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honeybeezgobzzzzz · 3 months

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Ψ M is for Maraclea: Chapter Six

M is for Maraclea: Following an accident you had over summer break, you find yourself in limbo after being legally dead for several minutes. Now an outcast at boarding school, you end up finding comfort in a strange boy named Nigel. As winter draws near and tragedy strikes, your only reprieve from madness comes from a mind much like your own.

Warnings: Murder.

To Note: Nigel Colbie x Fem!Reader, NAMED Reader for Plot Reasons, There Are A Lot of DARK Themes.

Word Count: ~2.5k

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You sit at the long wooden table, the clatter of cutlery and the low murmur of conversation blending into a constant hum that fills the dining hall. Your tray holds a bowl of oatmeal and a slice of toast, but you barely touch either. The chatter around you feels like static, distant and unimportant, as if it belongs to another world you no longer inhabit. You focus on the sensation of the cold metal spoon in your hand, letting it anchor you, its chill a small comfort that distracts you from the emptiness gnawing at your insides. The oatmeal congeals slowly, untouched, while your toast grows cold and hard, much like the emotions you keep locked away.

Whispers swirl around you like leaves caught in a windstorm. "Zombie fish girl probably did it," someone mutters, their voice tinged with cruel amusement. You don't look up; you don't need to see their faces to know they are sneering. "Who else would be weird enough to kill a bird?"

You reach into your bag and pull out a battered copy of "Wuthering Heights." The book’s spine is creased from countless readings. Flipping open to where you left off, you lose yourself in the moors of Brontë’s world. The words pull you in, offering an escape from your own thoughts and the harsh reality around you.

"Heathcliff is such a monster," someone nearby says. You glance up briefly to see a group of girls discussing the same book.

"Yeah, but I kind of get him," another replies. "It's like he's so broken that he can't help himself."

You immerse yourself deeper into your book, resonating with Heathcliff’s torment more than you'd like to admit. His rage, his despair—these emotions echo within you as if they are your own.

The whispers around you continue, ebbing and flowing like an insidious tide. Each murmur stings less than the last; they blur into a meaningless buzz. The story in your hands provides a barrier between you and them, an armor made of ink and paper.

"Mary," someone calls out suddenly. You don’t look up; instead, your eyes scan over Catherine's lamentations on love and loss.

"Hey! Mary!" The voice is closer now. A hand taps your shoulder lightly. It's one of your classmates, Emma. She was decent enough, also a victim of bullying due to her eating habits. "Are you going to finish that oatmeal? If not—"

You shake your head without meeting her eyes and push the tray toward her. Emma grabs it with a quick thanks before returning to her own group.

You return to 'Wuthering Heights' turning each page methodically. The world around fades away until it’s just you and Brontë's tortured souls on those desolate moors.

The room suddenly falls silent, an unnatural hush that draws your attention. You look up to see a nun, the headmistress, and a man in a dark suit with a stern face striding into the hall. They move with purpose, their eyes scanning the room until they lock onto you.

The headmistress stops in front of your table, her expression unreadable. "Mary," she begins, her voice cutting through the silence like a knife. "This is Senior Detective Martin McKenzie from the local police. Detective, this is Mary Forbes, Susan's roommate."

The detective gives you a curt nod, his eyes sharp and assessing. You straighten up, feeling the weight of everyone's gaze on you.

"Good morning," you say, your voice steady despite the sudden tension in the room. Your apathetic eyes meet those of the head mistress', "is there a problem ma'am?"

The headmistress sighs wearily continues, "Detective McKenzie would like to speak with you about Susan Mueller. Collect your things, this conversation is best continued within my office."

You walk through the corridors, your footsteps echoing in the silence. The headmistress leads the way, her heels clicking against the polished floor. Detective McKenzie follows closely behind you, his presence looming like a shadow. The walls seem to close in, the air growing colder with each step. Cold. That relaxes your shoulders.

The headmistress’s office is a somber room filled with heavy wooden furniture and religious icons. You’re guided to a chair in front of her massive desk. You sit down, your hands resting on your lap, fingers intertwined. The headmistress takes her seat behind the desk, while Detective McKenzie remains standing, his eyes never leaving you.

"Mary," the headmistress begins, her voice softer now but still authoritative, "Detective McKenzie has some questions for you regarding Susan Mueller."

You nod slightly, waiting for whatever comes next.

The detective steps forward, pulling out a small notepad and a pen. "Mary," he starts, his tone firm yet not unkind, "I need you to tell me what you were doing last night."

You blink, momentarily disoriented by the directness of the question. "I was at rehearsal for the play," you say plainly. "After that, I went back to my room to complete my math homework."

"And what time was that?" he presses.

"Around eight-thirty," you reply, your voice steady but devoid of emotion.

"Did you see Susan at all last night?" His eyes narrow slightly as he watches your reaction.

You shake your head slowly. "Not after rehearsal, she stayed behind to speak with Ethel about the bird incident. Susan didn’t come home last night." Your words are factual, devoid of concern or curiosity. "Rather unusual I might say, Susan is always prompt and on time."

Detective McKenzie raises an eyebrow, his gaze sharpening as it locks onto yours. "You don’t seem very concerned about your roommate," he remarks, his voice edged with suspicion. "Most people would be worried if someone they live with goes missing."

You stare back at him, unflinching. The cold detachment in your eyes speaks volumes, but you know it doesn’t answer his unspoken question. "Susan is capable of taking care of herself," you respond evenly. "She does not need me to watch her every move."

The detective's eyes narrow further. "Still, it’s odd, don’t you think? You haven’t asked where she might be or shown any sign of worry."

The headmistress clears her throat, drawing the detective's attention. Her expression softens as she looks at you before turning to the detective. "Detective McKenzie," she begins gently, "there’s something you need to understand about Mary."

You feel that longing numbness crawl up your spine, a familiar sensation that never quite leaves you.

"Mary had a very traumatic experience over the summer," the headmistress continues. "She was in a terrible accident and is still recovering mentally," the headmistress says softly. "Her emotional responses are... affected. She doesn’t process things the way most people do anymore."

You sit there quietly, letting her words wash over you like a distant echo. You know they are true; the numbness that envelops you is both a shield and a prison. But a wonderful prison to be embraced.

"She’s in a frail state," the headmistress adds, her voice full of concern and authority. "We are doing our best to support her through this difficult time."

The detective nods slowly, digesting this new information. His expression softens as he looks back at you. The harsh lines around his mouth ease slightly.

"I see," he says finally, his tone more measured now. He scribbles something in his notepad before looking up again. "Thank you for explaining that."

You meet his gaze without flinching, but the numbness remains, an unyielding constant that keeps the world at arm’s length. But not Nigel.

"She told me she was going on a date," You inform him, "after rehearsal. I expected her to return to our dorm and change. She never did. I assumed that she was caught up with something. Susan is a very sensible girl."

"Well your sensible roommate was found dead this morning," the detective says. "Who was she going on a date with?"

You sit there, the detective's words hanging in the air like a heavy fog. Susan is dead. The thought barely registers, slipping through the cracks of your numb mind. You tilt your head slightly.

"My brother."

Detective McKenzie jots down a note, his pen scratching against the paper. "And where can we find him?" he asks, his voice gentler now.

"That shouldn't be too hard," you reply blandly. "He goes to the boys academy across the pond."

The dormitory hallways are quiet, a stark contrast to the chaos that’s been your mind. The wooden floor creaks under your careful steps as you slip past sleeping rooms and darkened corridors. Each breath you take is deliberate, controlled, blending into the night’s stillness. The air is crisp and cool, an embrace you welcome. It helps numb the incessant thoughts that swirl in your head.

You push open the heavy door leading outside. The chill night air rushes to greet you, wrapping around your body like an old friend. The moon hangs low in the sky, casting silvery light over the school grounds. Shadows dance around you as you make your way to the gate, their silent movements echoing the turmoil within.

You keep your pace steady, avoiding the pools of light from the sporadic lampposts. Each step brings a strange comfort, a sense of purpose in an otherwise directionless existence. Your hands are buried deep in the pockets of your coat, fingers grazing the cool metal of a train ticket you keep there—one that Nigel had given you.

The gravel crunches beneath your shoes as you approach the train station. The old building looms ahead, its silhouette outlined against the star-studded sky. The platform is deserted, a place forgotten by time and people alike.

You find solace in its emptiness. The bench near the platform offers a seat, its wooden surface cold against your legs as you sit down. You pull your coat tighter around yourself, savoring the chill that seeps through.

A distant rumble catches your attention. The sound grows louder, accompanied by a low hum that vibrates through the air. A train approaches, its headlights piercing through the darkness like twin beacons.

You stand up as it arrives, its brakes hissing softly as it comes to a stop before you. The doors slide open with a mechanical whir, revealing an empty carriage bathed in dim light.

You step inside without hesitation, finding a seat by a window. The doors close behind you with a soft thud, sealing you inside this cocoon of metal and glass.

The train begins to move again, gliding along the tracks with a rhythmic clatter. You lean back in your seat and watch as the landscape outside blurs into shadows and streaks of light. When Nigel takes a seat next to you, you are not surprised.

He doesn’t speak immediately. The silence stretches between you, filled only with the soft rumble of the train and the occasional creak of its wheels. You close your eyes, savoring the moment of quiet before the inevitable conversation.

“I heard about Susan,” he finally says, his voice low and cautious.

You nod slightly, eyes still closed. The words are there, waiting to be spoken, but they feel heavy on your tongue. Finally, you force them out. For him. “I feel nothing.”

Nigel shifts beside you, but he says nothing, waiting for you to continue.

“I should be sad or angry,” you say slowly, each word measured and deliberate. “But there’s just... nothing.” You open your eyes and turn to look at him. His face is etched with concern, but he remains silent.

“I’m broken,” you admit. “Whatever happened over the summer... it took something from me.” You glance away, staring out at the darkened landscape once more.

Nigel reaches out and his fingers slip through yours. The warmth of his touch contrasts sharply with the coldness inside you. Only he chases away your desire for cold numbness.

“Maybe that’s why I can’t feel anything,” you say softly. “I’m just... numb.”

Nigel’s gaze never wavers. “You’re not broken,” he insists quietly. “You have transitioned into living eternity." He believes those words, knows it deep within himself. You are a living Maraclea and of holy blood. My lovely living Maraclea."

"I thought I crave the cold, but it is your warmth that I now desire," you whisper, a hint of resignation in your voice. Perhaps fear of loss.

Nigel's fingers hold your own tighter, and his other hand comes up to grasp your jaw. "Embrace it," he murmurs. "Feel the warmth within you. It’s not just mine; it’s yours too. You have it, even if you can't sense it yet."

You look into his eyes, feeling a flicker of something deep inside. "But what if I can't find it?" you ask, a trace of fear in your voice.

He bends his face to yours, warm lips hovering over your chronically cold ones. "You will," he speaks with subtle confidence before closing the gap between your lips.

The moment his mouth meets yours, the coldness that has defined your existence since the accident, that clings to your skin like morning dew to a leaf, begins to melt away. His kiss is fervent, filled with a passion that you didn’t know you craved. It consumes you, igniting a fire deep within your chest.

Your hand finds itself gripping his jacket tightly as if to anchor yourself to this moment. The sensation of his warmth spreads through you like a fever, banishing the numbness that has haunted you for so long. You lean into him, desperate for more of his heat, his touch.

Nigel’s hands move to cup your face, holding you gently but firmly. He deepens the kiss, his lips moving with a purpose that leaves you breathless. The train's rhythmic clatter fades into the background and you tighten the fingers he holds, begging him not to leave you chilled.

You pull back slightly, gasping for air. Your eyes meet his, and you see a reflection of your own longing and need. "Nigel," you whisper, your voice trembling with emotion you can’t quite name.

He smiles softly, his thumb brushing against your cheek. "My beautiful Maraclea," he murmurs, his words like a caress against your skin. "You’re so much more than you know."

His declaration sends a shiver down your spine, but it’s not the icy cold you're used to—it's something else entirely. It’s a thrill, an awakening. You are addicted. You close the distance between you once more, pressing your lips to his with renewed urgency.

Every kiss feels like a lifeline, pulling you further from the darkness and into the light of his warmth. You lose yourself in him, in the way he makes you feel alive again. Each touch is electric; each moment is a revelation.

Nigel's hands slide down your neck and to your waist, drawing you closer until there’s no space left between you. His body radiates heat, and you drink it in greedily, reveling in the sensation of being truly warm for the first time in months.

When he finally pulls away, both of you are breathless and flushed. He looks at you with such intensity that it takes your breath away all over again.

"You are my beautiful Maraclea," he repeats softly, his eyes never leaving yours. "And I will always keep you warm."

In that moment, wrapped in Nigel's warmth and words, something inside you shifts. You do not desire that cold numbness that brings you such desolate peace. All your mind thinks about is Nigel, Nigel and his warmth.

Date Published: 6/23/24

Last Edit: 6/23/24

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#like minds #nigel colbie x reader #nigel colbie #alex forbes

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forthechubbies · 2 years

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My Husband's Name Is Jungkook. (Our Little Wife Au)

Quite literally background story of how Jungkook met his wife

Only two warnings! Pervert! Jungkook and 18-year-old Jungkook 🥵

Jeon Yn, Maiden name Valentine Yn, wedded into the mafia world by taking this guy's last name. Jeon Jungkook.

Remember that name, now.

Yep that's him..anyway.

Yes, Her last name is Valentine as Marshall Valentine. The late honorable sheriff, Marshall, was her daddy.

Mr. Valentine was in a league on his own, shooting & catching bad guys and fighting against life-threatening odds until a pair of big beautiful eyes opened up to him, extending her little hands in the air to her proud teary-eyed papa.

However, tragedy struck on the same day; the beloved Mrs.Valentine passed away during childbirth leaving behind a heartbroken husband and a newborn baby.

Having a sheriff as a father served as no picnic; thankfully enough for him, She wasn't the rebel teenager type, but she was curious, and sometimes that could be just as bad.

In her late teens, She grew into her mother's face; heart-stopping eyes, cute noses, kissable plush lips, and a voice so sweet its teeth rotting. She fits the princess's descriptions. Kindness, Innocence, Beautiful, and...smarts?

Okay, She's not the brightest crayon in the box; she's quite naive, to say the least; her father notices this after this instance

“I'm home!” She kicked off her Mary Jane at the door, her backpack abandoned along side her shoes. Regardless of her father stressing countless how much he nearly trips to his early demise. She cheerfully sat on her father's chair arm. “Hi, Daddy.”

He smiled.“ Hello, Sweetheart!” Mr. Valentine scrambled about the living room, searching for something that seemed not to want to be found. “For Christ's sake, The hell is that damn tie?!”

Her smile faded away. “Nightly parlor duty, again?” A silky black material shimmered out of the corner of her eye. The tie! “I got it. I got it.” She gently removed his helping hands from the tie allowing his princess to aid him.

Mr. Valentine was over the moon for his princess. The difficulty and worry of protecting his angel took a toll on his old body. He's no spring chicken anymore-and. This reality frightened him more than any criminal ever could.

“Daddy? Are you going to be late?” Those soften eyes snapped him out of his depression.

He sniffled. “Don't worry about me, Honeycomb.” He can't fall apart yet..not yet. He pecked her forehead. “How about this, little lamb, dinners on me. Duty calls, Sugafoot.” A quick peck on the forehead once more and out the door.

“Bye.” She whispered in the empty house space.

I will make dinner for when he comes home. Congee (Rice Porridge) sounds good, but do we have the ingredients? She was welcomed to an empty pantry, cabinet, and fridge, but her father's six-pack of beer.

