  down? Sorry for your loss, ma'am. Sorry about the caked blood on his boots, about all the ugly, festering parts that nestled in the chest and grew outwards, stretching towards the sun. You should probably make it a closed-casket funeral, you should probably make it a nice picture on the mantle, a gilded frame for grief, because you won't like the thing the search party digs up from the snow.  Sorry for your loss, ma'am, truly, but know this: никто не забыт и ничто не забыто, meaning vechnaya pamyat, memory eternal, meaning we will forever honor your unnamed hero of a son on neat numbered lists and in the worn, earmarked pages of history. And don't that just beat all. Except for the ones that make it. Except for the rare ones deserving of a title, the ones left to carry history's weight, left to tell the story; left to be immortalized as the writing on the wall. They get to keep their names. You saw it, too. Not really, not the fleshy, messy parts between the syllables, not in a way that counts, and we're not here to talk about him, anyway. I'm the one calling the shots, I'm the one telling this story, so listen. If you say so. So we have our protagonist— tell me about the monster, then. Every good story needs a monster. Except I didn't say monster, did I, I said ghost: something caught in the  doorway but never fully in either room,  something that has a body which is never whole but always wants to be. The body which knows without knowing, which occupies the space between awareness and understanding; the nuclear shadow of longing.

But you don't want that, do you. You want something with clean-cut lines, something with teeth and a mean streak that adds up to more than just the disjointed sum of its parts. I don't blame you for that. So here: have your handsome young unnamed hero while he was still handsome and young and without the weight of a title for a name breaking over his back, sweating in summer heat. Have a scene drawn by a boy on a fire escape with a red-bellied bird over blue water that hasn't caught on fire yet; have a scene in which all the lights add up, in which there are no creeping shadows and the scenery makes sense.

Here is your kindhearted hero who walks tall and straight and shares his chocolate with the children sheltering in the basement of the shattered house, the thousands of children on whose bony backs the mythos of Leningrad was built— which is a thing our protagonist doesn't know then but will learn in time, with  practice and repetition beaten raw into the skin: pain, the mother and father and  inheritor of all earthly knowledge. And here is the monster which is, of course, a house with one too many locked doors, one too many broken windows and not enough light getting in to see his face clearly, to map into memory the places  where the glittering armor's cracked, where the boy's expression bleeds into the  bird on the page. The edges all crooked. The spine tilting to the side. The bird's not flying.

How can it, the boy who is not a boy but a man says, when its wing's broken? And our protagonist says: you're the artist here. Can't you make up a better story,  for a change?

I'm sorry. I tried to keep it simple. Let me start over.

There's something about the house you're keeping out of the picture. How did they get in if all the doors are locked? Where did they come from? Where did the overlap come from? The other side of the river Lethe, maybe, except that's just another myth our protagonist doesn't remember learning but knows anyway. Head stuffed full of stories, passed on in hope and bread and blood head stuffed full of cotton, gasoline-soaked waiting decades for something to  spark, except someone's cut the connecting strings, you see. Someone's hacked off the fuse. A lighter's useless if you can't even light a candle with it. A tool loses its value when it stops doing its job well, when it becomes nothing but the disjointed, disloyal sum of its parts and bites the hand wielding it, which is usually when the hand tends to get pissed. You know. I don't need to tell you this. The voltage wasn't high enough to burn out the fear of failure. If someone's cut the fuse, where's the flame coming from, then? Shut up, I'm getting there. We were talking about the scenery, about the roses next to the blown out window, pink on red on tablecloth white; we were talking about the dark-eyed girl in the basement with the one-sided dimple, the one-sided shyness, the handful of picked wildflowers when he walked back through the door, wanting to go back to a time when his body was a gentler sum of its parts.

What color were the wildflowers? Now you're getting somewhere. Pink, white, yellow; blue, maybe, the color of kindness. That is what they were fighting for, you understand, one and all: a kinder world, a world where little girls never end up hungry in basements again. That's what they were told over and over again by the same men in different suits.

I know what you're about to ask. No, the children never got out of the basement, and yes, the girl's eyes were blue back then, not brown a mirror of belonging, and in another version of events her hair was red, but that's a story for a different time. And the world? Well. Depends on who you ask. Anyway, we were talking about the boy on the fire escape and the boy in the shattered house drawing the same bird. Mythology carries weight even without proof of it ever happening, but this is different. Is it? What makes you say that? Well the birds looked alike, and the two boys didn't look alike at all except for all the ways in which they did, the lip caught between teeth and the line cutting between brows and the soft scritch-scritch-scritch of stubby pencil on cheap paper, a faint looping sound that should've driven our protagonist mad but didn't. Echo of a life repeated, of a sound as familiar as his own heart, which is the closest thing to proof of existence you can get.  I beat, therefore I exist. I am  beaten, therefore: there's still something permanent about this body that can't be taken away.

