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afterdarkprincess · 9 months

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Aftershocks Part 5

This was definitely a labor of love today but I'm happy to be able to give you all another chunk of this story!

We're getting to the good stuff I swear :)

This is set immediately after Tribal Combat at Summerslam for those joining the party, and Samijey is definitely endgame here.

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Tags for @feelschicken and @southerngirl41

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The ride to the hotel was only about 20 minutes but it gave Sami ample time to replay his interaction with Jey over and over in his mind.

They’d been so close. So close to… something.

The interaction could have went so many ways, it nearly had spun out of control after Sami’s blunder in bringing up Jimmy too soon. But ultimately Jey had been receptive to him in a way he hadn’t in a long time.

Getting Jey to agree to come back to his room?

He was trying not to think about it too much. Not to hope too much. Surely this night will go the way so many others have, sleepy jokes shared between the two of them as they settle down, and resting in separate beds.

Of course, they would actually be alone this time. No Jimmy or Solo to cut the tension.

And there had definitely been tension in that med room. Sami had been determined to at least try to convey the depths of his feelings. Even if he couldn’t quite nail all of them down yet, he’d been brave enough to reach out and touch that beautifully tanned skin and pledge his fealty again.

Kevin might be his tag partner, and his relationship with the other Canadian would always be special. But Jey was his tribal chief.

He wouldn’t go to such lengths as Paul to show his adoration, but maybe he could show it in other ways.

Sami felt his face heating up at the thought.

He wasn’t sure at what point over the last year his feelings for Jey had developed from brotherhood to something else. It was a gradual change and Jey was too important to him to risk the bond that they’d developed after War Games to even think about it realistically back in the winter.

They were always with the rest of the bloodline then, and it was easy to dispel those thoughts when his gaze or touch lingered too long. He and Jey were never alone for long, and looking back now, maybe that had been by design.

He certainly wouldn’t put it past Roman to actively try and keep him and Jey apart. The head of the table had been too delighted to stop Jey from putting that lei over his head.

And after that? Well they did say absence made the heart grow fonder.

Meeting Jey behind the arena, following him in dark hallways, risking everything just for a few moments to talk.

It had seemed so important to try and get through to Jey. But Sami never once tried the same for Jimmy or Solo.

And the Wrestlemania match? He certainly hadn’t planned to show his heart that much. He watched the match back with Kevin after, and dismissed the questions about holding Jey’s face and the words he’d only barely whispered.

“You chose this.”

Maybe that hadn’t been fair. Jey did choose his family, but Sami had made his choices as well.

It was hard to regret the decision to leave, saving Kevin and putting that chair in Roman’s back had been the right thing to do. It led to him becoming the tag champion he is today.

But the choice had ultimately come down to choosing Kev or choosing Jey.

And it had been very hard to not choose Jey, to choose to leave him to languish in a family that only loved him for how useful he was, and not the million other reasons to love him.

And Sami did. Love him. He was almost scared of how much. And for the first time, he could contemplate that maybe those feelings weren’t one sided.

He knew Jey loved him like a brother. He’d said as much in front of the whole world when he defended him in tribal court. And there had been moments in those months when they were close that felt like more than brotherhood, but they were easily explainable.

Jey crying in his arms tonight, and the way Jey had looked at him after he’d acknowledged him? Well it didn’t feel very ucey.

His phone’s GPS loudly announced that his destination was ahead on the right, sharply bringing him back to reality and the fact that he would be alone with Jey tonight.

He would not allow himself to think about anything untoward. It wouldn’t be right for him to take advantage of Jey’s emotional state, even for a chance to taste those pouty pink lips.

He turned the wheel sharply, whipping the car into the parking lot, and rubbed his face with his hand.

A perfect example of thoughts he SHOULDN’T be having.

He took his bags into the hotel, exchanging pleasantries with the bored-looking night staff.

Sami found himself distracted again during the check in process, stubborn mind fixating on how warm Jey’s pulse point had been under his thumb earlier, and how the sweat on Jey’s brow might taste on his lips.

He shook his head, trying to clear his head as the woman hands him a key card, he thanks her and heads off to the elevator to get to room. With any luck he might have time to have a very cold shower before Jey arrived.

He sent a quick text to Jey with the room number, receiving a quick reply that just said “Ye.”

He shakes his head fondly. Typical Jey.

He ignores the 4 messages from Kevin that question his life choices and sanity. Thankfully Kev had gotten his own room, but he was never going to hear the end of it.

Despite the hotel being empty at this late hour, it seems like they booked his suite on the third floor as far away from the elevator as humanly possible. Usually its not a huge issue, but Sami is tired and every step seems excessive.

When he finally reaches the room, he’s greeted with a bathroom and living room setup, beds presumably around the corner in the nice large suite. Being a champ had its perks after all.

He drops his bag a few feet in the door, and heads into the bathroom to splash some cold water on his face. His hair is still haphazardly tied up into a bun from earlier, and his beard looks scraggly. Sami owns his look, knows that his scruffy appearance is part of his appeal, but he has an urge to try and clean himself up, make himself more presentable.

Jey is always so put together, so fastidious with his appearance, with 8 skin care products in his nightly routine and a variety of lotions and oils to keep his skin nourished and healthy.

Sami had seen those new back tattoos on the monitors. He wondered if maybe he’d catch a glimpse of them later.

He splashed more water on his face. Maybe he should get a spray bottle to keep himself in check, like a naughty cat.

A knock at the door pulls him from his thoughts.

Damn, he hoped he’d have a little more time before Jey would arrive. But he felt his heart flutter a bit as he opened the door.

“Hey Uce,” Jey’s soft smile was a welcome sight. “You sure you got rid of KO?”

Sami laughed, “He wasn’t happy, but yeah it’s just us. Beds should be through there.” He gestured around the corner of the living room and Jey nodded, picking up Sami’s bag as he went.

Sami headed back into the bathroom, he just needed another minute to collect himself and he would be fine, a perfect gentleman.

He started to shut the bathroom door when he heard, “Uce?”

There was a strain in Jey’s voice that alarmed him. He yanked the door back open with a bit more strength than probably necessary and headed back in the direction of the beds.

Or bed.

Instead of the two Queens he was sure he had booked, there stood Jey staring at the singular King sized bed in the center of the partitioned part of the room.

“Somethin’ you forget to mention about you and KO?” Jey said with a nervous laugh, his voice still strained.

Sami’s heart was beating out of his chest. Surely he would have heard “One King” during check in, but his traitorous mind had been otherwise occupied.

“Jey, I hadn’t even looked- wait, no!” He felt his face turn bright red as he realized what the Samoan had implied. “Kev and I aren’t- I mean we’re friends but I wouldn’t, I don’t-“

Jey lets out a sigh, which Sami tries not to read into too much. “Alright, Uce. Chill, okay? I believe you.”

“I’ll go down and ask for a new room- it’s fine, let me just-“ He’s talking too fast and he knows it, turns to trek back down to the lobby to get this sorted out, but he’s stopped with a hand on his shoulder.

“Sami.”

He meets Jey’s eyes, and finds an expression he can’t place.

“It’s okay. We’ll make it work.” Jey drops Sami’s bag on one side of the bed and moves to place his on the opposite, like its the most natural thing in the world.

Sami is spending the night with Jey. In one bed.

He’s so fucked.

----

THERE'S ONLY ONE BED, FRIENDS!!

Next time- Jey's thoughts on this situation, and definitely some more feelings!!

We're getting to the good stuff soon!

#samijey #sami x jey #jeysami #jey uso #sami zayn #aftershocks

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no-reply95 · 3 years

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I was scrolling through the Beatles topic on Twitter the other day and came across a tweet from Mark Lewisohn referring to a talk he’d given to the Fab4cast podcast on the Get Back sessions and Spring period of 1969. I assumed that it was a recent talk so I gave it a listen but the talk is actually from 2019.

I tend to find Lewisohn’s podcast interviews to be very interesting. He’s obviously got decades worth of Beatle knowledge stored up so you’re almost guaranteed to learn something new or hear an anecdote that you’ve never heard before but more than the factoids he’s accumulated over the years I find his interpretations of the band extremely telling.

The part of the conversation that really caught my attention was when the podcast hosts brought up the fact that John and Paul’s weddings were really close together and wondered if the two events were connected in any way, I don’t think it’s an exaggeration to say that this probably got the biggest reaction out of Lewisohn, the main points of the exchange are outlined below (time stamp 47:12)

Host: “Well also in this period there are two events, the marriages of John and Paul, within 8 days of each other… I read that John wanted to marry on the 14th, two days after Paul’s wedding but couldn’t do it because of legal issues, how much was his [marriage] a response to Paul’s marriage do you think?”

Lewisohn: “I’ve read that people say that it was but never heard John say that it was so there’s no validity to those claims they’re just people assuming that John didn’t want to be outdone by Paul… that’s the kind of writing that annoys me because it becomes part of the fact and it’s some writer thinking that’s what it probably was… Unless someone out there can find a Lennon quote in which he actually says it in which case I stand corrected and I’ll be very happy to do so”

There’s a lot going on in these quotes so I’m gonna break down my thoughts on this further:

The illusion of John’s honesty

What Lewisohn displays here is something I believe is pretty common within the Beatles’ authorship. I believe in Revolution In The Head Ian McDonald referred to John as “truth” and Paul as “beauty” and I think a lot of writers do tend to assign those attributes consistently to John and Paul. Reading (or listening) to the Lennon Remembers interview now, it’s hard to believe at one stage people took what John was saying as fact and never even questioned whether there were emotions or agenda behind what he was saying, despite the contradictions (“Me and Paul stopped writing together in 1962” vs “Me and Paul worked really closely together on Sgt. Pepper”) and because John was so charismatic and would speak openly in interviews and to people he knew about both the good and bad in his life I think people, and in this case Lewisohn, assume that John told us everything of note that happened in his life, which I don’t think is a realistic expectation of anyone, let alone someone as famous as John. I think it’s problematic to take John’s or anyone else’s words, especially when they’re said in public, as the gospel truth because everyone has an agenda and John was no different. I also think it’s unrealistic to believe that John would ever announce that the reason he and Yoko got married when they did was in any way connected to Paul, that would have sullied the sanctity of “John and Yoko TM”, I mean, how can you be the greatest love story ever if the reason you decided to get married was because your musical partner who you may have unresolved romantic feelings for got married? I don’t think John would publicly embarrass Yoko like that or risk undermining the strength of the brand he was trying to create with his new relationship by admitting that Paul’s marriage spurred them on. That Lewisohn is apparently holding out for a lost interview of John stating that Paul was involved in the timing of his marriage to Yoko just sounds pretty far fetched to me.

The timing of John’s wedding in relation to his and Yoko’s divorces

As discussed in this podcast, Paul and Linda got married (pretty unexpectedly I believe) on 12 March 1969 and John and Yoko got married 8 days later (and apparently they wanted it to be sooner) on 20 March 1969. Aside from the extremely close proximity of John and Paul’s weddings it should be noted that John’s divorce from Cynthia was finalised in November 1968 and Yoko’s from Tony Cox was finalised in January 1969.

So why am I bringing up John and Yoko’s divorces? Because it meant that they were free to marry each other from January 1969, there was no longer a legal issue preventing them and if John’s bursting out in song about it, you would assume that they would have started planning their wedding ASAP… but curiously they didn’t. How do we know John and Yoko weren’t planning a wedding before Paul married Linda? Because once Paul was married John and Yoko started scrambling to get married ASAP, suddenly there was a rush and need to be married that hadn’t existed before, John suddenly wanted to marry Yoko on a ferry but they couldn’t be married there, then John wanted to marry Yoko in Paris but they needed to be resident in Paris for a period of time before they could get married there so eventually they settled on Gibraltar as they could get married there at short notice. Clearly there was a sudden need for John and Yoko to get married that didn’t materialise until around March 1969, am I and countless other people (including Paul himself) crazy for assuming that Paul’s wedding impacted John’s sudden desperate need to be married? If it wasn’t Paul’s wedding, what was it?

Authorial interpretation and assumptions

I’m really fascinated by the visceral reaction Lewisohn had to just the suggestion that the timing of John and Yoko’s wedding was connected to Paul and Linda’s. For Lewisohn to state it annoys him was pretty shocking to me because, given what is publicly known about this period and the lack of any other logical reason for John and Yoko’s wedding to be so close to Paul’s and Linda’s, I don’t think it’s bad writing to point out the proximity and suggest that the timing was more than a coincidence.

Based on his reaction, you would assume that Lewisohn would be set against any form of interpretation where the principal in question hadn’t confirmed that the interpretation was in fact correct but that would be an incorrect assumption to make. Some of you may be aware of the Hornsey Road shows Mark Lewisohn was giving in 2019 around the 50th anniversary of Abbey Road. During these shows Lewisohn played a clip from the, now infamous, 4-4-4-2 meeting tape and gave a presentation on the Abbey Road period in the Beatles’ history. One of the points Lewisohn raised during the show was that during the sessions, after the car accident in Scotland, a bed was brought into the studio for Yoko so she (and sometimes John) could rest while work on the album progressed. According to Lewisohn, one morning they turned up to the studio and someone had removed one of the legs from the bed, leaving it with 3 legs *dramatic pause* which was him heavily hinting that he thought Paul broke Yoko’s bed on purpose and then bragged about it on the Ram album by including a song called 3 legs, I’m not going to go into the validity (or lack thereof) of this claim but I find it very interesting that Lewisohn was annoyed about authors suggesting that the timing of John and Yoko’s wedding was connected to Paul and Linda’s but he seems happy to publicly speculate that Paul was sabotaging Yoko’s bed in the studio based on the title of a song that he would release on Ram two years later and nothing else.

Is there any evidence that connects John’s wedding to Paul’s?

I’ve already outlined the suspiciousness of John and Yoko choosing to get married right after Paul, when they had been free to marry for weeks prior but is there any other evidence that either proves that the weddings were connected or is Lewisohn right to deem that suggestion as lacking in validity?

Interestingly there actually is unverified eyewitness testimony that does connect John and Paul’s weddings (something not mentioned by Lewisohn in this podcast). I believe there’s an anecdote from Les Anthony (John’s chauffeur at the time) about him driving John and Yoko around when news of Paul’s wedding suddenly came across the radio, to which John apparently said to Yoko that “we have to get married now”… I couldn’t track down the exact source for that story (if anyone knows the source please let me know) so I’m not sure how credible that anecdote is but, assuming it is accurate, then that would suggest a correlation between John and Paul’s weddings that Lewisohn is adamant doesn’t exist.

Why does this matter?

I do think that this podcast interview could be indicative of a few future concerns I personally have around the way the Beatles discourse will progress in the future. Firstly, this was only a podcast interview so it’s unlikely that when Lewisohn releases the final book in his trilogy that he’ll discuss the weddings in this manner (I.e. although he’s adamant the timing of John’s wedding had nothing to with Paul he failed to offer any sort of explanation regarding why John and Yoko were rushing to get married when they’d had weeks to prepare a wedding).

It’s a slight worry that Lewisohn seems to believe that John announced every single thing that happened in his life of note, especially concerning Paul and Yoko. If John had told us everything of interest about him, surely his Dakota diaries would be the basis of a Netflix series by now and not locked away in a vault (assuming they haven’t already been destroyed). To me, like several authors before him, Lewisohn seems to be mistaking John’s emotional honesty with factual honesty. It didn’t escape my attention that several clips of the Lennon Remembers interview were inserted into this podcast and Lewisohn quotes extensively from it in Tune In as well. There’s nothing wrong with using Lennon Remembers as a source but if you do use it you should be analysing the veracity of what was said as we know that John was in a torched earth mentality at that time and even he himself has said what he said in that interview wasn’t meant as a timeless manifesto. It’s a shame that given his ability of analyse sources Lewisohn has never (to my knowledge) critically analysed Lennon Remembers, given that other sources have been analysed this makes LR a strange omission.

Finally, Lewisohn does tend to make some good insights and does have the ability to read between the lines (I.e. him noting Paul’s tendency to say “we” when in most cases he means himself) but with John I do think he has a bit of a blindspot. Why Lewisohn is happy to speculate without evidence in some cases (3 legs) but he draws the line at the suggestion that John and Paul’s weddings being connected is anyone’s guess. If Lewisohn can turn his attention to reading between the lines with John and the other Beatles too and connecting the dots then we should get a Beatles biography that finally addresses a lot of the issues we cover on this site. However, if we take the approach of only using John and Yoko’s PR to understand the events that transpired before and after the band broke up then the story hasn’t moved much further than 1970 and given all that we know now I think that would be a huge shame.

#the beatles #john lennon #paul mccartney #john and paul #mark lewisohn #paul and linda #john and yoko #double wedding #beatles podcasts #given Lewisohn’:s status it’s crucial he doesn’t just dismiss things he doesn’t like as invalid #interpretation is fine as long as it’s correct #i have other podcast thoughts on a separate show #thoughts #long post

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marvelatthetwilight · 3 years

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Good to be home.

A/N: Just a quick one while I sort out some follow up pieces.

You had missed your brother immensely in the 5 years since you had been home. You were 7 when your mom left, and your dad moved you both back to La Push hoping that being back at the reservation would help you both, growing up as part of a community. Your dad gradually grew distant, starting to drink more and more. Sometimes he could be gone for days at a time, leaving the two of you to fend for yourselves. You relied on each other for everything. It was a shock when, at 13, your dad decided you should go back to Tacoma and stay with your grandparents, claiming that he couldn’t care for two teenagers, and that your brother was “easier” to deal with.

And so, the two of you were separated. Partners in crime, peas in a pod, best friends, ripped apart.

When your grandparents passed away, you finally had the money and the means to move back to La Push, reuniting you and your brother Paul once again.

~~~

“Y/N Lahote as I live and breathe!” Jared Cameron came bounding over to your car as you pulled up to the address Paul sent you.

“Paul has NOT stopped talking about you coming home, I don’t think I’ve ever seen him so excited” Jared smiled as he opened up the passenger door and helped you with your bags.

“Jared, you look so grown up! You used to be so weedy! What happened?” You stared incredulously at him, he had grown at least a foot since you last saw him, had filled out and become muscular, nothing like the Jared you were expecting to see.

“Ha! If you think that’s something, just wait until you see your brother.”

You followed him into the house which you understood to be Emily and Sam’s. They had offered to let you stay with them whilst Paul was still finishing his house he was building for himself and Rachel.

As you entered the kitchen you were greeted with a hug from Emily, you recognised her from the photos Paul had sent you over the years. Emily was closely followed by Kim, and then Rachel, who you had spoken to on the phone almost everyday since you had planned to return home.

“Y/N! We are all SO excited to see you! Paul and I have so many plans for us!” Rachel jumped with joy, excited to spend time with her new “sister”.

“So where is my brother? I was expecting him outside waiting considering the amount he has been bothering me with questions about my arrival this week” Rachel looks over at Emily before saying; “he’s out doing some errands with Embry and Sam, they will be back soon, let’s get you settled!”

They gesture for Jared to help with your bags, and he picks them up with ease before leading the way to the guest room.

“This is going to be so hard keeping everything from Y/N if she is staying here, it’s going to be right under her nose. The boys aren’t subtle at all.” Emily whispers to Rachel.

“I know but that’s why we are in charge of keeping her busy! At least until Paul’s house is ready, then it’ll be easier.” Rachel replies as she starts walking towards the guest room, not realising that you had hung back to ask Emily a question away from Jared, unintentionally hearing their conversation.

~~~

An hour later you are in the kitchen at Emily’s dining table, bonding with the girls over your love of cooking, discussing your favourite bands. But you couldn’t stop thinking about what you had overheard. What were they keeping from you?

At that moment, Paul appeared at the door, an enormous smile on his face.

“Y/N!!!!!!!” He ran towards you, lifting you from your seat, into a bear hug. Oh how you had missed his hugs. Although you don’t remember them being this warm.

“I can’t even begin to explain how excited I am that you’re here, I have so many plans, we can go to the beach, go for a hike, I can show you the house, you can choose how to decorate your room..”

“Maybe give Y/N a chance to process what you’re saying before you keep going there Paul. I’m Sam, it’s so good to finally meet you, I’ve heard so much about you” Sam holds out his hand for you to shake, you choosing to ignore that and pulling him in for a hug instead. Woah, it’s not just Paul who feels like he’s burning up. They’re like heaters.

“Obviously I have to hug the man who’s helped my brother out so much. Thank you for everything you’ve done.” Sam smiles at this, before turning his attention to Emily, pulling her in for a hug and peppering her face with kisses.

“...thanks for running off Paul, Sam can you please explain to this idiot that just because he’s one of the fastest wolves in the pack doesn’t mean he needs to run at full speed all the time?!...oh...erm...” everyone’s heads turn to face the two new people who have appeared at the door, seemingly unaware of your presence until it was too late.

Paul’s face turns red with anger, you recognise this quickly from the stories he had told you over the years. Rachel is quickly to his side, arms around his waist, forcing his eyes to her own, speaking to him softly and calming him down.