Shopping it is, then. With her father’s credit card, She took her first trip alone, and she did great until the recipe called for beef stock.

What stood in her way of getting the stock?

Jeon Jungkook, Remember the man from the beginning? Nope, This isn't different, man, by a baby version of her husband. 18 or 19.Jeon Jungkook. The boy was sent to the market to get beef bulgogi, but for some reason, He was aisles from the meat.

She gulped. You and I know there's nothing to be afraid of when it comes to men, but Yn Valentine is petrified of simply being near one. No thanks to her father's scaring her half to death about the opposite sex.

She peeked at him from around the corner. He sure is pretty, Ain't he? He sure is. The boy had a captive audience. Yn spotted another girl arriving to distract him. The perfect opportunity to grab-that-stock.

She stretched onto her tippy toes. Still no dice. “Come on.”

A large hand reached from behind her, terrifying her but proving to be helpful. “Here.”

She took it, bowed, then speeded away.

Ignoring his commands to come back, She hurried to self-checkout and rushed on her way. She sighed, dropping her buckling knees on the sidewalk with her bags at her side.

Daddy never said anything about them being adorable. I mean, I’m not even sure if he was real.

“It's okay; The moment has passed. Now to get back home and cook dinner.” She clenched both her fists in a fighting spirit.

“Do you talk to yourself often?” A deep voice whispered behind her head; she whipped her head to the boy at eye level.

She gasped, falling back on her hands.

His brows jumped. “Are you alright?” He chuckled. If you squint, you can see his pupils change to hearts. “Listen, um-” He glanced into her, one of the bags chalked full of fresh cream puffs. She must love creampuffs. “Creampuff, You dropped this.” Her Powerpuff girl hair clip looked so tiny in the palm of his hand.

“Yes! That's my favorite clip-!”Failing for the bait in the palm of his hand, The boy snapped down on her wrist, yanking her into his chest. “What are you-Let me go! Right now!” She cried, pounding her tiny chubby fist on his chest.

He chuckles. “Settle down, Creampuff. I just want to see you in detail.” The boy's strength astounded Yn struggling against his bulk. Her skirt's fabric raked over the sidewalk's rough texture.

She huffed, looking away from the boy, allowing him to do as he pleased. If that's all, He wants-Anything to get back home fast.

“Good girl.” He was generally praising her, even kind enough to get head pats. The boy's dark eyes roamed Yn’s features, pausing in certain places he found interesting.

“That's a cute mole.”

Mole? The only mole I have is on my- She gasped, covering her cleavage with her free arm.

The boy sucked his teeth at your protest. " I didn't even look that long-"

At that moment, Jungkook's grip loosened enough for you to steal your arm and push him back by his forehead. A perfect window to pick up your bags and flee.

You caught your breath after securing your front door. I think it's safe to say I'll never get used to men.

It wasn't until late December she made another unfortunate encounter with the same damn man, but he looked different like this, like he's been through some stuff, and this is his mindset now

"You again?!" She struggles against his firm grip on her curves. " Let me go! Or I'll scream-mm hp!" Her eyes widen at his large hand, caging her lips shut...He smells..sweet like he just walked out of a bakery.

"So submissive..." He teased, pushing her patients by inching closer to her hidden lips. "Sadly, I like a chall-nge! " Jungkook dropped his hand to cradle his pained abdomen.

"Creep." Her insult was just salt in the wound at this point.

The encounters never creased...but not all of them were-bad.

Jungkook would often be the handyman when her father wasn't there, kept her company on stormy nights, shared his umbrella when it rained, kissed her forehead to wish her goodnight, and even stood beside her at her dear father's funeral.

Her husband, Jeon Jungkook.

#bts smut #bts x chubby reader #chubby reader #poly ot7 #yandere jungkook x reader #jungkook x reader #jungkook x chubby reader #yandere jungkook #bts mafia au #ot7 x chubby #bts mafia series #yandere bts x chubby reader #bts mafia fic

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olympic-paris · 1 month

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THIS DAY IN GAY HISTORY

based on: The White Crane Institute's 'Gay Wisdom', Gay Birthdays, Gay For Today, Famous GLBT, glbt-Gay Encylopedia, Today in Gay History, Wikipedia, and more …

August 22

The Seal of the Inquisition

1662 – On this date a leader of the Mexican Inquisition sent a letter to his supervisors in Spain complaining that the severe punishments given to sodomites had been ineffective. He noted that over 100 had been indicted, that a large number of the offenders were clergy, and that torture had been used to extract confessions. (One man was tortured to the point of confessing to sex with forty men, several mules, and some chickens.)

1894 – Willem Arondeus (d.1943) was a homosexual Dutch artist and author, who joined the anti-Nazi resistance movement during World War II.

Willem Arondeus was born in Naarden. One of six children, Willem grew up in Amsterdam where his parents were theater costume designers. When Willem was 17, he fought with his parents about his homosexuality. He left home and severed contact with his family. He began writing and painting, and in the 1920s was commissioned to do a mural for the Rotterdam town hall.

When he was 38, Willem met Jan Tijssen, the son of a greengrocer, and they lived together for the next seven years. Although he was a struggling painter, Willem refused to go on welfare.

About 1935, he gave up visual arts and became an author. The poems and stories he had written in the 1920s went unpublished, but in the year 1938 he published two novels, Het Uilenhuis ('The Owls House') and In de bloeiende Ramenas ('In the Blossoming Winter Radish'), both illustrated with designs by Arondeus himself. 1939 saw the publication of his best work, Matthijs Maris: de tragiek van den droom ('The Tragedy of the Dream'), a biography of the painter Matthijs Maris.

Soon after, the war began, Holland was occupied, and Arondeus became involved with the Dutch resistance movement. His unit's main task was to falsify identity papers for Dutch Jews.

In the spring of 1941, he started an underground periodical in which he tried to incite his fellow artists to resist the Nazi occupation of the Netherlands. Earlier than others, Arondeus realized that the demand by the Nazi occupiers that all Jews register with the local authorities was not, as the Nazis claimed, for their own safety, but rather so they could be deported to the Westerbork concentration camp and from there to the death camps in occupied Poland.

A concerted operation was underway to hide Jews among the local population, with various underground organizations preparing forged documents for Jews. Arondeus was a member of one such group, Raad van Verzet (Resistance Council). Within a short while, the Nazis began to uncover the false documents by comparing the names with those in the local population registry. To hinder the Nazis, on March 27, 1943, Arondeus led a group in bombing the population registry in Amsterdam. Thousands of files were destroyed, and the attempt to compare forge documents with the registry were hindered.

Within a week, Arondeus and the other members of the group were arrested. They were executed that July. In his last message before his execution, Arondeus, who had lived openly as a gay man before the war, asked, "Let it be known that homosexuals are not cowards."

In 1945, after the liberation of the Netherlands, Arondeus was awarded a posthumous medal by the Dutch government.

1895 – László Almásy (Count László Ede Almásy de Zsadány et Törökszentmiklós) (d.1951) was an Hungarian aristocrat, motorist, desert researcher, aviator, Scout-leader and soldier who also served as the basis for the protagonist in Michael Ondaatje's 1992 novel The English Patient and the movie based on it.

Almásy was born in Borostyánk in the Austrian-Hungarian monarchy into a non-titled Hun noble family. He was educated by a private tutor in Eastbourne from 1911 to 1914. During World War I, he served with the Austro-Hungarian Imperial and Royal Aviation Troops.

After the war, Almásy continued to support King Karl of Austria, and, on two occasions, drove him to Budapest when he tried to get his throne back. It may be that Karl bestowed him unofficially with the title of count that Almásy only used outside of Hungary.

After 1921, Almásy worked as a representative of an Austrian car firm and won many car races in their colours. He also organised hunting trips in Egypt for visiting Europeans. He developed an interest in the area and later returned there to drive and hunt.

In 1932, he left to find the legendary Zerzura, the Oasis of the Birds, with three Britons, Sir Robert Clayton, Commander Penderel and Patrick Clayton, who were sponsored by Prince Kemal el Din. They discovered prehistoric rock art sites in Uweinat and Gilf Kebir, and Almasy claimed that in 1933 he found the third valley of Zerzura in Wadi Talh.

He also discovered the magyarab tribe in Nubia, who speak Arabic but believe that they are the descendants of Hungarian soldiers who served in the army of Turkey in the 16th century.

In 1932 his former sponsor Clayton died — not from a crash-landing as described in The English Patient — but of an infection from a desert fly contracted in the Gilf Kebir region.

Almásy recorded some of his adventures in the book Az ismeretlen Szahara (The Unknown Sahara). It contains accounts of his most sensational discoveries like the one of the Jebel Uweinat (the highest mountain of the Eastern Sahara desert), of the rock paintings in the Gilf Kebir and of the lost oasis of Zerzura.

In the following years, Almásy led archaeological and ethnographical expeditions with the German ethnographer Leo Frobenius. He also worked in Egypt at Al Maza airfield as a flying instructor. After the outbreak of World War II in 1939, he had to return to Hungary. The British suspected that he was a spy for the Italians - and vice versa. In fact he was a Hungarian who worked for which ever colonial power offered him the best surveying contract. Hungary formally joined the Axis powers by signing the Tripartite Pact in November of 1940.

The Abwehr (German military intelligence service) recruited him in Budapest. As a Hungarian reserve officer, he was assigned to the Luftwaffe as a Hauptmann (captain) and assigned to the Afrika Korps. In 1941-1942, he worked with the German troops of Erwin Rommel using his desert experience and led military missions, including Operation Salaam, to infiltrate two German spies through enemy lines in a manner similar to the allied Long Range Desert Group. This was not a covert operation: Almásy and his team wore German uniforms, although they used American vehicles with German crosses surreptitiously incorporated as part of the vehicles camoflage pattern. Almásy delivered the German (Abwehr) agents Hans Eppler and Peter Stanstede to Cairo in the same way. Rommel subsequently promoted Almásy to major.

The details of Almásy's role in World War II are likely to remain unclear. For delivering spies, he received the Iron Cross (Eisernes Kreuz) from Rommel. He was, however, never a spy nor a Nazi.

The real Almásy was a far cry from the character portrayed by Ralph Fiennes in the film based on Michael Ondaatje's novel, a dashing explorer who falls in love with another man's wife while working with the Royal Geographical Society in North Africa, and who helps the Nazis only as a way to be united with his love.

In real life he was an intrepid explorer, but letters discovered in 2010 in Germany written by Almásy prove he, unlike the fictionalized character of the film The English Patient, was in fact a homosexual, who wrote passionate letters to a young German officer he tried to help avoid going to the Russian front. His lover, a young soldier named Hans Entholt, was an officer in the Wehrmacht and was killed after stepping on a landmine. A staff member of the Heinrich Barth Institute for African Studies, where the letters are located, also confirmed that "Egyptian princes were among Almásy's lovers."

After the end of the desert war, Almásy relocated to Turkey where he became involved in a plan to cause an Egyptian revolt which never materialised. He then returned to Budapest where with his contacts from the Roman Catholic Church he helped save the lives of several Jewish families at a time when Jews were being sent to concentration camps.

After the war he was arrested in Hungary and ended up in a Soviet prison. After Communists took over in Hungary, Almásy was tried for treason in the Communist People's Court but was eventually acquitted. He escaped the country reputedly with the aid of British intelligence and they spirited him into British occupied Austria and were chased by a KGB 'hit squad' until they got him on a aeroplane to Cairo. They bribed Hungarian Communist officials to enable his release. He returned to Egypt at the invitation of King Faruk and became the technical director of the newly founded Desert Institute. He could not continue directing expeditions into the desert to search for King Cambyses' 'Lost Army' of history, the legendary Persian King whose army of 10,000 men had apparently vanished in the 'Sand Sea' that Almásy so loved.

Almásy became ill in 1951 during his visit in Austria. He died of dysentery in a hospital in Salzburg, where he was then buried. The epitaph on his grave, erected by Hungarian patriots in 1995, honours him as a "Pilot, Sahara Explorer, and Discoverer of the Zerzura Oasis".

1924 – Writer James Kirkwood (d.1989) was well known in the world of theater through his work as an actor, playwright, and comedian. He reached the peak of his fame when A Chorus Line, the celebrated musical, opened at the Public Theater in 1975. Executing a concept by choreographer Michael Bennett, with music by Marvin Hamlisch and lyrics by Edward Kleban, Kirkwood joined with co-writer Nicholas Dante to develop a script based on the tape-recorded reminiscences of Broadway "gypsies," the young men and women who sing and dance in the chorus lines of musicals. In 1976, his contributions to the show brought Kirkwood a Tony Award and a Pulitzer Prize.

As theater critic Frank Rich noted, " 'A Chorus Line' was also the first Broadway musical to deal matter-of-factly with homosexuality, and from an inside point-of-view that makes its gay men seem far more accessible than the martyrs and oddballs that typified stage homosexuals in mainstream American drama of the post-Boys in the Band, pre-AIDS era."

Kirkwood was born on August 22, 1924, in Hollywood; his parents were the silent film stars Lila Lee and James Kirkwood. After their divorce, Kirkwood was shunted between the two of them, making holiday times especially awkward and painful. He spent much of his time with his mother's family in Elyria, Ohio, a small town where he graduated from high school.

In its matter-of-fact treatment of homosexuality, A Chorus Line somewhat resembles Kirkwood's five novels. His first book, There Must Be a Pony!, was published in 1960, and later adapted for the stage and for television. Its hero is young Josh, who struggles for balance when his alcoholic mother accuses him of being her rival for the affections of her dead boyfriend. Josh is not clearly seen as gay, but his mother's accusation would have been familiar to at least a few readers.

Kirkwood's next novel, Good Times / Bad Times, published in 1968, presents two young men at a New England prep school who are threatened when the disturbed headmaster develops a homoerotic fixation on the narrator, Peter. What makes the headmaster's attraction so dangerous is the fact that he cannot acknowledge it. "Guys who don't have a problem, if they come into contact with anything homosexual, they can just shrug it off," Peter's best explains. He also tells Peter, "Any man who says he wouldn't whack off with Cary Grant is either a liar or can't get it up." The novel is suffused with homoeroticism, but homosexuality is nervously disavowed by the narrator, who says at one point, "We threw our arms around one another and we kissed. It was a real kiss, and no matter what anybody might think, a perfectly right and fitting expression of our friendship for that time and place and for us."

Kirkwood's next novel, P.S. Your Cat Is Dead, published in 1972, is a farce in which a straight man whose girlfriend has just dumped him ties a naked gay burglar to his kitchen table. This was followed by Some Kind of Hero (1975), in which a returned Vietnam veteran and POW, traumatized first by the death of a fellow prisoner (and lover) and then by his wife's abandonment, becomes a robber. This novel was made into a film starring Richard Pryor. P.S. Your Cat Is Dead became both a stage play and film.

Kirkwood's last novel, Hit Me With a Rainbow, published in 1980, presents the improbable love affair between a young man and an older movie star. Her entourage includes an openly gay servant.

In Diary of a Mad Playwright (1989), Kirkwood recounts the hilarious and harrowing attempt to bring his comic play, Legends, starring Mary Martin and Carol Channing, to Broadway. Here, we may hear his voice at its most natural. Writing about auditioning actors for the part of a male stripper, he wryly observes, "I didn't know whether to laugh, cry, blush, shit, or go blind."

Kirkwood's primary residence was in Key West, Florida. A Chorus Line was still running when he died of AIDS-related cancer on April 21, 1989, in his apartment in New York City.

