#and the thought i had the other day

[ninja-knox-ur-sox-off]

Scooby-Doo but make it a ghost story. 

(Just hear me out, trust me, I swear it’ll make sense-)

3k words

A man shows up with a paper with an empty signature line, asking you to sell whatever you have left and leave the premises. 

He’s not the first to try and tell you to get off your own land, and you doubt he will be the last, but you’ve dealt with his kind before--trim, pristine suits and loud voices speaking big words and legal jargon that still makes your head spin even after the piles of research you’ve done to keep this from happening--so despite his confident posture and degrading sneer, you’re not frightened by him.

You turn him away like the others, and he spits and curses and stomps his feet, giving a tantrum worthy of the most red-cheeked toddlers you’ve seen in your store, piling on threats of how you’ll regret it before storming off. While it is always a bit worrying to have these types pay you a visit, you know the land is yours until you can’t sustain it any longer; and although your business is small, it will take a long while before that will happen.

At least until the word haunted starts spreading through the halls.

You first hear it when you’re re-stocking some shelves near the front. The couple is scurrying out in agitated whispers about ghosts and ghouls and generally unpleasant things accompanied by a stream of vulgar language directed at whoever owned this establishment.

It’s odd, but you don’t think much of it outside of a curious glance at the young cashier who started work here a few weeks ago. He does nothing but shrug to express that his confusion aligns with your own, and you both brush it aside without much thought.

Two days later, he hands in his resignation, pale and a little shaky, nearly running out of the shop the moment he gets the chance.

You find out he was on the closing shift last night, and wouldn’t speak to anyone the next morning until he could get out of there. One of the employees says she heard him feverishly mutter something about ghosts.

It’s worrisome but you get back to work as best you can, trying not to let it bother you.

The next employee who leaves is much louder about it.

You hear it again: GHOSTS. HAUNTED.

Cursed.

You take in a shaky breath, then a couple more to collect yourself before turning to reassure your remaining employees. There’s not many of them. Most of them are kids from homes nearby, just working the hours they could to save for college or to move away. Not all of them are frightened, and they brush aside the others, but even so, you close the shop an hour earlier now so that no one has to stay after dark.

As the winter season comes, that becomes earlier and earlier until everyone is out by four o’clock.

Still, it’s no use. Word spreads like wildfire in small towns, gossiping to tourists too. Some ghost hunters drop by to try their luck but they’re always out by morning or gone completely to goodness knows where. You simply hope they left in a panic and not something else.

You try the police and they find nothing. You hire a detective who runs away yelling about how they don’t deal with ghosts, and all that money is down the drain. You watch as the price of your small business drops and drops until you’re eating strictly canned foods, ramen and the cheapest cereal you can find to try and scavenge for any spare penny you can. Your neighbour tells you again and again that it isn’t worth it and you should just sell. Any employees that remained left quickly, off to find a job that could pay them better than you could until it was just you and your baby cousin left at the till. She’s barely old enough to be working, and there are jobs that pay better out there, but she stubbornly keeps restocking the shelves and ringing up the till whenever stragglers or loud curious teens find their way into the shop. She refuses to leave you.

You try to deal with the problem yourself. You really do. After your cousin goes home for the night you stay, hidden behind boxes with an old bat and wait for whatever it was that was harassing your staff, but when you see it you’re paralyzed. It floats past, eerie, silent, a horrible gaping face, unearthly glow about it, and no sound of footsteps or creaking wires to betray it as a fake. You try to tell yourself it must be fake. It must be. You hide clutching the bat like your life depends on it and shaking like a leaf in the freezing autumn wind gusts. The glow from the thing is greenish as it floats past the boxes you’re hidden behind. Your heart pounds in your ears and goosebumps rise on your arms as it pauses over the boxes. You think for a moment this might be where you die and then it’s floating on before vanishing through a wall.

You run from the shop as fast as you can all the way home and lock every door and window. You stay up all night pressed against the wall, halfway under your covers, sitting up, bat still clenched in your hands. You’re only able to get some sleep when the sun rises a bit.

You follow the path that the ghastly thing took during the opening hours of the shop, finding no trace of it ever existing. Your hands still hurt from how tightly you had clenched the bat all night.

It scared you. Enough to close the doors even earlier.