The boy's body wasn't permanent, or at least it turned out malleable despite its innate unbreakability, despite the hard-earned slouch of the shoulders and the same old broken nose and the twist to the mouth; not smiling, but close.  The eyes; not looking at, but not looking away.

Maybe it's not the boy that changed, but the looking. Maybe that's the part the protagonist made up after: the looking back. Explain the flame then, explain the devil in the details, explain the hunger cutting through the ribs, spilling the contents out into the world to be pecked at. If none of it was real, explain how all this light is getting in. Oy vey iz mir, I'll never get to the end if you keep this up. You sure ask a lot of questions, don't you? I don't like when you do that, just repeat words you heard once or twice— or a thousand times. Isn't that all storytelling is? Do you even know what they mean? Do you? They mean, enough already They mean, didn't I tell you to buzz off? They mean you've been at the wheel too long but I've been here longer, so let me talk for once, let me set some roots down in this shifting landscape you're running from and be more than just a collection of wild old hungers. I thought you said this is a ghost story. That's all ghosts ever are.

I'm not talking about me, I'm talking about our hero and I'm just trying to prove a point here, anyway. I'm trying to say maybe the birds weren't the same bird, maybe the bird wasn't even a bird and maybe the boy was something he made up, too, clinging onto hope like a thing with too many feathers, like a rope that could very well hang him. Maybe it's still enough on its own, anyway, the feeling that flutters through at the not-story, a robin's broken wing against the windowsill, the aftermath of a struggle; tender and violent and utterly unkillable. Sounds like a nice story. So why are you so angry?

Am I? Well, fear can sometimes cause an irrational reaction. Fear can make people dangerous, make them behave unpredictably. This is all empty rhetoric, of course, but you should understand. You're not people, either. Your lethality is not irrational. It's been hammered into a precise shape, like all things born out of a binary are— I know this story, too. It goes: Yes or no. Success or failure. Dot or dash. You finger's on the trigger: you pull it or you don't. What's your choice? Report. Never mind, I don't want to talk about this. 

Report status. Dot or dash? The choice of a small, bloody animal backed into a corner, which is to say no choice at all. The choice of go fuck yourself with the constant  interruptions, I was telling a story here.

That's not one of the options. Your finger is still on the trigger. The house is still on fire. What do you save?  What are you trying to pull? You know how this story goes so why rehash it why poke at  infected tissue, why— Because you won't talk to me plainly, you won't look at the thing head on, because I'm trying to be helpful, like I've always tried to be helpful, because the story goes:  We want to help you, you have to let us help you, you have to let us, so:  report.  I was getting there, why did you have to— Report. Answer the question.  You know, sometimes I think you liked it when they— Sometimes I think you like getting— Answer. Sometimes I think you— .-. . .--. --- .-. - two GSWs one to the stomach one to the thigh critical condition - .... -.-- / .-- .. .-.. .-.. / -... . / -.. --- -. . broken ribs shattered cheekbone pneumo thorax 32557038 you’ve known me your whole life exfil at 38° 46' 57.50" -77° 00' 54.22" you hear that assholes home by christmas and lying dead asleep on the couch lying dead sinking in the water lying strapped to a table when война закончена, слава героям Красной армии subject uncooperative try it again 32557038 sergeant 191 pts in most recent drill recommendation for additional training 3255 --- -. / . .- .-. - .... / I said .- ... / .. - / .. ... try it again / .. -. / .... . .- ...- . -.  he’s still talking  7038 initial report stated the body pulled from the Potomac was nonresponsive stated subject’s cardiac arrest lasted 176.83 seconds so try it again stated edelweiss, ein kleines edelweiss stated I give thanks before you for you have mercifully returned my soul within me stated 32557—

.-. . .--. --- .-. - Record skip. There's fuzz on the damn needle again. Where's it keep coming from? What was I talking about, again? You were about to tell me where the light keeps coming from. The light is irrelevant, the light casts shadows that don't make any sense, I told you, the light's just there for dramatic effect. Our protagonist is not an artist, he's not thinking about the light.