You look again to the two men still standing in the doorway.

“Erm...hi. I’m Quil, and this idiot is Embry. Sorry, we forgot you were coming today Y/N, please ignore Embry, we have a running joke with Emily calling us all wolves because we act like a pack and we eat her out of house and home”. He laughs unnaturally at this, glancing at the others who join in, catching on that this should be funny.

You smile tightly at him, something is definitely up here. Then you turn your attention to the guy you now know to be Embry. You vaguely remember Embry and Quil from school, friends of Jacob Black’s, you were in the same year but not friends, but you don’t remember him looking like this. Why are all of Paul’s friends so muscly and tall? You definitely didn’t remember Embry being this handsome, he definitely would have stood out more. It’s like Sam has a type for his friends, another thing to add to your list of suspicions, as well as this bizarre reference to wolves. What is going on?

You realise that Embry is staring at you, his eyes are unfocused and he looks like he has completely zoned out. You cough slightly, drawing him out of his trance, attention back to you. His eyes are soft and warm, his face breaks out into a huge smile as he reaches out his hand.

“Hi, it’s so good to see you again Y/N, we’ve heard so much about your time away, erm, I’m Embry.”

You take his hand in yours, he’s so warm, why are they all so warm?

“I remember you Embry. You, Jake and Quil were like the three musketeers, always together!”

Embry smiles at the fact you remember him, and nods his head at your statement.

“We still are, don’t know what I would do without them!”

A growl sounds out from across the room, a quick cough coming from Sam stops the growl suddenly. You turn to see Paul, still with Rachel wrapped around his waist trying to calm him, shooting daggers at Embry.

“Oh this is great! I am SO looking forward to you getting out of this one Embry!” Jared laughs and claps Embry on the back.

“Paul, Embry, outside now” Sam states sternly, the two men quickly following him out of the house. You follow them with your eyes until they disappear into the tree line.

Everyone looks awkwardly at each other, before Emily suggests you help her with dinner. You agree, nodding, hoping that someone at some point will explain to you what the hell is going on.

~~~

The guys finally return an hour later, both Paul and Embry smiling as they playfully push each other walking back towards the house.

“Paul’s let him off far too lightly. I wanted Embry to at least come back with some bites...” Jared stops as Kim nudges him in the ribs.

“Can we speak to you outside Y/N?” Paul says, giving you a look and motioning outside.

You follow him out, and they both walk a bit away from the house towards the open space behind them.

~~~

You now find yourself standing next to Embry, a giant grey wolf standing in front of you.

Apparently, they really are all wolves, and you vaguely remember stories like this when you lived in La Push when you were younger. You just assumed they were nonsense, just silly stories to keep people in line with the threat of wolves and cold ones.

But they were all true. So this is what everyone was keeping from you? But, if they were going to tell you anyway, why was this all a big secret?

You turn to Embry, to see him watching your face carefully. His cheeks flush when he realises he has been staring again.

“So, this is why everyone has been acting strange around me all day?” Paul’s wolf nods and Embry speaks up.

“Yes. We weren’t allowed to say anything about it, so it had to be a secret. But...something changed that means we can now tell you.” He looks embarrassed again, and Paul huffs like he is unhappy about what has been said.

Embry flashes him a look, and Paul stalks away back to the tree line he emerged from minutes earlier.

“Can we sit? I feel like we should be sitting for this.”

You nod, still suspicious and then you both make your way to a small bench close to the house.

“So...one of the perks, I suppose, of our wolves is that we imprint. Erm...and imprinting is basically our way of finding our soul mate. It’s like a pull, we don’t want to be away from them but ultimately, we just want them to be happy. ...It’s not always romantic soul mates, it can just be a friendship...whatever the imprint wants from us basically” he shuffles in his seat, glancing at the floor, scuffing his foot in the dirt.

“Ok...so that’s what Paul and Rachel are, imprints, that’s why she was able to calm him?”

Embry nods.

“And Jared and Kim, Sam and Emily? They’re imprints too?”

Embry nods again.

“So...why are you telling me this? What has changed for me to now know your secret?”

Embry’s face flushes at this question. He was hoping you would have caught on and he wouldn’t need to actually tell you.

“Y/N...” Embry looks up, looking deeply into your eyes, willing you to understand.

“Oh...” you whispered, he was saying that you were his imprint. You thought about this carefully. Embry. “You’re saying that I’m your imprint?”

Embry nods a final time. Hesitant about your reaction.

“But we can be whatever you want us to be, it doesn’t need to be anything else.” He looks away again, hoping that you want what he wants, but not wanting to push you into something you aren’t comfortable with.

You can admit to yourself that you do feel a pull towards him, more than just a friendship you think.

“Erm...maybe we take it slow? But, I think...I want...”

You look up at him, his eyes full of love and something clicks inside you. You lean forward, closing the space between you. He looks shocked but he closes the space again until your lips are inches apart. He waits for you to take the final move.

Your lips touch briefly, and your body tingles at the touch, a shiver running through you as you move apart and the contact is lost. Wow.

“I definitely want to be more than friends Embry.” You whisper to him, leaning your forehead against his, your lips still close.

“I am going to make you the happiest girl in the entire world Y/N Lahote.” You smile and kiss him again.

I could get used to this, you thought.

It’s so good to be home.

A/N: so this wasn’t as short as I thought haha. Got caught up!

Taglist:

@volturidoll13 @clearwater-hoe @like-rain-or-confetti @teampaul @fatiguing-thoughts @wallwriterstuff

#embry call x reader #embry call imagine #embry call #paul lahote #jared cameron #paul lahote x reader #twilight #twilight imagines #twilight x reader #Paul Lahote x sister

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usergreenpixel · 3 years

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Frev writing prompts, Part 5! Seriously, I have no idea how I keep coming up with these. 😅

36. The protagonist was born and raised by a troupe of traveling performers. For as long as they can remember, they have been traveling from place to place, never staying anywhere for a few days at most.

The protagonist’s father is the troupe’s flutist and singer while their mother is a puppeteer so the youth has always had a passion for the performing arts and dreams of traveling all over Europe with their big happy family.

Nicknamed “L’œillet rouge” (The Red Carnation) by the troupe as an homage to their father’s favorite flower, the protagonist enjoys playing the flute and singing with their father, as well as putting on puppet shows with their mother.

With a song in their heart, a smile on their face and their father’s precious flute in their hands, the protagonist travels all over the country with their family, entertaining the people of France but never settling down and they like it that way.

But one day, while the troupe is staying in Paris and putting on a rather satirical puppet show which mocks the current regime, the protagonist’s parents are suddenly arrested by the police. Apparently, the father is a dangerous rebel while the mother is guilty of having sheltered said rebel years ago.

The protagonist is convinced that there must be a mistake and decides to rescue their parents with the help of all the other troupe members, including the protagonist’s older maternal half-brother and their maternal grandparents, all of whom are eager to help.

The time is limited and the rescue will be far from easy, but the protagonist will be damned if they don’t at least try to succeed. So, with that in mind, the young flutist and their family start to concoct the rescue plan...

37. Rumors have it that people who have been murdered tend to become vengeful ghosts and haunt their killers to exact revenge.

This is certainly true for Robespierre and his supporters. Unable to find peace, their souls are brought back to the realm of the living, seeking revenge on the Thermidorians.

This particular circumstance is quite convenient for the protagonist, a spirit medium who summons these ghosts and intends to use them as tools in their plan to torment the Thermidorians and avenge their family that got massacred in Lyon, skillfully using the revolutionaries’ restlessness and anger to achieve their goal.

However, soon certain events make the protagonist question the morality of using these spirits. Perhaps the protagonist is no better than their enemies if they are not above manipulating others. Perhaps there’s another way… Nonsense! It’s not manipulation if the other people also want revenge and are dead anyway...right?

38. The heroine of the story, like many other girls of the noble class, grew up and got her education in a convent in her hometown of Caen, France.

As a result of this upbringing, the young woman is rather used to a sheltered life, her idealism is through the roof and she is rather nostalgic about her life in the convent and her friendship with another noble girl, Charlotte Corday, who is the heroine’s closest friend and confidant.

At first the noblewoman wants to stay out of the events of the revolution, dreaming of taking her vows as a nun and living a quiet life in the convent, but those plans are abruptly thwarted by Corday, whose influence slowly gets the naïve heroine deeper and deeper into the mess that is the French Revolution.

Being idealistic, easily trusting, quiet, pacifistic and devoutly Catholic, the heroine initially follows her best friend’s lead and trusts her judgement since Corday is the closest thing to a big sister that the young woman has.

However, when Corday tries to convince her to kill Jean-Paul Marat and end the revolution, the heroine starts having mixed feelings about her friend’s decisions, despite being angry with Marat for her own personal reasons. After all, her faith teaches to forgive, not to judge and take revenge, so now the heroine must make a choice.

Will she betray her best friend and ruin the plan or will she cast aside her morals to help Corday and, presumably, the rest of the country? Is Marat really the bloodthirsty monster that Corday says he is? Is there another way to deal with the situation at hand without any casualties? And what consequences will the main character face for the choice she makes?

39. The main character is an illegitimate son of a Russian noble and a serf (yes, serfs were still a thing in Russia) who got taken in by his father as a “ward” and sent to France to get a good education, as everything French was very fashionable in the Russian Empire at the time.

There, in Paris of 1789, the young man absorbs all the knowledge he can, learning languages, reading the prominent books written in the Enlightenment era and even befriends a man by the name of Maximilien de Robespierre, a lawyer from Arras and the representative of Artois.

Considering that Robespierre was almost born illegitimate, he is the first person in a long time who doesn’t judge the protagonist for the circumstances of his birth and accepts him for him. Excited to be accepted at long last, the young man begins to look up to Robespierre as a mentor and an older brother of sorts, quickly absorbing his ideas and supporting him.

So, naturally, when the revolution begins and the young man finds himself trapped in Paris, he joins the revolutionaries to fight alongside his mentor.

Thus begin his adventures.

40. The protagonist is a child of criminals forced to survive on the streets after losing their parents until they’re eventually taken in by a seemingly sympathetic Jacobin, given a new name, a home and a fresh start in life. The protagonist essentially becomes the revolutionary’s ward and their guardian even takes them to the Convention so the youth can observe the meetings.

All seems good for the protagonist...almost too good to be true. But eventually certain events force the protagonist to wonder if their new guardian truly cares about them.

Could it be that their Jacobin guardian has some sinister motives? And will the protagonist be able to move away from their “bad” heritage and live an honest life at last?

41. Barras is in love. Again.

Head over heels over a pretty servant he recently hired and she even seems to like her employer back. Even her suspiciously strong resemblance to a certain Jacobin who got executed in 1794 isn’t a dealbreaker for Barras and the smitten man writes said resemblance off as a coincidence.

The other Thermidorians, especially Fouché, are not that blind and they fear that a relative of that particular executed man is here to seek revenge. Fouché decides to investigate this seemingly ordinary and harmless young servant, suspecting that she has quite a few skeletons in her closet.

Are these suspicions going to be confirmed or is Fouché simply being paranoid?

42. Thermidor has just taken place. The Jacobins are imprisoned and it seems like the traitors are going to win. All hope is lost for the Jacobins and their enemies rejoice.

But little do the Thermidorians know that by betraying and imprisoning all the men who stand in their way, they have just acquired new enemies - women.

Revolutionary women.

Wives, daughters, sisters, nieces, goddaughters, lovers, wards, friends and sympathizers of the captured Jacobins who are not going to sit back and give up.

Seeing how bleak things are, these women, led by a mysterious woman who conceals her face behind a mask and calls herself “Citoyenne Liberté” (Citizen Liberty), decide to rescue their imprisoned loved ones from the clutches of the Thermidorians.

They’re running out of time, they’re outnumbered and not equipped with proper weapons, but that is hardly a problem they can’t solve and they’re willing to fight against the odds regardless of the obstacles.

After all, Heaven hath no fury like a woman scorned, which is what the Thermidorians are about to learn the hard way.

43. A singer and actress who used to perform in Venice flees to France after a scandal demolishes her reputation. Having only her voice and her acting to make ends meet, for a while she tries to find work in Paris but barely makes enough money for her and her son to survive.

Her only friend and confidant in this bleak situation is a future revolutionary who happens to admire the heroine’s singing and strongly believes that she deserves better. He even bonds with the actress’s toddler son and is willing to step up and become a proper father figure for the child.

Thanks to said revolutionary, the heroine’s life begins to change for the better and she decides to settle down in Paris. Even when she learns about the approaching revolution, she chooses to stay in the only place where she feels like she can belong.

What’s more, the actress finally finds her new purpose in life. She too can fight for the cause of her new partner and his friends, in her own way.

How is a woman whose main talents are acting and singing supposed to be able fight, you may ask? Why, by becoming a spy for the Jacobins and the singing voice of the revolution of course!

And she might just be able to prove that anyone can be a revolutionary and one doesn’t need to be a fighter nor an orator to help a noble cause.

44. A female servant working for Georges Danton has to practically flee the house of her employer after the latter crosses all the possible boundaries while drunk.

Fearing for her safety and profoundly traumatized by the event, the servant is found and taken in by a seemingly sympathetic man who sees Danton as a sworn enemy for his own reasons. Considering that both have a grudge against Danton and the man is a journalist, he and the servant team up to bring Danton down.

Will they succeed? Why does the journalist hate Danton? And is his desire to aid the heroine genuine?

45. Paris, France. The revolution is in full swing.

The Committee of Public Safety has to deal with multiple issues, the ongoing war is depleting France’s resources and the situation seems dire.

What’s more, a new newspaper, “La Voix de la Justice” (The Voice of Justice), began to circulate in the city. While this particular fact isn’t that surprising by itself, the thing that sets this newspaper apart from the rest is the fact that its author is anonymous.

Nobody knows who writes this newspaper but the articles are quite good and this mysterious person has already exposed several people who were using the Reign of Terror as an excuse for their atrocities.

Naturally, all these details catch the attention of Jean-Paul Marat and Camille Desmoulins, two of the most prominent journalists of that time. Intrigued by this new newspaper and its author, the two revolutionaries team up to track that person down, if only to find out who they are and thank them for helping their cause.

46. The protagonist grew up believing that Robespierre is single handedly responsible for the execution of their beloved aunt and uncle and, as a result, believes that the man deserved to be executed for that betrayal.

However, the protagonist is soon forced to question their judgment when their older cousin, Horace Desmoulins, reaches out to them in a letter, inviting them to Paris and claiming that he found evidence proving that in actuality Robespierre attempted to save Camille and Lucile Desmoulins, Horace’s parents.

Although the protagonist is skeptical at first, since Horace has always defended his godfather, they are still intrigued by their cousin’s invitation and leaves Guise to join Horace in his investigation.

Together, the two cousins are both determined to clear the names of Horace’s parents and figure out what role Robespierre actually played in the family tragedy.

47. The five protagonists are all members of a heavy metal band whose name and songs are an homage to the French Revolution.

Previously little more than a quintet of college misfits determined to rehabilitate this particular event and tell the real story through music, the band finally starts gaining popularity after a successful concert at a music festival in Marseille.

And then things take a turn for the unexpected when the band gets into an accident on their way home, only to wake up in Revolutionary France. Naturally, they now must survive and return home but this adventure might just become the inspiration they needed so much...

48. After the protagonist’s father leaves them and their blind mother behind to move to Paris, the protagonist is naturally upset. Year after year, they wait for their father to return but he never does.

In 1789, after losing their mother to an illness, the protagonist decides that enough is enough and travels to Paris to confront their father. To their disgust, they soon find out that their father is now remarried, with a new family and quite rich while the protagonist is basically a pauper. Moreover, the father seems to have joined the revolutionaries, which is something that the protagonist cannot approve of either.

Now the protagonist wants to make sure that their father faces the music for his betrayal so they contact a journalist who is about to expose said father in an article.

A story of one of his enemies leaving behind his first family will be a nice addition to the already existing accusations of corruption, but the protagonist and the journalist soon realize that they are not immune to the consequences of their actions either and this article might cause more damage than they think it will.

49. (A reimagining of Aladdin) After their flute is broken beyond repair, the protagonist goes to a pawn shop to find a replacement for their practice.

It is there that an old ivory flute catches their attention so the protagonist purchases it, has it professionally restored and decides to keep it, ignoring the warning of the shopkeeper that it’s cursed and the suspiciously low price.

The protagonist is a skeptic and never believed in magic, curses and other occult things.

That is until they play the flute for the first time and a man poofs into existence like a genie from a lamp. Introducing himself as Louis Antoine de Saint-Just, he informs the protagonist that he used to be the owner of the flute but is now trapped in it because of black magic.

Despite their skepticism, the protagonist cannot logically explain anything that’s going on but wants to help so they strike a deal with Saint-Just - he is going to help the protagonist win over their love interest in exchange for freedom.

As for how the spell is supposed to be broken, the protagonist is completely clueless but their mysterious neighbor with a knack for alchemy and the occult might be able to help…

50. Lyon, France.

The future Thermidorians mercilessly massacre innocent people and rule with an iron fist. Just today they massacred several prominent noble families of the city for defying them.

However, what the tyrants do not know is that they didn’t massacre everyone, for the daughters of the executed nobles are currently living at a convent to get education, as was common back then.

Upon receiving the tragic news and fearing that these young girls are going to end up on the death list, two nuns, the heroines of the story, come up with a plan to escort the girls out of the city and get them to a different location where they would be safe.

The plan is daring but the risk is too high to sit there and do nothing. Will the nuns be able to keep their students safe?

Let me know in the comments or DMs if any of my prompts interest you! I can help you with certain prompts if you want! 😊

#louis antoine de saint just #french revolution #writing #writing prompts #frev #paul barras #I still refuse to make a fouche tag #charlotte corday #jean paul marat #camille desmoulins #lucile desmoulins

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draganasimpsforjeff · 3 years

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Hunting Dogs (proxies x reader) Chapter One

This is based on the story of mine on Quotev but due to it being labeled and now taking off index no one can see it unless searching my username so I figured I’d also post it on here cuz why not? Plus I like tumblr better anyways*shrug*

"Did you check the perimeter?" A dark haired man with a feminine mask questioned to his younger colleague who nodded in response. "A-all clear." That was what he expected out of the younger man. A simple straight answer. No one had time to have an explanation during a high stress leveled mission. A man's hair was clenched in the dark haired man's hand. A rag was shoved into his mouth, only letting him breathe through his nose while his eyes budged out in fear.

"Masky, you know what needs to be done. " A voice changer broke Masky out of his stare at the old man and back to his original partner, Hoodie. "I just want to take my time, after all..Boss never mentioned a deadline." He chuckles darkly, bending to the height of the old man.

"We don't need to bring attention to ourselves. This city is highly populated and we can't risk being caught. Get on with it." Hoodie forces his tone down, but trying to remain his point clear about how this was not a game. They were not in the Slender forest or their usual hunting grounds.

This was an unfamiliar city with not that many hiding places. The dark alleys being their own source of protection.

"Syringe. " Masky held out his palm, waiting for the messy haired man to hand him what he requested. Toby reached into his pocket, careful not to accidentally drop it or prick himself with it. He hands it over and Masky grinned behind his mask. Hoodie looked around, scanning the area high and low with his eyes squinting every now and then to make sure no one was hiding in the dark before crossing his arms tightly and watched Masky.

"Okay, pops. I'm going to ask you some questions, but I'll need to take the cloth out of your mouth. No screaming, got it? If you did, I will not hesitate to use this." He held up the syringe, the dim light post, providing enough of it's source to give the liquid a shine. His grin grew wider, flicking it and turns his attention back to the man at his feet.

He nodded and Masky considered him for a moment, reaching down and takes it out. "Now. Tell me, Paul Densie. Why did you think it was smart to go looking for our kind?" he asks as his eyes never left the man's face. He swallowed, breathing shakily before choosing his words carefully. "It was not my choice. They were strict orders. I wasn't suppose to be taking up that case, you have the wrong man."

"We never have the wrong man." Masky snickered and grabbed the man's face. "And why was it so important for you assholes to go searching? Huh!? What was the fucking point?!"

"Masky be quiet you're go-"

"Shut the fuck up Hoodie, before I plunge this syringe into you instead of him. " Masky spat with venom, turning his attention back to the old man, taking a quick breath, looking back up at the man. "Now...answer the question. " He was glad that it was dark out so the hostage couldn't see the insanity that was brewing behind his eyes. He wanted nothing man then to wrap his large hands onto the bastards neck and squeeze till his head popped off.

"A f-few of our men have been filed as missing. We had some of our coworkers do some tracking and along with the timeline, it led us to the ones we suspect now. And once we find those bastards, you pricks will be done for!" A hard slap echoed from his face and Masky grabbed the guy's collar, bringing him close to his face. "You must be the dumbest person I ever met if you think your team can even come close to us. You will never find us. And we will make sure of that. We do whatever we need to to protect ourselves even if that means killing every. single. fucker. that. gets. in. the . way. We have our own strict orders to follow and we go through them. After all, we are just a bunch of hunting dogs." He grinned, stabbing the man in the chest with the syringe.