It was near impossible to keep things running when you could only safely keep the shop open barely half the day. You knew the next time a man with a paper came to the door you wouldn’t be in a position to refuse.

It’s around that time you hear about a group that deals exclusively with your type of problem. Ghosts, goblins, ghouls, witches, warlocks, werewolves, demons; helping people who no one else would help.

You’re desperate. So you grab what remains of your savings and get in your rickety car that you’re honestly surprised still works at this point and go to find them.  

They’ve set up shop in a small building on the corner of a street in a town you’ve never heard of.

Mystery Inc. is painted across an old van parked out front and the sign on the door. It’s colourful, almost silly. It doesn't fill you with much confidence but you’re desperate, and the bright colours do at least make you smile.

A young man shakes your hand when you enter the door, polite, not commenting on your haggard appearance--nonstop driving and energy drinks for an amount of time you didn’t really want to think about probably did a number on the circles under your eyes. You’re pretty sure your hands were shaking from the caffeine. He warmly welcomes you in and introduces himself as Fred.

A young red-headed girl in heels-- fifteen? Sixteen perhaps?-- takes your hand and helps you sit down in a seat near a desk and before you know it there’s a blanket over your shoulders and a warm cup of some non-caffeinated tea in your hands. At this point it tastes like nothing more than hot water but it does wonders to stop your hands from shaking.

The dog startles you; a massive Great Dane, a little dopey looking with a brightly coloured collar. It's sitting at a table in the corner with a very scrawny looking teen, peach fuzz on his chin and a shirt that must be a few sizes too big judging by the way that it hangs off his wiry frame. There’s a large array of foods on the table in front of them, but they’ve paused their snacking to wave at you. Both the teen and the dog. You wave back and that seems to satisfy them enough for them to tuck back into their meal eating more like what you’ve seen black holes in movies consume things like. It’s 3am. You try not to stare.

The sound of a chair sliding draws your attention and a different freckled young lady sits down in front of you and adjusts the thickest glasses you’ve ever seen.

They’re children, you realize after a moment. Teenagers. Hardly older than your cousin. Their clothing seems a little out of style, but pristine considering they looked like something your grandparents would wear. Clothes were nicer back than anyways, and you have your fair share of hand-me-downs so you don’t comment or think about it much.

They ask you what brought you here and you do your best to share. It feels like mad ramblings but under their watchful eyes and attentive ears you find yourself relaxing at least a bit. It’s a strange situation and you apologize numerous times, how odd it is to be going to children half your age for help, but they do little more than brush the apology aside with a wave of their hands and a reassuring pat to your shoulder.

“Well…” says Fred, stroking his chin thoughtfully, “it’s not much to go off of, but we’ll see what we can do.”

They drive you home and you sleep in the back of the van with the massive dog and the scrawny teen. They wake you up only to ask for directions and you give them as best you can in your sleep deprived state.

Somehow they reach the shop by morning, which feels unreal when it took you three days to get to their office, but you count your blessings rather than question them and invite the group inside, figuring you must have just been more lost than you realized on the way there.

The dog and the scrawny teen (Shaggy, you think they call him, and you’re inclined to agree) are always searching for some kind of food. They raid your shop’s back fridge and you don’t bother to stop them since there’s not much in there anyways, and they seem half-starved despite the large meal you saw them consume back at their headquarters. They find more than you thought you had in there and carry it all out in an impressive stack that they consume in mere seconds. You don’t have much to pay them for the job they’re doing, so you don’t bother stopping them from raiding the snack shelves at the front counter either.

You show Fred and the girls the back room where things happen. You introduce them to your cousin who they politely ask some questions too. It’s clear they’ve done this before. Any inquiries are straight to the point, they share with you what they find. You get the strangest feeling they’ve been doing this for decades with how confidently they walk around a supposedly haunted shop.

Velma, the freckled one with glasses, throws around some large words you don’t understand with some pale green dust on the end of her finger. Their first clue, which Fred seems excited about. He suggests they head back to the van to take a drive around town for further investigation while she runs tests on the substance found in the shop.

Shaggy makes a comment about being hungry and Scooby nods his head. The ground is littered with snack wrappers and you make a note to clean those up.

Daphne, the one who patted your hand and gave you tea looks a little lost, simply floating around after the others and nodding along with the clues they find until Fred mentions heading out, then she quickly takes charge directing them out to the van. They bid you a goodnight, telling you to get some more sleep and they’ll handle the rest.