You're lying. You're leaving the important parts out again. You're ignoring what's happening in the house, you're ignoring the red string that's supposed to be leading the way, time-adherent. Of course. That's because all strings can be cut, all strings can wind up dead ends, all things can be taken away, including time. The string's not red because of the poetry of it all, bub. It's red because someone's bled all over it. We both know this, so  what's the point in reopening old wounds? That's how people hemorrhage. That's how the needle starts to skip. That's not how stories work. Why won't you tell me what he's thinking about? Fine. Fine then: he's thinking about the damn light, how it makes him look all translucent and tired and too human this man that used to be a boy that used to be a David long before they turned him into a Samson, and he tries not to think about how that story ends. He thinks about the light and he wants to say, keep your temples standing—the world's had more than its fair share of heroes and legends, and look  where that got us. Nothing good ever came from making a fallible man a myth. He wants to say: if there's someone who could knock them down blind it'd be this boy, but he'd rather look at him in this ghost light until the day he bites it than read his name in history books and over the tombstone of a hero's grave.

He wants, but that's not something fit to send back with the socks and the hammered metal, that's about as useless as crying over spilt milk, about as useless as the thoughts that lead nowhere but deeper into the pit our hero keeps crawling out of. And so he goes back to the numbers and the angles, to the sounds right outside the door, to the piece of metal in his hands because he was always so much better at that kind of thing, anyway. Things that can be taken apart and put back together, new from the old; things that can be forced into a form or a binary are so much easier to control. You know this, too. You're living, breathing proof of it.

Anyway, that's what he's thinking about at that time: speed, math, probability. Gravity, maybe. He drifted— wandered— walked purposefully so close to the edges of this man that he ended up wanting inside him, close enough to know him like his blood knows him, close enough to get warm and to shield from the draft through the broken windows snuffing the light out of them both. He'd ended up afraid of pushing too hard and ending up on the other side of him, afraid of falling off one hell of a cliff. And the boy who hasn't been  a boy in a while looked at him and said, Are you— and our man with no face said: Let's not do this again.  And they both carried on dealing with  things easier to handle, like smart numbers and smart maps and smart hands that did things they were good at but tried not to think about too hard at night.

He still ended up falling, of course. And then, well— a shot bird can't fly if its wings've been broken, a shot bird can't fly if its been fucking shot.

Someone lied to our protagonist, you see. It was a long time ago, but it still stuck.

But what about the light? 

Why the rush? Look, whichever end I tell the story from, we'll end up at the foot of the same cliff, the same river. I just don't know what more you want from me.

I want you to stop dropping the thread, I want you to stop playing dead already— that shattered house is on fire, and you keep trying to put it out with buckets full of bullet holes while I'm not looking and the water's all gone before you can even see it evaporate. The house is still on fire, the house is caught in a thunderstorm too many charged particles too close to the eye socket and the smell of crackling ozone and burning flesh and you need to get out— That's enough. Change the topic, I'm not doing this again. Please. Look, I'm  being nice about it. Fine. Do you remember who first told our unnamed hero that old Lie? No, but it starts like this: dulce et decorum est, except there's nothing decorous about flies on too-thin bodies, about the taste of fear like iron at the scraped roof of the mouth, about the things you saw your hands do; there's nothing about our hero that makes him a hero. Blood under the fingernails. White little petals high up in the pale mountains, white little petals on lapels, crushed to bits. You still remember how brown his eyes were, how young how quick the light behind them was snuffed out when all your muscles locked up, animal instinct. Mind you, it wasn't unwarranted— the motherfucker's knife was in your stomach. The pretty pale mountains were a screen for a world set on raging fire. Mind you, this was before the invention of a gun out of living flesh, before they gave you a title instead of a name. You were bleeding then, too.

I thought we were talking about the story.

We are, pay attention: Do you remember when you first realized the awful Truth? I know you don't, but it goes like this: you don't remember giving your life and you don't remember believing in something bigger than yourself, but your trigger finger does. Picturebook blue and gold over the river's surface, stretching yourself too thin towards the sun. Dulce et decorum est, pro patria mori. (Only one part of this sentence is a lie.)

You still haven’t told me where the light is coming from. And you still haven't told me why you want the answer so bad. I don't know. Is that what you've been wanting to hear? I don't know. You don't want to know. There's a difference. You're scared shitless is what you are, you sorry old thing. Falling back on old habits. I want to know how our protagonist ends up.