1965 – David Peter Reimer was a Canadian man born biologically male but who was reassigned as female by Dr. John Money after his penis was destroyed in infancy by a botched circumcision. He committed suicide in 2004.

In 1955, Money (1921-2006), a sexologist and psychologist, introduced the concept of ‘gender role’ into the transsexual debate. Money later was heavily criticized over Reimer’s suicide.

David Reimer, an identical twin, was mutilated at 8-months old in a botched circumcision and then surgically reassigned by Money and raised as a girl. But he never felt female on the inside (even though his parents followed Money’s advice and hid the fact of his birth sex from him), despite Money’s claims to the contrary. His life, especially at school, was sheer hell because others never really perceived him to be a girl either, despite his girl drag.

By age 16, Reimer underwent a second reassignment at his own insistence so that he could live as the boy he knew himself to be. In the meantime, however, Money had convinced the medical establishment and the lay public, despite growing evidence to the contrary in his “girl” twin, that babies could be arbitrarily assigned a gender with no psychological consequences. Today, still, five children a day are surgically “corrected” at birth because of this one “case study” and Money’s defense of his handling of David’s life.With the help of Drs. Milton Diamond and H.K. Sigmundson, Reimer would finally tell the medical establishment the truth about his life in 1997 in the Archives of Adolescent and Pediatric Medicine, challenging the firmly established medical and popular myth that gender was mostly a function of nurture rather than nature. Later that year, Reimer would work with author John Colapinto to tell his story to the lay public, first under a pseudonym, in Rolling Stone.

1972 – On this date John Wojtowicz and Sal Naturale attempted to rob the Chase Manhattan Bank in Brooklyn to get money for Wojtowicz's lover's sex change operation. Naturale was shot to death, and the incident became the subject of the movie "Dog Day Afternoon." Wojtowicz was sentenced to 20 years.

TODAY"S GAY WISDOM: Polari

Polari (or alternatively Parlare, Parlary, Palare, Palarie, Palari; from Italian parlare, "to talk") is a form of cant slang used in Britain by actors, circus and fairground showmen, criminals, prostitutes, and by the gay subculture. It was popularised in the 1960s by camp characters Julian and Sandy in the popular BBC radio show Round the Horne. There is some debate about its origins, but it can be traced back to at least the 19th century, and possibly the 16th century. There is a longstanding connection with Punch and Judy street puppet performers who traditionally used Polari to converse.

Polari was used in London fishmarkets, the theatre, and fairgrounds and circuses, hence the many borrowings from Romany. As many gay men worked in theatrical entertainment it was also used amongst the gay subculture, at a time when homosexual acts were illegal, to disguise homosexual activity from hostile outsiders and undercover policemen. It was also used extensively in the Merchant Navy, where many gay men joined cruise ships as waiters, stewards and entertainers. On one hand, it would be used as a means of cover, to allow gay subjects to be discussed aloud without being understood; on the other hand, it was also used by some, particularly the most visibly camp and effeminate, as a further way of asserting their identity.

Polari had begun to fall into disuse amongst the gay subculture by the late 1960s. The popularity of the Julian and Sandy characters ensured that this secret language became public property, and the gay liberationists of the 1970s viewed it as rather degrading, divisive and politically incorrect as it was often used to gossip about, or criticise, others, as well as to discuss sexual exploits. In addition, the need for a secret subculture code declined with the legalisation of adult homosexual acts in England and Wales in 1967.

Since the mid-1990s, with the redistribution of tapes and CDs of Round The Horne and increasing academic interest, Polari has undergone something of a revival. New words are being invented and updated to refer to more recent cultural concepts. In 1990 Morrissey titled an album Bona Drag - Polari for "nice outfit" - and released the single "Piccadilly Palare" that same year. Also in 1990, comic book writer Grant Morrison created the Polari-speaking character Danny the Street (based on Danny La Rue), a sentient transvestite street, for the comic Doom Patrol. The 1998 film Velvet Goldmine, which chronicles a fictional retelling of the rise and fall of glam rock, contains a 60s flashback in which a group of characters converse in Polari, while their words are humorously subtitled below. In 2002, two books on Polari were published, Polari: The Lost Language of Gay Men, and Fantabulosa: A Dictionary of Polari and Gay Slang (both by Paul Baker). Also in 2002, hip hop artist Juha released an album called Polari, with the chorus of the title song written entirely in the slang.

A few words which have descended to us from the polari patois:

barney: a fight basket: the bulge of male genitals through the clothes bitch: effeminate or passive gay man butch: masculine; masculine lesbian chicken: young man camp: exaggerated effeminacy cottaging: engaging in sex acts in public toilets drag: women's clothes fruit: queen rough trade: tough, thuggish, potentially dangerous sex partner scarper: flee, run off

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sunset-peril · 5 months

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Hyrule's Final Stand - Masterlist

Lore and Worldbuilding Overview (may have errors)

An Oversimplified View of ToZA's Royal Family

Hateno Village Social Makeup (TotK-era)

Wolfbred: The Affection Coded Beast Tribe

So Why Did Mipha Make the Zora Armor?

The Infected Dreamscape - Concepts and Lore from "Trial of the Zora Armor"

No Way to Forget - The Tragedy of Midna Marie Imperial

Testosterone Imbalance Disorder (Failed Mating Syndrome)

Wolfbred Social Titles

Hyrule's Caste System

Hyrule's Caste System - List of characters and their castes

Character Masterlists

*coming soon*

Book Covers

Trial of the Zora Armor

Saying Goodbye

Successors

Other Art

Link and Zelda Original Reference Sheets - Trial of the Zora Armor (disclaimer - Link is missing his facial scars due to them being added later on)

Link's Reference Sheet

The Wolfbred Chronicles - A Short Story Collection

The "Lost" Tribe - Part One - Moonlight, Markings and Musings

The "Lost" Tribe - Part Two - To Zora's Domain

Trial of the Zora Armor

TOZA Chapter One

TOZA Chapter Two

TOZA Chapter Three

TOZA Chapter Four

TOZA Chapter Five

TOZA Chapter Six

TOZA Chapter Seven

TOZA Chapter Eight

TOZA Chapter Nine

TOZA Chapter Ten

TOZA Chapter Eleven

TOZA Chapter Twelve

TOZA Chapter Thirteen

TOZA Chapter Fourteen

TOZA Chapter Fifteen

TOZA Epilogue

Saying Goodbye (readers recommend tissues...)

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Successors

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Epilogue

Link, Wolfbred King

Chapter One

Chapter Two

One-shots and Ficlets

Khosha, Wife of Revali

Kabre's Tale

Guilty as Ganon

Guilty as Ganon - Epilogue

To Heir is Champion - Urbosa

Monthly Events (-tobers, May events, etc)

2021 Shiptober - Day 1 - Enemies

Zora May 2024 - Sentimental/Tears

Other

Link actually had knight friends (based on AoC content)

This discussion about Wolfbred lore that I'm shoving here until I get less lazy and write it down neatly in another post