You worry about them but your cousin agrees and shoos you home.

The next morning comes after a restless sleep and they’re still there. You aren’t sure whether you’re relieved or worried over that fact. They stayed in the shop overnight, they report. Shaggy and Scooby are quaking but the others look unphased.

“Terrifying! Big ugly green face, a g-g-g-GHOST!”

Scooby gives a mournful ruff in agreement in something that sounds almost startlingly close to real words.

Velma sighs. “Shaggy, Scooby, there’s no such thing as ghosts.”

“Oh yeah? How’d you explain tall, floaty and creepy, huh?”

“Wires most likely. Glow in the dark paint. A costume.”

Shaggy and Scooby shake their heads in unison.

You’re just glad they’re alright.

“You don’t have to do this,” you tell them. It breaks your heart but the little old shop isn’t worth the lives of four teenages and their large puppy.

“It’s our job,” Fred tells you with a cool, comforting hand on your shoulder. “Trust us. I have a plan. And, after our investigation around town, I get the feeling we might already know who this ghost of yours is.”

It seems impossible but you and your baby cousin do your best to help them set up a rather elaborate trap. It’s confusing to you, but the others seem fairly confident in Fred’s direction.  

They ussher you out for your own safety, ignoring your protests of “what about yours?” and tell you to wait until they call you back.

You do. Nervously pacing your house. Your baby cousin’s asleep at the table. It’s been a long few days so you’re not surprised, even if she made a valiant effort to stay up with you, it was only a matter of time before it caught up to her. You throw a blanket over her but decide against moving her to the bed, she’s a light sleeper and you don’t want to wake her.

You don’t chew your nails often, but they’re bitten down to the skin by the time your phone rings. It makes you jump and you answer it in a mad scramble, nearly dropping your phone in the process.

There’s a lot of white noise and garbled static that makes you wonder if it was a butt dial until you recognize snatches of Fred’s voice speaking out from the mess telling you it was safe to come out now.  

You have just enough thought to shake your cousin awake so she isn’t left behind at your place, and the two of you race over to the shop together. Your heart’s pounding and worry runs rampant. It was impossible to tell Fred’s tone over the garbled static, but you pray that nothing went wrong and that they are alright.

You arrive to the ghost that has been terrorizing your shop, tied up on the ground with the four teens and Scooby standing over it. It’s strange to see something that phased through a wall restrained by ropes and you can’t help but keep your distance, still unsettled, even in the daylight. Its wide gaping jaw and empty eyes still looked too-real.

But the group stood by it like it was nothing and the police arrived a few moments later, having been called by the teens shortly after they’d contacted you.

It was a costume. Fake. As they said. The mask was tugged off and you recognized it as your neighbour, the one who had been so insistent you sell.

The group takes turns explaining how they came to the conclusion, what led to the capture, the motivation behind it. It feels practiced and comfortable for them as they spin the story and explanation. You hardly hear a word, just relieved that it was over.

An officer pulls you aside to get your testimony and you want more than anything for them to be gone. They ask you about your involvement, and you inform them of the bare minimum, directing them to the teens, who seem to know much more than you do at this point, but when you go to point them out you find them missing. Van and all. Somehow having already pulled out of the driveway and driven away without anyone noticing.

You give the name Mystery Inc. and show the traps if only to get them out faster and eventually they leave after relentless grilling. You would have preferred to keep them out of this entirely but it was necessary to get rid of your “ghost”. The one that turned you away when you asked for help doesn’t seem at all remorseful and it rubs you the wrong way so you don’t bother to bid any of them goodbye.

You sleep for a few days before you get back in your car and drive to Mystery Inc.’s office. You never did agree on a price but you have an envelope with some cash inside of it and more than anything you want to thank them for what they did for you. Your cousin is in the passenger's seat next to you. It takes another three days to find the office again, but eventually you do.

You don’t recognize it at first; it was impossible too. The colourful sign declaring it the home of Mystery Inc. hung sideways, barely hanging on to the front of the building; the colours washed out and so weathered you couldn’t make out the text on it anymore.

“Are you sure this is the right place?” your cousin asks. She’s clutching the envelope in her hands.