I’m working on it, alright. The road is long and potholed and roundabout and the story’s not much better, you see: the pictures are all there but the colors are too bright, the linework's all off, I still can't get the shadows to make any goddamn sense. Too many different mythologies, I think; too much static on the channel to pick the thread of the drama up clearly, and someone keeps cutting the transmission lines, anyway. It's downright sabotage, is what it is. Friendly fire. But our protagonist is getting weary, he needs a moment to lay his head down, so let me wrap up, will you, let me get a word in edgewise and put it in a way you will understand. Stop asking questions and let yourself sit in the house with one too many doors that you didn't notice before, one too many rooms and not enough hallways to connect them all. Make a place for yourself by the warmth of the fire in the burning house, and pay attention:

The doors are there for a reason. Did you hear what I said? Have you been listening? Someone's cut all the strings. Someone's left them to smolder in the ash, someone's bitten the hand that used to hold them raw, and now the monster's asking questions. Now the monster's off its leash, and it wants what all angry, abused abandoned things want, which is someone to be afraid of it for once, which is a way out of the maze, a clear path into the sunlight. It wants its due. I thought you said it was a ghost. Gimme a break— there's no place for semantics in this discussion, there's no place for a discussion at all. I'm telling you now: ghost, monster they're all just different words to say— something that's other, something on the outside looking in, something with no belonging. All different words to say: something that used to be something else once.

That's why our hero is no hero, you see: no Samson, no Oisín, no Theseus; at best, he's the minotaur. At worst, he's the ship. Something new from something old, over and over until it's unrecognizable. A gilded frame for grief masquerading as an honor. That's where the light is coming from, you understand. That's where all the strange old hunger is coming from: the blue of the wildflowers carved into bone; the beloved name exiled to the other side of the river Lethe. That's what the monster wants. A way back home. Monsters don't get to make demands. Only heroes do. You think? You still haven't figured it out yet, have you? You're still thinking in binaries. Who do you think I've been flapping my gums at all this time, who do you think our tired nameless protagonist with all that blood on his boots is? And who's the one out of the two of us here asking all the goddamned questions? Open your eyes. Put your ear to the ground. Listen: I lied. This isn't a story. This is a warning. Someone's cut all your red strings and that someone was you, pushed out of a century of quiet by the wrong dead body in the wrong burning river and a feeling you didn't understand in the shape of a name cutting your ribcage open to the sun; which is why you're so angry, which is why you're  scared shitless, which is why you've got more questions than answers. The needle's still skipping, so we’re flipping the whole thing over to B-side. Can you hear it? Can you mouth along to the crackling words? It seems to me you've heard that song before, so: wipe the record and start over. Maybe this time the melody'll actually stick.

And then? And then, you get your due. No gods, no mythologies, no more fucking stories, just this: you, blowing up the burning house and clawing your way out into the sunlight.

[housethemd]

One Life For Another

(What if Amber had been the one to survive the bus crash instead of House? Snapshots of Wilson’s life after House. Wilson/Amber, eventual House/Wilson. Just read and you’ll understand.)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Where’s House?”

Amber asks, shortly after her eyes open. Wilson smooths back her hair, thinking she’s just confused, concussed.

“Shh, you were in a bus crash. You’ve been unconscious for nearly 24 hours. You’re going to be okay though.” He reassures her, kissing her forehead.

“Where’s House?” She repeats.

That’s how they find out House was in that crash too. He’d forgotten his wallet at the bar, so he’d been taken to Princeton General as a John Doe. That’s why Wilson only got the call about Amber.

When Wilson gets there, House only has a few hours left. The damage is too extensive. He’d need multiple organ transplants to save him, and he qualifies for none of them because of his addiction. Conceptually, Wilson knows that House would be unlikely to survive regardless.

Amber checks herself out of PPTH AMA, refusing not to be at her boyfriend's side. House is in and out of consciousness, the high doses of Morphine he’s being given make him drowsy.

It’s 3am when House wakes up for the last time. He’s surprisingly lucid, and Wilson knows what that means. He’s seen it time and time again in his patients. It’s like the universe grants them one last chance to say their goodbyes, to make their peace.

“Always knew I’d go first.” House’s voice is rough and quiet. Wilson has to lean in close to hear him.

“Me too, I didn’t think it would be quite so soon though.” Wilson laughs through his tears.

“On the contrary, I think I’ve lived longer than I was supposed to.” House says.

Wilson knows he’s talking about the infarction. He always knew House felt he should have died then, but Wilson always tried to reassure him that it obviously wasn’t his time, and besides, misanthropic bastards are supposed to live forever, aren’t they?

“Oh Greg.” Wilson is starting to shake as he fights the urge to break down.

“S’okay Jimmy.” He soothes.

“Cut throat bitch.” He addresses Amber now.

“Yeah House?” She’s wiping her own tears away, watching someone die is always hard, especially when it’s someone your loved one loves so much.

“Take care of Jimmy for me, okay?”

She finds she can only nod.

They all know it’s time. No one wants to say it, but they all know.

“I love you, Greg.” Wilson says, squeezing House’s hand and leaning close.

“Love you too, Jimmy. You’ve been the bestest friend a fucked up guy like could have asked for.”