Iconic Queen Zelda quote that's going here for whatever reason

Link's Social Relationships - TotK era

TotK Era Headcanons/Trivia

"Perfection" aka "Failure" the "Perfect" Ancient Wolfbred

This TotK Sage Link Idea That I Got Struck With

King Rhoam's Contrition (courtesy of @aikoiya)

~~~~

Yes, you are permitted to make fanart/fanfiction of anything linked above.

#fanfiction #booksivewritten #legend of zelda #breath of the wild #hyrule's final stand #my stuff #tears of the kingdom #the legend of zelda #trial of the zora armor #successors #successors hfs #saying goodbye #saying goodbye hfs #oc lore #lore #zelda au

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20th-century-scrapbook · 8 months

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Mary Ann Ganser, Betty Weiss and Mary Weiss of the Shangri-Las in 1965 / David Dalton

The Shangri-Las had six Top 40 singles between 1964 and 1966.

Songs like “Remember (Walking in the Sand)” and “Past, Present and Future” made the end of a young romance sound like an epoch-defining tragedy, but they masked their emotional desperation with an air of fearlessness. Wearing leather pants — as opposed to the formal gowns favored by female groups like the Supremes — they embodied 1960s bad-girl chic and inspired legions of other musicians.

#Shangra-Las #Mary Ann Ganser #Betty Weiss #Mary Weiss #1965 #1960s #music

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howwelldoyouknowyourmoon · 1 year

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Sun Myung Moon's search for buried treasure in Yeosu

▲ Sun Myung Moon in the early 1950s

From the book, Sun Myung Moon, the early years 1920-1953 by Michael Breen. (He was a devoted follower when he wrote this book.)

“But there was hope that circumstances would change, for Moon still carried with him the treasure map that Pak had been given in prison. In the summer of 1951, Moon took Aum to the coastal town of Yosu [Yeosu] to search for the treasure. Yosu had gained some notoriety as the site of a Communist uprising a few years earlier, and the victims had been buried in the public cemetery. It was there that, according to the tale Moon had heard in prison, the Korean traveler returning from India had buried his jewels. They checked into an inn near the cemetery, and began searching for a small post with the markings ‘nam-hae-bo’ (south sea treasure) in the cemetery. After two days, they gave up and returned, empty-handed, to Pusan.8

note 8. Duk-moon Aum, in an interview with the author.”

__________________________

So Duk-moon Aum, the architect, confirms the truth of Chung-hwa Pak’s story.

Chung-hwa Pak, extract from his book, The Tragedy of the Six Marys – the real Satan is Sun Myung Moon!!

[In Heungnam Special Labor Camp] One day one of the captains, Joo Heung-shik, told me a strange story. One of his prisoners got sick and told him about his serious illness. The prisoner had been the captain of a big ship. He had sailed around the world during the Japanese occupation of Korea. After the end of the war, he had lived in Yeosu. When he visited North Korea to see his relatives, he was arrested for a crime. He had given a map wrapped in silk and with a note written in English to Joo Heung-shik. After the prisoner had died, Captain Joo brought the note to Pastor Kim Jin-soo for translation. The note said: “There are tombs of children in Yeosu. In the tomb of the third child, there is a box full of jewels that is worth more than $1,000,000. Since I will die soon, I will give it to you and you can find it later when you go back to the South.”

After Captain Joo told me the story, he suggested that I find the box of jewels, because I would be released earlier than he would. Since it was an interesting story, I told it to Moon. Later on, I lived in South Korea again but I never visited Yeosu and forgot about the story.

Two years later, when they were in Busan, Moon and a friend went to Yeosu. They were desperately trying to find the box. It seemed that they could find the cemetery but could not find the tomb of the child. Moon never told me that he had visited Yeosu. Later, when I found out about his visit there, I wondered how, if he were the return of Christ, the Second Coming of Jesus, the Messiah Sun Myung Moon, he could not find the box! This is the subject of this book and my confession. But at that time I was an ignorant person. I only had respect for Yong Myung Moon [the birth name of Sun Myung Moon].

(Many other sources confirm the contents of Chung-hwa Pak’s book, The Tragedy of the Six Marys. The book also has many photos.)

____________________________________

https://tragedyofthesixmarys.com

The Tragedy of the Six Marys book Introduction

The Tragedy of the Six Marys Table of Contents

The Tragedy of the Six Marys Chapter 7

The Tragedy of the Six Marys VIDEO transcript in English

Chung-hwa Pak did not write “I am a Traitor” (The UC of Japan published it. Their main purpose was to keep the Japanese members on the treadmill)

Sun Myung Moon claimed authority through his “meeting with Jesus”, but did it ever happen? A look at Moon’s own varied descriptions.

https://六マリアの悲劇.com

「六マリアの悲劇」ビ��オ

六マリアの悲劇―もくじ

本の紹介

野錄統一敎會史 (세계기독교 통일신령협회사) . 박 정 화 외2인 지음 (前 통일교창립위원)

유효민 – 통일교회의 경제적 기반에 공헌하고 배신 당했다

유신희 – 6마리아의 한 사람 이었다

김덕진 – 섹스릴레이의 실천자

문선명의 정체! (1) 김명희

문선명의 정체! (사진으로 보는 문선명의 정체)

#Sun Myung Moon #Yeosu #buried treasure #Pak Chung-hwa #The Tragedy of the Six Marys #Duk-moon Aum #Chung-hwa Pak

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whatisonthemoon · 1 year

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What did Chung Hwa Pak know about Moon’s “abnormal method of expansion”?

From chapter 5 of the Chung Hwa Pak’s Tragedy of the Six Marys

The Unification Church is worried about me because I know every aspect of Mr. Moon...Mr. Moon was afraid of my being arrested because I could tell the whole truth about him. I didn’t know what to do...When I visited Seoul, I was introduced to two army colonels. They were Pak Bo Hi and Han Sang-kook. Mr. Moon told them that I was his right-hand man, and that they should learn many things from me. Three years later Park Chung-hee succeeded in his coup and appointed Kim Jong-pil as the director of the KCIA (Korean Central Intelligence Agency). Both colonels were his right-hand men. After that, Pak Bo Hi worked in America and became Mr. Moon’s new right-hand man...I was an obstacle to Mr. Moon’s abnormal method of expansion...Mr. Moon...he was worried about me because I could tell the police the whole truth about him...He did not want me to sit with him in his new organization.

#chung-hwa pak #the tragedy of the six marys #tragedy of the six marys #sun myung moon #kcia #kim jong pil #han sang-kook #Sang-Keuk Han #bo hi pak #unification church history #chung hwa pak #church history #south korean government #military

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repo-net · 9 months

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OMORI Rank-up Tier List #1: Main Cast

Alright, I've recently finished OMORI and I've given myself a bit of time to sit on it, think about the characters and how everything panned out. And hey, it's a pretty writing-centric game, I'm running a pretty writing-centric blog, so why not start with a short two-part series of appreciation posts for the game in the form of a tier list?

I definitely have a lot less to say about the side characters, so I won't be bothering giving them their own post, I'll be clumping them with the next one which is going to be a review of the locations/boss fights throughout the game that I was able to experience.

I'll note right now for anyone that this is the opinions of someone who finished OMORI about a few days after he posted this and only finished the true ending route (because as much as I love it, I am not willing to put myself through the game again just to go through and see the content in other routes when I can just look it up on YouTube), so this may change sometime in the future. I know for a fact that I was battling like hell with myself when I was ranking these six... anyways.

Obviously, spoilers are inbound, so if you haven't played OMORI and want to check it out for yourself, come back to this post later once you've completed it. If you're ready to look at whatever take this brain of mine has, then here it is under the cut!

Oh, and a few more messages before we get to the meat of it all - I'm going to be clumping and judging the characters with a combination of their aspects from both the dream world and the real world. While I obviously think that the real-world versions of the characters are the 'complete' arcs of themselves and the dream world versions are just watered down versions of them created by Sunny/Omori in their liking, I think it's worth bringing them up anyways since they serve as the background for each character before the horrible tragedy that hit them.

I also think that every single character in the main cast is written fantastically and are all at least A-tier characters in my heart, except for a select few in the top 2 that I think are more than worthy of being put into the S-tier if I were actually putting them into tiers instead of just ranking them.

Alright - let's do this for real this time!

#6 - Mari

You know how much it sucks having to pick a least favorite among a selection of things that you all really like? It's like me having to choose which of my kids I want to put up for adoption, blegh. Unfortunately, someone had to take this and begrudgingly, I'll have to slide everyone's favorite older sister here. I really hope this one isn't controversial...

So, here's the thing about Mari, right? In the perspective of a writer, I think she absolutely has the most going for her in terms of the amount of content you can produce for her in comparison to the rest of the cast. I think the sheer magnitude of possibilities and scenarios that you can write using Mari is pretty much endless, whether it be fluffy alternative universes where she lives or angsty, gut-wrenching punches of how not so great her time with Sunny ended. And believe me, that's just scraping the surface of what you can do with her!

Mari's a constant presence throughout the entirety of the game, whether it be in the form of Something looking over Sunny and Omori, being the support for everyone in the friend group as you go through the dream world, or her unfortunate death being the reason everyone in the real world turned out the way they did. And as much as I want to like Mari more, she's a very charming character and I think her relationship with Hero is one of the highlights of the game, I constantly find myself appreciating it (as a writer who enjoys angst) from Hero's side more because of how he responds to it. There just... isn't much for me to look at, honestly? Her dream world self is a sweetheart, bless her - but when we talk about how fleshed out she really is, there's not much for me to say other than what's already been shown to you in the story.

The best parts of Mari are in the symbolism scattered throughout the game in Sunny's subconscious and the short scenes we get of her throughout the game. I think I can attribute this to one of the criticisms I have of Omori; I really, really think Mari's character would've benefited from having more scenes of her failings (the pressure to get the duet with Sunny right; her perfectionist attitude being the reason he snaps being the fatal flaw that causes her death) actually play out instead of being left up to interpretation and details in the flavor text of the game.

Shit stinks. I really wish we could've seen that more- ironically enough, the imperfect side of Mari. Because the way I interpreted it, Sunny's motivation for playing the violin was so he could spend more time with Mari regardless of how much stress it puts on him and how much time it takes away from getting to chill with his friends. And when even that stops being fun for Sunny because of the pressure he feels considering it was the day of the recital and he still wasn't playing it perfectly, he lashes out and breaks the violin. In comparison, Mari wanted to perfect it cause... uhh, I dunno? Would sure be nice if we got more context on why she acted like that, considering the stark contrast of what she's like in the dream world...

If you really want to be harsh about it, Mari just ended up being a plot device for Sunny's own story, unfortunately. There exists a personality in there in the form of her dream world self; but it's angelic, too much so (which we obviously know why, it's Sunny's interpretation of Mari, a person who could do no wrong). I wish there was more about how Mari really was - as a sibling, as a girlfriend, and just as a person than the stories we get from the other characters that we have to fill in the blanks ourselves.

But hey, that's what fanfics are for, yeah? You go, Mari enjoyers. I love all of y'all. (Has been in the fandom for like no more than a week)

#5 - Basil

You hate to see it. Sorry, I know a lot of the fandom adores this boyo (I know a friend of mine does and I apologize in advance to you) and I do too, but I think it speaks volumes of how much I love this cast when a character of the floral lad's level can land himself in a spot like this. Man, why'd I put the two sweetest and kindest characters in the main cast at the bottom? I'm horrible, lmfao.

Ahh, Basil. In fairness, I think he has my second favorite design in the game only behind Aubrey from the real world, and if there's a character I'd want to roleplay as - I think my mind would go to Basil too, actually. There's so much good I can say about Basil that it makes me wonder; how in the world did he end up all the way over here?

Is it because of the horrible shit he pulled (seriously, how does a 12 year old come up with that? oh wait, my blog is nagisa shingetsu themed. nevermind, it's totally reasonable.) that he ended up here? Nope, heck I think he's way more interesting of a character because of it; seeing just how badly he was willing to protect his best friend and save him, only to create a rift between the two that becomes the focal point of the entire plot. That's good fucking shit right there. Love when characters have good intentions in mind and it just ruins their life.

The striking thing about Basil is that he has a very complete personality that makes him easy to latch onto; Basil is a kind soul with a strong sense of empathy and understanding of others, he loves photography and flowers, going as far as to have descriptions of his best friends in the wake of said flowers. He's a little troubled, hates fighting, but he's trying his best in spite of that to keep a smile on his face. He's a good boy and I think if you showed a normal person who knows nothing about the game the main cast, I think most people would say Basil's either the most interesting or their favorite character just by how nicely wrapped his presentation is when you disregard all the spoilery stuff about him.

Where it stops for me though is this - for someone who plays such an important role in the story and how the main conflict in pretty much 75% of the game is centered around him, Basil sure enjoys being absent because unfortunately, said conflict is the fact that he's missing. I'm not going to use this as a diss on Basil's character because it isn't his fault that he's pretty much required to be shrouded in mystery, and I don't even know what suggestions I'd have to improve it because you can't be showing Basil off too much.

But we're at a crossroads here. I think we didn't see Basil enough in the story, but at the same time... what could you do in OMORI that fixes that issue while also not overexposing him at the same time? Another unlucky spot that Basil's put in is the fact that some of the scenes where he's present in the real-world are overshadowed by another character capturing me more (Aubrey). It's not that there's a lack of him, but it's... ugh. It's so hard to explain.

It's tough. Because Basil's struggles is just so incredibly heartbreaking and I really, really do feel for him and just want to give the guy a hug after all that he's been through. Being driven to the point where you and your best friends are fighting each other, even gouging out his fucking eye??? It's horrific. I don't think the first thought that came to Basil's mind during the incident was 'let's hide this evidence as fast as we can', but more of a 'oh god, i need to save my best friend'. He's got so much weighing down on him.

At the end of the day, I don't even think Basil's underutilized. It just feels like he is, and I can't shake it off enough to put him above all the other characters here. Sorry, flower boy. I get the feeling you'll grow on me more as time passes, though.

#4 - Sunny

Hey, it's the protagonist! I usually put guys like you a lot higher than this, especially considering just how much I was rooting for you... and you did! So happy for you, my man. I'll forever be grateful I stumbled upon the best possible ending for the gang on my first and only playthrough of the game. Oh right, we should be talking about him instead of me. Sorry about that.

While some people like to consider Omori and Sunny as separate entities and prefer to rank them exclusive of one another, I'm personally going to take the other route and do as I've been doing with everyone else here; collectively using both dream world and real-world versions to judge the character as a whole.

And that plays the biggest factor me when it comes to ranking Omori/Sunny. Because I don't think Omori is a separate person from who Sunny is - I think Omori is an aspect of Sunny that formed as a result of the trauma that the incident with Mari caused. Omori is Sunny's coping mechanism, less of a shield, more of a wall; but I think the best word to describe him is a bubble that keeps Sunny's most horrific memories from resurfacing.

When I first played this game, I immediately found myself pretty attached to Omori because he was just a dry, quiet little guy who hangs out with his friends and might have some sort of mental issue to him. Who could resist such allure? But damn, if it weren't for the real world segments and how it all culminates into the final battle between Sunny and Omori... I think he'd be in Mari's spot. A character too reliant on flavor text to showcase their character, not really leaving enough of an impact for me to immediately think about them when I hear about the game OMORI.

But Sunny... Sunny, my beautiful boy. This poor fucking kid. Sunny is such an incredibly human character and I always found myself feeling pity for the guy, he's been dealt with such a horrible hand in the short time he's been alive, and yet despite me never going anywhere near the Sunny that went through, and having a very different personality from him; I can attest, he's very relatable. Just remind yourself that this kid pretty much tortured and isolated him for four whole years all alone because he couldn't get over the guilt that accidentally killing Mari gave him.

Four years is the amount of time between the start of the pandemic and today. Imagine never leaving your house, having no friends to rely on or talk to, constantly living in a fantasy world where you can do no wrong to hide yourself and cope, and dealing with at a worst case scenario was daily nightmares of your most horrible memory. Sunny's immediate reactions to anything that causes him distress is to block it out, and so; Omori, being his bubble, will do whatever means it takes to protect Sunny regardless of how much better it'd actually be in the end for him to finally accept the reality of what happened four years ago.

I don't normally mess or enjoy silent protagonists much because they're inherently kind of dull and usually end up falling flat. But along with Kris from Deltarune, Sunny is wonderful. It's just a shame that everyone after him are people I ended up feeling more connected to.

#3 - Hero

I honestly can't believe this man managed to win me over so hard that he'd place in the top 3. I kept thinking to myself while I was ranking the main cast: 'I like this character more than him, right...?'. But almost every single time, I remember something this goofy charm of a man did and I just sigh and realize I didn't appreciate him enough until after my playthrough and looked back on how so many of the things I liked about this game involved him.

So, here we are. At third, is none other than the world's most handsome man himself - Hero. I'm still wondering what his real name is if Hero was apparently just a nickname. Henry? That's like the closest thing I can think of off the top of my head. But let's address the elephant in the room.