You step out of the car feeling like you’ve pulled up into another world. The windows are smashed, the front steps are falling apart, the building’s even leaning, the door at an odd angle on its hinges; the kind of wear and tear that could only come from years of erosion.

You shoulder your way in through the front door, kicking up dust when you finally get it to move. It swings open violently, screeching on rusted hinges.

The desk is where you remember it, but it’s coated in dust.

It’s completely abandoned.

No one had set foot inside for years by the looks of it. Except…

You feel a chill run down  your spine as your eyes fall on a single set of footprints that match your own shoes, tracking back to a chair where an old moth-eaten blanket looked like it hadn’t moved in ages and a cracked cup that still has some liquid in it.

Your cousin calls to you and you glance back at her.

She seems unsettled and you can’t imagine the expression on your own face right now.

Ghosts aren’t real, you remember Velma saying, and the hair on the back of your neck stands up.

You leave the envelope on the desk and drive home in silence. You drop your cousin off at home, bidding her goodnight before heading to your own house.

Neither of you say it.

You dare to look them up and find Mystery Inc. doesn’t exist. At least not anymore.

You don’t sleep much that night, the memory of Fred’s cold reassuring hand on your shoulder replaying over and over in your mind.

Shaggy and Scooby’s candy wrappers are still in the pockets of your jacket, you meant to throw those out. You wonder if they’re still hungry; If they’re ever not hungry.

The shop becomes rather popular after the incident. Prim men and woman at your door with papers aren’t a threat any longer and you turn them away with ease, a flood of customers at your back.

The police don’t contact you about it. How could they? They saw them too. They took testimonies from them themselves. You can imagine what it must have felt like to find the town Coolsville they said they had come from no longer exists and neither do they.

Your cousin moves away to go to college eventually but she still keeps in contact. She says her classmates tell her she has the best ghost stories.

“Ghosts aren’t real,” a friend of yours says.

One of the wrappers is still in your pocket, even years later.

“Sure,” you say. And try not to think about it.

When they need help you give them the name Mystery Inc.

A few days later they’re less keen to tell you ghosts aren’t real.

#KNOX WRITES (me) #THIS IS SO RANDOM BUT I SWEAR IT MAKES SENSE WHEN U READ IT BGSDL;FKMSD #Scooby-Doo #Scooby Doo #Mystery Inc. #mystery incorporated #ghosts #ghost story #in honour of spooky season #and the thought i had the other day #I JUST THOUGHT ABOUT AGELESS AND LIKE #Y'KNOW #SOME QUALITIES THAT SEEM ODD FOR PEOPLE BUT FIT RIGHT IN WITH GHOSTS Y'KNOW? #anyway happy spooky #Fred Jones #velma dinkley #Daphne Blake #Shaggy Rogers #never actually written from this perspective but it was kinda fun #I've never written a ghost story either so #that probably shows #I'm just gonna roll away now BG;LAKEMFOEW #IF U MADE IT THROUGH THANKS FOR READING HAVE A GOOD ONE ILY #fanfic

[yandereocs]

Kinda like a part 2 to the one where the twins react to a darling who escapes for affection. The twins are going on about their day doing their job and stuff. Then comes the time where their darling should show up for affection. They wait about 20 minutes and their darling is a no show. They freak out thinking their darling has been tricking them and the darling escaped. They come to find out that the chains they bought, thinking they were the same as the old wore out ones, arent the same and their darling couldn't escape from them. So they find their darling traped in the chain crying while trying to escape for affection.

* PART 2 BABY LET'S GOO

Yandere Twins with a darling who escapes for a hug, part two

You escaped around the same time every day. It's become a fun routine for the three of you.

But you were taking longer than normal. 20 minutes late. You're normally able to slip out of their "restraints" so easily. What's taking you so long?

"I'm getting nervous. I don't like this. Should we go back to the room and check?" Chase asked, giving his brother a nervous glance.

Chance blinked. He thought for a second before his eyes widened and his fur bristled. "That motherFUCKER!!" He shrieked, bolting to the room.

Chase was taken aback. He gave Zack an apologetic glance before chasing after his brother. "Hey!! What's the matter?"

Chance glanced back to his twin, his eyes burning with rage. "Are you stupid?! We've been tricked!! That bitch lowered our guard and then made a run for it!! I'll fucking kill that piece of shit!!" He snarled.