The man froze with his eyes bulging out, looking up at the dim light before falling down to the concrete beside Masky's leg.

A loud gasp caught their attention and they snapped their heads in the direction to see a girl with a work uniform on, most likely one of the local restaurants on the strip. One command made her break into a run, following her trace and leaving the alley.

"Here you go, Mr. Saka. Your usual." Y/N smiles at the middle aged man who came in here at least three times a week. He was the regular's that you have gotten to known pretty well. You were still a newbie when it came to this job, but you made it one of your concerns to get to know people pretty well. You had a fresh start and you didn't want it to be like how your life was before moving. You saved enough money from your last job when you lived in a smaller town with your mom, but things were getting too bad at home that you went to school full time and a job. You were in senior year of high school and now you just worked full time at one of the well known restaurants in town.

It was actually the first place you applied to. The hourly pay wasn't great, but it was enough and plus you made tips. One of the upsides to getting to know people in a city like this, especially with regulars was that they paid you decently. And it was mostly always busy during the day with people rushing in for their break at work or tourists, but at night it was mostly drunks or regulars or some Yelp reviewer...you had a lot of those, they never got off the company's back that you worked for.

But you hadn't messed up once so you didn't worry about it.

"Thank you, sweetheart. My, I gotta say it's like you practically live here. Do you work full time?" Mr. Saka asks, cutting into his pancakes. He was one of those people that liked breakfast food at night and you thought it was funny when everyone else was having dinner and he was the only one ordering a breakfast platter.

"Yes, well, I'm trying to have enough money to where I don't have to worry so much about bills or if I want to get enough food for the month. It's hard, yes, but that's the adult life I guess." You sighed, running the damp rag across the counter, cleaning up from the last customer.

"Just try to take care of yourself. I would hate to see you get burnt out from all the hard work, besides, you're my favorite. " he sends a playful wink before drowning his pancakes in syrup. You chuckled, breaking into a small smile. "You're my favorite too, Mr. Saka. "

"Y/N, you may clock out if you like. We have a newbie coming in tomorrow and we might need you to come in early for an extra pair of hands." Your boss says, looking over the time sheet. You nodded, sighing a little as you hated coming in early especially when you thought you were going to have a short shift tomorrow. "Alright, I will. Goodnight everyone!" You said, sliding your time card in and clocking out. "Have a goodnight, Mr. Saka. Stay out of trouble." You give him a small pat on the shorter, sending him into a fit of laughter.

"As if!"

You chuckled once more at his comment, opening the door and walking out. The air was a bit chilly and you were glad to have brought your hoodie. It wasn't the thickest, but it covered you up. So, it did it's job.

As cliche and dumb as it was, you usually took shortcuts home. The city was too alive at times like this, making it nearly impossible to not be trampled by other people or take nearly an hour to get home. With a short cut, you cut the time in half. It was still exhausting after a long shift at work, but it was something.

You heard shouting and stopped dead in your tracks. You heard an old man speaking and furrowed your eyebrows. Should I see what is happening? Call the cops? Turn around and leave? What?

But before you could register what your body was doing, you moved away from the shadows and gasped at the sight of an man, sending a needle into the old man's chest and watching him fall to the ground.

Three heads snapped at you and you cursed silently, before turning your heel in the opposite direction, waiting for the signal to break into a run.

"GET HER!"

So here's the first chapter. I hoped you liked it and there might be chapters with cliffhangers, so expect that. This is going to be a dark creepypasta x reader, so if don't like that then don't read any further as topics will get triggering, just a warning also gonna use tags so maybe you guys can find it easier cuz i don’t know how to do masterlist

#creepypasta x reader #proxies x reader #myoriginalwork #HuntingDogs

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aion-rsa · 3 years

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F9 Ending Is a Game Changer

https://ift.tt/eA8V8J

This article contains F9 spoilers.

Family. It’s the mantra by which Vin Diesel’s Dom Toretto has lived his life for nine movies, and it’s long been the handy slogan for the Fast and Furious franchise, too. But perhaps fittingly for an installment which sees director Justin Lin step back behind the camera, the theme of one’s chosen family has never been more pronounced.

What it means to be in Dom’s “mi familia” is central to F9. After all, this is the film where we learn Dom and his dear sister Mia (Jordana Brewster) have another sibling who they never speak of: John Cena’s morally ambiguous Jakob. As becomes clear over the course of the film, Brian might’ve been the brother Dom chose, but that was only after choosing to disown his actual little brother. But it’s kind of a funny story about the past: it can come roaring back at you like a Mustang flying beneath a military jet.

Hence when the F9 ending comes around, all those inner conflicts come bubbling to the surface. Indeed, the actual narrative stakes of the finale are almost an afterthought.

How Family Wins

The basic mechanics of the ending are fairly simple. Jakob and his oily business partner, poor little rich boy Otto (Thue Ersted Rasmussen), have successfully stolen access to Ares, a digital weapon operated from a satellite that gives its owners control over every operating system in the world. Or as Ludacris’ Tej points out, “Ares is the God War; if Jakob gets his hands on this, he’ll be the God of Damn Near Everything.” Once its upload is complete, Jakob and Otto will more or less be able to hold the whole world hostage.

The actual folks who save the day, then, are really Tej and Roman (Tyrese Gibson) who ride a rocket-powered Pontiac Fiero into space. By driving the car straight through the satellite, they prevent Otto from gaining control of the whole world’s digital space. But back on earth, he’s already cut Jakob out at this point, making a new deal with his brief prisoner Cipher (Charlize Theron). Which on a certain level you have to respect since she burned Otto harder than a thousand mean tweets with that “You’re Yoda” line.

By teaming with Cipher, the silver spoon prick sets Jakob up to die. Instead Dom’s little brother forms a new alliance with his long lost siblings, and together they bring down Otto’s truck and Cipher’s drone-controlled plane.

Why Dom Is Furious

More important than the plot mechanics of space travel and digital MacGuffins, however, is the relationship between Dom and Jakob. Established with total straight faced sincerity in the opening credits, Dom and Jakob’s backstory rewrites the very first The Fast and the Furious movie where we were told Dom went to prison for beating near to death the man responsible for his father’s racing crash. As we now discover through flashback, that was a lie that Dom only wishes was the truth. While the man who got wrenched might have helped cause their father to crash, Papa was set up to lose the race due to Jakob sabotaging the vehicle.

This is the dirty secret which caused Dom to banish Jakob from his sight after he got out of prison, and it is why Jakob remade himself into… well, John Cena. He wanted to be his own man and a greater alpha than his big brother could ever dream of becoming. Dom Toretto, the ultimate paterfamilias, pushed his actual flesh and blood away and has been attempting to replace him ever since.

It’s an interesting retcon which gives Toretto’s “Family” a little more depth and also sets Cena up to be a franchise mainstay, presumably replacing the unmentionable Luke Hobbs (Dwayne Johnson), whose offscreen beef with certain co-stars makes a return unlikely. Because, of course, Jakob really didn’t try to kill his father; it was Dom’s misunderstanding because their Dad asked Jakob to help him throw the race. And through the compassionate influence of Mia, Jakob discovers he really still wants to be Dom’s little bro.

It’s a nice sentiment, although it plays an interesting contrast to another major subplot in F9. Much of the film is rightly about bringing justice to Han (Sung Kang), who died in Fast & Furious 6/Tokyo Drift (the timeline is complicated). Yet his murderer was forgiven and accepted as a member of the family in The Fate of the Furious.

The Han of It All

In F9 it’s revealed that Han faked his death to protect a young orphan named Elle (Anna Sawai) in Tokyo. Nonetheless, the man Dom thought killed another surrogate brother was invited to the family barbecue in the last movie. Jakob did not kill anyone in Dom’s new family… but he did try to hurt Elle, whose blood held the Ares access codes. He certainly kidnapped her and threatened an extended member of the family. It’s also unclear if Jakob played a role in shooting down the plane Mr. Nobody (Kurt Russell) was on before the movie started, but he did work with Cipher at the time—the woman who also killed the mother of Dom’s child.

We of course don’t know if Mr. Nobody is alive or dead, but he was a close enough associate to Dom’s kin that they wanted to investigate his disappearance and save him if they could. In other words, Jakob is only a few degrees removed from Jason Statham’s villainous Shaw who was so quickly forgiven. But then, I suppose that’s why we never learn Mr. Nobody’s fate; nor is Jakob quite yet at the stage of being at the family cookout. That can come later, as there are at least two more mainline Fast and Furious movies in the works.

In the meantime, the film closes on Dom once again at the grill. Trej and Roman have returned from space after spending weeks on the International Space Station. It’s left ambiguous how there was enough food or oxygen for their unplanned visit, and how this wasn’t a global incident. (Also would international governments see them as heroes for stopping a terrorist like Cipher? And if so, would that not be a front page story around the world?) Whatever, they’re back from orbit and are now chilling in East LA with Dom.

And as food is put on the table, everyone waits for the one person whose chair remains empty. While the movie has the good grace not to CGI Paul Walker’s face into another scene, the unseen driver running late to the dinner is of course Brian. At least in this universe, the reunion is whole.

… And if you stay for the post-credits Han may yet truly bury the hatchet with the family’s most controversial member: Jason Statham. But that’s another story for another time.

cnx.cmd.push(function() { cnx({ playerId: "106e33c0-3911-473c-b599-b1426db57530", }).render("0270c398a82f44f49c23c16122516796"); });

The post F9 Ending Is a Game Changer appeared first on Den of Geek.

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#aion-rsa #Den of Geek

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notgonnarememberthis · 3 years

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find your way (back to me) - chapter two

The reception for this fic was so fucking sweet, this really went beyond what I expected I honestly just thought this would be a self service fic but it hit off so well. Honestly, wrote the next chapter to cope with the anxiety of being home and general holiday stress so I hope y’all enjoy it. And thank y’all for all the sweet comments they mean the fucking world to me.

Jessica tries not to let the sigh escape her throat, she really does. But when Gil comes in arms loaded with gifts it probably took him weeks to save for she can’t help it.

She can afford literally anything he wanted to buy for her or the kids and then some, but she resisted.

If not to see the proud little grin on his face when he knows he absolutely nailed the gift that the recipient never even knew they wanted.

He’s quite good at knowing what people never knew they needed.

She invites him in, nonetheless, taking some of the load off, only with a little chiding that he still shouldn’t carry so much. It has only been a few months since his injury. He needs to give his body time to heal.

Malcolm and Ainsley would arrive soon, hopefully carrying something that wasn’t a twist-on. But for now she would enjoy Gil’s company. His warmth wards off the cold that always seemed to linger in the hollow rooms. His smile lights up even the darkest corners as she leans into his embrace. He pulls out old records that collected dust for years, grabbing her hand and swinging her around the room with more grace than anyone would expect.

They don’t even notice when the children arrive. Only when Gil spins her and she nearly runs straight into Malcolm do they realize they are no longer alone. The laughter catches the air like a flame, spreading across the room with an infectious glee that most of them had not known for far too long. Gil pulls Ainsley in next, taking her as his next partner.

She almost bursts with joy when Malcolm takes her hand to dance without hesitation. His movements are still but he is letting go, allowing himself to enjoy the small moments in life that don’t revolve around homicide.

She’s so proud that she feels tears building behind her eyes.

The music fades and the silence takes over, no longer as deafening but rather content.

Jessica startles awake to a loud crash. Immediately she regrets opening her eyes as pain rips through her head. She reaches up to feel where it hurts but something is holding her down.

It takes a few seconds for the world to come into focus, once it does she wishes desperately for the peace of the dream. Her hands are zip tied to the chair she’s sitting in, her neck and head both ache like nobody’s business. She shuffles through her mind to try to remember what the hell happened. There was a crash, then her world was spinning, she checked on Adolpho… Oh god, Adolpho.

A soft sob of realization takes over her. What happened between the crash and now? How the hell did she get here? She was on her way to a meeting for becoming the head of Eve’s charity in her honor.

“Oh good, you’re awake.” Fake sincerity drips from a figure previously hidden by the shadows. She stiffens, suddenly all too aware of her situation. She holds still, as if that would help, if she wouldn’t move they wouldn’t see her. If she closes her eyes she can open them again to the warmth and happiness radiating from her family. “Sorry for the mess, had to improvise.” The shadow gestures absentmindedly.

“Who are you?” Her voice rasps painfully. She wonders how long exactly she was out for.

“Oh, that doesn’t matter. I’m much more interested in you.” He comes closer, enough for her to recognize that he’s wearing a mask. “Jessica Whitly, my you are a sob story if there ever was one.” He walks across the room, footsteps echoing off the concrete walls. “Disgraced daughter of the Miltons, married to a serial killer, and dated another socialite exposed to be heading a dubious business,” he sighs. “Truly Shakespearian, have you thought about selling the rights to your story?”

“Are you done?” She tries not to let her voice waver, her fear shakes just beneath the surface, but she’s not running or hiding now. Malcolm and Gil will find her. She just needs to stall as long as she possibly can.

“Hardly.” The venomous glee sends a chill down her spine. He tilts his head in a way that flashes her back as if she were in Claremont all this time. “Just killing time until our guest arrives.”

“I can give you all the money you want, just let me go.” The bark of a laugh makes her jump, immediately regretting the sudden movement as pain pierces her skull yet again.

“I don’t want your money. It can all burn for all I give a shit.”

“What do you want then?” She pleads.

Even with the mask she can feel his deadly grin, like a cat taunting it’s prey just before it pounces. “You.”

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Gil checks his phone yet again, waiting for Malcolm’s text. He told JT to get Ainsley and get both of them back to the precinct immediately. He almost wishes he’d done it for himself, having them in his sight would be a hell of a lot more comforting right now especially as he stares at the lieu of pictures scattered across his desk.

He trusts JT, though. He’s getting them here as fast as he possibly can with two out of three of the most stubborn people he’s ever met in the back of his car. No doubt they have hundreds of questions that poor JT doesn’t even know the answer to, he’s simply following orders and right now they’re on a strict need to know basis.

Colette will lock Malcolm down as soon as he arrives. He’ll be able to loosen the reigns, but only a little. He’ll be lucky to leave without Dani or JT personally handcuffed to him. Hell, Gil will be lucky if she doesn’t choose him to be handcuffed to Malcolm.

He hears the door to his office open and he feels the lump in his throat develop once again.

“Why are the FBI here?” “Why did I just get pulled out of work and rushed here?” “Why isn’t mom answering my calls?” “Why did we get escorted here by two more cop cars?”

The two siblings speak simultaneously and he sighs raising a hand to stop them. He braces himself delivering the news as impersonally as he could to the two people he basically watched grow up. “You’re both familiar with the kidnappings and murders in Boston?” They nodded, going to talk again but he stopped them with a pointed stare. “This morning there was an accident, one of the cars matched the plates of the car Agent Swanson has been tracking for that case.”

“What does that have to do with us?” Ainsley asks, fingers playing with the hem of her sleeve, it’s a nervous tick he’s known since she was 12. Her mother tried to break the habit but was never really successful.

“The other driver was Adolpho.” Ainsley’s eyes widen, she looks to Malcolm who only nods solemnly. “He died on impact.”

“Oh my god.” Malcolm reaches over, squeezing her hand. He watches the younger man straighten, preparing himself for the next blow. He’s all too familiar with the practices and knows that Gil has more to deliver to them. He nods, silently telling him to continue.

“We found this in the backseat of the car.” He turns the photo of Jessica’s phone to them and watches as the dots connect in both of their heads. “We also found blood on the back window that we believe is your mother’s.”

“You believe?” Ainsley’s voice cracks for the first time that he’s heard in years. Even after Paul Lazar, even after Endicott Ainsley didn’t waver. “What do you mean you believe is hers? Where is she?”

“You think the killer took her.” Malcolm whispers. Almost as if he says it too loud, it will make it true. His hands fly to his eyes sucking in a breath when Gil nods in confirmation. He knows it’s his way of trying to keep tears back, just long enough to keep his head from going into full meltdown and instead switching to investigator. “Dani found CCTV footage of the wreck. The suspect’s car redlight, crashing into Adolpho without even slowing down. The man climbs out of the car and goes out of frame. A couple minutes later an ambulance shows up, another man helps your mother into the back and they drive off.”

“Shouldn’t she be fine then? We just need to find out want hospital they took her to. She’s probably logged as a Jane Doe if she doesn’t have her purse either. She probably hit her head and she’s confused or unconscious and we need to-”

“Ainsley.” Malcolm’s tone stops her. He’s already read Gil’s expression, knowing what’s coming next.

“The ambulance on the scene was reported stolen just an hour before the wreck.” He watches as Ainsley’s face crumples, despite her best attempts to hold it together. Malcolm pulls her into a loose hug, rubbing her back in comfort. He can tell only by the slightly uneven breaths that Malcolm is crying as well.

His eyes sting and every fatherly instinct wants him to go to them and hug them. Tell them everything will be fine just like he did 20 years ago. He gives them time to settle again, determination overpowering their shock and grief. “What can we do?”

“Right now, stay in sight. I’ve already got the FBI pressing hard enough on this pushing for a clean end but I don’t think that’ll be the case. Something doesn’t feel right. I’m assigning each of you an officer and if either of you tries to shake them or go off on your own I’m putting you in a holding cell.” He raises a brow at the two of them. “Understand?”

“Yes.” They answer in unison. Gil tries not to think about the two kids, hardened too young. With only each other and their mother to hold onto in the storm that raged around them. Now with one less thing anchoring them to this earth.

“Let’s get to work.” XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

The clanging of metal pulls Jessica’s attention from the deep abyss she allowed herself to sink into. The man had long left with the promise of the “guest” lingering over her head. She busied herself praying to every deity that she could think of that Malcolm, Ainsley, Gil, all of them were safe. She stopped believing in God long ago but her desperation outweighs her beliefs right now.

Different, slower footsteps shamble in front of her. This man looks younger, his physique, at least. He places something down against the wall before dragging a chair in front of her. She feels bile rise in the back of her throat when the something against the wall groans in pain. The man shuffles back over to the body, lifting it with ease yet again and placing it in the chair across from her. He secures the wrists individually to the chair before standing behind it. She stares at him for a moment, she swears his movements almost seem hesitant.

The static of a radio starting up breaks the relative silence. “Take off his hood.” She recognizes the voice of the man who was taunting her earlier. The other figure does as he says, removing the bag from over the tied up man’s head. Fearful bloodshot eyes meet hers. “This is Tommy Moore. He is a resident at Montgomery and from what I hear? He will make a promising young surgeon one day.” She swallows hard trying to calm the nerves building up in her stomach. “Do you know who she is Tommy?” The poor boy can only get out a whimper. Her heart sinks when she hears the sound of a gun cocking from behind him. “Answer me!”

“Y-yes.” He chokes out. “I saw her on the news. She was looking for a missing girl o-on Christmas.”

“Do you think she would choose your life over her own?” Tommy bows his head sobbing openly. “Please don’t do this.”

“Let him go.” She begs.

“Well would you Mrs. Whitly?” The sentence cuts deep. “Would you choose your life over his?” She closes her eyes, a few tears sliding down her cheeks. She thinks of Malcolm and Ainsley, no idea of where she was. She thinks of Gil, pouring everything he has into finding her. She even thinks of Martin, the horrid man who no doubt has caused this somehow in some way.

And then she thinks of her dream. She holds onto the smell of Gil’s cologne surrounding her as they spin around her living room, the sound of Ainsley’s laugh bouncing off of the walls as Gil dips her, Malcolm’s smile brighter than she remembers it being in so very long. And she hopes they forgive her. “No.”

The silence feels as if it stretches for hours. She waits for the gunshots. She waits for the pain and then the utter nothingness of death. “Perhaps you didn’t understand my question. Would you die so that Tommy here can live?”

“Yes, I would.” The boy cries only get louder, mixed with tragedy and relief. She almost wants to cry with him.

“No!” The voice roars and they hear something from the other room crash. “You’re doing this wrong!” Another stretch of silence, this one even longer than the last. “You would rather die, so that he can live?!” Tommy looks at her, finally, and the realization strikes her. His eyes looked familiar, the same shade as Martin’s. His curly, unkempt hair even the shade so similar she’d assume he was a relative had she not known Martin had no other family. Everything was a subconscious push so that she’d choose her own life over his. This was a losing game.

“I choose his life over mine.” She says with more anger than before. She wouldn’t fall for this game. Even if it meant her own she wouldn’t put an innocent life on the line. She hopes for her children’s sake that they find her eventually. She hopes that they find peace.

“Shoot him.”

“What?” The man with a gun asks before either of them could.

“Shoot him!” The shot makes her ears pop. She never knew a gun could be that loud. Blood hits her face causing her to flinch, watching in horror as the boy slumps forwards. A cry rips through her throat as she struggles against the bonds tying her down.