I'll get this out of the way already. I'm perfectly aware that in comparison to everyone else, Hero doesn't get as much screentime or focus, heck; in the real world, he only shows up at the end of the second day and his most memorable moment for me was Kel telling us about what became of Hero after Mari's death when you go to her at the cemetery during Three Days Left. Flavor text. The very thing I pointed out to be why everyone before Hero is ranked lower than him. So how come he's up here...?

More than anything else, it's personal attachment. Apologies again for making this about me (pretty much every character from here is going to involve a bit of my personal life), but I have no siblings at all. This was kind of my fault, since I was so attached to my parents' love and affection that I didn't want anyone else taking that away from me. At the same time, I had three older male cousins who were the closest things to a big brother that I ever had in my childhood. They weren't exactly the nicest to me... but I always figured that was admittedly because of how weird I was as a kid anyways, so I don't hold that against them. I just wish I could've connected with them more.

Hero not only feels a lot more 'real' as a person to me in comparison to characters like Basil and Mari, not only cause I know people who handled the loss of a family member like he did and managed to hold himself enough and not go to the deep end. They're some of the most admirable people I know, and I look up to them a lot. Hero constantly wonders what he did wrong that Mari felt the need to commit suicide, but in the end; it's because he didn't do anything wrong. It's why I've always thought Hero's perspective after the good ending is the most interesting one and the one I always look forward to when I see how the writer executes it.

Not only does Hero get significantly more screentime than the characters before him in the form of the dream world, and feel much more alive than all the other dream world versions of the main cast, but he's much more flexible and allows for more wholeness in what I want to feel from a character.

What I mean by that is that Hero's personality and character opens more opportunities (and capitalizes on it!) so he can make me laugh, he can make me feel for him, he can be someone I can relate and struggle with, he can be someone I want to root for, and he's someone I can attribute to things I hold dearly to in real life.

He might not be the most complex or tragic (and considering what he went through, it goes to show just how bad shit gets in this game) character out there in a cast full of really deep ones, nor does he really stand out in the cast to some people...

But to me, he's everything I want out of a character. The only things that stopped him from being higher is that I was more compelled and struck by the next two.

#2 - Aubrey

Honestly? I thought Sunny would be a lot higher; in the spots that this one and the one after her would be, but I took the time to think about it and after some careful thought, I realized - yeah, I think these two are just more gripping to me and characters that I genuinely felt astonished by.

The dream world versions of the characters are husks. They're the idealistic versions of Sunny's friends and are characters that are only truly completed and finished because their real persona is so... amazing. And Aubrey...?

Out of any other character in the game, I think Aubrey benefits from the arc her real world has more than anyone else in this game. Because good god, this girl... I would've thought I'd feel more bad about the other characters, but I found myself constantly worrying about Aubrey because the circumstances that surrounded her was nothing short of poignant.

Could you imagine being in her position? You lose someone who's basically your older sister in a friend group that's more family than your own blood; because they're all deadbeats and your home life is unpleasant, to put it lightly. All of them start to drift off, for one reason and another, and it feels like nobody is even there to comfort you or give you a shoulder to lean on. But wait, maybe you do! Your childhood friend Basil, who's kind of nervous and seems pretty broken, but at least he's still there, right...?

And yet, from Aubrey's perspective, Basil ruined what was essentially the only physical memories they had left of their Mari. Someone she loved so dearly, desecrated like that... that broke her. For Aubrey, it felt like there was no one there that could understand her. And then, after four long years - suddenly, one of your friends finally decides to show his face, and this obnoxious, overly positive and reality-denying guy tries to act like you didn't just lose four years of your life wondering what went wrong and why she lost everything so quickly.

Wouldn't it feel insulting?

I don't normally like 'bully' characters (mainly due to my own childhood experiences with them), because they usually hit too close to home to me. I hate that I even feel like categorizing Aubrey as that considering we know the circumstances around her life. To make matters worse, she was probably the one I least cared about until her arc in the real world started and she completely blew me away.

Aubrey, whom I love the real design of and think she looks great in the real world - Aubrey's arc and character is something you learn to appreciate. It's something that you can only really 'get' when you remember the lesson OMORI tries to teach you in the first place.

And well, if you've played the game, then I need not explain any further. Let's move on to the guy in first.

#1 - Kel

A dork, kind of a dunce, but a champion. He is the catalyst for the true ending and is the reason the path to it even opens up in the first place. I'll concede this; characters that are complex like Aubrey, Sunny, and Basil are normally the characters you'd see as my favorites because I tend to value them more or just like their presence more.

But in any game; I really, really don't think I've ever seen a character archetype in the way that Kel's in who manages to not only be full of that childish endearing aura to him, yet flawed and so very, very real and human; who you can understand why other characters would lash out and get irritated at him, but also support him knowing fully well that his intentions are always for the best...

Kel is amazing. From the first interaction with him in the dream world, I was immediately hooked because of his stupid and goofy little humor that brings me to reminiscences of a simpler, more fun and youthful time in my life. I was worried that I might grow tired of him since; let's face it, dream world Kel does have shades of being just a tad one-dimensional. I was genuinely considering putting Aubrey as my favorite character.

And then I remembered the graveyard scene with Kel talking about his and Hero's story.

No scene in the game solidified my love for a character and made me want to do everything for them more than that did with Kel. Hands down, that is my favorite scene in the entire game and not a lot of moments come close.

Kel's kind of bad at reading the room, I think he's self-aware enough to know that he's stubborn and there are times where he's stepping into territory that should just be left alone.

Despite that though, it's because of his persistence that he succeeds. Kel might just seem like a positive and happy go lucky goofball (he is, tbf), but he had to deal with his own shit too. In response to Mari's death, Kel put on a smile and did what he believed Mari would've wanted him to do - he healed himself and got back up by making new friends, taking the time to worry about others, and try to get the friend group back together.

No matter how many tries it took. I seriously, seriously wonder just how much time Kel spent knocking on doors, asking his old friends if they wanted to hang out, yet always falling on deaf ears. I think the reason he's able to smile in spite of it all is that he just hasn't had the chance to mourn on his own. There are moments where the smile breaks for a bit; times like when Hero is the one that immediately gets rushed to by his parents while he's just left there when the two of them fought, or after Hero saves Basil after Aubrey pushed him into the lake, and he starts wanting nothing more to do with Aubrey, thinking that she's really changed until Hero manages to convince him otherwise.

Or worst of all, in the neutral ending... where Basil lets himself go and Kel cries, finally breaking down and unable to hold back the tears this time. He asks Sunny; 'why does this keep happening to us?' in the most heartbreaking sprite in the game. He's human and has a limit, just like everyone else. And it's so cathartic when in the good ending, Kel's efforts pays off in the form of Sunny finally overcoming his demons.

Everything I said about Hero being flexible and whole? Kel is that, but cranked to 11. I absolutely adore this boy and I want him to be happy, because he deserves the world and more.

Kel is my favorite character in all of OMORI. And with that, here's the formal image of the final rankings of all these characters.

Whoo, that must've been a doozy. Sorry that got so long, and if any of my thoughts didn't make sense or are incoherent - I'm a lot better following up on things and adding to it rather than trying to formulate my own thoughts, because trying to think of stuff that people don't already say is pretty hard, eheh.

Anyways, that's my ranking of the main 6 characters from OMORI. Not ashamed to say how much I love all of them and this game, and I'm looking forward to the next time I find the energy to continue this series and divert the discussion from its core set of characters. Hope you enjoyed reading this!

Quick credit for the fanmade pic of real Mari: Some Mari portrait edits : OMORI (reddit.com)

#omori #omori sunny #omori basil #omori aubrey #omori kel #omori hero #omori mari #tier list

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pilferingapples · 1 year

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ah that bit in every Romanticist bio where we gotta get the who's who as the author sees it (all this is from the Fourth Musketeer)

At the Café de Paris, on the boulevard, Alexander breathed the air of the great world. There the celebrities of journalism, literature, and dandyism met.

...this gets long

That man with the warlike hat and blinking eyes' is Nestor Roqueplan who has now left his garret, his washbasin-clock and his pistols-candelabra for the comfortable offices of the Figaro.

OK was this before/after/during its time as an anti-Romanticist paper??

Next him is Jules Janin, who looks comfortably rotund but thinks only of snapping at his neighbor, and who will later fight a duel with Dumas about a wretched question of dramatic criticism.

JULES JANIN DUELED ALEX DUMAS?? ...JULES JANIN DUELES ALEX DUMAS AND LIVED?!?

That fellow by way of being a gentleman, dressed with the correctness of an English lord in a blue coat with gold buttons, a yellow waistcoat, and pearl-gray trousers, is the husband of Marie Dorval, Merle, one of the legitimist party, an epicure and an authority on gastronomy.

..wait, isn't that outfit a Werther cosplay? Am I getting the colors wrong?

. . Over at the long table, orating in a high voice, with his face awkwardly swathed in an enormous neckcloth to hide certain unpleasant scars, is Veron, nicknamed the Prince of Wales, actually the manager of the Revue de Paris, who pays Dumas royally, at least for the time being. With his high color, his greedy lips that look as if they were smeared with jam, and his gluttonous eyes, he seems at once an abbot of former times and a comedy valet.

This guy is way more important than you'd guess by how little he shows up in histories! Also he got his start in patent medicine, which is really jumping out at me post-Blue Castle read!

That tall, thin, dark man, with hair cut brush-shaped and a prominent nose, wearing a velvet caftan and a cap lined with martin fur, is Adolphe de Leuven, librettist of the Postillon de Lonjumeau, who launched Alexander. By his side, flaunting a magnificent kidskin waistcoat and whirling his rhinoceros cane, is handsome Roger de Beauvoir, with a mop of curly black hair, the only one of Alexander's friends who is an aristocrat of wealth-Beauvoir who entertains six hundred people at the Hôtel de Pimodan, and who has just challenged Balzac for accusing him of being named neither Roger nor Beauvoir. Although Balzac took the trouble to send him "forty pages of excuses," the dandy will listen to nothing and proclaims: "I scorn M. de Balzac's prose, I want only his skin!"

holy shit Balzac you messed up??

Here is Eugène Sue, very smart in his sea-green coat, with a rather vulgar turn of the nose that detracts from his good looks. Last, simpler and jollier than the rest, is that good fellow Méry who passes for a librarian at Marseilles, but who is always off on a lark to Paris; an amazing improviser who can compose correctly an act of a classical tragedy within two hours, and in the drawing-rooms describe the tortures of hell so vividly that the ladies beg for mercy.

Fun new party game: Describe the tortures of hell!

Near these gentlemen, but on a lower plane, the madmen appear. "He who was Gannot" and has made himself God under the name Mapah, is a fop and a billiard player now fallen on evil days who sends out manifestos signed "By Our Apostolic Ruin."

The Mahpah is one of the wildest ...visionaries? religious ...somethings? movement leaders? of the time, love seeing him get mentioned (Wiki) (Nonbinary wiki)

Jean Journet, called the Apostle, goes about dressed as a begging friar and sells his verses unfailingly entitled "Songs" or "Cries."

...I have no idea who this is . Sounds like he's coping with poverty very artistishly.

Poor Petrus Borel imagines himself to be a wolf; at his house Alexander has eaten cream from a skull. . . .

excuse you he never said he was a wolf he said he was a werewolf and no one actually disagreed also man,you serve ice cream in skulls ONE time...

...you might see (Dumas) in the rue Grange-Batelière, in the salon of the dancer Marie Taglioni, "the sylph of sylphs," or at Delphine de Girardin's on the days when she recited her poems. But Alexander always grew sentimental near "the Muse" and asked her to receive him in private. "I love you," he said, "with an affection too selfish to share you with the world." Then, when they were alone together, she would interrupt him with questions about dramatic art. "Do tell me how one writes for the theater?" Dumas laughed at what he called "the naïveté of genius." He was attractive to women, there was no doubt of that, even to the most distrustful of them. When Sainte-Beuve, who was fond of playing the rôle of intermediary, proposed to introduce Alfred de Musset to George Sand, she answered: "I don't want you to bring Alfred de Musset. He's too much of a dandy, we should never get along together. . . . Instead of him, do bring Alexander Dumas, in whose art I have found a soul, exclusive of his talent." Alexander came and Sand took a great liking to him.

Wow, imagine if George Sand had ever hung out with Musset What a disaster that would have been huh in that alternate world ><

#place names!#people!#too many to tag #alexandre dumas #Dumas #Delphine Girardin #George Sand #Petrus Borel #French Romantics

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stilltrails · 3 months

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Here's the text (and link) Language is important and I think we need to be careful when referring to the breakdown of Catherine of Aragon and Henry VIII’s marriage. I keep hearing that Catherine didn’t give Henry a son or that she ‘failed to produce a male heir.’ Catherine had six children (at least) 1/2 And three of them were boys so she didn’t ‘fail’ at her duty. One of those children, Mary, lived, so she also fulfilled her duty to produce a viable heir. This language unintentionally perpetuates Henry’s selfish POV and it lays the ‘blame’ on their family’s tragedy squarely 2/3 On Catherine. This isn’t just unfair inasmuch as there was no one to ‘blame’ for the death of those 5 children but it’s, also, quite frankly, a tad misogynistic. I think the focus should be on the tragedy of those deaths rather than insisting on Catherine’s non-existent ‘failure’

#katherine of aragon #henry viii #tudor england #tudor era #i had more to say but i couldn't post it lol

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feelingsareforweak · 1 year

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I have seen a lot of Irondad and spider son aus which are great cures my depression, reduces my acne all that jazz but listen,

Peter parker! Tony stark science clone, like maybe somebody (cough sheldra/ oscorp cough) gets wind of Howard stark having a special place to store his brand new super soldier serum ("you will always be my greatest creation tony") and like somehow they like get tony's blood/semen to make a perfect soldier, test tube babies made and experimented on (bonus if results in horrifying diseases, body defects, cross animal genes showing up etc etc) and then a stark dna is brought and baby is made and it kind of results in okay baby? Like a human looking baby, no genetic deforms or serious genetic defects AND has a very active brain activity for something not even 6 months old but u know the baby is kind of weak and under weight and has tons of allergies maybe diagnosed with long term asthma and other normal defects found in normal babies but not in the experimenter so scientists are getting so excited that they are so close to getting perfection that next one is on but somehow they get bursted? Idk what happens but in the end two of the main scientists end up with that baby who like in the end up decide to raise the baby to see what may actually happen to this baby and also like to kind of avoid suspensions so two birds in one stone or more like two problems in one baby raising

The baby is named Surprise Surprise you got it right Peter and to avoid suspensions Mary marries Richard and like move in near his brothers house where they often take peter to baby sit along with his wife may cuz they are often busy with work and all that jazz so peter never really knows his parents or his condition at all

In the end after their death all he knows they were never there for him and ben and may were always his parents anyway

Fast forward to peter getting a spider bite and ben dying and becoming spiderman but tragedy tragedy may dying within a few months so during cps evaluation he finds tones of file about himself and getting an identity crisis cus he is a genetically modified a goddamn tony stark clone who going by the files should not be in any way alive but he is. Peter is both horrified fascinated and disgusted with himself and having a quater-life crises at this and kind of like spirals?

(I mean not really but mild horrified fascination that he is a clone!! of Tony Fucking Stark!!!! And he has genetic mutations!!! Enhanced abilities!!! Cuz ill be real if he is a bit on the animal side he may not really get human morals and shit, I want him a bit more on animal side here like he is sunshine daisies but not really understanding of concept of human moral compass cuz his brain was experimented on early and his iq is size of fucking mount everest and he is bored in high school)

Fast forward six months of foster care with ned and post civil war era where Tony doesn't recruit him cuz spiderman started late and is not really on his radar where SI is giving out free scholarships partnering with MIT, Harvard and other big college names that i have not researched enough to name rn and peter applying to it.

Cue ppl being horrified of this pint sized kid blowing all the tests and exams out of the wind and being like this is so freaking easy wtf is this what college teaches nowadays I don't even want to go to college if this is what it is. Scientists are screaming, professors are crying And some of the ug students are throwing up cuz like that was one of the toughest tests I have ever studied for and written in but this chilli sized horrible puns shirt kid comes and does this what even is his life now!???

Now this small packet is blowing college courses like one blows the wind and obviously this gets Tony's attention and somehow he gets roped in mentoring this kid but he is fucking hot mess who has 101 health problems and don't even ask bout his mental or emotional health okay but somehow he agrees okay