Chase stared blankly at his brother, the accusation processing, before his eyes narrowed into slits. "I'll break their legs so they never leave us again." He growled.

The twins skidded to a halt in front of their room, swinging the door open with enough force to knock it off the hinges. They expected an empty room, with no trace of you other than the chains that once restrained you.

But that isn't what they found.

Your eyes were red and puffy, your nose raw from rubbing away the runny mucus. Your face was stained with tears and your chest was heaving as you desperately tried to breathe.

Your leg had multiple scratches, blood running onto the floor from the more deeper wounds. You clearly tried to tear the restraint off your leg and failed.

The twins were stunned, their fur smoothing and their pupils returning to normal size. They completely expected to find you gone, but instead you're...crying? For what? Can't you get out?

"I'm s-so SORRY!!" You sobbed, clinging onto your shirt. "I don't know wha-what I did wr..ong!! But I'll.. I'll f-fix it!! I PROMISE!!" Your voice was shaking and your words were being interrupted by sobs and heaves of air.

Chase was the first to move. He knelt down in front of you and wiped your face from your tears. "What do you mean, dear? Why do you think you did anything wrong?" His ears were flat against his head, his eyebrows knitted in concern.

You continued to heave your chest. "T-the restraints...I couldn't ge..t out. I tho..ught I did something...wro..ng." You cried. Chase blinked in confusion and looked at this brother.

Chance looked just as confused as his brother, and he went to check the restraint on your leg. It's the same one they always buy, no?

As Chance inspected the restraint he froze.

It wasn't the same one.

The metal seemed thicker and heavier. It obviously wasn't made from the weaker metal they normally use. How did they not notice when they bought it.

"Oh. Oh, shit. Babe, I'm so sorry. I'm so fucking sorry, we didn't know. We thought...we thought it was the same one we always buy." Chance hurried out an apology, swiftly removing the restraint.

You pulled your legs up to your chest as soon as your ankle was free, laying your head on your knees and sobbing. The twins looked at each other. Shit. This was bad.

Chase shuffled to sit next to you and wrapped his arms around you, while Chance hovered his hands near your wounds and started to heal them with his magic.

Chase rubbed your back and murmured soft apologies and words of comfort while Chance offered different ways to make it up to you. They didn't mean for this to happen, and they feel a bit bad that they immediately jumped to conclusions.

They'll do anything to get you to forgive them. You've been so kind and loving to them, they don't want things to change.

So please, won't you forgive them?

#Chase #Chance #The Twins #yandere #yandere x reader #yandere oc #yandere ocs #yandere boy #yandere headcanons

[babysackville]

Friday 5th November 1824

8 55/60

2 20/60

Promised to go with Mme de Boyve and Mlle de Sans to the Louvre at 1 – at 10 ¼ went down stairs without breakfast and called on and sat 1 ½ hour with Mme Carbonnier (ӕ [Aetatis] 44 and her husband 61) – tho she cannot speak a word of English got on together very well said I would and have promised to go and see her at Neufchatel – she is a very good sort of amiable respectable person [?] the 1st in the small town of Neufchatel. From her went to Mrs Barlow at 11 ¾ - took down my breakfast things and breakfasted in her room and sat with her till 1 ½ - And then very sorry to be called off to the louvre. Behaved properly as far as it could be so in making love all the time. Asked if she thought a person just like her could make me happy, she said she could not answer yet seemed to think yes. Speaking of herself said there was much for and against, she had a child which must divide her attention &c &c. and was a great objection. I stopt her saying no no, it is not that (in French for we spoke it all the while) but there are two and only two things; you have been married, you must make comparisons, it is impossible you should love me well enough. And there is the thought of those rings which does come across my conscience, but you could not love me well enough you must make comparisons, she merely answered you do not know me 

At 1 35/60 went with Mme de Boyve Mrs Heath Mlle de Sans and Miss Middleton in a fiacre to the Louvre – sauntered along the rooms of modern paintings returned to in a fiacre Mlle de Sans could not walk, and got home at 4 ½ - the porters wife gave me a letter from my Aunt (Shibden) and one from M-[Mariana] (Lawton) – went instantly to Mrs Barlow read my letters parts of both to her – and sat with he] till 5 5/60 – Dinner at 5 ½ - all the evening sat next to Mrs Barlow and Mme de Boyve talking chiefley to one or other of them – Came upstairs at 10 – Mrs Barlow followed in 5 minutes and sat with me till 11 5/60 