“Why?!” She screams. “Why did you do that?!” She folds over on herself trying to contain the panic threatening to swallow her whole. Every fiber of her wants to fight back, to fight her way back to her family. Her head screeches in pain, spots flashing in front of her eyes. It only seems to get more intense though as her world tilts and spins with an effort to stay awake.

“You chose wrong.”

#gil arroyo x jessica whitly #jessica whitly x gil arroyo #gilssica #gil arroyo #jessica whitly #malcolm bright #Ainsley Whitly #prodigal son #prodigal son au #kidnapping au #find your way (back to me)#find your way (back to me) chapter two #fanfic #notgonnarememberthis fics

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tarlosprompts · 4 years

Text

Self-Destruct (Part 2)

@rachbabe007 : 😭😍 if you’re up to do a part to where the 126 family tell tk why they love him. I would totally love that. And I loved this❤️😘

Hope you like it, Red💋!

Warnings: addiction, cursing, drug addiction, depressed mood

Part 1

TK had changed into some of Carlos’s clothes. It was comforting how big they were on him. It was like a hug from Carlos himself. Carlos watched over him as he slept in his room. TK looked so much younger without the worry across his face and whatever thoughts had been going through his head when he arrived.

The knock at the door startled him. He quickly made his way to the door, not wanting to wake the slumbering man. He raised an eyebrow at the whole crew standing in front of his door. “Should I be worried that you aren’t out doing your job and your fire truck is parked in front of my house?”

“Is my son here,” Owen blatently ignored the previous questions. He was worried about TK, after the call and his blow up at the station, Owen was beginning to wonder if TK had relapsed. He didn’t want to doubt TK, but the sheer amount of negative emotion that was going through his son would be enough to at least make TK think about relapsing. If he wasn’t at Carlos’s, Owen would pull strings to have the whole fire department and police department on the lookout for his son.

“He’s actually sleeping right now. Would you like to explain to me why he came to my home in the middle of shift with blood and bruises? Or why he asked me why I would choose to be with him when I could have anyone else? Or maybe you could explain to me just what the fuck caused that look on his face.”

Carlos stepped out of the house, closing the door behind him. He really didn’t want to wake TK up with this talk. He knew that the man could be sensitive when he was the topic of conversation, but he needed to know what was going on with his boyfriend.

“He’s been in a mood for the past few days. I’m sure you’ve noticed since he’s around you most of the time,” Paul started.

“Actually, we’ve been working opposite shifts, I haven’t seen him in person in four days.”

“Well shit, that doesn’t help,” Judd stated. “He’s been in a mood for the past few days. Bit my head off when I tried to talk to him about it. We got a call today to a drug house. Drug bust gone wrong and part of the house was a hide out for those who wanted to get high. Two teens had fallen through part of the floor.”

“So TK and I went down in the hole after he told Cap that since he wasn’t benched, he wanted to do his job. Whatever one of the teens took had hallucinogenic properties. He thought we were there to hurt his friend. TK got hit in the head and explained what was going on. He had me go find the other teen while he dealt with the one attacking him. By the time I got back, TK was bloodied and holding a struggling teen down,” Marjan sighed.

Carlos bit his lip to keep from interrupting. He wanted to ask why she had thought it was a good idea to leave her partner to deal with a violent drugged teen, but he needed to hear the rest of the story. “So Judd made a joke when they got back up there. I think he was trying to diffuse the situation, but TK didn’t take it well and walked off. He was shaking real bad, even before the joke. When we got back to the station, TK went to go to the shower, but Cap said that they needed to talk. TK asked if they could do that after he had a shower, but Cap insisted and mentioned how he’d been acting...then TK blew up,” Mateo shook his head as if he was thinking back to the argument.

“He started to rant about how he fucked everything good up in his life. Talked about how he did that with drugs and how he was currently self destructing his life. He talked about how every time he thought something was going good, he would just mess it up. He complained that we all walked on eggshells around him after he told us about his addiction. He said he was waiting for us to slip through his fingers like everything else in his life does. He mentioned his ex and what happened in New York and how he relapsed. He said that we were like family and he was afraid of losing us and he didn’t know how we could put up with him,” Paul recalled.

“Then we thought he had gone to take that shower, but after fifteen minutes, I got worried. Usually when TK needs to think about things, he takes ten to fifteen minutes in the shower to work through everything...but when I checked, I couldn’t find him and I just worried with all of those negative thoughts and emotions that he...maybe he thought-”

“-that he would relapse,” Carlos glared. “He wouldn’t. I don’t care if he has in the past, he’s determined not to slide back down the hill, Captain. Want my advice on how to handle this?”

Owen stared at him for a moment before nodding. “You have to show him how much he means to each of you. You, individually, need to tell him how much he means to you. You have to roll with the negative emotions and thoughts he’s having because if you just blatantly ignore them, they’re going to fester and get worse. You have to show him that you’re going to be there for him even during the worst of his addiction recovery.”

“But we do that, don’t we,” Judd asked, looking at the crew.

“Think about it then come up with a better plan. Now, if you don’t mind, I’d actually like all of you to get to work. I’ll take care of TK. You’ll see him on Thursday.”

___________

Thursday

TK wasn’t excited about being dropped off at work. After spending two and a half days with Carlos, he didn’t want to leave. Carlos had said that his Captain had made him take the two days with him off, but TK knew better. Carlos wanted to make sure he was okay...that he wouldn’t relapse and overdose.

TK had woken up in the time that Carlos had been out with his crew. He knew that they told him everything that happened. He loves his boyfriend, but it was frustrating to think that everyone thought he would just relapse and be done with it. At this point he should just do it so they’ll stop waiting for it to happen.

TK is stiff in Carlos’s hug. He mumbles some response to Carlos’s wishes for him to have a good day at work. “Love you, Tiger.”

“Yeah,” TK whispers, hugging Carlos a little closer despite his want to separate himself from every interaction.

It’s a long walk from the Camaro to the station. All of his steps were hesitant. He shook his hands out as he hurried his steps. He needed to get this over with. No matter how long it takes, he needs to get the air cleared to keep the anxiety from taking over again.

He hurried to the locker room, avoiding the crew that was coming in and leaving. He just needed a few seconds to get everything together. As he opened his locker, multiple pieces of paper fell out. Brow furrowed, TK picked the paper up, turning them around to read them.

You’re so strong, TK. I look up to you.

TK, you’re not weak for your addiction, you’re one of the strongest of us, brother.

Teek, you deserve more than the hand you were dealt in New York. We’re not going to slip through your fingers...you’re kind of stuck with us.

I think it’s time someone took care of you instead of the other way around, TK. We all have our demons, it’s okay to talk about it with us.

You’re the greatest thing in my life, Tyler Kennedy. Everything I do, I do for you because you are my light, Kid.

Your smile lights up the room.

Your laugh is contagious.

You have amazing hair, just like your old man.

Your heart is so big and is always on your sleeve, I love how you care about everyone you meet.

Your humor is something to be reckoned with.

We love you and your demons. We don’t think less of you. You’re human, things happen. We’re here for you, whatever you need.

TK clutched at the notes. His head was bowed as he took deep breaths. He was not going to cry in front of his crew again. He licked his lips as he tidied up the stack of notes, putting them in a spot where they wouldn’t be crushed or messed up. It meant a lot that his team was willing to write notes for him...but he shouldn’t need notes to make himself feel better. It’s childish.

He changed and headed up to the loft. He gave strained smiles to those he passed. No matter what the notes said, it wasn’t that easy to do. He couldn’t just open up and let all his demons out. He didn’t want to push anyone way more than he already did. Buttercup ran up to him, winding around his legs. Noticing a note attached to him, TK raised an eyebrow. He bent down and showered Buttercup with attention and grabbed the note. I mean, the dog loves you so you can’t be as terrible as you think you are. Dogs usually hate ‘bad people’. In fact, I’m pretty sure you are just as amazing as Buttercup’s treats.

A startled laugh left his throat as he read the note. He shook his head, petting Buttercup again. Maybe he wasn’t so terrible...but he’d still caused his dad to watch him die three times, so he doesn’t rule out that he isn’t terrible.

And so, that’s how the rest of the day went. He’d find random notes throughout the firestation and even in his turnout. Some of them were in compartments in the truck. No one had said anything directly, but he could tell they were trying to figure out his reaction to the notes.

By the end of shift, TK felt lighter...maybe that’s why he had Carlos go out and get a cookie cake with the words ‘I love you guys too, thanks’ on it. No matter the dietary differences of the crew, he knew they’d all like the cake. That’s how Carlos ended up at the station thirty minutes before shift ended.

Carlos had sneaked into the station and set up the cake by the time the crew had gotten back from their call. A full smile fell on TK’s lips as he saw Carlos. He wrapped his arms around the man, pressing a kiss into his neck. “I love you. Thank you for doing this.”

Carlos gave him a wide smile. “Love you too, Amor. You know I’d do anything for you.”

“Cake?” TK and Carlos walked into the kitchen.

“I thought everyone would enjoy a piece of cake since you’re all so sweet,” he smirked at his pun as his dad groaned and Carlos let out a surprised laugh.

“You didn’t have to thank us with a cake,” Marjan stated.

“I know...just like I know you didn’t have to write all of those notes.”

“We’d do anything for you, Brother,” Judd stated, cookie cake halfway to his mouth, “especially if you buy us cake after each thing we do-not that that’s the only reason we’re going to be there for you...but cake is just amazing.” Judd winked at him as TK rolled his eyes.

“If I bought a cake every time you helped me out, Judd…” he trailed off, a shit eating smile on his face.

“Okay, come here short stack. I’ll show you just how not fat I am.”

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darkesttimelinestuff · 4 years

Link

7,713 words

Mature

Men make houses. Women build homes. –Proverb.

Come come, come out tonight. Come come, come out tonight. –Sherry, The Four Seasons

***

Oh, Halloween. How it coaxes all from their shells, a come-hither seduction of ghouls and their admirers. Whether one chooses to be a witch or a princess, a criminal or a cowboy – to paint their face and knock on doors, to drink until they are but pumpkins, mouths filled with their pumpkin guts – it is all done under the otherworldly spell of the undead, the souls that ascend from their place in the basement to play marionette games with the dolls who inhabit the first floor.

Fox Mulder has, over the years, made an exceptional doll. Spock, then Captain Kirk, then Spock again. Several years of him doing nothing but sitting alone and staring out the window, ignoring the pull of a fairy costume resting in a trunk in the attic. Even then he had been a prime target; Halloween souls feed on elation, but will take misery in a pinch. His misery tasted sweet like a tootsie pop. The saints love tootsie pops, all the waiting and the work. The sinners prefer Reeses.

There were others when the memories began to fade. Han Solo. Han Solo. Paul Stanley from KISS, though his first girlfriend ended up wearing most of the makeup. Han Solo. Doctor John Watson, although years later he would grit his teeth and mutter I should have been Holmes. Serpico at a Hoover party, the last one he went to. No one got it. Then Han Solo every year he chose to celebrate after, and by then he finally had Princess Leia at his side.

The halloween of 2016, he slips into his finest costume yet.

Fox Mulder. Hopeless romantic.

On one arm, he carries a bag that is filled with good wine, cheap wine glasses, and assorted fruits, cheeses, and fancy chocolate. He has convinced his partner that the actual contents are a P.K.E. meter (a psychokinetic energy meter, for those who have not seen the documentary Ghostbusters), a thermographic camera, an audio recorder, sage, a lighter, his gun.

On the other arm, or underneath it, is his partner. Who is unsure about such open gestures of affection while they are technically on the clock, even after all the years of steaming up their steakouts, but is not stopping him, and is possibly even snuggling back as the October chill descends.

“This is not a love story, Scully,” he warns, pulling her closer as they follow the long, winding pathway up their destination. Her body heat is his favorite temperature, even when it’s ice cold. “It is a story of lies, obsession, betrayal, and murder.”

“I think I’ve heard this one.” She bumps his arm with her shoulder and smiles up at him, her lips wine deep under the bright moon.

Their shoes are silent on the stone and disappear under the layers of fog that curl and cozy around them like amorous smoke. He tugs her closer still, filling his nose with the woodsy scent of her shampoo.

“The early 1960s, Scully. Free love was just a storm a’brewin in the air, and sex, drugs, and rock ‘n roll were waiting on the doorsteps of American counterculture, waiting to be invited in. Doo-wop was still a prominent feature on family radio stations. The Beatles had yet to write their own songs, and Paul McCartney wouldn’t smoke his first joint until 1964. It was a wholesome time, Scully. You would’ve loved it.”

“I loved Rubber Soul,” she argues.

He rubs her shoulder. “But it wasn’t all sock hops and sweet Jackie Kennedy. We were fighting a war with Russia, a war of discovery, and losing to the success of Sputnik. The U.S. invaded Cuba, got their asses kicked, and were the laughing stock of the world. In the veins of America, in the buses and lunch counters, the streets and in the schools, thrummed the blood of a movement. The Civil Rights movement. The early 1960s was a time of immense change.”

They were getting closer and closer to the scene where it all took place: a sprawling, overly-windowed ranch style home, its angular roof sloping into flatlands. In the quiet darkness, the cars and the rest of the world all celebrating miles behind them, the house appears white, almost bleached. But when the sun comes out it will reveal its truth: baby pink painted wood.

“And situated in all of this madness, this time between tumult and revolution, hatred and love, was a woman named Sherry Battersea.” She hmm’s. That means Mulder, I love your stories. Keep going.

He does.

They arrive at the front door – solid mahogany, undistressed. The steps leading up to the porch are made from brick, unhassled by the years of disuse. With the moon hanging overhead, vines creeping onto the roof, and the glare of (assumed) white bathed in midnight blue and the shadows of trees rustling above, it looks absolutely– “Isn’t she beautiful?” Mulder whispers, moving his hand to Scully’s waist.

Precisely.

***

It’s all a bunch of phooey, if you ask him.

Didn’t expect that, did you?

He spent weeks finding the right place. The runner ups were all either too far away, too haunted, or not haunted enough. He wanted something with history, something still alive in the hearts of believers – but nothing verifiable, and nothing with a real reputation.

He wanted a pretty lie. Most ghost stories, he will begrudgingly admit, are indeed pretty lies.

He found the Battersea house on a subreddit dedicated to paranormal encounters, and this one hadn’t even managed to get twenty upvotes. He was number twenty. The Battersea home is in Virginia, which heavily swayed his opinion in its favor, and from the pictures posted the years of abandonment had not left it dangerous, which put it above two other options off his list. Making love to Scully while the roof collapses over their heads is a fantasy he put to rest many moons ago, about the time he realized they could just do it on a bed.

They roam the house with their flashlights, Mulder’s low voice playing in her ear as he finishes his story. “Sherry’s husband returned from war, but he never returned to her. She made this home for him and he wouldn’t even grant her the decency of staying the night.”

The biggest draw of the place had been its pristine condition. No graffiti stains the wood-paneled walls; the rooms were all intact. The interior design is a certified blast from the past, from the richly carpeted floors and textured rugs to the lucite furniture, pops of neon that splash under their flashlights. It is colorfully but rather tastefully decorated. It reminds him a bit of a movie set, which is another place he has been thoroughly laid by this woman.

As they move through the house, however, he realizes with mild disappointment the utter lack of haunting thrill. Nothing shifts in the night to give them pause. No dirt or dust to brush away, no holes in the walls or rot in the furniture. It doesn’t even smell old. It all feels more like a vacation home, some sort of themed romantic getaway, and they’re wading behind the scenes with the power turned off.

It’s not what he planned, but he’ll take it.

“Miss Battersea was a fashionable lady, keeping up with the times faster than they could come to her. She had a leopard skin pill-box hat before Jackie O had a leopard skin pill-box hat, and was dead by the time Bob Dylan could think to write a song about it.” Oh, that long, mid-century sectional couch. It might be white or a gawdy turquoise color. Whatever it is, he’s going to have her there. “She was a smart woman, too. The head of all of her many bookclubs. All of the books you see in here are hers.” His runs his beam over behind the couch, where the entire back wall is lined with books, and they move along. “And there are more in the den.

“She did everything she could to make her husband love her. She danced to his favorite records. She cooked for him and did his laundry. She cut her skirt an inch shorter with each passing trend.” They stand side by side, halted in the kitchen doorway. He turns his head and lets his eyes dip into her blouse. “I’ve been very appreciative of your new work wardrobe, by the the way.”

“Mulder,” she chastises, pulling her shirt down for better access. He laughs loudly at that, places his hand on the small of her back and leads her through the kitchen.

“She was driving herself crazy, trying to make him love her the way she loved him. And oh, did she love him, her sweet Maximus Battersea.” More wood paneling, and modular, pastel appliances that appear as if they haven’t aged a day since their prime. In the middle is a solid island with a geometric vase of dead flowers. This is where he’ll lay out all the food. Should’ve gotten flowers, he mopes to himself, but remembers that Scully doesn’t have a lot of patience for them. “They were high school sweethearts, and when he was 18 he was drafted off in the Korean War.

“Something was wrong when he came back. He got a job at some juicing plant working the machines, but showed a savvy for bossing people around that made itself known to the owners. He moved up quickly to supervisor and then warden. He and his little wife then bought this house, and Sherry made it her life’s work to take good care of it. Not a speck of dirt to be found.” Even to this day. They both marvel at the cleanliness. “Dishes were done as soon as they were used. Food was on the table for when he got home, still hot enough to serve. But he never got home to her at night. He would spend his nights at the bar, and then he became a favored customer at the Grand Major Hotel.”

“Oooooh. I would’ve killed the bastard,” Scully whistles, opening up a cabinet and standing on her tiptoes to peer in. He steps in behind her and lifts her up, chuckling when she screams and elbows him in the chest.

“Hmm, I know you would,” he mumbles in her ear, smacking a little kiss underneath it. All the glassware in the cabinet, chipless and clean as a whistle, clinks and jingles while she moves her hand through it. “You’re a jealous monster. So was Sherry Battersea.”

He’s making some of this shit up. He doesn’t know if she liked to read or if she was all that beautiful a woman, but the details make the story. “I’m not jealous,” Scully snorts, and he bites her neck as punishment for her blatant lie while dropping her back on her feet.

He wonders, as he pins her against the counter, if she’s caught on to his plans. He sets the flashlight down in front of her and snakes his arms around her from behind. “One night, he did come back to this big old house. But he was with someone else.”

“Oh, I would’ve killed him,” she repeats, tilting her head to get his lips on her neck. His nose brushes her cheek and he grins; she definitely knows. “I would’ve killed her.”

“And that’s what she did,” he says, kneading her hips. “They were on the couch, still mostly in their clothes. She snuck up from behind, and with all the power of her rage, she pushed one of her many bookcases right on top of them, crushing them to death.”

“I would’ve waited until they were naked. More humiliating.”

“Jealous. Monster.” Mulder says fondly, breaking away to grab her arm. “Now they say that Sherry Battersea remains in this house, long after she was convicted and put to death. She gave her life to building a home. It’s fitting that she give it her death as well.”

“And that’s what we’re here to investigate?” She says, narrowing her eyes.

“We’re here to say hi to old Sherry,” Mulder lies, urging her along. Neither of them are scared, despite of their previous history with ghosts. He’s not sure if Scully even remembers. That house had not been a pretty lie. It had only been filled with ugly truths.

On their way up the stairs, pausing at each creak even though the foundation is craftful and sturdy, a tune plays in his head. “Sherry… Sherry baby…” he sings, letting his voice go comically high. It’s too loud in the quiet house surrounded by nothing, and Scully turns around to slap a palm over his mouth.

“That’s a bad Frankie Valli impression,” she says, arching her eyebrow. “Want me to make it better?”

He kisses her palm. She takes it away and continues her charge up the stairs. When she’s far away enough, he finishes the line in his ghastly falsetto, voice cracking.

“Sherry, won’t you come out tonight?”

Come come, come out tonight. Come come. Come out tonight.

***

In the den on the other side of the house, a lightbulb flickers. The glow it casts under the lampshade is a soft, pinky red, the color of a deep blush. The winds caress the house with the sigh of a new lover. There is a soft scritching noise, a click of a record sliding into place. Static, and then…

Sherry, Sherry baby! Sherry, Sherry baby!

***

“I was listening to particle physicist Brian Cox on the radio the other day, talking with Neil deGrasse Tyson,” Scully says, sipping coffee from her thermos. She shivers a little in her suede jacket and Mulder regrets not finding somewhere a little warmer. Temperatures are at an all time high this fall in Virginia, but it’s still uncomfortable. He plans on warming her up anyway. “He’s a Professor at the University of Manchester and works on the Large Hadron Collider at CERN. You’ve probably listened to him before on a podcast. He tackles a lot of different concepts in science fiction. Frankenstein, for instance.”

“Corpse reanimation is my favorite,” Mulder says. “I know a lot about it.” She pets his hair and hands him her mug. He drinks from it gratefully. Another thing to regret. He hadn’t brought his own mug.

“Specifically, he was saying that ghosts could not exist because of what the collider tells us. You know what it does. It essentially uses a network of very complex, high-powered magnets – the largest, most expensive machine in the world – that are continuously switched on and off to send particles flying at almost the speed of light. The purpose of it is to find out what everything is made if. The particles collide and emit smaller particles, which we can observe, along with their interactions with other particles.”