Now Peter is in foster care and doesn't want ppl to know he is spiderman (here spiderman is kind of criminal, he steals, he threatens and blackmails ppl but he also saves ppl in broad daylight, helps tourists find directions, helps grandmas cross rides, climbs trees just to save kittens stuck up there like a weird mix of vigilant, assassin and hero who is never known to kill but always subdues cuz he learned that human lives are precious that needs to be preserved after taking away his only source of maral compass and care and love after discovering his science experiment of existence ) so he graduates high school at 14 and gets bachlers from MIT, Harvard, Cambridge in STEM subjects with the young minds programme at the age the age of 15 and is on fast track of getting atleast 5 phDs by the time is of age to vote.

Tony is fascinated and worried for this kid who has managed to become his personal intern but his heart melts everytime he sees hero-worship in the kid's eyes for him, The hot mess™ Tony goddam Stark cuz it doesn't matter if he is a Tony Stark clone, he has always looked up to him from the time he remembers and Iron Man had saved him in Stark Expo okay don't judge him he is still 79.45% human and technically Tony Steak shout be his father anyway

Somewhere along bi weekly lab days and constant checking on this kid who is a star wars fanatic, makes absurd snack monstrosity to eat, is a total lego nerd and being a weird teenage mess this orphan of a kid makes his way along his non existent heart and discovers his genius of an intern is a stupid teenage dressed in onsie that fights crime on daily basis while making bad jokes and help everyday ppl but spiderman maybe loved by Queens but spiderman is kind of criminal so Ironman publically takes Spiderman under his wing.

After all this shit imagine Tony discovering his wayward son's origin story and imagine Tony being emotional mess but Peter is like its okay I'm alive I'm fine but tony is like no its not. It's a rollercoaster mess of emotions, discovering what it means to be a human, forming relationships, real life communication and identity crisis where in the end its kind of ambitious with morgan being born and all that Irondad and Spiderman fluff and jazz

#I mean there are many heir peter fics but there are not ammy him actually taking over SI I know #I mean I want SI inner workings #SI employees kind of terrified of this baby #Tony giving ridiculous nicknames to Peter in SI files where nobody knows hoe to actually adress this kid #where spiderman is ridiculously overpowered #where peter parker is a fucking genius and it shows #where tony being a proud dad #where Irondad is real #where infinity war never happened and thanos is never real #aand in the end SI taking over the world #that is my jam #go SI take over the world ill will fully support you #iron man #spider man #irondad and spiderson #mcu #marvel #genius Peter parker #genius Tony Stark #heir peter parker #super serum carrier tony Stark #science experiment peter parker #clone Peter parker #a bit of superior universe #morally kind of grey peter parker #morally kind of grey tony steak #world domination #SI takes over the world

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goddessapostle · 2 years

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How to Survive your Haunted House

Fandom: Bungo Stray Dogs Characters: Chuuya, GN!Reader, Elise Summary: “You look like an Emma,” you told her after several minutes of staring at each other. This did not please her. Her expression shifted from bored curiosity to ferocious rage. She stomped and ran at you, passing through your body with no more than a cool wind. When you turned around, she was gone. Should you be more concerned about living in a haunted house? Probably. But it’s your house, ghost or no, and nothing’s going to scare you off. Not even when she’s nothing more than a shadow watching you attempt sleep.

10.7k // AO3 // Masterlist

A/N: This is part of @thecoffeelovingfreak’s halloween collab, Season of the Witch!! I was so excited for this collab, I wrote….. a whole lot. This is the longest one-shot I’ve ever written, coming in at a whopping 10k words!!@_@ Anyway, I hope you enjoy!!

The weight is unusual.

The noise you’re already used to; your keychain is always jingling against whatever else you’ve shoved in your pocket.

But this weight? This is new.

A thrill runs up your spine as your fingers brush the metal, warmed by your body heat. You pull your pocket open to peek inside. You know you have the biggest, goofiest grin spread across your face, but you just can’t help it. You can’t stop. You refuse to stop.

Even when your boss smacks the back of your head as he walks by. Even when your feet ache as you make your way to your car. Even when you find your mailbox half-buried in the roadside weeds for the fourth time this week.

You right your mailbox with a smile and a zip tie. Lets see those kids knock it off this time!

And then you open the gate to your new house.

It’s small and old and, if you’re being honest, kind of ugly. A drab gray in color, except for the lilac window shutters. Situated on a not-quite acre of patchy grass that’s only green-ish, bordered by a tall brick fence that’s only red-ish. It’s a cliché Halloween house, and you’re proud to call it home.

Or maybe that’s just the rush of euphoria brought on by the first taste of freedom since getting your driver’s license.

The rickety steps creak under your weight, and the crooked banister sticks another bunch of splinters in your palm — six in all, one for every day since you moved in.

The key seems to burn when you remove it from your pocket.

The front door takes some jimmying (and a couple kicks) to open fully; the wood must be swollen, you decide, from the morning rain. You walk through the front hall, ignoring both the open doorways to other rooms and the little girl that stands between them, and straight up the staircase to the master suite. There, you shirk your work clothes and take the nicest, longest bubble bath in the enormous tub.

It’s the perfect start to your three-day weekend.

And then your stomach flips into your chest, and you realize you haven’t eaten in hours.

The little girl is at the bottom of the stairs when you reach the top. She glares up at you with the most adorable pout, and you can’t help but smile and wave back to her. It makes her stomp her foot and turn, mouth open to call for… well, you’re not really sure. A parent? A friend? A dog of some kind?

She begins to fade, starting from the tips of her Mary Janes and traveling up her poofy red dress. “See you later, Emma!” you call down to her. You glimpse another sharp glare just before she disappears completely.

Your stomach gives a low rumble, reminding you of why you were on the stairs in the first place.

You’d heard rumors about the ghosts before you moved in. About the house besieged with death. A bloody history filled with everything from murders to suicides to just plain tragedies. Everyone in town had a story. Some personal experiences, other general anecdotes.

The most prominent being the tale of the doctor and his daughter.

Their names have been lost to a game of historical telephone(something with an ‘R’, no, a ‘K’; wait, that was the other one–), but the story persists: one summer day, the doctor left town. He came back a week later with a child in his arms. No one was sure who the mother was — the doctor never told. But he claimed the child as his. All was well, until the doctor lost his hospital and was on the verge of losing his home. So he did the only logical thing he could think of — emphasis on ‘he’.

He killed his daughter and then himself. Their blood stained the walls in a morbid painting.

You don’t know if the story is true; all the newspapers were lost when a fire tore through the old library records around twenty years after the incident. The only thing that survived was a small photograph with a charred bottom corner. It’s hung on the wall of the current library, black and white and grainy, as part of a mural of the town’s history.

While the photo was nearly indecipherable when you first saw it, you can tell now that the girl in it and the girl in your house are the same. They have the same wide-set eyes, the same light and curly hair; they’re even wearing similar dresses — though the one in the photo is a deeper color, not the same dull maroon as the one in the house.

There were no names attached to the photo, so you had no idea what to call her when she just showed up three days after you moved in. “You look like an Emma,” you told her after several minutes of staring at each other. This did not please her. Her expression shifted from bored curiosity to ferocious rage. She stomped and ran at you, passing through your body with no more than a cool wind. When you turned around, she was gone.

Should you be more concerned about living in a haunted house? Probably. But it’s your house, ghost or no, and nothing’s going to scare you off.

Not even when she’s nothing more than a shadow watching you attempt sleep.

You peek open an eye and scan the room.

You don’t see her, at first. She’s crouched in the corner, hidden behind the closet door that just won’t stay closed. You’d probably have to nail it to keep it shut, but what would be the use of a closet you can’t open at all?

She’s not all there, right now, not even a recognizable silhouette. Just a wisp of herself, dark and vague. She doesn’t respond so much when she’s like this. You don’t know if that’s an energy thing or a personality thing. A princess that doesn’t deign to speak with a commoner. She was rather spoiled by her father, after all, before he slit her throat.

“I see you,” you say. She must have liked Hide-and-go-Seek. That closet was probably her favorite hiding spot; she’s behind it a lot.

You feel a gaze crawl across your bed to land on your face. You give her a smile, and she decides to stand–

That’s not Emma.

That is not Emma.

Or maybe it’s just the dark. Maybe it only looks three heads taller than her. Maybe she can fly. Ghosts can fly, right?

The thing in the corner jerks forward.

It doesn’t move like a human.

The closet door slams shut.

You scramble to the opposite side of the bed and fall to the floor. That thing — person? It’s person-shaped. A lithe torso. Two… arms? Maybe? And a head that’s twisted just a touch too far to one side. A person-shaped blob of smoke.

Ha. Ha. That’s funny. That’s funny, right?

You press your back against the wall.

It creeps over your covers.

One smokey tendril reaches out. It brushes the hair above your ear–

And then it’s gone. The room warms without the presence of the whatever-that-thing-was-you’re-getting-some-sage-tomorrow. Except maybe it’s not gone? There’s something heavy in your chest — ah, wait, that’s just your heart, half-exploded.

Okay. So. There are two ghosts in your house.

Emma, who you’ve only ever seen on the first floor, now that you think about it.

And whatever that thing was. It’s not the first time you’ve seen it. You thought it was her. Emma. The doctor’s daughter. It showed up the same night you first saw her.

Why did it decide to move tonight? It usually stays crouched in that corner. What does it do? It watches you, you know, but why?

Is it the doctor? Someone else? Something else?

Your heart slows to its natural beat, but your limbs are still filled with jelly. You reach a hand out on the bed and find it cold where the thing was kneeling on it.

The door slams again, and you jump a foot into the air.

Fuck this. You snatch your pillow and blanket (both still cold) and run downstairs for the living room couch.

Your three-day weekend is spent cleaning up — both physically and spiritually. You light some sage to smolder while you clear out the cobwebs you missed in your first few passes of the house. You dust and sweep and vacuum and mop. You have a housewarming party planned for later that you need a spotless house for. Then you watch Ghost Hunters: International while you wait on a load of clothes to finish washing.

It looks a lot more dramatic than the ghosts you have, but it’s on one of the few channels you get right now and it’s kind of pertinent to your situation. One of the investigators points out a white spot zooming across the frame in one of the cameras and calls it an orb. A different investigator plays back some warbly audio and claims it saying ‘murderer’ over and over. Yet another investigator takes off his vest and shirt to reveal three scratches running the length of his back.

The washing machine beeps. You turn off the tv and go collect your laundry.

Sure, the show had similar experiences — they used thermal cameras to catch shifts in temperature, and they saw an apparition of an old man in the window before they entered the house. But it just wasn’t convincing.

Your ghosts are different. The show claimed they were just leftover memories from when someone was alive. That they can’t interact with living people.

Which simply isn’t true. Emma never spoke to you, but she responded. And then that thing last night touched your hair. You felt that.

So the show is all a bunch of hullabaloo.

The day outside is clear and crisp. A gentle breeze rolls down the hill to you and your laundry. You hum as you walk out to the clothesline, glad that the sun is shining so bright. Your clothes will be dry in no time!

You hang them up and sigh as you take in the view. If the front of the house looks bad, the back looks worse. One of the boarded-up windows is empty of glass — you’ve got someone coming to take a look at that next month — and there are scraps of paint peeling away from the gray wood beneath. The grass is even less green. Two garden beds house dead or dying rose bushes. There’s a shadow in the–

Your blood runs cold. There’s a shadow in your bedroom, looking out the window. Looking at you. It disappears when it catches you staring back.

Isn’t sage supposed to get rid of ghosts? You haven’t seen Emma since you lit it. Maybe because it’s not in the same room? You haven’t been upstairs yet. That must be it! You just need to smudge it separately!

You start towards the back door–

Didn’t you shut it?

You stop a good six feet from the porch. The back door hangs open. Its hinges give the quietest of squeaks as it drifts gently back and forth as you watch.

Just the wind, surely. There’s nothing actively moving the door. And it makes sense that it’s open. You had your hands full when you left. You just couldn’t close it. Yeah. That’s what happened.

Crash!

You land on your ass. A roof tile lays shattered between your legs. It would have landed right on your head had you not fallen back.

A chill runs down your spine. You tear your gaze away from the tile to meet the eyes of the spectre in your window. Pure fear pierces your heart.

You run inside to grab the bowl of burning sage and race up the stairs. You kick the door open and thrust the bowl out in front of you as you enter.

No one is there. The spectre is gone.

Your legs shake as you step into the hall. A flash of blonde catches your eye as you start down the stairs — so Emma isn’t gone, either. You glare at the sage in your hand before tossing it in the trash.

Screw the cleaning. Your clothes are out drying, but you don’t need to be home for that. And everyone has off days; your friends aren’t judgemental and the house is presentable enough.

You leave the danger of your home for the library. The earlier records may have been destroyed, but the house has been standing for a hundred years since. There has to be something out there.

But how to search for such a thing?

You go to the computers first and type in the house’s address. It pulls up twenty years of realtor advertisements. It’s changed hands at least seven times in that period; it ends with the tragic death of a Eugene Davis, hit by a car as he exited for school one morning. The driver was never found, and the family moved out the summer after. It’s been empty since — until you bought it one year later.

Further back you find more.

Dozens of names on the victim list, at least one every two years, but often more. In no particular order: Kouyou Ozaki was shot by an ex-lover. Chuuya Nakahara was found on top of the fence, speared through the chest by the iron spikes. Michizou Tachihara was beheaded by a corrugated metal sheet during a remodel. Ryuunosuke Akutagawa was killed during a home invasion, but not before taking out the three men attempting to assault his sister.

The longest the house has gone without incident is thirty-two years — while Gin Akutagawa, Ryuunosuke’s little sister, lived there. But whatever miracle protected her ran out, because she disappeared one day and is currently presumed dead.

It’s a chilling list. Not just how long it is, but how gruesome as well. You touch your chest where the spike had gone through Chuuya, then rub your neck where it had been separated from Michizou’s head.

Gruesome.

Had they felt any pain?

There’s no way to know, unless…

Maybe the thing in your room is one of them. The people that died on the property. But there’s so many. Is there a cause for it? And why wasn’t it mentioned when you bought the damn house? You pull up the advertisements that led you to it in the first place, but they’re all devoid of any type of warning.

“You don’t want that one.” A deep voice pulls you from your thoughts. A man stands at your shoulder, staring into the computer screen. “It’s cursed.”

“Oh, really?” you say. Your sarcasm is either lost on the man, or ignored by him. His lips tighten into a thin line.

“Really. But I have a feeling it’s too late to warn you away.” Ignored, then. He takes a card from his notebook and sets it on the desk in front of you. “If you need any help,” he says by way of explaination.

And then he’s gone, stalked off on his lanky legs to some annoying-looking brunet hiding in the shelves. You examine the card he left behind.

Doppo Kunikida, it reads, Lead Investigator, the Astral Devoiding Agency. Ghost hunters, if you had to guess.

Well. Now you know the house is really dangerous.

That thought in mind, you decide to do a little shopping once you leave the library.

When you return home, your mailbox is gone. You sigh at the empty post and dig around in the weeds, but you can’t find it anywhere. The zip tie you do find, snapped just below the head underneath some… poison ivy, you think.

It can just stay there for now.

The shadows stretch in the evening sun, spreading the spiked tips of the fence across your legs. You frown up at them and wonder where, exactly, Chuuya died. It’s been… fifty years, almost. Though any evidence is long gone, you can’t help but wonder. There are rust-colored splotches all around the top.

Emma is waiting for you when you walk in. She seems to be in a good mood; she smiles and waves at you. You smile back. “What’s up?”

Her mouth moves, but no sound comes out. By the time she stops speaking, she looks excited for something. Footsteps sound above your head.

Emma hops in place.

You stare up at the ceiling. Then you pull your newly-bought pocket knife from its bag.

The footsteps keep moving. You hear them wander down the hall and into your bedroom.

There’s a great clatter, then silence. Emma points up the stairs and places a ghostly hand on your back. Goosebumps rise around it.

You make your way up the stairs, holding the blade of the knife in front of you. Your bedroom door stands open into the hall, and across from it….

Your mailbox. You stop to stare at it. The knife shakes in your hand.

“You should really lock your doors.”

You turn your knife to the man in your doorway. The only thing you see is a flash of teeth that disappear as soon as you look at it.

Later that evening, as you’re changing for the housewarming party, you notice a bruise on your chest. A dark blotch just below your collar, with five thin, spotty growths spreading from it.

It’s a bruise shaped like a damn hand.

The couch isn’t comfy. You don’t want it anymore. It’s old and lumpy and has quite a few questionable stains. (Is that one juice or wine? Or could it be blood? That one is hopefully spaghetti sauce. And, um, that one looks like…. Gross.)

It came with the house, like most of the furniture, and it just needs to be thrown away. You can’t exactly afford a new one, though, so you’re stuck with this one. You just can’t sleep on it.

And that is how you found yourself back in your bed. In your room. With the mysterious shadow-ghost-man.

You hate it. But you have to work tomorrow, so you suck it up like an adult(have you ever mentioned how much you hate being a real adult?) and snuggle deep under your comforter. Hopefully it, or he, or them — how many people died in this house, again? —won’t be able to get you.

Whatever. It’s a well-known fact that monsters can’t get you when you’re tucked up under your covers.

They can, however, make themselves known.