Again making decided love said the influence must be deep. Spoke in English that could thus affect me when I looked at the rings said I had told her Mrs Lawton gave them and said yesterday she did not oh said I, I have told you a hundred different things [about] this subject and on this you had best believe none. She afterwards said she, meaning Pi [Mariana], might not be at liberty, oh said I, merely to deceive and appearing to take no notice, she is at liberty if said I, I am doing wrong heaven and you forgive me. Perhaps said I, you do not like me for my conduct about these rings I ought to think more of them but I cannot help it, the heart is sometimes above the control of it its own possessor, and if I changed my mind I would rather a vow at the church door if I was going to be married than let the matter go forwards. She said she quite excused me on this subject, I said few would and I was much obliged to her, said I knew the folly the madness of encouraging sentiments that could not be returned, it was impossible she should return them. To all this she made no answer but that I should change it was a fancy that would pass away, I declared not said her telling me so was perhaps the way to make it not pass away, such was the contrariety of my nature and her calmness only determined me the more. But said I might have her friendship and only asked a little corner to myself somewhat above the rest of her friends, she said I needed not ask it I knew I had it said I had thought from what she said last night that I felt the same three years hence and had made up my own mind perhaps it was not impossible she might change hers. She said nothing against this tho nothing decidedly in favour of it I said the best thing for me would be her marrying. She answered I will hasten it, no no said I, it would give me more pain than I like to think of but I would deserve her friendship. 

Had hold of her hands all the while, said I minded not what she said, it was what she did. I knew I had her good wishes and that she did not dislike me.  Leaned on her shoulder a few moments, squeesed her hands intently and perhaps she was conscious of the feelings of excitement which thrilled thro me,  she just said you will squeeze me to death I desisted.  She said it was time to go, she did not look as if she disliked me, nor do I believe she felt so, I asked her to give me my own place, she said no and resisted. (I had kissed the left side of her throat in the morning and asked to have that for my own place, she said it was odd another liked it and then said a moment afterwards when she had seen the expression of wonder in my countenance that it was her daughter) I said friendship might allow me that and I would not abuse it, she still refused then said ‘I am not fit for this world’ and hurried off. From her manner altogether I fancied she at that moment felt to like me more than she would have owned to me, or liked to own even to herself. Is it possible she should see me as she does and be so much with me and not relax a little sometimes. When she was telling me I should change it was a fancy that would pass away perhaps said I, it will be more easy to you so forget me than to me to forget you,  oh no said she I shall not soon forget you – 

My father recovering very well – all the rest quite well – Mariana in trouble at losing Steph but above all at Watson going to be married to John the footman – Cordingley tells me it was evident enough when they were at Shibden last year – Pi [Mariana] writes affectionately enough asks if I ever wished for her. Read this to Mrs Barlow who observed she seemed much attached to me it was the habit of some people to write so but she though Pi [Mariana] was not in this way and she felt all she wrote. I said she was in the habit of calling me Fred from a joke of a story, I had had many nicknames but was never called by my own name except by my family. Mrs Barlow seemed to notice in silence the name of Fred did she so call her husband – poor Mrs Barlow. She likes me certainly I had told her last night I could not have married Pi [Mariana], Mrs Barlow guessed her family was not good enough for I had named her father being a physician at York, I allowed this I explained tonight that circumstanced as I should have been I must have married well for my familys prosperity &c was my hobby, and some of them had done so much against it would have been incumbent on me to set a better example. This explanation was brought to by her saying she would rather marry a person a little below herself than one who thought he had done her a favour by marrying her – in sitting by her this evening marked a large b with white cotton her pocket-hand-kerchief – Madame de Boyve is certainly and evidently jealous of her – 

From 11 50/60 to 1 20/60 wrote all this journal of today – Finished day – Fahrenheit 58 at 1 ½ p.m. I offered to read Mrs Barlow the observations I made of what she said last night she put it off and I did not do it I think she feels conscious thinks she likes me more than she chooses to run the risk of hearing – E… O.. ½ hour eating grapes.