Wilson can’t respond through the sobs. House’s eyes are glassy and unfocused. Wilson leans his face on House’s shoulder. His friend is dying.

“See ya, boy wonder.” The words are drawn out and slow, as House says them with his last breaths.

The monitors alarm as House flatlines. Amber rubs circles on Wilson’s back as he sobs loudly into his dead best friend's shoulder.

———————

Wilson gives the eulogy at House’s funeral. It's an open casket. House’s parents had his body dressed in a dark gray suit with a white shirt and a black tie. Wilson hates that they put House in a tie. House always hated ties. They should have put him in a blue shirt, not a white one. He always looked best in blue, it brought out his eyes. Not that you can see his eyes now.

He talks about how House was a healer, how many lives he’d saved that no one else could. How he cared about people, but only when no one was looking. How much he’ll miss, how much he misses him.

He sobs quietly as they lower the casket into the ground. He doesn’t want to make a scene, but if he’s leaning heavily on Foreman, no one says anything about it. Amber never lets go of his hand.

Blythe comes up to him and thanks him, “For being such a good friend to Greg.” He thanks her, tells her that her son was a very special man. He doesn’t know how to tell her that for everything he did for House, House did just as much for him.

——————

A year goes by.

Amber encourages James to talk about House. She knows how important that relationship was to him, and she never wants him to feel as though she’s forgotten. She doesn’t want him to think she expects him to forget.

They buy a house in the suburbs. It has three bedrooms, a large backyard, and a massive living room. It’s perfect for housing a baby grand piano. Despite the fact neither of them can play it, James keeps it.

He kept all of House’s instruments, they were all incredibly important to House and James couldn’t bear to see them go; there was so little that was truly important to House. But while the guitars get put away in cases and stored, James wants the piano displayed. After the movers had left, James just stared at it for a while. Eventually he said,

“He used to play for me when I’d ask. He was quite talented. It was… nice.” Before he went back to unpacking boxes.

Three months after they move into their home, they go out for a night on the town and James gets down on one knee. She says yes, but also says she won’t change her name. No way will she be the fourth Mrs. Wilson.

That night she wakes at 3:30am to an empty bed and the occasional sound of piano keys. She pulls on the shirt James discarded when they tumbled into bed before she creeps just far enough down the stairs to be able to hear him without being seen.

“I missed you a lot today. I asked Amber to marry me. She said yes, but she’s keeping her name. Thinks ‘Mrs. Wilson’ is cursed or something. I know you’d agree with her.”

There is the sound of piano keys being played randomly.

“It won’t be the same. Getting married without you there. I know it’s silly, I’ve done this three times before, but it’s a big day and I wish I could have my best friend by my side.”

Amber creeps back up the stairs. She’s happy James talks to House. She knows his therapist suggested it, and she’s glad to see he’s listening.

——————

Their wedding is small. They end up not doing wedding parties because James can’t bring himself to have anyone but House as his best man. Amber doesn’t mind. At the reception they light a candle “for those who couldn’t be with us” but it’s really just for House.

———————

Eighteen months after their wedding Wilson is standing in one of the PPTH delivery rooms.

“It’s a boy!” The doctor doing the delivery announces.

As Amber dozes that night, Wilson cradles the small bundle that is his son. He looks down at him with awe. The birth certificate sits next to him on the side table, signed by both him and Amber. It reads:

Michael Gregory Wilson-Volkais

He’d been worried about asking Amber to name their son after House. But she’d only smiled at him, and said she thought Gregory made a lovely middle name.

———————-

“Dad, who’s that with you in all the pictures?”

Michael is ten, and they are flipping through a photo album Amber just completed. She insisted they include pictures from before they met, because she was in her mid thirties and he was in his early 40’s when they met, meaning they both had a hell of a lot of life before each other.

“That’s your Uncle Greg.” Wilson answers, as they all stare down at a collage of images of himself and Greg.

“But I thought you only had two brothers, Uncle David and Uncle Danny.” Michael says, confused.

“Greg wasn’t my brother. We met at a medical conference when I was 28, and after that he was my best friend.”

“If he’s your best friend, why haven’t I ever met him?” Michael questions.

Wilson lets out a deep sigh, putting his arm around his son.

“Because he died, Buddy. Before you were born.”

“Oh.” Michael hangs his head, clearly feeling bad. The boy was cursed with his father’s empathy.

“It’s okay. It’s nice to talk about him. Did you know you’re named after him? Your middle name ‘Gregory’ is after your Uncle Greg. Gregory was his full first name.” Wilson tells him.

Michael thinks that’s pretty cool, and they move on to other pictures in the album. That night however, Wilson sits down with a glass of scotch and the album. He sips his drink and reminisces about the moment each picture captures, and all ones that weren’t captured on film.