“We used it to discover the Higgs Boson particle, which tells us how particles get their mass. The God Particle. It was a discovery over half a century in the making.”

“Mostly, yes. The argument was that if ghosts were real, they would emit particles that should be detectable in the Large Hadron Collider, and those particles would be able interact with the particles that make us up.”

Mulder’s silent for a moment, thinking. “What if the LHC isn’t powerful enough to detect those particles?”

“Mulder.” She licks her lips and angles her body towards him on the couch, looking into his eyes. Incredulity is still her best look. “This machine has been able to reconstruct temperatures and states of matter that only existed a microsecond after the birth of the universe, before it changed states. It is a very powerful machine.”

“But it still hasn’t answered everything,” he points out, shrugging his shoulders. “I mean, we still know nothing about dark matter. And dark matter is called dark matter because we know nothing about dark matter, only that it could explain why galaxies might contain less mass than what we’ve calculated.” He nods at her, taking another sip. “Maybe all that extra mass is a bunch of ghosts. Bet you never thought of that.”

“Mmm. Your souls in the starlight.” He scoots closer to her, slowly sliding his arm behind her on the back of the couch. When he leans forward, she says, “Mulder, maybe we should split up.”

“What?” He says, not pulling back. There’s enough light coming in from the windows that he can see her clearly, her noble profile shadowed and unshadowed as he moves towards her. He smells her perfume… and pine sol. “Now why would we do that? Last time we split up during a case like this you shot me.”

“I didn’t shoot you. You shot me.” So she does remember. She’s still talking when his lips are close enough to brush hers. “But how are we gonna catch this ghost sitting down?”

“Well, we don’t have to be sitting down.” He kisses her, a chaste, sweet little thing. He pulls back an inch and kisses her again. And again. And again. “We can.” Kiss. “Stop sitting.” Kiss. “Anytime you want.”

“Mulder.” Kiss. “Where’s the ghost?” Kiss. “Where’s Sherry?” Kiss. She’s folding under his body weight, falling back into the remarkably undusty cushions. She cups his jaw in her small hands and kisses him for real, chasing the flicker of his tongue with her own. She stretches one leg behind him, lets the other fall off the couch.

He groans and shifts so that he’s nestled between her thighs. There is – so much he loves about kissing Scully. In a lot of ways he’s learning her all over again after the time they’ve spent apart. Her face is thinner, he can trace her bones with his fingers, but not that sickly thin it had been the day she walked out. Her hair got its shine back. She tastes like a day at the office, her coffee and Cliff bars and the Burt’s Bees lipstick she wears during the cold weather.

But. Kiss. Her hands are bunched up in his shirt, very much like she’s prepared to rip it off of him. But this is is going too fast. Kiss. He forces himself to break away, taking his hand out from under her blouse.

Trying to control her breathing, pupils dilated, she lifts her chin and licks his lips. “So you want me to shoot you this time around?”

He laughs and moves off of her, giving her space her to sit back up and fix her wrinkled clothing. He winces and struggles to rearrange his wayward dick. Men’s pants are so tight now. He misses the freedom of the 90s.

“I uh. So here’s,” he pauses, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “Here’s the thing. There is no ghost.”

She blinks slowly. He wants to move a lock of silky red hair out of her eye, but keeps his hands to himself as she thinks things through. “You brought me to an abandoned house to… what? Make out with me?”

“Well, no. I mean yes. But I have…” All these years and this stuff still makes him tongue tied. “Libations. And… mood music.”

She raises her eyebrows, but her eyes are softer. “The Monster Mash?”

“The Prince version, yeah.” He leers at her. “It was a graveyard smash.”

“Oh my god,” she groans, letting her head fall back on the cushions.

“Think about it. The way I see it, Halloween is our holiday, right? Mr. and Mrs. Spooky.”

“No one ever called me Mrs. Spooky.”

“I did. All the time.”

She smiles. “I guess it beats the time you set me on fire for Valentine’s Day.”

“I don’t want to kill the adrenaline here,” he says, partially damning himself for ruining it so early. He lost a good amount of blood to that kiss. “There could absolutely be a ghost here. I’m just saying this isn’t my most reliably sourced case.”

“Are any of them?” She sighs, but she reaches out to pat his shoulder. “Go grab us some libations and make me forget this conversation.”

He ducks down to kiss her cheek. “Yes ma’am.”

Taking his bag of goodies to the kitchen, he pulls out the wooden cutting board he brought along to serve everything and all of the bags of pre-cut cheese, crackers, fruit and meat. He hums while he works. Hm. Hm hm. Hm hm. Hm hm. Hm. And it starts over, the notes twanging loudly in his mind. It is almost as if he could hear it being played through the walls – he feels it from the outside, rather than in his head. He blames it on his massive erection. He takes out the wine glasses and fills them up high enough to placate Scully and make his mother roll in her grave. Vineyard folk are serious about their wine.

He gets a good look at the kitchen as he works, transported back into a time he doesn’t know very well. The cottages on the Vineyard never kept up with any particular trend, opting instead for the timelessness of colonial whitewash and brown trim. They changed out maids and nannies like they’d change the air filters, and neither Teena nor Bill put effort into upkeep. Neither cared much for fidelity either he grimaces, and immediately feels bad for doing so.

If there is any truth to the tale, he aches for people like Sherry who gave their all and never knew when to take it back. He gets it. Sometimes you fixate on people. He had been a victim of it more than once, and now he’s the one waiting for the one he loves most to come back home.

He grabs the cutting board and the wine glasses, balancing them carefully, anchoring the stopped bottle in his armpit. The second bottle of wine and the dessert he’ll save for later are left on the counter. He hums his way back to the living room, his woman still sprawled out on the couch, waiting for him, and he forgets about Sherry.

Behind him, in the kitchen, there’s a flutter in the cabinets, sounds of gently moving ceramic. A pleasant, almost feminine noise, like tinkering laughter. Then there’s the pop of a cork.

The bottle moves, sliding to the end of the island. Then it rises into the air, bobbing up and down as if being carried by invisible hands.

Over the sink, the bottle upends. The glug-glug-glug of sweet red flows into the pipes. Just one glass’s worth.

The air is warmer, somehow.

Like a full body flush.

***

He sweeps her over the creaking floorboards, her cheek pressed to his chest. The cold has left them. His phone sits on the sleek, white coffee table, and his Elvis tunes play, his Dylan, some acoustic hits. She nuzzles in closer and hums along to Roberta Flack, Sinatra, that Cher song they both like so much.

“Why don’t you believe in the ghost, Mulder?” She murmurs, a little sad.

“I don’t know that I’m against the idea of her existing,” he says into her hair, closing his eyes. They turn. Sometimes he dips her, sometimes he spins her, but they spend most of the time just like this: as close as possible, eyes closed, careful not to bump into any of the furniture. “I just need more proof these days.”

“Well,” she says. “I’ll believe for the both of us then.”

He lifts his chin from her head, surprised. He pushes her away to search her face. “You believe in Sherry?”

“You had me with that dark matter point,” she shrugs. “If souls… did exist, they would most likely exist as a form of matter we haven’t discovered yet.”

“Dana Scully, but you are tipsy,” he chuckles, pulling her back to him. “If you believe, I believe. Sherry Battersea is alive and with us.”

“Why’d you bring us here if you didn’t think it was haunted?”

He thinks about this, rubbing his hands up and down her back. “We’ve got a long way to go, don’t we Scully?” She looks up at him, cocking her head. “You haven’t…. Moved back yet.” His thumbs caress her waist. “Into our home.”

Her face falls. “Mulder–” she tries to step away, but he holds onto her, shaking his head.

“It’s okay, Scully. Scully, I’m not mad. I’m not asking you to do anything before you’re ready.” He presses a kiss to the center of her forehead, smoothing his hand down the length of her hair. She closes her eyes. “But I thought maybe… if I could recreate… not an exact replica of the good old days, because we were always getting our asses kicked, but something tonally similar, it might help. Show you that I appreciate you and that… I miss you, and that I’m so fucking grateful that…”

She saves him by wrapping her arms around his neck and bringing him in for a slow, mind-melting kiss.

There are none of the cobwebs that decorated all those places in their youth, not like he’d been hoping. The shadows that float across the room are all accounted for. There is no fear. It is not quite like the old days, but he remembers this: holding her hips as they move above him in the dark, the rise and fall of her upturned breasts, the underside of her chin when she tosses her head back and gasps. She rides him into the couch, the sweltering sheath of her body spreading warmth from his cock to the tips of his fingers and toes. He watches her face in the shadows again, how her expressions undulate in the moonlight. She still keeps her apartment, but she’s come back to him in every way that matters.

In the kitchen, a bottle breaks. A tray of dark chocolates hits the wall at full speed.

“Did you hear that?” Scully breathes, furrowing her brow but not stopping, refusing to stop their decades-old rhythm. His hands slip around to grip her rear and he shakes his head. Wind rattles the windows, a howling, devastated screech that neither Mulder nor Scully can relate to.

***

“…Mulder,” Scully frowns, her nude form wrapped up in a fleece blanket he’d brought in from the car. She sits on the floor in front of the middle bookcase, running her fingers over the titles. “You said this place was abandoned, right?”

He’s dozing on the couch, KO’d from sex and the little bit of wine they’d had. “Mmm,” he rubs his cheek and yawns. “Yep. No one lives here.”

“I just find it odd that a place that’s been abandoned for so long shows so few signs of disrepair. In fact…” she runs her hand over the books again. “This place is cleaner than my own. You’re absolutely sure no one lives here?”

“It’s condemned,” he says. “Government says it’s no longer fit to live in.”

“That’s… weird.” She pulls out an old pulp romance novel and flips through the pages. “It seems perfectly habitable.”

“It might have something to do with the plumbing. There are all sorts of strange, outdated Virginia laws that classify a place as livable –” he’s cut off by a sharp yelp and a thud. He sits straight up and peers over the couch. “Scully?”

“I’m okay,” she groans, massaging the back of her head. “A book fell and hit me from the top shelf. But it hit me hard. Jesus, it feels like I got pelted with it.”

He climbs over the back of the couch to join her on the floor, and she laughs when he pecks and pats the top of her head.

“I have just the thing to make it better,” he says, standing back up.

“Again? So fast?” She sounds impressed. Excited. He shoots her a look.

“I was offering more wine, Scully. But ouch.” Her cackling follows him into the kitchen.

The sight that greets him freezes him cold. That extra wine bottle rests in a million shiny pieces, and what was once a glaringly yellow wall bleeds dark red with the wine streaking down to the sideboards. “Scully?” he calls out hoarsely, approaching the scene with caution.

“Shit!” she screams. His stomach drops with fear and he darts back out into the living room to find her huddled under hundreds of fallen books. “What the hell?”

“Scully!” He drops to his knees beside her, throwing book after book off to the side and clutching her face in his hands. “Are you okay? Are you hurt?”

“Not bad, but I’m beginning to see why this place might be condemned. The bookshelf just rattled and all the books fell off. Maybe there’s something wrong with the foundation.” He helps her out of the pile and they both move away, far back from the shelf.

“Rattled?” he asks, alarmed. “Like it was being shaken?”

“I thought it might be coming from the walls,” she posits, but that doesn’t sit right with him. Anxiety begins to gnaw his stomach into pits.

“You don’t think,” he starts and stops, biting his lip. He wants to put his clothes back on. The chill is coming back. “You don’t think that…”

“Think what, Mulder?”

“That… something was trying to push the bookshelf? On purpose?”

She looks at him, startled. “What? Like a ghost?” He nods his head, shrugging, and she angrily clutches the blanket around herself, turning her back to him to pick up her clothes. “You just told me you didn’t believe there were any ghosts here.”

“You just told me you did,” he argues, following his own garment trail.

“Mulder,” she whines, pulling on her bra. “I don’t actually – I was just…”

“You were lying?” He asks, pausing with his shirt over his head. The hurt catches him off guard.

“I wasn’t lying, I just… I’m so…” she sighs, doing up her fly and buttoning up her shirt. “I never know how you’re feeling these days, and…” she doesn’t finish. He nods slowly, a hot wave of dejection flooding his cheeks. There are traces of ancient anger he wants to pull from, that’s the easier path, but he can’t bring himself to do it.

“I never needed you to lie to me, Scully, and I certainly never asked you to,” he says roughly. He turns away from her to pull on his underwear, jeans, and jacket. He ignores her attempts at apologies and walks in long strides to the kitchen. “Come look at this,” he calls to her flatly.

Just when he thinks he’s pushed past the resentment of her leaving and the guilt at having made her leave, all of the other feelings are brought to the forefront. The shame. The fragility. He’s spent the last several months trying to prove to her that he can make it on his own – that his need for her doesn’t stem from an inability to function without her, but the irrefutable fact that they work so much better together – and the whole time she’s been… what?

Seeing him as a fucking child? Wearing kid-gloves in all of her interactions with him, holding back her opinions in fear of setting him off? Oh, Jesus. Is this why she won’t move back? She thinks he’s not ready?

“Here.” Side by side, they stand in front of the stain on the wall, mindful of the smushed chocolates and shards of glass.

“Maybe they fell?” Scully guesses weakly, at least having the decency to look contrite.

“They fell? At fifty miles an hour?” Maybe there is some anger he can pull from. “Unlikely. Didn’t you tell me you felt like that book had been pelted at you?”

“Yes but Mulder that could be anything. You said yourself the house was condemned.”

“Yeah, but–” he bends down to inspect the chocolate on the floor, picking one crushed morsel up to show her. “This looks… this looks like it’s been stepped on, crushed by something. What kind of foundational issue would cause that?”

She looks at it and sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose.

“Let’s split up,” Mulder says. “Take the top floor. I’ll take the bottom. It’s what we came here for anyway, right?” And he leaves her alone in the kitchen.

***

The den drastically departs from the design ideal of the rest of the house. Under his flashlight he spots leather rock chairs, worn and overstuffed, plain walnut bookshelves and orange shag carpets. He looks through the books and the desk drawers, searching for anything personal. Photos, journals, receipts kept, anything that might give him any insight into Sherry Battersea and the lonely, lonely house she kept. No luck.

There is a large stack of records sitting next to a hefty Champion record player, dressed in supple red leatherette. He flips through them. The Big Bopper. Fats Domino. The Lennon Sisters. More and more of the same ilk – an Elvis Christmas LP he’s pretty sure is the real deal, and which he shamefully considers sliding under his coat. He then inspects the player itself, lifts the arm to see the stack of singles underneath it. He lets the arm fall back into place.

It begins to play.

He yelps, stumbling backwards and collapsing onto the rock chair as the music plays loudly enough to fill the house.

Sherry! Sherry baby! Sherry! Sherry baby!

Mulder clutches for the back of the chair and watches in terrified fascination as the entire den comes to life. The lamp flicks on and casts the room in its soft pink light, turning brown into different shades of red. Warmth trickles in from the air vent and all in his body he feels the electric hum of a machine coming to life. He knows instantly that means every other room in the house must be waking up in the same way. Scully he thinks, attempting to jump to his feet.

He’s knocked back on his ass. “What the–” he tries again, and the shag rug slithers out from underneath the desk, coming at him like a cautious snake.

Sherry! Sherry baby! Sheeeeeeeeeeeeerry bay-ay-by! Sherry, can you come out tonight?

“Scullllllaaaay!” He shouts, but he’s no match against The Four Seasons bleating from the – not from the record machine, but from – everywhere, what –

Why - don’t - you - come out? Come out! To my twist party! Where the bright moon shines!

The rug does just that, rises up, twists back and forth like wringing water out from a cloth. Still moving slowly it comes up to his feet, and he brings his legs up and hugs his knees close to his body, expelling an embarrassing squeak that would give Frankie Valli a run for his money. The rug continues its ascent, sliding up his legs, like – like a caress - gentle – warm – not like a rug, but like –

Like a human.

Mulder kicks his legs out with as much force as he can muster and the rug drops to the floor with a muffled poof. Then he’s leaping out of the chair and throwing open the door, giggling crazily when – he swears he feels it – something invisible tugs at his shirt, at his pant legs and hands.

He runs out out of the den into the open hallway like a scene straight out A Hard Day’s Night, and it’s just as he suspected. All the lights are on, and the Battersea house is thrown into full technicolor, much more vivid than he could have imagined. The lucite chairs are the brightest reds and blues he’s ever seen on furniture in his life, the sofa and the tables and the cleanest, starkest white. The light from the bulbous chandelier sparkles and spins. That pine sol scent – and then something else – Shalimar? – the alien-looking Philco television set on its tall thin stand, some old Gunsmoke episode. Then the channels flip and flip and it’s the Twilight Zone, and he’s being shoved by the air over to the couch. “Scully!” He yells again, laughing, merrily going along with the phantom guide. How is this for proof of a spirit world? This has got to be the single strongest case for the existence of poltergeists ever experienced. “Scully! Come here!”

“Mulder!” Scully screeches, straight from the gut.

Three gunshots go off.

His laughter corks in his throat, his heart drops to his stomach. Mulder races into the kitchen, faster than the grip that vies for him. The wine has been scrubbed from the walls, the glass swept from the floor. Something delicious simmers on the stove, and as he darts past the island he notices a bottle of vodka and a carton of orange juice pouring into a metal mixer. No body performs the action. They float in the air and the liquid comes out in steady, even streams.

That’s his drink. He shudders and hops up the stairs, taking two at a time. Scully’s voice has died out but he can still hear it pounding in his head, along with the never ceasing with your red dress on! Mmm you look so fine! and his ragged breath. “Scully!” He yells again, throwing open every door as he comes to it. The towels in the bathroom, the shower curtain, all rip themselves from their places and slither and slide after him, licking at his ankles and tripping him up. Gold and copper tubes of lipstick chase behind him, leaving behind perfect lip imprints on the walls.

When he gets to the bedroom, he finds Scully bound and gagged to the four poster bed, screaming into the pillowcase stuffed in mouth. “Scully,” he hisses, falling to his knees in front of her, pulling out the gag and deftly untying the knots around her ankles and wrists.

“That crazy–” she coughs and struggles underneath him, making it impossible to get her unbound. “That crazy bitch –” “Stop moving–” but she won’t, she’s writhing and wrestling until he has to cover her with his weight, yelling at her all the way. “Crazy fucking bitch!” She screams. When she’s free from her ties she shoves Mulder off of her and hops to her feet, tearing through the bedroom like a hurricane. “Where the fuck did she put my gun–”

“She took your gun?” Mulder panics, ripping through the room with her. “Scully, did you–” he sees it, three bullet holes in the corner of the ceiling. “Did you shoot the house, Scully?”

“You bet I fucking shot the house!” She screams. “Aha!” She pulls out the gun from the nightstand, cocks it, and tries to run out of the room.

“Scully,” Mulder grabs her by the shoulders and pulls her to him, ignoring her struggling. “Scully, I’m thinking this is an extremely malevolent, extremely powerful poltergeist. You cannot shootpoltergeists–”

She whips around, turning on him and backing him into the wall. “Malevolent? Did she drag you by your hair into the bedroom and tie you to a bed, Mulder? You look suspiciously unharassed.”

He licks his lips and stutters. “Uh, no. That has not been – that has not been my experience.” She raises both eyebrows and crosses her arm, waiting for him to continue. He rushes on. “I think Sherry’s still here, trying to take care of her husband.”

Scully steps back, eyes widening in shock. Her mouth opens and closes. Slowly, quietly, she asks, “Are you saying… the… poltergeist… is trying to seduce you?”

“And kill my mistress? Yeah,” he huffs a laugh and wraps his arms around her stunned and silent frame, letting his body relax against hers for just a minute. He’s getting too old for this kind of exertion. “Oh, god. You scared the shit out of me, Scully.”

“Sorry to cause so much stress, Mr. Battersea,” she grumbles, burying her nose in his neck. He nuzzles her hair and she lifts her head, slotting their lips together in a sweet, relief-filled kiss. If she’ll forgive him his affair with the carpet, he’ll forgive her everything. She pulls back, shaking her hair out of her face and straightening out her shoulders. “Now how do we get rid of this thing? What’s all in that bag you brought?”

He freezes. Shit.

“Mulder, no,” she says, horrified.

***

They slink down the stairs, Scully first, gun first, just in case. The breath of the house is soft, deceivingly calm. The music has been shut off. No objects float in the kitchen, the stove is turned off. Nothing tries to pull Mulder out of his clothes, or Scully into a closet.

“I think our little display back there pissed her off,” Mulder says grimly, staying close behind Scully.

“You’re my husband,” she bites out, straightening her shooter’s stance. “I kiss you whenever I want.”

They pause before entering the living room, looking at each other.

“That’s where it all happened,” Mulder whispers, nodding his head at the door. “If we go out there…”

“Should we just make a run for it then?” Scully asks, biting her lip. He bites his lip, too, and they meet each other’s eyes. He nods slowly.