[Left margin: LL – 2 letters rec’d]

(Diary references: SH7MLE80071 & SH7MLE80072)

#1824 #November #paris #place vendome #anne lister #maria barlow #gentleman jack

[alexander-donovan]

ghosts calling | alex + clay

@claytonboyd

[When the message from Clayton Boyd’s father had come through the Administrative server on Echo, it had been passed along through various hands of authority, finally landing in those of Miss Cambie Andrews, as Head of the young Boyd’s house—and she’d been left to decide how to go about passing on the unexpected message.

She’d approached Alex not a day later—apparently she’d thought Clayton would be better served to hear the news from him. According to her, Donovan was closer to Clay than she was. 

And in truth, Alex doesn’t know exactly when that happened. Can’t think of a specific time that he’d have considered their relationship having categorically shifted from professional to ‘close’—intimate enough, apparently, to be asked to be the one to break this sort of news. As though he had superior tools to making this something the boy could swallow. 

He doesn’t. He’s sure he doesn’t. Cambie is far more empathetic, far more patient and warm—she has the people skills this requires, and he desperately feels he doesn’t. 

But he doesn’t refuse—somehow, though he’s not convinced he’s all that much closer to Clay than anyone else, he still feels a kind of obligation to him. A swell of compassion and empathy, for the shock Clay might feel when he hears the news—and a desire to be there for him, when he does.

He finds him, mid week, emerging from showers on the ground floor, apparently having just finished up in someone else’s training rotation. It’s about an hour before dinner.

Alex catches the boy’s gaze as he approaches in steady strides—Clay’s hair is still wet, his skin damp and rosy around the neck. He looks almost at peace. As though the exercise and hot shower had been the first thing to make him feel human in a while, and Alex feels sick by the idea of having to interrupt that tranquility.] 

Boyd—a word, if I could? You’re not off to any other commitments, are you? 

#sorry if this is shitty im kinda in a weird headspace #clayton #clayton: ghosts calling

[thefandomsinhalor]

S1E18 - Something Wicked

I looooove this episode. the flashbacks are sweet and heartbreaking.

But the goal of this episode:

to let us know, just in case it wasn't cleat before, that Dean is the one who raised Sam. (I know John did his best, not hate, but you know.)

Also, Sam’s dog purple shirt.

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Sam wishing he could revert the state of ignorance about it all is honestly how I feel about the upcoming series finale.

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S1E19 - Provenance

I appreciate Dean giving zero shits as he stuffs his face with mini quiches and slurps champagne just to annoy that snob asshole owner.

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Okay, this, this right there, the Dean “I forgot my wallet at our crime scene” bit to get Sam to talk to Sarah again is honestly so pure.

And the best brother award goes to....

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Dean: I don’t know what it feels like to lose someone like that.

Sam: the pain I went through I can’t do this again.

Me: guys, this is really upsetting right now. Like I have terrible news for you both.

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S1E20 - Dead’s Men Blood

Ah yes. The colt. I was going to say I hope we get this back before the end, but don’t think it would make an actual difference now. Oh the days where everything could be solve by a magical gun. Yeah, we just saw in s14 what crap can come up from another “magical gun” actually.

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Dean: vampires? I tho I ught there was no such thing.

Dean: pfff. Vampires. Ugh, this gets funnier every time I say it.

Me: your BFF Benny is laughing his head off at you from purgatory right about now.

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Huh. So if vampires never forget your scent and these obviously escaped...I don’t remember them ever coming back. That would be interesting to see, although absolutely not necessary or a priority.

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S1E21 - Salvation

Okay this is the one thing I ALWAYS forget: Carry On My Wayward Son is not playing on the last episode of season one, but on the penultimate one.

I know, it sounds fake, right? I legit always repress this.

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Listen it’s bad enough that Sam continuously has these disturbing visions of women burning on the ceiling, but you had to add this to them too:

Like are you trying to kill him?

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Big “yellow eyes reveal.” So they moved on from “the thing that killed Mom,” from “the demon,” to “Yellow Eye,” even though that’s not even what they call him yet. Jefferson Starships, you guys don’t even know his actual name yet. I’m always astonished how they know NOTHING at the beginning.

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S1E22 - Devil’s Trap

Okay, one: BOBBY FINALLY.

Two: Friendly reminder that Bobby Singer had a dog named Rumsfeld.