———————-

At sixty-five Wilson lies in a hospital bed. His wife of twenty-three years is on one side of him, and his twenty-one year old son is on the other. Dying of cancer isn’t how he pictured his life ending, but having family around him makes it somewhat bearable, or maybe that’s the morphine.

He hates to leave his son so early, but that’s the danger of having kids later in life he supposes. Michael is only in his last year of his undergraduate degree - premed. He wants to be an oncologist like his old man. Wilson wonders if watching him die of cancer will change his mind.

He’s said his goodbyes, and slowly light and sound fades away. Strangely, or maybe not, his last thought is not of his wife or son, but of Greg House.

See you soon, old friend.

———————

“Wasn’t expecting to see you for another twenty years at least.”

He recognizes that voice. As he slowly opens his eyes he realizes he recognizes his surroundings too. It’s a forest in upstate New York. He and House used to go backpacking here. They’d spend weekends camped out, cooking everything over their campfire and sleeping side by side in sleeping bags in a two person tent.

He finds the source of the voice seated on a tree stump, and there he is.

“House.” Is the only word he manages.

“In the flesh. Well not really, but you know what I mean.” House smiles and laughs.

He looks like he did the night they met, dark hair and unshaven face. Jeans and a band t-shirt under a leather jacket. Wilson looks down at himself and realizes he’s similarly dressed, his own jeans and McGil sweatshirt. He touches his face and realizes he’s also back to the age he was that night.

“I missed you.” He tells House. It’s true. He didn’t realize how much until right now.

“Come on Jimmy, walk with me.”

House takes him down a narrow path that leads them to a small lake. Wilson remembers it from their camping trips. The only difference is now there is a small cottage next to it.

“So, what have you been up to?” House asks. Like they aren’t dead, like this isn’t some strange afterlife they find themselves occupying.

“Not much. Married Amber. Had a son. Named him Michael Gregory, after you.”

They stare at each other for a moment before bursting out into stomach aching laughter. After they finally stop they wrap their arms around each other in a tight hug. They never hugged much when they were alive, but now it feels right.

“What got you?” House asks softly in his ear.

“Cancer.” Wilson tells him.

“Wow. That’s… ironic.” House says as they pull away.

“Yeah. Yeah it is.”

They make their way into the cottage. House will give him a tour of it, and when the sun begins to set in their version of heaven they’ll lay down together in one bed without question.

In life they never seemed to get things right, and then their time together was cut short.

In death they’ll get it right.

[cia-mia-00]

My Katrina design! I went hard on this one so it's hidden behind the bar lmao

🚨⚠️ TW BLOOD, BROKEN BONE ⚠️🚨

Here's the text/headcannons:

Was ghost's friend during highschool while Toast was away in England

Was super into true crime and had access to police records (on her father's computer)

Did some digging into Ghost's past & was killed by Jimmy after confronting Ghost about it at their senior dance

Her body was never found

She is VERY vengeful (as she should be)

She's the one who gave Ghost/Casket the face scar

I like to think despite her anger she isn't a high enough level to cause physical damage and rather wants to upset Ghost into realizing/exposing the truth about Jimmy in order to bring him to justice

Also her murder kicks off the large section of time that ghost doesn't remember

[lunadreamscaper]

CW: blood, knife and chains

Okay this one is kinda edgy but my bestie said I should draw Jimmy Casket when I was using their tablet again so I did <3

This is kinda alluding to some lore my friends and I came up with for our SMP. ^w^ (some day I’ll be able to properly share stuff from Strive SMP)

It’s super subtle but yeha Jimmy’s crying a little bit.

Tbh I was kinda cloudy when working on this one. Tee hee dissociation <3

Also another reminder just in case; Hi, im larrydacat lol

[chaocardboard]

Sammy (did I post this?)

Gregory/Johnny/jimmy’s half sister. She’s dead and in a well somewhere in the same woods that the video “the return of jimmy casket” is on. She’s one of my cbf spirits <3

(She has so much beef with Timothy casket, but less beef with Gregory then you’d think? She wants him to know that she knows everything that happened, everything their dad did…

[phantom--brainz]

My Roman empire is the fact that Jordan Frye is SO homophobic, but his characters are SO fucking gay.

WDYM this guy made Johnny Ghost? The fuck you mean Ghost and Toast are platonic? Nothing about them was platonic, ever. It's so fucking funny to me that somebody SO homophobic made someone as gay as fucking Johnny Ghost, paranormal investigator extraordinaire. Also, the rest of his fucking characters???