They take off, pounding their feet against the hardwood and running as fast as they can, Mulder’s hands barely grazing Scully’s shoulders, but they never stood a chance. Floorboards are snatched almost from under their feet; chairs and tables go hurtling through the air. They drop down, Mulder curling his body over hers and shielding his head when bronze ornaments chuck themselves off of their stands, decorative mirrors drop to the floor, sending their shards flying.

From every molecule of the house, Frankie Valli’s falsetto warps into a deep, unsettling baritone.

Come come. Come out tonight. Come come. Come out tonight. Come come. Come out tonight.

“Say a prayer, Scully,” Mulder groans, wincing when a piece of glass whizzes past his head and scrapes up the back of his hands. She begins to frantically mutter one under her breath, but it’s useless. The storm doesn’t stop.

“Sherry,” Mulder tries. “Sherry!” He says louder. The music ends, but the the violence doesn’t. “Sherry, I know you were hurt!”

A woosh of a sigh is expelled from all the air vents. Objectiles drop straight to the floor. Mulder takes a deep breath and rolls off of Scully, who chokes and coughs into her arm.

He keeps going, not exactly sure what he’s saying. “Your husband was a selfish man who didn’t treat you the way you deserved. You loved him. You gave him everything. You cleaned up every mess, you paid every bill, you did everything he asked of you and it still wasn’t enough.” He swallows, pressing his bleeding hand to his stomach. “He still wouldn’t come home to you.

“It wasn’t your fault, Sherry. People who love you don’t do that to you. People who love you know that you aren’t perfect and come home to you anyway.”

The house is so quiet it is almost as if his soft, soothing voice has lulled it to sleep, and for a moment he thinks it has. Water drips from the air vents, from the windows, single, silent tears of condensation.

Crumpled next to him, Scully is sniffing. He glances at her, worried, but she’s smiling through her tears, sliding her hand through debri and dust to wrap around his. He smiles back, surprised to discover that he’s crying, too.

But she’s suddenly yanked away, screaming as those invisible hands drag her by her ankles and toss her onto the couch. “Scully!” Mulder yells, getting up to run toward her.

He’s tripped by an orange shag carpet.

“It’s not you, Sherry, it’s me,” he whimpers, frantically wriggling as the carpet begins to roll up with him inside of it. He groans and drags himself across the floor with his hands, carpet and all. The Philco set buzzes past him in the air and he shouts. “Watch out, Scully!”

He doesn’t see where it lands, but it the sound it make is a sickening smack, a bludgeoning soundtrack. “Scully?” No response. “Scully?”

He groans, dragging himself with agonizing slowness until he’s at the couch. Propping himself up his arms, his legs still wrapped in the rug, his mouth waters in fear and his stomach tightens at the sight of her, pale and silent, with one patch of bloody red hair staining her temple.

He checks her pulse, is relieved to find it faint, but still there. He kicks and pounds inside his trap until it’s beaten slack and stupid, and lifts himself onto the couch.

“Scully?” He lightly touches the spot where she’s hurt and she jerks her head and groans. “Oh, thank god.”

“Take me to dinner next time,” she winces, feeling the wound for herself and hissing out when she brushes the most tender part. She sits up, he pulls her hair away to give her better access. “I probably need to go to the hospital for this.”

“Well let’s try and get you there, partner.” One hand on her back, the other on her shoulder, he tries to help her up, but is interrupted with the sound of… “Scully. Scully, shit.”

“What?”

“Scully, the bookca–” SLAM.

***

She hauls him out of the dead and empty house, panting with the exertion and the throbbing pain in her head.

“I think–I think she went back to sleep,” Mulder yaps manically. “I think that put her to sleep. Reenacting the – the crime.” “We’re not dead, Mulder,” she grunts. Another foot down the driveway. “I just wish we were dead.”

“I think we better call an ambulance, Scully,” he says, resigned. “I don’t think either of us can drive.”

They call the ambulance and wait. Scully plops down beside him, wincing as the morning sun reflects off the ugly pink wood and cuts into her blurry vision. “This sucks, Mulder,” she sighs, squeezing her fists into her eyes.

“God, I know. This was a terrible idea. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

“How are you going to help me move with two broken ankles?” She sighs again, shaking her head. “I’ll have to hire somebody now.”

He beams at her.

***

All the spirits rejoice and return to their graves for their year long sleep.

***

Girl, you make me lose my mind!

#fanfic #xfiles fanfic #the x files #txf #wtfmulder #mulder #scully #mulder and scully #mulderxscully #halloween #haunted house #spooky #msr

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artificialqueens · 4 years

Text

The Goode Case, 3/14 - Juno

Chapter Summary: Jaida can’t sleep, thanks to her recurring nightmare, which prompts her to relive how Jackie revealed her own gift, and how she found out about Jaida’s, in an evening that Jaida, Jackie and Brita are unlikely to forget any time soon …

(A/N: I really appreciate your supportive comments, thank you! Hopefully I will have another update ready in the next couple of days on this monster of a story. For now though, here is part three.)

Sunday 29thOctober

4.13AM

Jaida sat up, drenched in sweat from the familiar nightmare.

She blinked, and she could still see her Papa in the corner, as she had that horrible night.

The nightmare was almost always just a replay of the experience. The first time she recalled seeing a spirit.

She and her parents had stayed in the room with her beloved Papa’s body in the coffin the night before his wake, when Jaida was just seven. She’d known her Papa was in the coffin, but suddenly his spectre was in the corner, pale and blank; she’d watched him walk from the corner of the room to Jaida, while Jaida lay paralysed with fear, unable to make a sound; and reach his hand towards her, bringing his face closer …

That was always the point that Jaida woke up, and today was no different. She waited for her eyes to focus in the dark, her breathing to calm, and she closed her eyes, counted to five, and when she opened them, Papa had disappeared as he always did.

But the memory didn’t fade. It never did.

Jaida had not had many close relatives die, but she remembered her friend Marty back in senior year of high school, seeing his mom behind him, reaching to shake his shoulder, but Jaida being the only person to see her. Marty had spun round at Jaida’s cry, not seeing his mom even though she was right there, clear as crystal, to Jaida’s eyes at least. He’d then avoided Jaida the rest of senior year when it had turned out his mother had had a fatal heart attack earlier that day.

And later at college. Laura stood on the bridge, looking down at the water, then at Jaida, then at the water again. A day before Jaida had found out that Laura had leapt from that same bridge three days ago.

Part of Jaida really hated the gift – or curse, as she thought privately – but without it, she and Jackie wouldn’t have become so close so quickly. Jackie’s telepathy, and subsequent mental bond that she’d formed with both Jaida and Brita, had been weird at first, but now Jackie was the only person who knew about Jaida’s ability.

Jackie referred to it as mediumship, while Jaida just called it a pain in the ass.

Jackie couldn’t see these spirits, just as Jaida couldn’t read minds, but at least Jackie knew that she wasn’t crazy, or lying. And as the oldest, the self-appointed ‘mom friend’ of the group, Jackie would often look after them at her own expense.

For instance, at this moment, Jaida knew that her nightmare, and seeing her Papa in her room, would have made Jackie wake up, sensing Jaida’s terror even from this distance, thanks to that psychic bond that Jaida had insisted on trying out with her. Jackie would now be online, waiting for Jaida to message her if she needed anything.

Sure enough, when Jaida picked up her phone, waiting for her eyes to focus, Jackie was the only person online, apart from that one girl from college who’d moved to London and was five hours ahead.

Springing from her memory, she remembered Jackie describing her telepathy to her and Brita, after they’d taken Jackie to Vanjie’s after her first week.

————————————

It was, oddly enough, Brita’s idea. Brita was not one to suggest a trip to the bar, normally being more inclined to rest at home in the evenings one of her hoards of books and a mug of hot chocolate; but the day Jackie joined back in June, that fateful Monday, Brita was dumped. By text, as well.

Brita had pulled Jaida into the bathroom at the end of the day, outwardly as always a tower of strength, professional and proud; to crumple into a heap over the sink, inconsolable, crying so desperately that it was all Jaida could do not to cry herself.

Luckily for Brita, her seemingly endless torrent of friends rang her phone off the hook the next few days, trying to persuade her to go out, telling her to forget him, sending her pictures of plenty of hot men and women to drool over. Brita had just chuckled, but Jaida knew she was feeling the love from all angles at this time.

That week she’d already been out with her friend Paul Mantione and his sister Jan on the Wednesday; and her two older sisters on the Thursday for food and plenty of red wine; but Friday she suggested to Jaida a trip to Vanjie’s after work, as Vanjie’s was for an LGBT+ crowd which suited them both. They’d invited Jackie mostly out of politeness, not sure how she would feel in a gay bar, but Jackie had accepted with such enthusiasm that it seemed to seal the deal.

Vanessa, the owner of Vanjie’s, and Brita had been joined at the hip through most of college, but Vanessa had bought the lease to the bar after winning big money on her spontaneous trip to Vegas that time, along with her on-again off-again partner Brooke. At that time, they were off-again, which meant Vanessa wanted everyone to enjoy themselves as much as possible, and that meant free shots.

So the tequila slammer was free, and that served to loosen the pockets for one more each. Tequila slammers were not Jackie’s strong suit, but Jaida could probably take three and be fine, and the three of them had ended up in a booth afterwards with some tall cocktails, heads feeling fuzzier and fuzzier.

After two slammers and a cocktail, Jackie’s tongue had loosened considerably. She had started finishing Jaida’s sentences, and then Brita’s too. It started to become a little annoying, Jaida had to admit.

But then Jackie was finishing sentences, and starting sentences that Jaida was only thinking.

“How are you doing that?” Jaida had asked Jackie, whose face was getting quite pink. She had leaned in towards Brita and Jaida, putting a finger to her lips.

“I can hear other peoples’ thoughts,” Jackie had whispered, laughing at her own remark.

Of all the things that Jaida might have expected Jackie to respond, that had been pretty low on the list. Jaida could only stare open-mouthed, and finally nod. “Okay, that’s cool.”

“Maybe you’ve had enough now, Jacks,” Brita had laughed uneasily.

“No, you don’t understand, it’s a gift, my mom says. Well, I didn’t ask for it, and it’s a bit strange, and sometimes I don’t know what it does, so it’s like, a perfect birthday gift from relatives,” Jackie had continued, still laughing.

“Child –“

“You’re joking, right?” Brita had asked in a low voice.

“No, Brita, it’s real,” Jackie had sighed. “Okay, think of something and I’ll tell you it.”

“Alright,” Brita had screwed up her face in concentration.

“Oh, come on, you have to think of something harder than that! You’re just thinking about your birthday. It’s September 16th. I thought you were going to test me!”

The smile fell from Brita’s face, and Jaida had felt her own stomach twist uncomfortably. Jackie had just snorted with laughter at both of them.

“Your faces! Oh my god! You didn’t believe me at first!” She’d placed a hand on Jaida’s forearm. “Do you believe me now?”

“What’s mine, then?” Jaida had asked, thinking of a random date.

But Jackie had cocked an eyebrow. “You’re thinking of July 10th, but you’re trying to throw me off. That’s not your actual birthday.”

“Wait, what?” Brita had looked stunned, her eyes wide, turning from Jackie to Jaida and back again.

Jaida had felt a strange lump in her throat. “That was the right date I was thinking, but it’s not actually my birthday. How – how did you know?”

Jackie had shrugged. “I hear almost everyone’s thoughts. Mostly just whispers. So if there’s a lot of people in a group, they all get confused, but if I’m just with one or two people, I can hear the whispers.”

“Can you hear, like anyone’s thoughts? Like, can you hear Lisa Rinna’s thoughts?” Brita had asked in awe.

But Jackie had shook her head. “No, I can only hear people who are nearby, like, not more than about two metres away. So I can hear your thoughts, just the whispers, but I can’t hear Vanessa’s at the bar. Only people who are nearby. Unless they’re someone I’ve connected with.”

“Connected with?” Jaida had asked.

“So if I form a mental connection with someone, I can also know when they’re feeling an extreme emotion, wherever they are in the world. When my mom was ill, I felt it every time she woke up in pain, or was in hospital, or thought she was dying, or was scared or like, really excited when she was getting better. She’s in Toronto.”

“Is she better now?”

“She’s much better, thank you.”

“Does that mean she can read your thoughts too?” Brita had whispered.

“I don’t think so. I don’t think anyone can. Unless you’re also psychic.” Jackie had hiccuped and then giggled. “Sorry, alcohol makes me chatty! But, I think everyone is a little bit psychic, maybe in different ways.”

And Jackie had turned to Jaida, looking straight in her eyes.

Could Jackie hear her own thoughts …

Jaida forced herself not to think about anything, to make her mind as blank as possible.

“SHOTS! Who ordered shots? Oh wait, it was me!” It was Vanessa who’d broken the spell, appearing at the corner of the booth, three more tequila shots and a plate of lemon and salt beside it. “Get some shots down your throats ladies, and maybe later get something else down your throats too!” Vanessa had cackled at her own joke.

Jaida had felt her shoulders relax a little. Jackie wasn’t a big drinker, and was a bit more drunk than she and Brita were, so Brita had taken two slammers leaving Jackie to just relax, and take a sip of the water on the table.

“Who do you have a connection with then?” Jaida had asked, wanting to change the subject.

“Whoever I choose,” Jackie had replied mysteriously, wriggling her fingers in both their directions before collapsing into giggles.

——————————————————

Jaida looked at her phone. Jackie was still online, and Jaida knew she wouldn’t log off without a prompt.

Jaida:I’m ok Jackie, thanks

Jackie: He can’t hurt you

Jaida:I know

Jackie always told Jaida this, every time Jaida had seen … someone. She wasn’t sure how Jackie had so much knowledge of all this psychic stuff, and she wasn’t even sure why Jackie was so open about it with people she had hardly met. Part of Jaida was convinced that Jackie found out about it from that night in Vanjie’s, although it wasn’t confirmed until … until that night at Jackie’s apartment.

She had a gnawing sense of regret at asking Jackie to do what she’d crudely titled “the connection thing” with her. Brita had been a bit more cautious as usual, but Jaida had wanted to know what it meant. And if it would make her know Jackie’s thoughts too.

——————————————————

In mid-July, Jackie invited them both to her apartment, as a bit of an attempt to get to know the two of them a little better. She had moved in with some girl who had so many jobs that she was never in, but left a whirlwind of clothes and bowls of cornflakes in her wake.

Jaida marvelled at the atmosphere that Jackie had managed to create. They rented, so they weren’t allowed to do major renovation, but a patterned shawl here and a plant or two there had given the plain magnolia walls some life. The living room led out to a tiny Juliet balcony with just enough room for the ashtray and a packet of menthols next to it, and a pair of dirty walking boots on the floor.

There were two bookshelves along the wall of the living area, a large oblong room with a dining table pushed against one wall. Jaida ran a finger along the titles, several French books among them too, and a small collection of Farsi books in the top left shelf.

“You got almost as many books as Brita!”

“I’ve got far more books than this!” Brita waved her hand dismissively.

“Some of these are my housemate’s as well.”

“Wait, you speak French?” Jaida pointed to one of the French titles.

“Sure. I’m Canadian, we had to take French at school.”

“And are these Farsi?”

Jackie nodded. “I’m bilingual in Farsi and English. I wish I got the chance to speak it more, normally I just chat to my mom or her siblings, when they call up. It’s easy to lose bits of it when you don’t speak it or use it too much.”

“And is this … oh, girl,” Jaida pulled the chess set out from one of the middle shelves, her eyes lighting up. “I haven’t played since seventh grade.”

“What? That’s when I started playing!” Brita exclaimed.

Jackie laughed. “You’ll both have to teach me again, I’m so bad at chess. But go ahead and play if you want, while I get the food ready.”

A beautiful smell was coming from the kitchen area. When Jackie had said she’d cook for them, Jaida had maybe expected frozen pizza, but Jackie had really put in an effort to impress them, running back and forth, chopping and blitzing noises filling the room. Jaida and Brita unpacked the chess pieces and started to play, but Brita kept calling to Jackie to see if she needed any help.

“Nope! It’s all under control!” Came Jackie’s chirpy reply each time.

In chess, Jaida had learned long ago to watch her opponent’s eyes to see where they was thinking of moving to and from, and sure enough Brita’s brown eyes flicking between the pieces gave away her every thought. Jaida liked to pride herself on having a much better poker face, letting her vision drift across the board, and trusting her instinct, even if her pieces started disappearing.

When Jackie finally came to sit in front of them, it was Brita’s move, and she was scratching her neck and licking her lips. Brita was one of those who took five minutes or more with each move, planning her strategy each time, always meticulous to take every single angle into account.

Jackie moved her gaze between them both, a small smile playing on her lips, not attempting to break the silence, just enjoying having their company in her home.

“You’re both really interesting to listen to, while you’re playing,” Jackie said finally, as Brita moved her bishop into place.

“What?”

“I mean, your thoughts, your plans for the game. You’re both strategising. You’re both just thinking about your plans.”

“Oh, okay.” Jaida ignored Jackie and moved her rook past Brita’s bishop. “Check.”

“Wait, how?” Brita peered at the board. “Ah, shit,” she mumbled as she realised. “Shit, sis, I completely missed that.”

“Sorry,” Jackie whispered, getting up and moving back to the kitchen.

Brita reached to her. “No, wait, I didn’t mean it like that!” She got up and followed Jackie to the kitchen. Jaida glanced at the board, then sighed and got up.

A minute later, Brita measuring out rice, while Jackie handed Jaida some vegetables from the bottom drawer of the fridge. Brita had felt like she’d insulted Jackie, and had insisted they help with some food prep. Jaida had been volunteered for salad.

“What is it?” Jaida peered into the simmering pan. “Smells great.”

“Khoresh Bademjan. It’s Persian. You’ll like it, I don’t know anyone who doesn’t. And don’t worry, Jaida, I made it vegetarian.”

“Cool, thanks,” Jaida smiled.

The food was gorgeous, although Jackie kept glancing at them, as if looking for some kind of validation – but once they were all done, Brita immediately leapt from her chair and dragged Jaida to the sink to tackle the washing up. With Jaida drying and Brita washing, Jackie insisting on putting the dishes away, they settled into a comfortable silence between the three of them.

“Thanks for everything, Jackie.” Jaida passed her the last dish and cleared her throat. “Sorry I made you feel a bit – you know, weird. That was rude of me. I’m sorry.”

“It’s alright,” Jackie shook her head sadly. “I’m used to keeping it to myself, but it kind of feels nice to talk about it though.”

Jaida had to admit she’d only half-considered how Jackie was feeling about talking about it.

“Do lots of people know?” Brita asked her.

But Jackie shook her head. “My mom does, and one or two of my closest friends back home. And you guys, but we’re friends too, right?”

“Sure, we have each other’s backs!” Brita pulled Jackie into a one-armed hug, squeezing Jackie into her side.

“If you’re psychic, why can’t you just wash these dishes with your mind?”

They’d rarely heard Jackie laugh louder than at Jaida’s remark. “Jai, that’s telekinesis! I’m only telepathic! Well, I say only telepathic!” And she carried on laughing. “I only hear thoughts, nothing else, I can’t move things!”

“So you can hear our thoughts, but you have to, like, connect with someone to be able to have a mental bond?” Jaida asked. “I don’t quite get it.”

“I guess … people I have a bond with, I hear more clearly. People I don’t I just hear whispers, but anyone I have a bond with, I can hear what they’re thinking really clearly, and from a longer distance.”

“Who have you got a bond with then?”

“Oh, you know, not many people,” Jackie murmured.

“Family? Friends?” Brita badgered.

Jackie sighed. “Those kinds of people, yes. My mom, a couple of my friends. One ex.” Jackie shuddered. “Bad decision. Wouldn’t recommend it.”

“What about us? Would you do the connection thing with us? For work?”

Jaida hadn’t expected the words to come right out of her mouth, but now that they were, Jackie looked as if she was pondering it. Maybe Jaida had felt that she needed to make it up to Jackie for earlier. Maybe … it was a sort of morbid curiosity.

Jackie’s gaze had softened, and she’d shrugged.

“It’s not a bad idea,” Jackie mused, “if we’re working on any high profile cases together, and if anything happens to you, I would know.”

“And vice versa?” Jaida asked.

“I’m not sure,” Jackie muttered, “but nothing has really ever happened to me.”

“You can’t tempt fate, sis,” Brita chuckled darkly.

“Okay,” Jaida said, “it makes sense to do it. What do you do, to connect?”

“I’m not so sure about this,” Brita hesitated.

“Come on Brita, it does make sense. Especially in our line of work. Does it take long, Jackie?” Jaida asked.

“It probably won’t take longer than about fifteen seconds, and I just need some form of touch, and eye contact. And you need to be willing, of course.”

Jaida held out a hand on the bench, and Jackie gingerly took it, raising her eyes to meet Jaida’s.

“You sure you want to do this? You don’t want to back out?” Jackie’s voice was higher than usual, and a little bit timid, as if she were afraid to have any form of connection with them.