A weight settles in behind you. An arm wraps around your waist.

“I know you’re in there, Sweetheart.”

That’s the voice. The same voice that told you to lock your door(which you totally had). You hold your breath and hope he goes away.

He doesn’t. Instead he shifts closer, close enough to chill you beneath the blanket, to whisper in your ear. “Sorry about the other day,” he says. “Just wanted to get it over with.”

Get what over with?

You give yourself approximately two seconds to think it over, then, “What do you mean?”

“I’d get out if I were you.” Is-is that a threat? In your own home? In your own bed?

“This is my house,” you scoff, “I’m not going anywhere.”

“Your funeral.”

His tone may be mawkish, but was that a hint of sincerity just below that?

His weight shifts away from you, but doesn’t leave the bed. You lower your blanket a smidge — just enough to peek.

Damn, you’re glad the sun hasn’t set yet, or you’d never be able to see how goddamn gorgeous he is. Burnt orange hair curling up to frame his face. A lithe body reclined on your bed. Toned arms spread across your pillows as he cradles his head in his hands. Long, luxurious lashes that rest against his cheeks.

He is, pun intended, drop-dead gorgeous.

“Take a picture,” he says without opening his eyes, “it’ll last longer.”

“Sure,” you say sarcastically, “let me take a picture of the non-physical entity taking up half my bed.” He says nothing, just smiles. “Would you even show up?”

“I don’t know.” He shrugs.

You stare. He opens one storm-gray eye to meet your gaze. “Here.” He reaches over you to pluck your phone from the bedside table and drops it on your half-covered face. “Picture. I’ll even turn to my good side.”

“Would that be the side that’s more or less transparent?” You roll your eyes, but take the phone anyway.

Sure enough, he’s just a smudge of darkness in the photo. If he weren’t still lying there in front of you, you’d just think the lens was dirty. You show him with a triumphant smile. “See? You don’t show up!”

“Guess you have no choice but to stare, eh?” He gives you a wicked grin that sends your heart flying.

And then you realize you’re talking to a ghost and roll over under the covers again. “I have work in the morning,” you tell him, “so be quiet.”

You don’t expect to sleep, but you also don’t hear a peep from him for the entire night. He’s gone when you wake up, but the memory of his smile remains through the day.

The man shows himself here and there, mostly to tease you. A gentle push into a counter that knocks you off balance. Appearing in a corner of the room you’re in. Even crawling into your bed at night for what you can only assume is cuddling. He hasn’t spoken since that first night, but he’s got plenty of personality.

Just another ghost, you guess. Emma and… Hopper, you decide. A dapper name for a dapper man. Emma doesn’t seem to like the name you’ve chosen for her, and there’s no telling if Hopper will, but until they tell you their names, they are stuck with the ones you made up.

It takes a month of calling him that for Hopper to show up again.

“Emma! Hopper! I’m back!” you call into your empty house. A chill crawls up your spine as you shut the door, but there’s no one in the entryway. You take a step toward the stairs.

An arm settles around your waist, pausing you in your tracks and pulling you back into his icy chest.

“Who are you calling for?” Hopper asks.

You shiver in his grasp, either from his cold or his proximity. You aren’t entirely sure.

“You,” you tell him, “and that little blonde girl.” You turn to face him but he’s not even visible. Just pressure on your side and whispers in your ear.

“That’s not our names.” The voice comes from farther away, but the hand still settles on your stomach.

“Well it’s not like I have anything else to go by.” You slip into the light jacket you’ve taken to wearing around the house. “You never gave me your names.”

Hopper is leaning against the counter when you enter the kitchen. Emma runs through you and out the door, presumably to haunt the front hall. Hopper points after her. “Elise.” He tilts his hand so his thumb points to himself. “Chuuya. Haven’t you done any research?”

Chuuya. You remember the name. Just not where it’s from.

“I have.” You start to put your groceries away around him. “But do you know how many have died on the property?”

Chuuya taps his fingers together as he thinks. “Six?”

“More like forty-six,” you correct, “and they didn’t show many pictures.” You shoo him out of the way to reach the cabinet below him. “Which one are you, again?”

“Guess,” he says, and his smile is obvious.

“Hmm…” You think as you push pasta onto the shelf. So many deaths, you have to narrow it down somehow. “Illness?”

“No.”

“Mysterious disappearance?”

“Nope. Keep guessing.”

“Can I get a hint?”

“Sure,” he says, and you can tell you won’t like his answer by the snark in his voice. “The hint is: I died.”

You tilt your head up to glare at him, but he’s completely unphased. It looks like he’s trying to stifle a laugh, actually. That cheeky little shit.

You have half a mind to tell him to keep his secrets. You have no obligation to play this little game of his.

But oh, that smug smile of his drives you up the wall.

So you cross your legs and lean back against the counter’s door to study him. His clothes are old-fashioned — gray slacks, pressed into perfect creases. A white button-up covered by a silky suit vest just a shade or two darker than the pants. Sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and black leather gloves on his hands. Shiny black loafers on his feet, and to top it all off, a fedora resting on his head. All expensive. All designer.

He could have been dressed up for a special occasion. Or, of course, he could simply be an eccentric man dressing in an out-of-date style.

You think you prefer the second option.

It’s still not a very good clue, though. “Murder?” you ask after a bit of self-deliberation.

He clicks his tongue. “Bingo.”

Okay, so. Murdered. How many people were murdered here? You suck on your teeth as you think. “In the house or out?”

“Outside.” His voice is sour. “Still on the property, though. Barely.”

“Does that matter? Whether it was here or not?”

“It does.” Chuuya walks around to lean on the island. “The last kid got lucky. He just missed the threshold.”

Got lucky. The kid still died, but he got lucky. Sure.

“What do you mean by threshold?” you ask after rolling your eyes.

“The house. Anyone who dies on the property is trapped here.”

“No way. That can’t be true.”

Chuuya shrugs. “It is. This land is a spiritual hotspot. The house is the strongest point. They can travel a few feet outside, but that’s all.”

You stare at him.

“It’s true,” is all he says.

“They’re trapped in the house?” Chuuya nods. “But you stole my mailbox. That’s outside the fence.”

He smirks. “Special privilege.” You raise a brow. “Granted by proximity to the border.”

“Okay, so,” you lean back against the cabinet door. “Why isn’t the house overrun with ghosts, then?”

His face doesn’t change much — it barely changes at all, except for a more dangerous tilt to his smile. But that alone is enough to send a sense of dread creeping up your spine.

“We eat them.”

Oh. They eat them.

Eat them.

Eat them?!

Your jaw drops. “‘Eat’ as in…?”

Chuuya’s tongue slides along his upper lip. You think you might throw up.

“What…” What happens to them after? you want to ask. Scared of the answer, you ask instead, “What do they taste like?” and immediately think you should’ve said anything else.

“It depends, really.” He takes no notice of your discomfort, or if he does, he ignores it. “Usually like mud. But there are some that taste immaculate. There’s a certain criteria that makes them beautiful.”

“And what might that be?”

“They’re brave.” He leans forward until he’s floating over the island and in your face. “They don’t seem to mind their undead roommates.” He smiles that shark’s smile and your stomach turns.

You’re listing off realtors in your head when he backs up with a more jovial smile. “Kidding.”

The air leaves your lungs in an audible whoosh and you slump back against the cabinet. You’re not sure what he’s kidding about, but you’re not sure you want to know, either. “I don’t think you count as ‘undead’. Zombies are undead.” You poke a finger through his cheek. "They come with corporeal bodies."

He tilts his head to you. "True. Dead but not gone.”

“Because of the house.”

“Yeah.” He looks away, through the window and into the back yard. He’s lost in something, some memory of his lost life or, perhaps, his new one. You give him the time he needs, studying his profile as he loses himself in his thoughts.

He’s a handsome man, you decide. Had you been born in the same time, there might have been something between you and him.

Could there be something between you now?

Ridiculous. You disregard the flutter in your stomach, choosing to believe it anxiety and not hope. It takes a lot of nerve to live with undead roommates, as Chuuya put it, and surely that nerve can falter every now and then.

He turns his gaze back to you and grins. The flutter kicks up a notch. “So you know I was murdered. What does that mean?”

You frown. “Jack shit. A murder doesn’t really narrow it down much.” The only murders you really remember are…

You eye Chuuya from your position on the floor. “You weren’t one of those guys that broke in to rape that girl, were you?”

“Hell no!” he growls, nose wrinkling with a scowl. Insult flickers across his gaze. “The fuck is wrong with you?!”

“Sorry!” You throw your hands up. “I just wanted to make sure.”

“Trust me, I would’ve done them in if I had the chance. But Akutagawa got to them first. Sometimes I swear he’s not even human.”

“He’s technically not anymore, is he?”

“Guess not.” Chuuya wrinkles a bag on the counter. “He didn’t hesitate to deal with them on this side, either.”

Deal with them?

You hesitate before asking, “You mean he… ate them?”

Chuuya shakes his head. “He ripped them to shreds. There was nothing left afterwards.”

So ghosts can die, or something similar. You stand and finish putting away your groceries. “So what’s the criteria?” Chuuya grunts and raises a brow. “What determines whether someone gets eaten or not?”

“How strong they are, usually. As long as we can fight the others off, we’re safe.”

So the stronger ghosts eat the weaker ghosts. That makes an unfortunate amount of sense. It’s just the same bs that goes one in the world of the living on a more metaphysical(and literal) level. You think of your mortgage and bills and how easy it would be for you to lose everything you’ve worked so hard for.

You start a bag of popcorn in the microwave.

“What about Elise?” you ask as the thought occurs. “She’s a child. Don’t tell me she was able to fight off the strongest person here.”

“She doesn’t have to.” Chuuya stands at the microwave, transfixed by the rotating plate. “Her dad’s the most powerful spirit. He protects her.”

“Her dad? The one that killed her?”

“Oh, so you know their story but not mine?” he jokes.

“Come on, Chuuya.” His smile grows at the use of his name. “It’s been a famous story ever since it happened. I bet even you knew it before you died.”

“Yeah, and?”

You give him the flattest look you can, and he busts out laughing. “Y’know, I think I like you. Don’t leave anytime soon.”

With company like him around? “I certainly don’t plan on it.”

You smile wide and ignore the butterflies swarming in your stomach.

Elise waits for you, every time you leave. She bounces around on your return, darts in and out of doors, appears and disappears randomly. She’s happy to play now that you know her name, and you’re happy to entertain her.

Chuuya, on the other hand, often waits for you to settle before he shows himself. He loves to drape himself across you, to make himself comfortable in your presence.

You ask him, one day, as you’re laying on the couch with his head on your chest, why he’s so touchy with you. He closes his eyes when you ask, humming in deep thought.

“You’re warm,” he finally says, and you must have a look, because he cracks a face-splitting grin.

“What?” he asks, “Think I can’t feel it because I’m dead?”

“Kind of,” you say, “I didn’t think you felt things at all.”

He opens his eyes and squishes a finger to your cheek. "Feel me touching you?" You nod. “Well, I can feel you, too. Hard to touch something and not feel it.”

“That’s a fair point,” you admit, “but I do have one question.” He tilts his head, and you poke your fingers into his cheek. They sink through his face, his skin turning more translucent so you can see them beneath it.

He waits a full minute before saying, “That’s not a question.”

“I think it’s a valid argument.”

He considers for a moment. “You don’t feel anything? At all?”

You wiggle your fingers, then pull them out of his face. “Just a little chill.”

And oh, the smug look he gives you–

“Okay, smartass,” you huff, “you’re actually touching me, though. Your hand doesn’t just pass right through me.”

“Well yeah,” he says, and you get this vague feeling that he’s about to say something you won’t quite understand. “I use a lot of energy when I want to touch things.”

Aaaand you were correct. “When you say ‘energy’, what do you mean?”

Chuuya clicks his tongue. “Same way you use energy to walk or talk. Except I feel like I’m running the whole time just to touch you. It would be ten times worse if I made it where you could touch me, too.”

“I wish I could touch you,” you mumble. “Wait,” you sit up, and he slides to the floor, “you have to– like, activate your ability to touch me?”

He hoists himself back onto the couch and turns to face you. “Yeah. It’s not automatic.” He places a hand on your arm, but it travels right through, leaving goosebumps where it hit.

You have to shiver before he pulls away.

You lift one knee onto the couch as you turn to him. “So you expend a lot of energy to touch things. Where do you get it?”

Chuuya shrugs. “It just builds up over time.”

You rest your cheek against the back of the couch. “But it regenerates quickly?” He almost nods, but hesitates.

“For me, it does. I just need a few hours of rest.”

“And for the others?”

“It just depends. Not everyone has the same reserves as me. I saw someone sleep for almost a year after using too much once.”

“Is that how you gather energy again, by sleeping?”

“Sometimes. We can also pull it from things like wind or rain, or even people.”

You furrow your brow at that. “People?”

“I could even take energy from you. It’s kind of da–”

“Show me.”

“What?”

“You say it takes a lot of energy to touch me. Let me repay the favor by giving some to you.”

“You’re reckless.” He shakes his head, but smiles anyway. Then he raises one hand straight up, palm facing you, and nods to it.

You lift your head and stare before setting your palm against his. The leather is soft, but cold where you would expect warmth. You line your fingers up with his, only then realizing that you can feel them. Your eyes widen and you look from your hands to him and back.

“A gift. To thank you for trusting me.”

“Trusting–” you start. Then all the air is sucked from your body. You gasp, trying to breathe, but your lungs are frozen.

Your entire body is frozen.

Ice runs from his hand into yours. It spread through your arm and into your chest. Your breath clouds before you. You can’t–

Why can’t you breathe?!

Chuuya clicks his tongue as he pulls away, and you can finally catch your breath. “I tried to tell you it was dangerous, but I don’t think it would have mattered. You’re dangerous, too.”

You wrap your arms around yourself, trying to hold back the shivers. Your teeth chatter when you speak. “Why didn’t y-you say it felt like that?”

“It was probably worse, since you were freely offering it to me.” He disappears from in front of you. Asshole. You wait before following him, eager to gather more heat first. A blanket drops over you, covering your head and shoulders. By the time you’ve wrapped it more properly around yourself, he’s sitting on the floor facing the couch. His arms rest on the cushion, creating the tiniest indent, and he casts a shadow you’ve never seen from him before.

He looks more alive than you’ve ever seen him.

“You alright?” he whispers. His fingers twitch like he wants to reach out to you, but you both know that will only worsen the chill.

“Yes,” you stammer out, voice as soft as his, “I’ll be alright.”

It takes him a minute to believe you, but he does, and he smiles. It’s a gentle smile, fun of warmth he can’t possess, and you feel your throat tighten again. There’s a glow to his cheeks, some sort of rosy color, and you’re not sure if that’s because of you or the energy you gave him.

“Hey…” you start once your heart slows, “were you the one in my room? Back when I first moved in?”

“I was the one that threw your mailbox from it.”

You shake your head, then pause at the bout of dizziness that causes. “No,” you say, “before that. Almost a week after I moved in. There was– I don’t know, a shadow man, or something.”

He lifts his head from the couch, smile fading. “‘Shadow man’?”

You describe to him the figure in your room. You hadn’t seen it since Chuuya revealed himself, so you thought it was him.

His souring face says otherwise.

“Let me know if it happens again,” he warns. “I don’t know who it was, but I doubt they had good intentions.”

Your face pales and he frowns. He reaches forward, offering his hand but not touching you. You reach forward, and he wraps his fingers around yours. “I won’t let them hurt you,” he promises, pressing a kiss to your knuckles.

You’re sure he can feel your pulse race with the fluttering of your heart.

Chuuya promised to keep the monsters at bay, and he has, for the most part.

Shadows disappear when you turn to look at them. Footsteps creak along the halls when you’re alone. Nightmares haunt your dreams every night. Emma clings to you more, trying to keep you close.

Your house has become more active, that much is obvious.

But whatever Chuuya is doing, it works. None of the other ghosts bother you.

You get comfy, as the days fade from summer into fall into winter. He limits his touches as the weather grows colder(your heating is busted), but still joins you in your bed. He waits until you’re snuggled under the covers to lay beside you, arm slung across your chest. You can tell — by the tone of his voice, the look in his eyes — that he wishes for more. He misses your warmth, but he’s not going to sacrifice your safety for it.

He’s halfway through a sentence, regaling you with tales of his living life, when he disappears mid-word.

“Chuuya?” You turn, but he’s not there. He’s not anywhere, you discover, as you sit up and study the room. You call out for him, increasingly frantic as he doesn’t answer.

The floor is cold on your feet. You ignore it to search for Chuuya.

And then you come to on the rooftop.

You teeter on the edge, a wisp away from falling, chilled completely to the bone. You gasp and fall back, scrambling away from the drop.

Ice wraps around your ankle and yanks you closer.

Your fingers scrape against rain-slick tile.

There is no stopping your fall.

You scream.

And then are pulled up.

Hands beneath your arms move you away from the edge. A leg kicks out against whatever’s holding you. A chill spreads across your back from where it presses into his chest.

“This one’s mine!” Chuuya growls.

It is utterly unhuman.

He pulls you into safety and steps between you and the edge. You can’t see anything there, except in the rapid flash of lightning. A boy, you think, based on the structure of their body. Whispers sound from all around you, and you can’t tell if they’re coming from the figure or from elsewhere.

Chuuya’s shoulders tighten. His snarl loosens into a scowl, and he glances back at you, searching your face.

“What are they saying?” you whisper to him, and his posture relaxes. He glances back and pushes you toward the open window you must have used to get on the roof.

“Tell ya later,” he answers. He helps you through the window. “Stay right here. I’ll come get you when it’s safe.”

“Safe?” you breathe, but he slams the window shut behind you. He’s not behind it when you look.

…safe? Is the house not–

Well, it’s haunted so–

Cursed? Is that what the ghost hunter called it? Is the house really curs–

Of course it’s fucking cursed. Chuuya told you as much. All the deaths should have told you. The house is fucking haunted.

The house is fucking cursed.

But what happened? The only ghosts to even touch you so far are Elise and Chuuya. Why did someone try to-to kill you? And who were they?

You slide down the wall beside the window. He said to stay here, right? In the attic? Or will the rest of the house be safe as well?

Are you really safe here?

Well. Obviously not.