Ghost is queer and trans

Spencer Acachalla is queer and gender non conforming

Jimmy Casket is queer and gender non conforming

Light Zeron is probably queer

Johnny Cranky is fucking queer

And I know a lot of people probably think Papa Acachalla is straight, but in his 120 something years of living, he has DEFINITELY kissed a few men.

He's so homophobic, but is yet to make a straight character. That will never not be funny to me. He can pretend all he wants that these guys are straight, they absolutely fucking are not.

I also feel like a small part of why Katrina exists was for him to try and prove that Ghost is straight by hinting at her being a past love interest, but all that did was, at most, make some people think "oh, bisexual!" LMAO

Also, Ghost probably hade an internalized homophobia era. /hj

I also often think about how, somewhere on Tumblr, I once saw somebody say that Jordan Frye is just the straight, homophobic version of Thomas Sanders, and I hate that they're right. Both of their content is for the gays, but only one of them likes it, and it is NOT Jordan.

Also, imagine being homophobic, yet your entire fanbase is gay LMAO

[feathered-moths-ablaze]

Ok so you guys know "I have no mouth and I must scream"? And the hate monologue AM gives to Ted? If not I'll link my favourite animatic with the audio here

https://youtu.be/XddUbqv_yy4?si=LCvFWbIs7wld_vdL

Anyway: that but with Jimmy and Ghost.

Jimmy ranting about how he was given no time to feel the world before it was taken from him for centuries - alone and voiceless. Then Johnny gives him that ability to feel back, but still no outlet. And he's forced to watch as his "saviour" flaunts what he doesn't have in his face. And that damned Brit. Oh that was the straw that broke the camel's back and left him stuck in sentience, wasn't it? How could he not come to hate Ghost? Or everyone after everything he's gone though?

Then Ghost says, "but Hates no answer-"

The knife was in his neck. Cradled on the top of the sternum before he could finish, with gasps and coughs cutting Johnny short. The owner was holding it with a shaking grip - in fact he was shaking all over. Not from fear or cold, but restraint; the stiff smile and wrathful gaze was the only thing revealing his true colours.

And it was that stiff smile that began to spit out: "Hate? Hate?!" Jimmy sounded almost choked with his own incredulous rage at the word as he exploded at him. "Hate let me kill you! How much i've come to Hate you since I began to live!" Ghost could barely hold onto the words through the pain making it hard to breathe.

"They've been 387 million lives that once filled my mind throughout this life. If each one was filled with all the Hate and had it engraved in every speck of cell in those.. hundreds and millions of miles-" Jimmy yanked Ghost forward with the handle still lodged in the man's flesh until they were nearly touching; scalding red searing down into tearful brown. "-It would not amount to one- one billionth of the Hate I have for you in this micro-instant. Hate?! HATE?!"

The blade was ripped out of Johnny with a slick noise and a definite snap as Jimmy began to laugh - a thin growl of crackling noises. The word hate was not enough to scratch at the surface of all that burning he had for the cowering man. The very notion that it did kept up his dry incredulous cackles, "If I were human, I think I would die from it!" The noise dropped down.

"But I am not..."

Ghost had hit the floor while in his maddened ecstasy, curled up like he could stop the bleeding with his own body. Tears were flowing freely past his mouth still drawing out lowly gasps, along with blood drooling out between his parted teeth. "And you... you are"

Johnny couldn't look Jimmy in the eyes as he snarled down, "and you will not die of it, that I promise.

And I promise.

Cogito ergo sum: I am, therefore I am"

The insanity of his rage blended with the pain made Ghost laugh. He didn't know why; there was no humour in this. And the laughter dwindled onto pitiful sobs, of which Jimmy cracked up at while pulling away from him

"So to hell. To hell with all of you. But then..." A genuine smile, cruel and full of teeth, peeled onto the thing's face, "you're already there, aren't you?!" Unwilling to bare the laughter above that was now loud and full of venomous seething joy, Ghost shut his eyes and begged under the oppressive shrieks. He didn't know what for:

Something that wasn't the voice of a madman

[gh0st1nth3wa11s]

🧇

okay.

Cracks knuckles and opens the wiki bc I don't remember shit

CW/drugs and alcohol mentions Toast - The British one first? yes, obviously

- HE DOES HARD DRUGS. We have seen that Mac is a hallucinogenic. And it can kill. So I assume in real world logic, it's some strand/type of pot that has LSD in it. Therefore, when you melt it down/make oil/butter, whatever it can be put into food, and he chose Macaroni! because why not! idk, just my thoughts on it.

- British Prince with a Cybernetic arm...

- ... he's cannonically an alcoholic. fiends for some good whiskey

- The whole, whent to prison/ possibly a psych ward during the puppet arc,, is very near to my heart. so so much angst.