“Go ahead, Jackie,” Jaida tried to make her voice sound as stable as she could.

“Okay. And you have to keep eye contact, until the end. You’ll know when it’s the end.”

Jackie took a deep breath in and out, and Jaida did the same, feeling her body relax a little bit as she did so. At first Jaida felt nothing, but held Jackie’s eyes, both of them falling silent. She could see Brita shifting out of the corner of her eye, but she kept focused on Jackie, breathing steadily, normally.

The seconds passed, but nothing was happening. She could see Brita biting her lip, a little confused.

“Nothing’s happening,” Jaida opened her mouth to say, or at least she thought she did, but nothing came out of it, and she wasn’t even sure her mouth moved.

“What?” She tried to say, but her mouth definitely didn’t move that time.

Jackie was still staring into her, and it was becoming intrusive, unnerving, but Jaida found she couldn’t look away, she was becoming a little light-headed at the focus.

She felt an internal jerk, as if electricity had gone through her; felt her mind race, a whole rush of emotions and memories play back to her in her mind, some echoes of thoughts that weren’t her own; saw herself briefly through Jackie’s own eyes, felt her own hand in Jackie’s, heard herself thinking thoughts that were definitely not her …

Jackie pulled back, blinking and shaking her head wildly, and Jaida was finally freed, feeling as if she had been yanked backwards out of a vacuum. She rubbed her forehead, finding she was sweating.

“Woah,” Jaida whispered.

It was rare to see Brita scared. Her wide eyes flicked between Jaida and Jackie, her mouth agape, looking less and less sure she wanted to do this.

Jackie held out a hand to her. “Brita?”

Brita was no coward, Jaida knew this well from the various jobs she had seen Brita complete. She might have been frightened, but she nodded slowly, holding her own hand out, facing Jackie and locking eyes with her.

Jaida watched them both. Watched as Jackie’s face grew intense with concentration. Watched as Brita’s brow furrowed, as if she were in pain.

“Ow,” she breathed.

But Jackie didn’t relent.

“Oww,” Brita’s voice was weak, but she maintained focus.

They both flinched at the same moment, pain etched in the lines on their foreheads, but Jaida didn’t know what to do in this strange psychic battle. It seemed to be going on longer than she had done with Jackie, their stares so intense they could have burned through each other.

“Jackie, what’s happening?” She asked, but Jackie didn’t respond, nor Brita, both still intensely concentrated on each other.

“What’s –“ Jaida raised a hand, but they both jolted at that moment, breaking apart, Brita ripping her hand away, and Jackie looking down at the floor, biting her lip.

“Sorry,” she muttered, “it’s not meant to hurt so much. It never has with anyone else …”

But Brita, her eyes glassy, blinked twice and stumbled out of the room as if she hadn’t heard, making her way away to the bathroom.

“Brita?” Jaida started to move after her, but Jackie grabbed her forearm.

“Let her go, Jaida, I think she needs to be alone,” Jackie murmured, and Jaida stepped backwards, watching Brita’s dazed walk to the bathroom.

Jaida’s own mind was reeling at the contact. Her mind raced with questions.

Were she and Jackie now bonded to each other mentally?

Did that mean that Jackie knew about Jaida’s own sixth sense, the Bruce Willis cliché twist; that Jaida saw spirits that most others didn’t?

“Yes,” Jackie muttered. “And yes.”

Jaida saw Jackie watching her, her eyes full of something that Jaida thought was … pity.

————————————————————————

Jaida sighed at the memory. It had brought the three of them closer, that was for sure, but Jackie had refused to tell Brita what Jaida saw. Just as she had refused to tell Jaida what had happened with Brita too – she’d argued that they both needed to take charge themselves.

The clock said almost four thirty by now, and Jackie was still online, so Jaida turned her phone off. Jackie would go offline and back to sleep, as long as she knew Jaida was alright. The mom-friend, who wanted to save everyone in the world.

Jaida wondered if Jackie had craved that support, that care, when she was learning about her own telepathy; to make her offer herself so selflessly now.

She lay back down, pondering that warm July night.

And Brita … she and Brita knew so much about each other. Jaida had been the first person to whom Brita had confessed to being attracted to women as well as men, and Jaida had helped Brita plan her coming out to her sisters and parents. And when Silky had broken up with Jaida back in May, Brita had been at her house within half an hour, mopping up the tears that Jaida rarely let the world see, getting them both dressed and made up, and pulling both Jaida and Widow to a karaoke bar to belt out some tunes, Heidi hot on their heels.

Jaida smiled fondly at that memory. Jaida was a terrible singer, she knew that, and Widow was a bit too shy to sing, but Brita’s voice was fantastic. When Brita had hit the high note in Unbreak My Heart, Jaida had felt goose pimples run down her arms, before she was crying again and Widow had wrapped her up, not saying a word, simply letting Jaida unravel in her arms, while Heidi had stroked her back soothingly.

It was wrong that Brita still didn’t know what her gift was. Jackie was right – Jaida knew that she and Brita were keeping huge parts of themselves hidden from each other, even though they’d been friends for three years.

Enough was enough.

Jaida resolved to talk to Brita in the morning.

#rpdr fanfiction #jaida essence hall #brita filter #jackie cox #lesbian au #detective au #mystery #the goode case #juno #black girl magic fic #diversity fic #s12 #submission #tw death #tw suicide references

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everythingoesnk · 4 years

Text

Good man

summary; you’re an angel (literally an angel) and the world needs you. what for? to babysit mclennon. spoiler: you cannot resist john.

word count; 3 248

disclaimers; i’m SO proud of this but give me feedback lol you just can’t imagine how much it helps and motivates to keep writing

warnings; cannot think of one.

********

Too many of yours had been killed. Many others were still held in custody, tortured for the sole purpose of unleashing a war your community had been avoiding.

The smartest decision would’ve been to end the nonsense and face the enemy head-on, but again, you were angels. Dialogue always came first.

You learned the lesson.

This last year you’d been training and developing physical skills that initially don’t belong to your committee. What you didn’t know was the irrefutable decision the Parliament imposed in one of their meetings that they later would communicate to the nation: put into practice, only if necessary, the fighting tactics that you acquired. Not here, but on Earth. Long story short, become guardians. A large number of people understand that as angels that’s what you are. They’re not wrong, in a way.

On a final note, the Parliament concluded that its best pupils would descend to protect humans from the vehemence of the Evil.

Each angel has two people assigned.

Yours are Paul McCartney and John Lennon.

18th of June 1967, 15:18 pm

“Today marks six months since we met, and on top of that, it’s my birthday. Have you bought me anything?” Paul inquired from the sofa, straightening his neck to get a better view of your face.

It was difficult with you staring out the window, scanning every inch of the street and skyline, never turning to show any interest in what he was saying.

Dropping his head backwards, he added quietly, “And nothing happened”

“Is that disappointment in your tone?” you asked impassively, still not turning.

“Disappointment is not the word”

“What’s the word then?”

Your eyes travelled to a different point. No longer on the clouds that ventured the signs of a storm but on your partner and one of the other three funky insects.

Matt was near the metal gate, keeping an eye on the vicinities and probably rolling his eyes at the fans’ screeches coming from behind the entry, crying for any sort of interaction with their idols.

Not far from there John was sitting on the hood of his car.

Something must have told him he was being watched because he put down the hand with the cigarette and looked up to the same window you were at almost instantly.

An uneasy feeling that you couldn’t quite describe expanded around your heart after his inquisitive stare settled on you.

Flustered, you looked coyly to the left and right, because maybe Paul shifted to your side and you didn’t notice.

That got a small laugh from John.

Paul wasn’t in the room anymore but on the bathroom taking a pee, you could hear him. Regaining your usual erect composure, your brows pinched in a frown.

John got off the hood and put out the cigarette on the sole of his shoe before heading towards the building, looking in your direction once more with hands in his pockets and a sinful smirk tickling his lips.

“No,” you told Paul, observing John until he couldn’t be seen no more.

He shot you a confused glance as he finished pulling up the zipper.

“Babe, be more specific”

“I didn’t buy you anything” you concretized, facing him, “but I’m here to save your life in case you need to be saved. And if the moment comes I will, I’m a good warrior”

Paul blushed. He flapped his hand at you.

“It was a joke”

“I hope you were joking too about ‘nothing’ happening. You should be grateful you weren’t in any danger just yet”

You swore you could boil an egg in his face.

18th June 1967, 15:39 pm

“We’ll be back before dinner” Matt informed, putting on a jacket.

“Do the wings break through the clothes when you… invoke them?” Ringo asked.

George and John didn’t make any witty remarks, wondering the same secretly.

You and Matt exchanged looks. He shrugged and you thought it wasn’t worth your time answering.

“We do not invoke them. They appear when we need them”

Ringo kept asking questions but you didn’t focus on them, after all he was Matt’s responsibility. He was taking them –George and Ringo– to pay a visit to their wives. Matt missed driving so they didn’t mind him taking the wheel.

In Paul’s case it was Linda and her guardian who dropped by every now and then.

Due to the first impression of them, you thought Paul and John would be more demanding, however, they didn’t bother you and mostly stuck to doing their own thing.

Paul was taking a nap in the room next door; John’s whereabouts were unknown. You had to find him for his safety.

Gliding down the corridor you bumped into him.

You folded your arms across the chest.

“Where were you?”

“A fan dodged security and was waiting for me in the lobby. We talked for a bit and snapped a picture”

“For the thousandth time,” you groaned, annoyance streaming through your body like lava, “do not speak to anyone if I’m not around! Why do you keep disobeying my instructions?”

“She looked regular” he justified.

You looked at him as you might a cockroach.

“Demons disguise themselves accurately to fool jerks like you” you spat out.

Pulling a theatrical painful face, he brought a hand down to hold on to his dick and testicles, simulating that your words kicked him just there.

“Lennon, do not make it harder than it needs to be. I didn’t choose to have to follow you around like a puppy”

“Alright, can you take a moment to try and understand how overwhelming the situation is for us as well?” he argued, putting on hold his reckless demeanour.

Rubbing your eyes you sighed, “Yes, I can, but—”

“Forgive me”

“I forgive you, but don’t do it again”

A tender grin formed on his face, content that you didn’t put up much of a fight.

“Before I got interrupted I was actually on my way to get you. I wanna show you something”

You rolled your eyes. He’s so random.

Back in the room, he went straight to the piano. After tuning it his eyes wandered to the empty space he had next to him on the bench, waiting for you to take it.

Your expression switched from curious to stupefied.

Following his command you sat down.

Your gaze flickered from his eyes to his lips and from lips to his fingers. He played so carefully and delicately in the beginning, introducing the prologue of his piece, that you lost yourself somewhere in the middle of it. Recalling the day you entered Heaven you shivered.

Music filled the air, hijacking every part of your mind.

The melody began to change, more macabre and haunting. It reminded you of everything beginning to fall apart, when the enemy showed no mercy and without guilt slayed the innocent.

You weren’t aware of how you were digging your fingernails in his leg, the shrieks of the victims ringing in your ear.

John stopped playing, placed his hand on top of yours and clasped it firmly, looking concerned.

You shook your head and instead walked away, needing space.

John squared his shoulders as he took a deep breath and sauntered up to you. Brows together, you shrank back.

“I didn’t want to upset you,” he said, respecting the distance.

You remained quiet, head buzzing.

He squinted at you and tilted his head.

“Talking about it might help you”

“Have you taken it on yourself to be my personal psychologist?”

He held your gaze. It was the pain talking, not you. He knew and he was going to be patient.

“It’s not your fault this is happening. Any of this”

“Stop”

“You need to hear it. You have this vast weight on your shoulders—”

“I could’ve done something!” you hollered, saturated with the remorse you’d been accumulating. You knew you weren’t responsible for the cataclysm. He didn’t… he didn’t understand. “Those monsters killed them in front of me! Marta, Norman, Charlie! I can still feel how my body jarred after witnessing every stab and poisoned bite. Blood was gushing out of their mouths and I did nothing!”

The image of you petifried watching them die and not being able to help repulsed you.

How could you have been so cruel?

John held his breath. That was what was torturing you.

“You aren’t responsible for their deaths”

“Aren’t I?” you fumed, the void in the middle of your heart widening. “You know nothing”

The bitterness in your voice made his nostrils flare.

Through his bones echoed the determination to cure your scars. However, he understood it wasn’t his job to heal you.

“And I’ll never get to apologize”

You could sense John’s question without him actually asking.

“Demons get to exist thanks to the souls they rip from their owners. The bodies vanished after that” you explained, feeling dizzy.

Throat dry, you brought a hand to your forehead.

Beneath your typical mask of coldness never would have John imagined you were battling against yourself.

It brought him back to when he felt like he could have prevented his mum from leaving the house, saving her life. He was seventeen. Seventeen, not three or four. He could have warned her about the insanity of driving under those conditions. The wind was brutal that day, and it rained cats and dogs. Instead, he kissed her cheek good-bye and went to his room.

He blamed himself too at first. It was a long and tormenting process, but he comprehended he wasn’t guilty. You’d get to that point eventually, he thought, you’d have only gotten yourself killed too if you’d have intervened.

The breeze that came through the window dried your tears and moved the hair away from your notable cheekbones. He attempted to reach out to you for the second time. You just stared at him, biting your quivering lower lip. He stood before you, eyes boring into your mournful ones.

Wrapping his arms around you, he pulled you slowly against him. You sobbed into his chest as you snuggled closer for shelter.

John pressed his cheek onto the top of your head.

“It’s not your fault” he repeated, emotion palpable in his tone.

It’s not my fault. It’s not my fault. It’s not my fault.

2nd of February 1968, 12:13 pm

Matt dug his elbow into your ribs.

“He fell for you,” he said with a huge smirk, and imitated your pose: hands laced behind the back, eyes closed and body toward the sun taking in its pleasant rays.

“Shouldn’t have” you muttered after a pause, forcing the letters out of your mouth.

“That card you keep playing of apathy is ridiculous”

“I’m not playing any apathy card”

“Pretending you have no feelings for John won’t make it easier tomorrow”

You blinked and turned to him. He opened his and fixed them on you.

“I’m simply prioritizing other things”

“What other things are those?”

He knew already.

He knew that the things you just claimed to prioritize over your damn feelings were nonexistent. Like always, he was right. You didn’t want to triple the suffering that implied separating from John by confessing.

War was over. Angels defeated the beasts and freed themselves and humanity; home awaited your kind.

“My dear (Y/N),” Matt laughed dreamily, “you have all the time in the world to wait for him. Find out if he will still love you then”

3th of February 1968, 18:21 pm

John lost track of the number of times he rehearsed the torrent of words he planned on telling you.

He raised his hand and put it in a fist. Up in the air, he couldn’t seem to bring himself to knock on the door. Explicit terms and a deep groan escaped his lips. He dropped it and inhaled deeply, heart pounding frantically.

When he thought he was ready to finally do it Paul emerged from the closest corner, sprinted and knocked four times, running afterwards to the room that George and Ringo shared before John could catch him. And he did try.

“Ay! You want a fuckin’ hole in your face, you punk?!” he banged on their door, getting angrier with their laughs.

He almost lost it when Ringo hummed ‘With A Little Help From My Friends’.

Nonplussed, you crossed your arms and stood watching John from your spot after opening the door.

Just like before, his sensor did not fail him. He stopped his actions shortly and whirled around. Reddening abruptly, for a second he was sure his face was on fire.

You cleared your throat.

“Well?”

Cautiously, his brain stuttering, he glided the necessary steps to be in front of you.

He opened his mouth but didn’t get to say anything because Matt appeared from behind you.

“Who is—”

Immediately after seeing John his eyes widened.

“Oh God! I’m sorry! Were you- Oh my God, I’m sorry! Shit, go on” he gasped, and literally hurried inside.

That only aggravated the layer of crimson sprayed in John’s complexion.

You wanted to laugh but didn’t, obviously he was there to make the first move. You flashed him a small smile for support. He smiled at you too in return.

“Follow me”

Imperceptible in his voice, he succeeded in hiding elsewhere he feared rejection.

You raised an eyebrow teasingly. He frowned then chuckled in realization.

“Please?”

You giggled, which sounded way too girly for your liking, and took his hand in yours.

John led the way to the rooftop of the hotel.

Garlands of white and pink roses decorated the space, and since the sun was setting, you got to see how the orangy golden lights ghosted over John’s skin which made him look not handsome but celestial. At the distance, a trail of a plain crossed the horizon. You admired the view for a few more seconds and then drifted your eyes back to him.

The kindness and love reflected in his felt as warm as a kiss on the forehead of your favourite person in the world.

“I have to be quick, you don’t have much time”

He wasn’t wrong. You had to leave soon.

“Here, take this” he handed you a paper folded in half. “Open it when you’re there”

You averted the gaze towards the sheet and nodded. His eyes desperately searched yours again. Every second counted.

“I love you” he blurted out, a bizarre combination of panic and hope evident on his face. Like a child who just confessed that he broke granny’s vase, praying not to be grounded. “And I really, really want to kiss you”

The longing in his request melted your heart.

When you were about to let him know that you wanted it too you felt it in your back. You felt the muscles pulling the skin, pushing to make their way through to the outside.

One moment they weren’t there the other your wings were now displayed broadly for him to see.

They raised themselves, ready for departure.

John’s mouth fell open.

Unable to stop staring at their grandiosity and splendour, heartbeat wildly pumping, he ran a hand through his hair.

“You’re fucking gorgeous,” he said breathlessly.

With tears in your eyes, you cupped his head in your hands and laid your mouth on his mouth without prior notice.

In that very instant, right there, the world stopped spinning.

He moved his silky wet lips against yours, pressing you further in until there was no space in between when the saltiness of your teardrops mixed with the saliva.

Your wings started aching awfully by now, and you knew what that meant.

Not wanting to, you pulled back from the kiss, lips burning.

“No” he purred, holding you in place, fingers gripping so tight around your upper arms that the skin beneath them turned white.

“John, it’s time”

Brokenhearted, you withdrew fully after rubbing your noses in an affectionate eskimo kiss.

You nudged intimately his chin up with your thumb.

John didn’t want to miss the opportunity to absorb your dazzling beauty thus he forced his eyes open.

“Part of my heart will stay with you. Remain a good man, Lennon, and return it to me. I trust that we’ll meet again in due course”

3th February 1968, 23:33 pm

Excitement throbbed in you. Seating cross-legged, you created walls with your wings to avoid snoopers and unfolded the paper.

It was a piano score. At the bottom of it, written in his handwriting, was a small note:

“I changed the ending. Now it’s about finding peace and picking up your broken bits to build a stronger armour. You’re a fierce woman, (Y/N), but whenever that feeling tightens and saddens your heart, play this”

Tangled in a mix of joy and sorrow, you half smiled as a tear rolled down your cheek and chin, landing in John’s signature.

8th December 1980, 22:50 pm

Everyone fell silent.

You noticed that all of your fellow companions and friends had their gazes bonded to the same spot. Slowly, you turned to check what they were looking at, and you nearly passed out.

He rarely visited. Only when he had good reasons to.

Gait steady, knowing very well what he was doing, he gave a quick look around as he paced.

His eyes found you.

Saint Peter offered you a reassuring smile, causing everyone to snap their heads at you.

“(Y/N) (Y/L/N)”

You swallowed.

“Y-yes?” you sputtered.

“I believe you’ll want to see this”

Uncertain, you joined him, not before sending Matt a doubtful look.

In any case, all your questions were answered when you reached the Gates and saw who was waiting for you. His wings were even more impressive, glittering and elegant than anyone else’s.

He was touching their feathers, inspecting them.

You ran to embrace him. Off guard as you took him, his arms were trapped under yours, preventing him from being able to hug you back.

“You shouldn’t be here. What happened, John?” you said, a million thoughts rushing through your mind.

“(Y/N)…” Saint Peter warned.

Under no circumstances it was allowed to ask for the reason behind someone’s death nor tell yours. It was the rules; the subject was forbidden.

You squeezed your eyes shut and nodded.

Taking a couple of steps back, you looked up to him. John bored his eyes into yours, lips stretching into a dainty smile.

“Hello, love. I took great care of the piece of your heart that you borrowed me” he said, twirling a strand of your hair between his fingers. “The time has come, I can give it back”

“It was for you, dummy” you answered with a laugh, voice cracking.

He dropped his head shyly to the floor, smile growing larger.

You followed where his eyes were pointing at, only to see his bare toes scrunching into the delicacy and softness of the cloud, getting familiar with it.

“I’m sorry you’re here” you whispered, honestly horrified that he didn’t get the chance to grow old.

“I was never scared of dying,” he spoke, slowly raising his head, “because I knew I’d be with you”

Staring at each other, none spoke for a moment.

“I love you too, by the way,” you admitted, pink arising in your cheeks. “I realized after I left that I didn’t say it back”

John smirked. He caressed your face and you felt the butterflies in your tummy flutter.

Love danced in the brightness of his eyes.