You take a look around the cramped attic. You’ve hardly touched the place; the entrance is in the ceiling of a second floor closet and the ladder consists of half-rotted wood. All the boxes you saw on your first (and only) venture into it contain mysteries, still.

The trapdoor is open. Light leaks in from below.

You crawl closer to it, aware of every creak the floorboards make beneath your knees. Peeking into the opening reveals nothing, just the empty closet. The door to the hallway is open — it’s where the light is coming from — but you can’t see anything past it.

Until a woman pokes her head in. “I’m pretty sure he told you to stay up there, did he not?” she asks. She smiles, though, like she already knows the answer. “I won’t tell if you come down, though. I’d welcome it.”

Her hand lifts towards you with the grace of a ballerina. She stays in that position, an image of perfect beauty; golden hair framing her face, brown eyes wide and innocent. Not quite demure, but something like it.

“Um,” you squeak, “no thanks.” You back up and slam the door shut, plunging yourself into darkness.

Which isn’t any better than the woman, you think. You lift the door a crack and peek into the closet.

Nothing. The corridor is empty.

Who was she? What did she want? The way she looked… she had that same dangerous glint in her eye that Chuuya often wears when discussing the afterlife. What would have happened if you’d taken her hand? Nothing good, you imagine.

Something crashes inside the house.

A weapon. What you need is a weapon.

You search the boxes for something that could work as one. Not that any would, considering what you know of ghosts. But it’s to settle your mind more than anything.

In the third box, you find a pair of soft leather gloves. Petite, sized somewhere between adult and child. You place one in your palm, stretched out, matching your fingers to the ones of the glove, the same way you and Chuuya sometimes hold hands. They have to belong to him.

Where is he?

You hold the gloves to your chest, over your heart.

Is he hurt? Can he get hurt?

He could get eaten.

Oh, god, he could get eaten–

No. No, he has not been eaten yet. You’ve never discussed where he falls in terms of strength, but he’s survived fifty goddamn years in this house, he won’t be overcome so easily.

Another crash comes from below.

You have to get down there.

You cradle his gloves against your chest and make your way to the opening. The first step creaks under your weight, but it holds. It holds.

As does the next step, and the next. It’s the fourth one that cracks, sliding your foot past the fifth, sixth, seventh. You gasp as you slide, butt hitting each step until the bottom. You land face-first on the burgundy carpet. A quick body scan reveals a scraped nose, a sore rump, and — worst of all — a wounded pride. Surely you could have stopped yourself before you ate the rug? What the hell was that poor performance?

Never mind. It’s not important. Not as important as Chuuya, at least.

You peek through the closet door. Nothing. No shadow people, no strange women, no knight in designer armor.

Outside you venture, gloves pressed into your skin as though they were a worthy wooden shield and not soft leather smaller than your own hands.

The entire second floor is empty. You poke your head into each room several times to check, then head toward the staircase. You remember (now, after your fall) that stairs are stronger at the ends, away from the middle, so you walk with one foot pressed against the bannister. It is, perhaps, the quietest you’ve ever been inside the house.

There’s no one on the first floor, either, and you haven’t been able to find a basement. So where the hell–

Voices.

Voices coming through the floorboards.

You kneel down and press your ear against the ground.

The voices are muffled, but you can almost make them out. You hold your breath to hear more clearly.

The only thing you hear is your name, tossed about by several of the voices.

Chuuya’s isn’t one of them.

Someone shouts, crying out for blood. Their single cry turns into a chant, broken occasionally by a chilling shriek of your name.

They’re mine, you make out among chanting. After all…

“I found them first.”

You gasp and jump forward, twisting your body to see the man behind you. He towers above your crouched form, glaring down at you with something like malice. His shadow twists into yours, ignoring the light coming from the front hall. Pure hatred crawls up your spine, chilling to your bones.

There’s something deeply wrong with this man.

His fingers twitch.

Your hand erupts in pain.

You scream and hold it up. An inky black spike runs clean through the middle of your palm. You brace yourself for blood as it dissipates.

There is none, though. Just a cold white circle on your skin.

You look up at the man. More spikes rise around him.

You turn and pull yourself into a run.

They feel like bullets that pierce your legs.

You grunt as you hit the ground. The pain grows the longer the spikes are stuck in you. You don’t know how to pull them out.

Your hair rustles as he kneels and places a hand on your head. “It hurts, doesn’t it? It’s the same thing I felt when I died.” Your body goes numb. “It will be much worse for you.”

You swing backwards, fist making contact with his chest. He’s knocked off balance, and you spare a tiny moment for thoughts as to why.

And then you’re racing for the door again. The man shouts behind you, but you’re through the front door when his shadow spears your stomach.

The pain is intense, more so than before. A raging hellfire burning inside your abdomen, scraping itself into your chest and lungs. You heave into the grass; bile runs into the pathway.

You cough and look behind you, but the man stopped on the bottom step. There’s barely a foot between you and him, but all he does is glare down at you, teeth bared in a snarl.

He can’t go any farther. He’s at the boundary of the house.

Your trembling arms threaten to drop you face-first into your own vomit, but you manage to scoot away first. Then you’re laying on your back, and your heart pounds a mile a minute, and the rain is cold, and your blood rushes to your head because it’s on the downward slope of the hill, and you can breathe. You can breathe.

And laugh, apparently. Frantic, half-conscious giggles escape your mouth and are carried away on the wind. And then you groan as you sit up — the pain is not nearly as bad as it was a second ago, but still persists as a dull throb.

You shiver in the cold. You don’t have any shoes, or even any socks. You wrap your arms around yourself and feel something pressed into your shoulder.

Chuuya’s gloves. Wrinkled by your fist and dampened by the rain, they glow with a dark red light. You’re not sure what it means, but it scares you.

Where is he?

You make your way down the gravel path and to your car, sitting just inside the gates. Chuuya makes you keep it here so it wouldn’t be too close to the house. You never really understood why until tonight.

The dashboard lights up when you insert the spare key(kept taped to the underside of your seat), and the heat flares to life soon after. You wave your fingers in front of the vent until some feeling returns to them. The air does little to dry you out, but the gloves are dry before you know it. They still glow, faintly, fading, sputtering in and out.

You have to find him.

You’ll drive the car up to the porch, you decide. And you’ll stand just inside the spiritual boundary to lure out a ghost, and then you’ll step back and question them. It’s a sound plan. Probably.

You’re just swinging the car around when the headlights catch on a dark shadow above the brick fence. Your heartbeat kicks up a notch.

Then falls silent in your chest.

“Chuuya!” you scream as you exit the vehicle.

He doesn’t move. You can barely reach his hand to shake him. You pull the car closer, as close as you dare, close enough to fold the passenger side mirror against the side of the car. You hop out and up onto the hood, then the roof, and you’re finally able to reach him.

He’s not breathing–

Which is normal, you remind yourself. He’s dead. Of course he’s not breathing.

“Chuuya,” you whisper, again and again, repeating his name like a prayer. He’s laying on his back on top of the fence. Four iron spikes pierce his chest, stomach, and leg. He looks solid, there, more solid in pain than he ever has before. You have to get him down.

Your hands pass right through him. You can’t touch him.

Tears well up that you refuse to let fall.

Why can’t you touch him? Sure, it takes energy, energy he obviously doesn’t have right now, but you managed to push the other ghost! What was different now? What was–

The gloves. You were holding his gloves when you shoved the other guy.

They creak when you put them on, but do not tear.

And, miraculously, amazingly, gratefully, you grab his shoulder.

You brace your knee on the concrete and pull. His fingers twitch, and his face contorts. You whisper apology after apology as you lift him off the spikes. He grunts as you pull him forward, resting his chest against your shoulder. You’re halfway through freeing his leg when his arms wrap around you and his fists close in the fabric of your nightshirt.

“Told ya to stay… in the attic…” he rasps in your ear.

If a voice could make people drunk, you’re pretty sure that’s what this feels like.

You sob into the air, hugging Chuuya with all your might. He gasps and pushes you away. He cradles your face, studying it.

“You… You’re still alive…” he breathes. “But you…” his hand squeezes yours. “How?”

You squeeze his hand in return, then release it. You hold it in front of his face. “This is yours, right?” The glow is stronger now, emitting a dark red light.

He slides his palm up and laces his fingers between yours.

It’s the first time you’ve properly held hands with him.

He moves his face forward, pressing your foreheads together. “I thought you were dead,” he whispers. “Thought I was never going to see ya again.”

“I’m here,” you whisper back. “I’m here and I’m not going anywhere.”

“You can’t stay. They’ll kill you.”

You know that. You are highly aware of that. Your bones still tremble in the cold from the rooftop, your back still aches where it was stabbed. But you don’t want to leave him. “What about you?” You pull back to look at his face. “What’s going to happen to you if I leave?”

He sucks in a breath through his teeth. “I’ll be fine. I can fight back.”

“What about this?” You grab his thigh where the tip of the spike pokes through. He flinches. “How did this happen?” you whisper.

He looks around before he answers, keeping one hand on your back and the other in yours. You shiver, despite the fact that his touch is no longer cold to you. “You need help, first,” he says, and lowers you to your car.

“What about you?” You grab the spokes to brace yourself against the wind. “You’re still stuck.”

“I’ll be down in a minute,” he tells you, “so just get in the car.” He holds your hand for as long as he can while you slide onto the hood and then the ground. You glance up at him as you open the door, but he waves at you to hurry.

Blessed warmth. You hadn’t realized how cold you were, but now your body aches in the heat blowing from the vents. Your fingers crack when they bend and your cheeks begin to thaw. You’re still shaking, though, despite holding your hands to the vents and rubbing them across your frozen skin.

Thud!

You scream when the car rocks.

“Just me,” Chuuya says, head sticking upside down through the windshield. He crawls onto the ceiling of the car, then plops into the passenger seat. He leans the seat back and places a hand over the wounds on his chest.

It’s not blood that oozes from it, but something darker, something almost black that spreads into the air like smoke. You hover your own hand over his, and he takes it with his free hand. “I’m okay,” he whispers into your palm before kissing it. “I’ll be okay.”

“What can I do?” you ask, but he shakes his head.

“You’re here. That’s enough. I just need sleep.”

You nod, and he drops his hand to the glovebox between you, still wrapped around yours. His head lolls to the side. In the reflection in the mirror, his eyes are slightly closed, his mouth is slightly open.

His body starts to fade. So does the glow from the gloves.

And that is very, very bad, you think.

“Chuuya?” You shake his shoulder. He doesn’t respond. “Chuuya!”

Your hand begins to sink through him, despite the glove.

He’s going to disappear.

You won’t let that happen.

You lean over him, hands pressed into his heart. You don’t know how he took energy from you before, but he did say it felt so bad because you gave it to him. You try to dredge up that feeling again.

It comes to you slowly, or maybe it only feels slow because of how cold you already are. All the warmth you’ve gathered since entering the car leaves you, flowing into Chuuya. His wounds close, and the fabric over them repairs itself. He grows more solid under your touch. His eyes begin to flutter as the ice spreads through your veins.

He shouts your name.

Your vision goes dark.

And then gray.

And then blinding white.

You blink against the light, squinting to see through it. Sitting up takes more effort than it should; your limbs are heavy and your head swims in circles. You raise a hand to massage away the headache that threatens to knock you out again.

“Oh, you’re awake!” A man saunters in, hands in the pockets of his tan overcoat. He calls out the door, “They’re awake! Told you, Kunikida!” He sits down in the chair beside your bed(your hospital bed; you find that appropriate, somehow) and says, as if he’s known you your whole life, “We were so worried about you! How’re you feeling? Hypothermia is nothing to take lightly, you know.”

……..You have no idea who this man is.

Kunikida, on the other hand, sparks a distant memory from almost a year ago. “You’re the ghost hunter!” you say, pointing to him. He grimaces, as does his partner.

“We are paranormal investigators,” he tells you at the same time his partner huffs, “Don’t ignore me like that!”

“What are you doing here?”

Kunikida unfolds a newspaper and offers it to you. You frown as you read over it. The article doesn’t bother you at all; it’s just a short rundown of your house’s morbid history, followed by a few sentences about the mysterious call that led paramedics to you, half frozen in your car. No, what bothers you most are the notes, written in scribbly red ink across the paper.

Your address, the nearest hospital locations, even your own name, which isn’t in the article in the first place.

You eye the two men, holding the paper like a shield between you. “Have you been stalking me?”

“Yep!” says the first man.

“No!” says the other. He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose beneath his glasses. “We like to keep tabs on the house at this address. But beyond an occasional drive-by, we don’t investigate further.”

Drive-by. Investigate. What.

“I… do not like that.”

“We’re sorry,” Kunikida says, “but it’s a necessary part of our job.”

“It’s a dangerous house, you understand,” the first man says. “I would gladly take your place, but my partner here won’t let me.” H takes your hand and holds it between his. “Unless you want to join me? It would be a beautiful double–”

“Yes, yes, you freak.” Kunikida interrupts, taking one of the man’s hands and holding it. “No one is going to commit suicide wtih you.”

You pull your hand away from his and into your lap. “I still don’t understand why you’re here.”

“We just want to check in with you,” Kunikida says. He sinks into the chair beside the first man(you should really ask his name) and, while still holding his hand, pulls a notebook from his vest pocket. “We also wanted to ask about what happened two nights ago that led to you nearly freezing in your car.”

You…. don’t trust these men. “Why do you want to know?”

“I told you, we like to keep a record of all the incidents that happen there.”

“And why is that?”

“So we know what to expect when we investigate. Ranpo and Dazai have a pretty good idea, but I like to be thorough.”

“Investigate?”

“With your permission, of course.”

Oh. They want to investigate your house.

Wh-

Why?

You narrow your eyes. “What do you expect to find?”

“Ghosts, ghouls, and demons!” the first man exclaims. He swings his and Kunikida’s hands back and forth between the chairs.

“Don’t scare them, Dazai.” Kunikida admonishes. To you, he says, “You won’t have to worry about anything. We’ll do a thorough investigation and clean up all the spirits we find.”

Well. That’s not going to work, is it? Chuuya’s gloves are right there on the bedside table. If all spirits include him and Elise, then….

“We haven’t had a chance to explore it yet. All the owners sold it when the hauntings became too much for them. They didn’t even think to look deeper into it. But we have a whole team of psychics, all of whom have their own method of exorcism. There won’t be a thing to worry about once we’re done.”

Your frown deepens with every word. Dazai has to nudge Kunikida to quiet him. In the following silence, you ask, “Why are you so interested in my house?”

“It is dangerous,” Dazai tells you again, “and it’s host to the most activity in town. It would be an interesting experience, if nothing else.”

“Is that it?” You shake your head. “I don’t feel comfortable letting complete strangers into my house for such a silly reason.”

“I assure you, it’s not silly.” Kunikida opens the notebook and starts reading off the stories he’s collected — stories you are well aware of, after all your research and everything Chuuya’s told you. It’s when he reaches the decade-old murder of a young woman that you interrupt him.

“I know the history of the house, thank you.” Did that sound sarcastic? That totally sounded sarcastic. It just wasn’t sarcastic enough. “I’m still not interested.”

“But this incident was only the first,” Kunkida says. “If you stay, you’re going to have another. And no one will be there to save you next time.”

You’re not so sure about that.

You return home the next day. You stand just outside the gate, staring up the hill to your house. You shiver in the wind that blows fallen leaves into your yard. The gate squeaks as you open it. Your car is still parked against the inner wall. You don’t know what awaits you inside the house, or even just inside the gate, but everything looks fine from the outside.

Except for your missing mailbox.

Your heart pounds as you make your way up the path and to your porch. The doorknob twists under your hand. You peek around the door, but there’s nothing behind it. It’s not even all that dark; sunlight streams through the windows in other rooms and leaks into the front hallway.

You step inside and close the door behind you.

And then are thrown back into it.

You gasp as arms wrap around you.

A face presses into your stomach.

And–

And someone giggles.

You blink down at the head of blonde hair, tied back with a maroon bow. She raises her head to meet your gaze with bright blue eyes.

“Elise,” you breathe, patting her head with a gloved hand.

“You’re back!” she exclaims, and you blink — you’ve never heard her speak before.

“Well, look at that. She likes you.”

You jolt at the new voice. You have no idea who said that, but you do know it doesn’t belong to either of the two ghosts you trust.

Elise turns and huffs. “You promised!” she calls into the hall.

“Yes, yes, of course. I won’t touch them.” You blink, and a man appears at the base of the stairs. He’s tall and lanky, with slicked back hair and a piercing gaze. “I was just making an observation. You don’t usually let people hear you.”

“Well I like this one.”

“Right, right. I won’t take your toy away. Not yet.” He turns his attention to you. Your blood runs cold.

“Um,” you stammer, “you must be the doctor.” Elise’s father and murderer. “I-it’s nice to me-meet you.” You’re not sure if you should offer a handshake or not.

“I am,” he nods, “my name is Ougai Mori. I hope we can get along in the future.”

And just like that, he disappears.

You flinch. Elise huffs. “He won’t bother you,” she says, waving a hand. “He doesn't want to upset me, and he’s always trying to make up for killing me. Besides, I’m not the only one who will be angry if anything happens to you.”

Your eyes widen. “You mean–” you breathe. “How-how is…”

Something crashes upstairs.

Elise hops in place and points, setting a hand on your back.

You race up the stairs and to your bedroom. The door to it is wide open. On the floor across from it is your mailbox.

“You should really lock your door, you know?”

#bungo stray dogs #bsd #bsd x reader #chuuya x reader #bsd chuuya nakahara #bsd fanfic

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