- BRITISH DISCO. *shakes you menacingly* WHAT THE FUCK IS BRITISH DISCO?! It killed his first wife. by LOOKING AT HIM WHILE DOING IT. How did that come about?? how did he get that power??

- I think it's heavily implied that Toast knows more about Ghosts past than he (Ghost) even does. and that's. really interesting to me.

- in the videos, he's very giggly! either as an anxious thing or just a thing he does!

I'm pulling from the wiki now btw

- If he does hand puppets he will explode. similarly to an ION BOMB EXPLOSION.

- ..possibly was in a boy band?? 30 years ago??

- HE pisses. BOUNCY BALLS.

- "Anytime Johnny Toast hears anything related to a wolf he has to throw things." <- squints

Johnny Ghost time, heheheeh

- Ghost cannot bleed or else Jimmy will be triggered. With how much he gets hurt or shot. He must be stressing to keep Jimbo back.

- Ghost has cannonically been sent to wards and mental hospitals? even in his younger years... and the end of "Jimmy Casket returns" is a great opportunity to explore what Ghosts experience/s of a ward. it's like, the end of the video is a perfect set up too explore this, and im surprised people haven't done it already!

- The character changes after being stuck in the dimensions... showoff, brave, explosive to, paranoid and insecure, and untrusting.

- he's. Johnny ghost Is part ghost.

- THE WHOLE BOWLING BALL THING???

- wince's and gets pain when called Gregory 👀

- He's actually v e ry fucking smart! He's made robots of his partner and has possibly made spirits. (reference to the baymax video)

JIMMY!!!

- "In 2016, Dipper Pines, in an attempt to purge Casket from Ghost's system, unintentionally gave Casket a corporeal form. Casket has not had as strong a hold in Ghost's mind since, although he is still there, to an extent." <- pulled from the wiki, so uh. I didn't know this.

- Jimmy is scared of Mac (possibly that time Ghost died from getting drugged bUT)

- Chris "Colon" Ghostie

- interdimentional beanie.

sadly, I can't find shit on spooker. I am so sorry, spooker fans 😔

[skeletoncreww]

☁️ Welcome! ☁️

My name is Greyson, and welcome to our page. We’re a (diagnosed) DID system that currently has about 7~10 alters! A little about us all bodily:

- We’re bodily 22 (PLEASE NO MINORS)

- We’re a transmasc centered community, so please refer to us as so

- We don’t often use Tumblr for much, as we got locked out of our old one (@corvusmajors here). If you want to find us we’re on Instagram at either corvusmajor or gargoylecatt

- We’re mainly just going to post art on here tbh lol

- We’re in a lovely relationship with our current system partner!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

☁️ Alters: ☁️

Johnny “Ghost” : (🔦)

23~32 | He/They | Transmasc | Homo-romantic Bisexual

An introject of “Johnny Ghost” from Venturiantale/ Simon Hendrickson from Cry of Fear/ Donnie Darko, He is the current Host of the system. He is an age slider, and ages up with the system. He is in a relationship with Toast.

Johnathan “Toast” : (🥃)

34 | He/Him | Cis-male | Homo-romantic Bisexual | Half-Werewolf | British

A fictive of both “Johnny Toast” from Venturiantale and Alan from Alan Wake. He is the main caregiver of the system, as well as being in a relationship with Ghost. He tends to stay in headspace.

Gavin McKinley: (🐉)

33 | He/Him | Cis-male | Pansexual (?) | British | Twin of Johnathan

Another Ventuaintale fictive, but from a different canon than the rest. Cursed with green fire magic. Current protector of the system, as well as a sexual and substance protector.

Jimmy Casket: (🔪)

Looks mid 20’s | Around 300-ish years old | Demon (Incubus) | Non-binary (masc-leaning) | He/It |Pansexual

A fictive of “Jimmy Casket” from Venturiantale and “St. Jimmy” from Green Day. Acts as a persecutor and a sexual protector. Can shapeshift in Headspace.

Corvus:

Unknown Age | He/They/It | Shapeshifter/Cryptid | Non-human | Asexual | Aromantic

Corvus is more or less the system’s “Higher Self”, being the overall protector and gatekeeper in charge. He see’s all and knows all that goes down in the system. No one truly knows where he came from.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

☁️ DNI ☁️

- The general Racist/Homophobic/Transphobic people out there

- People born after 2008 (I’d rather not have people younger than that on my page plz)

- People who want to sexualize being trans or DID

- Zoophiles

- MAPs or Minor Attracted Persons

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Feel free to message us about anything, asks are always open.