And I still can't believe they took away his dog 5 secs later. Listen, I know Meg took one for the team in the end despite the fact that she killed a lot of people, but I don’t think I could forgive her for taking Bobby’s dog away.

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Car crash accident cliffhanger, I swear that year, there was SO MANY shows that had ended on that particular freaking cliffhanger I’m convinced there was a memo issued or something.

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Is it bad that I can quote the bloopers as much as the show? like, other people do that too, right?

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Season 1 Episodes

[1-4]   [5-9]   [10-17]  [18-22]

Seasons:

[1]   [2]

#spn #supernatural #rewatch #spn seaon one #supernatural season 1 #spn s1 #sam winchester #dean winchester #spn 1x18 #spn 1x19 #spn 1x20 #spn 1x21 #spn 1x22

[writing-services-online-us-blog]

To Each His Own

one and only(a) of my earliest memories is of me, eyes closed, kneel by my bed, silently presentment theology alwaysything that I was grateful for. I had seen an actor do it in a movie, and it convinced(p) my easily influenced, very unfledged, materialization self to try it, hopefully resulting in the start of a long relationship with God. I tried praying a few more(prenominal) times tot whole(prenominal)y over the years, and, each time, it felt same(p) I had called Heaven, and was sent align to voicemail. Eight mean solar days afterward my birth, I had my bris, or circumcision ceremony. From that day on, in accordance to my Judaic mothers will, I practiced Judaism. Every Sunday, I went to the only temple in San Antonio, and learned about Jewish beliefs, traditions, values, and practices. When class ended, I would pop off into the backseat of my recovering Catholic, born once more Atheist fathers navy blue Forerunner, to be greeted by the question that has resulted i n more bloodshed than all other question that has ever been asked: Is there a God?\nI went along with learning Hebrew, going to Sunday school, and all other things that were required by the temple, until there was more and more talk about my confirmation ceremony. In Judaism, getting support means that one makes the imprecation to practice the religion for the symmetry of their life. Because I had been a comparatively devout follower for all of my pre-pubescent life, getting confirmed was suasion of as something that was definite. But, in all fourteen years, I had never found either importee in the texts, felt both bond with the Jewish community, or developed any come apart of connection with God. I asked myself, scarcely because my own flesh and blood, and millions of others, commit something, does that make it undoubtedly true?\nThis question evoked many an(prenominal), many thoughts and started in an inner battle, the participants being two vastly unlike ways of tho ught. In the end, I decided that I did not believe in any type of God, spurring my close to not get confirmed...

[bestdissertationwritingser-blog2]

To Each His Own

unmatchable of my earliest memories is of me, eyes closed, kneeling by my bed, silently weighty theology of every timeything that I was grateful for. I had seen an actor do it in a movie, and it positive(p) my easily influenced, very unfledged, early self to try it, hopefully resulting in the start of a long relationship with God. I tried praying a fewer more times over the years, and, each time, it felt uniform I had c everyed Heaven, and was sent consecutive to voicemail. Eight sidereal days by and by my birth, I had my bris, or circumcision ceremony. From that day on, in accordance to my Judaic mothers will, I practiced Judaism. Every Sunday, I went to the only temple in San Antonio, and learned about Judaic beliefs, traditions, values, and practices. When class ended, I would position into the backseat of my recovering Catholic, born over again Atheist fathers navy blue Forerunner, to be greeted by the question that has resulted in more bloodshed than either ot her question that has ever been asked: Is there a God?\nI went along with training Hebrew, going to Sunday school, and totally other things that were required by the temple, until there was more and more talk about my proof ceremony. In Judaism, getting substantiate means that one makes the hallow to practice the religion for the end of their life. Because I had been a relatively devout follower for all of my pre-pubescent life, getting confirmed was survey of as something that was definite. But, in all fourteen years, I had never found whatever gist in the texts, felt some(prenominal) bond with the Jewish community, or developed any classification of connection with God. I asked myself, only when because my own flesh and blood, and millions of others, recollect something, does that make it undoubtedly honest?\nThis question evoked many a nonher(prenominal), many thoughts and started in an inner battle, the participants beingness two vastly antithetical ways of tho ught. In the end, I decided that I did not believe in any type of God, spurring my stopping point to not get confirmed...