“Show me Heaven, (Y/N)”

#john lennon #john lennon x reader #ringo starr #george harrison #paul mccartney #the beatles #john lennon imagine #john lennon fanfic #john lennon fanfiction #angst #angels and demons #tayloredstarr

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mochuelovelli · 4 years

Text

Some Alt. Jobs for the Kids in the Future:

Mainly doing this as just a thought experiment. Usually people are of one mind on what the kids will *probably* be when they are older(myself included) so I wanted to give some alts that could fit their personalities.

Louie-Manger/Agent:Making this list mainly for him because I recalled Princess Carolyn from BoJack and how her job could fit Louie pretty well. Ik a lot of people headcanon Lawyer! Louie, I do too, but I think this would be a fun idea.

A manager's job is basically finding ways to get their client's hired or trying to tailor a client's project in order for it to be marketable. We already seen Louie do this in his ep this season but I think it be cool if became a legit job for him. He's still a McDuck ward so nothing with his business would be "normal" and he would have to do similar "schemes" to get his clients jobs, especially if they are inter-dimensional goat demons.

Louie would probably say the reason he became a manager would be "because I've been trying to convince people I am good enough my entire life, might as well make a career out of it". Edgy ik, but this is Louie we are talking about of course he say some dumbshit.

Dewey-YouTube Personality: this is probably just a less popular hc rather than one that's not talked about at all like the Louie (or the next couple examples). For me, I can't see Dewey being anything but some kind of globe trotting adventurer who would also record it for views. But in the case that DIDN'T happen, I think he'd become a youtube personality and make shows with his friends and family. I think it be really cute, that even as they grown older and become more independent, Dewey can still find ways to bring them all to his house to be apart of his youtube show(s) where he and a guest try to guess obscure history facts Webby comes up with (Watchers know what I'm talking about) or where he and some friends try to solve unsolved mysteries or try and bake without a recipe (im really showing what content i watch).

His Youtube channel would be sporadic like, "series" but he doesn't make actual playlists (Huey or Violet do) and uploads whatever he wanted to do that week. Good thing is, he never misses an upload date. Almost.

Huey-Military Engineer/Tech Guy (IE better Beaks): I had the hardest time with figuring out Huey since like Webby, he can pretty much be in any field to me (as long as its stem related). This suggestion to me is the least chill out of all of them but I picked it because 1. Huey likes structure and chain of command and 2. Science and defense systems.

Out of his brothers, Huey isn't the most WORRIED about safety but he definitely is the one who would do something about it to fix it. I can see him making some intergalactic defense systems and various prevention junk. Maybe he works under Gosalyn's administration[see gos] or he makes "unnatural-natural phenomenon" protection stuff. Kinda like the seawalls in Venice but like, stuff to make sure the Earth doesn't get destroyed because of all the crazy shit the duckverse has. Like ghost forcefields or the reversal of timephoons. I don't think he would be a Tony Stark character tho so I am not 100% with this one.

He could also just be a tech guy, but yknow, better than Mark Beaks. He accidentally has more followers than him would crush him in twitter fights (an example would be something along the Logan Paul vs Chris D'Elia). I find this just really funny, Huey would actually be what all those "good guy billionaires" claim to be (also he wouldn't be one just as a matter of principle). Owlson would probably be his mentor or maybe just business partner.

Webby-Comic Artist/Cartoonist: Webby, to me, can pretty much go into any field and I would be like "yeah makes sense". However I know in my heart she'd be some kind of spy or detective. Thinking about her being anything else was honestly kinda hard but then I realized she DOES have another hobby which could be turn into a career - her drawings and stories. Webby is definitely a creative person, maybe the most creative so far in front of or slightly behind Dewey, so I think she would like to make comics and cartoons.

If you want to be angsty, maybe she chooses this mundane route because she was somewhat conditioned by her granny (or her creators if theories are to he proven right) to be a super spy; choosing to be a cartoonist is something she was never trained to become and yet she still did because it's something SHE wanted to do for herself.

Lena-Poet/Song Writer: okay another one that might not be uncommon but I like to just see it thrown out there. Lena is cool in large part because of her magic but in a possible similar motivation to Webby, she wanted to be a poet not only because she was good at it but because she wanted to be. This doesn't have to be her main hussle, usually I don't see it as such, but I also think it be cute if she became a new Robert Frost (this is the only poet ik sorry).

Violet-Cosmologist: Most people see Violet as either some kind of chemist, professor, or occasionally a witch. I think another good alt tho would be cosmology since Violet herself wants to understand the world around her, which is a bit different from Huey who wants to obtain knowledge for knowledge sake in the case it might come in handy though not extremely. Cosmology as field in the dt universe must be WILD too since im pretty sure most scientists know of all the magic and junk, in fact I wouldn't be surprised if there was a legit subject on it or multiple. Trying to make sense of YOUR universe while knowing others exist along with time travel, possibly multiple after lifes? Its a lot. Perfect job for Vi.

Boyd-Therapist/architect: I feel like this isn't such a niche hc, but I do see more folks make him into his own superhero and/or an accountant. I might be playing into the Baymax stereotype of robots being good mental health assistants but idc, I think it's warranted since he has gone through and understands trauma. Maybe he focuses on those who need rehabilitation or are unable to get paid treatment. Maybe he just helps those who have committed crimes. Another alt is that he becomes an architect, building well planned buildings and public spaces in a flash by utilizing his vast abilities. He might even be commissioned to make space colony housing.

Gosalyn-Politican: Alright so, Gosalyn being a superhero like her dad is like, canon but again in an alt universe where it WASN'T (or maybe later in her life) I can see her becoming political. Frank even laid out some of what inspired this iteration of Gosalyn which included notable political activists, so as of rn its not that far of a stretch to say she might be interested in that. I have a feeling its happens because she gets riled up for something in particular rather than she always wanted to be a career politician or whatever. She would definitely be a less polished politician and that be her appeal, she'd kinda be like an AOC in that regard(im sorry I tried really hard not to name drop political figures but-). An example of her "abnormal" diplomacy tactics is where she stopped Ragnarok semi permanently by absolutely wrecking their shit. (She be dramatic about it like her dad, coming in her normal President wear and then throw it off to reveal some crazy wrestling shit. Louie would also make a lot of money that day.)

#ducktales #dt17 #ducktales 17 #ducktales 2017 #huey duck #louie duck #hdl #dewey duck #webby vanderquack #gosalyn mallard #lena saberwing #violet sabrewing #boyd gearloose #boyd drake #boyd

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cupidmarwani-archive · 4 years

Text

Conspiracy (7/10)

Marjan is already calling 911 behind Carlos as he processes the scene in front of him. Tamin is on her feet with a bloody nose, gun extended out in front of her, shaking a little with the adrenaline and pain. But it’s TK who needs help, splayed out on the street in a pool of blood, the back of his shirt soaked with it on the shoulder. As Marjan talks to the dispatcher, kneeling next to TK and putting pressure on the wound, Carlos pushes Tamin’s arms down.

“Put down the gun, officer,” he orders. “Lower your weapon.”

He helps her sit down and takes the gun from her before radioing dispatch himself.

“Detective Reyes, Homicide, to dispatch.”

“Go ahead, Reyes.”

“I’m at 1517 Union Street, code 444. Male, mid twenties, GSW to shoulder. I have an off-duty paramedic attending to him now, and she’s already called 911, put a rush on that call. I’ve disarmed the officer involved. She has a possible broken nose.”

“Copy that, sending a unit and a bus to you now.”

As much as he hates to do it, Carlos has to cuff Tamin until he knows what happened. She doesn’t look to be in any real medical distress, and there’s no weapon to be seen. Just to be sure, he pats down TK’s body- something Marjan doesn’t appreciate. She shoulders him out of the way.

“He’s unarmed. He didn’t do anything.”

“He did something if my partner shot him.”

Marjan scoffs and puts more pressure on the wound, even as TK groans in pain. “Yeah, sure.”

Within minutes, the ambulance is there, and Carlos is torn between going with TK and staying with Tamin. In the end, he chooses Officer Tamin, who keeps staring at the blood on the pavement where he was laying. “Hey,” he says. “What happened, Kat?”

“He elbowed me in the face,” she answers. Her voice sounds hollow. “Then he tried to run. I told him to stop and he didn’t.”

“He was running away when you shot him?”

She doesn’t answer.

Her union rep arrives with the unit to officially arrest her- Carlos can’t, not when they’re close. They take her away, and Carlos is left to go to the hospital, having gotten the address from the paramedics before they left. He has to talk to TK about this. Find out why he was running. Why he hit Tamin. Where he was going. But when he arrives, it’s not shocking that the whole 118 is there. Except Mateo. That’s worrying. He texts one of the other homicide detectives to keep an eye on Mateo before going into the hospital room.

“You shouldn’t be here,” Judd tells him. He stands protectively between Carlos and TK. “You’re the reason he got shot.”

“I’m not the one who did it.”

“Doesn’t make it not your fault.”

Carlos doesn’t have a response to that. Luckily, he doesn’t have to, because TK makes a distressed noise from his bed and all the focus is back on him. He’ll probably be fine. It was a clean shot through, hit no vital organs. Nothing to worry about. Carlos has been shot like that before, and within a few months, he was back at work without a problem.

He bullies his way past Paul and Michelle to get to TK’s bedside, which makes his face curl up in anger despite how exhausted and pale he is. “You tell her to shoot me?”

“What? I wouldn’t-”

“You need to leave,” Marjan says firmly and shoves him hard enough to make him stumble.

This isn’t the place. It isn’t the right choice. He’ll only make things worse. But this is the chance Carlos needs to get some serious leverage against someone who was actively involved in the murder as opposed to a bystander like Mateo. Carlos does what he thinks is best.

“Put your hands behind your back.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

Judd shoves him too. “Leave her alone, man. Get out of here.”

In answer, Carlos radios for security and grabs Marjan by the shoulder, pulling her closer to him and wrenching her arms behind her back. She stands there and allows it, staring at her teammates as though she’s telling them something.

“Marjan Marwani, you’re under arrest for assaulting an officer. You have the right to remain silent…”

He finishes reading her her rights and then turns to Judd. By now, security has arrived, and happily provides him with an extra pair of cuffs to arrest him on the same charge. They even help him take the two down to his car for a ride to the station. Finally, he might be getting somewhere. Finally. But that doesn’t negate the look on TK’s face or the way they keep whispering to each other behind him no matter how many times he tells them to be quiet. This has to work. If he doesn’t solve this, TK was shot for nothing, and Tamin’s career could be over.

A couple of uniformed officers bring Judd and Marjan in for him, placing them in separate interrogation rooms. Carlos sends another detective in to talk to Judd while he goes to see Marjan. She’s still. Watching him. Waiting for him to make the first move, like this is a chess match and not a murder interrogation.

“You can go to jail for a year,” Carlos tells her, “for putting your hands on me.”

“You deserved it.”

“Like Captain Strand deserved to die?”

She tilts her head to the side. “He did.”

“And you were part of that, right?”

“I’m not confessing.”

Carlos wishes he could just make her admit it. Admit she did something wrong. Admit she planned and carried out murder. Admit that she did something.

“I know you want to protect your family, and you want to protect yourself. I get that. I do. But this isn’t going to go away, and I promise, it will be so much easier on all of you if you just tell me the truth about what happened. I know that Captain Strand did awful things to Mateo and TK, and that’s- that’s grounds for a good defense. You don’t have to get the death penalty, or even life in prison, Marjan, if you just talk to me.”

“I’d rather die.”

He sighs and tries a different approach. Something has to get through to her. It has to.

“We know Michelle is the one who cut him open.”

Marjan raises an eyebrow at him.

“And we know you’re the one who castrated him. Did Captain Strand ever do anything to you, Marjan?”

“Not to me.”

He’s not getting anywhere with her. “But you know he abused Mateo and TK. Didn’t that make you mad?”

“Of course it made me mad. I wanted to kill him for what he did to them! There’s no excuse for that, I mean, he just- I can’t believe anyone would do that, especially to their own son, and he- he deserved everything he got. He deserved it!”

When she’s finished, Carlos just stares at her. It seems to register what she’s just said, and she sinks back in her chair, defeated. She knows what she’s said. But she’s not going to let someone else take the fall for it, Carlos can see it in her eyes.

“I did it by myself,” she says.

“No you didn’t. The forensic evidence shows there were at least two other people involved, and TK had to have given you his key. It’ll be easier if you tell me who was with you. I already know, but it’ll be better if you tell me.”

“Rot in hell.”

Carlos slides a notepad and pen to her across the table. “Write down everything that happened. How you got into Captain Strand’s apartment, how you killed him, how you got the blood off you. Everything.”

She picks up the pen and mouths a prayer, but before she puts the ink to paper, the door of the interrogation room opens. “Reyes.”

He steps out while she begins to write, and asks what’s going on once the door is safely shut.

“Ryder just confessed. Implicated Marwani, TK Strand, and the paramedics in the murder. You should talk to him.”

That’s a shock. But it’s a good thing. It means this case is almost over. “Stop Marjan from writing her confession until I hear his side of the story. She’s trying to take the fall for it.”

The other detective takes his place in the interrogation room, and Carlos goes to look through the window at Judd. He has a lawyer with him, a public defender, and he’s staring at the wall with a wet gleam on his cheeks. This can’t have been easy. But it’s a good thing.

@smileofthesun27 @skylark50 @heartofmarjan @chiefsheepbird @ebug2002 @proceduralpassion @cauldronbornkid

#fic #mine #conspiracy!fic

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judgement-free-sideblog · 4 years

Text

Blood, tears and sea breeze.

Hi there! First things first, I want to apologize for the long time that has gone by since an update, I am truly sorry. I would explain, I am a doctor and I work in a rural area, we had a nasty Dengue virus outbreak and we had a lot of patients, so I was buried in job, we had no mortal victims thankfully, but it was insane. Also I get the Dengue myself and it was awful, but I feel better now and everything is going back to normal, here is a new chapter to this story I hope you enjoy it.

Warnings: ANGST, mental health issues, graphic depictions of violence, blood, cursing, mentions of sexual assault, mentions of sex, substance abuse.

Summary: The not so peaceful town of Broadchurch face dead again, while Alec Hardy continues his journey to redemption will this school teacher be the key to solve the mystery or just another victim of the ever watching evilness that seems to reside in the town.

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 7: Like a sleepover.

Alec parked his car near the church and cursed himself when he realized his mistake since his presence confirmed to the reporters that something or someone interesting was inside, when he approach the benches he could se Paul who was lecturing a woman with an angry tone that he had never listened before, neither have the old lady in front of him since she looked terrified at him.

"Don't come here acting innocent, the lord knows when your motives are driven by greed and I truly hope whatever you use the money they gave you is worth it, and don't you dare to blame it on your grandchildren since they don't need to have this terrible example from their grandmother" He was obviously restraining from using more harsh language but the anger on his face was enough to make his point clear, and Alec even stop himself from storming in. "Now go away Mrs Campbell, and I hope you would think about your actions when you go out and talk with that people" The woman went out walking rapidly and visibly shaken.

"I was under the deception that priests never get mad" the detective enter the room and Paul gesture relaxed immediately. "Although is rewarding seeing you act out like that"

"Well they do when their congregation sell out each other for money" He said fixing up his clerical collar and regaining composure. "I'm glad you are here, it's madness out there, this town I thought they were better than this"

"Well you choose a profession full of disappointments" Y/N voice came from the altar and she approached now wearing what Hardy asume were donated clothes to big for her making her look like a child, and he brushed away the endearing feeling bursting in him for a second "For what is worth you should be more like that, maybe seeing the personification of the wrath of God in your face would make them listen" She said touching his arm making him smile, a stupid smile in Hardy's opinion. "D. I. Hardy, I was not expecting to see you so soon, but I assume you are not here to tell me I can go home already" She said with a pinch of hope in her voice that was killed the instant Alec look at her.

"No, I'm afraid not, and since you staying here has already been released to the media within four hours you can't longer stay here." He said trying to think what to do next.

"Yeah, and Ellie's ... I mean D.S. Miller's nephew certainly did a number on me didn't he?" She said bitterly, she appear more calmed, and he could see a glimpse of the woman who's thoughts he had spend the morning reading.

"That bloody idiot, he would sell out his own mother for a "good story" and he always think he is doing the police a favor, only making our job more difficult" Alec was angry and his mind was still trying to figure out his next move.

"Well now I'm glad I never dated him." Y/N said trying to lighten up the mood. "I can stay at the Trader's I can pay for that for a couple weeks, I would hate to cause more trouble"

"I don't think you should stay that close to Jonathan's house" Pauld said getting ahead of Hardy "Maybe Beth can take you, just for the night at least" He said and then look at Hardy.

"Sure, I mean if she agrees" He said knowing she will since they had been in a similar situation before.

"Great! If you think you can trust Lizzie's family to murderous psychopath, it'll be just like a sleepover" Y/N said sarcastically making both men feel uncomfortable. "I'm kidding? You guys really need to relax" She said looking at them "Now how am I supposed to get out of here?"

"I may have an idea" Hardy said finally with his expression still as stoic as ever.

Ellie stormed in her sister's house and the young man working o his laptop stood up immediately trying seeking cover behind the kitchen table.

"You bloody bastard!" She screamed at him and she grabbed the closest thing to her

"He hey hey... relax" He said putting his hands in front of him, she throw the ceramic fruit to his head. "Hey you almost hit me!" He screamed when she missed and the pear shattered in pieces.

"What the fuck were you thinking?!" Ellie scream again "Don't you have any decency left since you came back? That poor woman you have signaled as a suspect is not even at the police station anymore you moron."

"What? But you take her in for questioning, and she was covered in blood... and..." Olly realized his mistake and start looking at his aunt with sorrow, he was not about to betray his source but he understood that he had done something wrong "Damn it Ellie I'm sorry, I thought it was legitimate information"

"Well it doesn't matter anymore, once again I'm going to clean up your mess, come by the station we are going to release an official statement about Norbury's death and maybe it will help to clear out this mess" She was being reasonable, more than he can hope for since he was sure she was still pissed.

"And the woman? If she is not at the station where is she?" He jump straight back at the subject annoying Miller.

"Too late for you, didn't you hear? There is a horde of reporters raiding the church to talk to her" She smile at him, happy to see he didn't know, and hoping that Hardy had taken care of that end.

Paul came out of the church and a small figure covered jump in the car with him and he drove past the reporters who immediately try to follow him and some even did on their own vehicles, maybe when they figured he was just going out to get the paper and some groceries with the help of a boy that was being punished for misbehaving at school, would they realized their mistake, and how they didn't pay attention to the pair of people that walked from the back of the church to the Latimer's house.

"So, did you talk to Dr. Florence?" Y/N asked when the garden of the Latimer's was in sight "Oh come on, they can't no longer see us" She urged him when he gave her another of his angry looks.

"I did, but I am not supposed to discuss any of the investigation with you" He said finally.

"Fine, I'm sure she was pleased to see you again" She said and smiled at his puzzled face "I have seen you in her office before, and I overhear the last time you were there, you made a big deal about not wanting to come back"He looked ashamed and open the fence of the backyard to avoid her look "Relax I won't tell anybody, no one will listen anyway, I'm crazy remember? We can still be therapy buddies" She wink at him and enter followed by the baffled detective.

"Oi! I thought she was supposed to escape the press, come inside before any of those idiots will see you" Mark Latimer called them and they hurry inside.

"Mrs. Latimer, I don't know how to thank you"Y/N said once they were inside.

"It's nothing, Chloe's room is clean and free since she is at Uni, you can take it, can you show it to her dear?" Mark nodded and they walk out of the kitchen and Hardy could see her holding on to Lizzie a little more than usual.

"I wouldn't bring her here if I felt she was in any way guilty you know" He said to her and her arms relaxed a little.

"Well you can never be completely sure. But if you trust her we would help you for as long as we can."

"Don't worry, I just need her to have a place for the night we will figure something else tomorrow" He said and a couple minutes later he walked out of the house to get back his car. Ellie had the press release almost done by the time he arrived at the station and the sun was setting on Broadchurch.

"Busy day huh?" She said offering a cup of coffee "Brian is finishing with the house but he said he found something interesting about the cottage, he will tell us later, are you ready for the press."

"I'm fine, I swear Miller this bloody town is fill with idiots, this woman just lost her fiance and they are making all this circus about it" he sit on his chair and let go and exasperated sigh. "Let's get this over with".

It was as simple message, a man have been found dead and the police was investigating several lines of information, they had no idea who had done such monstrosity, and they urged the public to speak up, and no they were not considering the partner of the victim as a suspect, yet the mind of one of the many souls watching said, and turn off the telly, before exiting the room carrying a purple suitcase with the name Jonathan Norbury on it.

Tag list:

@laciesaito

@allonsymexgirl

#broadchurch fanfiction #broadchurch #beth latimer #mark latimer #chloe latimer #paul coates #di hardy #alec hardy imagine #alec hardy fanfiction #alec hardy x ellie miller #alec hardy x reader #alec hardy #ellie miller #ds miller #dc katie harford #katie harford #david tennat

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