#ths bookclub

[starrazorr]

anyways. i think lucien and cree should make out.

#v bookclub #the nine eyes of lucien #listening to the audiobook at work #i like it a lot more than k*th & k*n so far

[an-absolute-trainwreck]

Y’all I went three whole days without reading a book… I think that’s like a new record for me

#kidding lol I’ve had so many massive weeks and weeks long book slumps #including kinda erm right now #but I did pick up something! #had a craving for horror and reading is kinda like eating in that when you really don’t want to do it for a while you just have to follow th #-e cravings yk #so I picked up the southern bookclubs guide to slaying vampires #cause I went to b&n today and I’ve been hearing good things about this one five-ever #I’m 40 pages in and enjoying it so far #so yippee yahoo <:]

[specter-writes]

Today im feeling "ship" so hear me out poly!lumity, huntlow, and raeda hcs

LUMITY:

-movie nights, where luz is in the middle and you and amity are both curled up next to her (with popcorn!!)

-sharing earphones but since there's only two ending up unplugging them and blasting music

-hugs. all the hugs. e v e r y h u g

-SPANISH PET NAMES

-I think lumity would be an established couple already, maybe you're luz' or amity's best friend, and you have feelings for them both, and shit goes down yada yada and you join the relationship

-flower crowns??????? flower crowns.

-BEING PART OF THE GOOD WITCH AZURA BOOKCLUB

-also spending hours in the library together, reading aloud or just separately, not really talking but still feeling together

HUNTLOW:

-I think it'd really domestic you feel?

-like baking and picnics, and just... Small little things

-tripping over a rock and having willow freak out but try to keep it together while hunter internally implodes at th sight of blood

-willow is the only chill

-you and hunter are simply chaos gremlins

-making lunches the night before school/work/events/whatever together

-willow tries to teach you to take care of plants but you're shit at it

-infodumping all about your special interests to each other

-not having to make eye contact because it makes hunter uncomfortable (it also makes me uncomfortable lmao)

-human AU takes, willow a theater kid + aspiring voice actor, hunter is a comic book artist, they both listen to rock in slightly different genres (willow is more into modern indie while hunter prefers 90s/2000s era stuff), willow is part of an environmental conservation club, she plays volleyball, and hunter is like the quiet kid stereotype

-hunter is heavily musical, expect to either listen to a lot of practice or practice with him if you play

-showing up to flyer derby matches and practices to cheer them on

-idk why but I think you 3 would frequent ice cream shops

RAEDA:

-you and raine used to date after raeda broke up, and then you got with eda much later on in your life. reunion bullshit and eventually here you are with a two step children and the same number of spouses

-eda was always opposed to the idea of marriage---not dating, marriage. she thought it was weird. then she actually met people she wanted to marry. on the other hand, Raine always loved the idea, they thought it was romantic. they were a little worried they'd make a mistake though

-well after a few years of marriage, tthey can confirm they did not make a mistake, and they couldn't be happier with their wife and spouse

-raine isn't great at cooking. none of you are honestly. eda is passable at best but has burnt more than she's done well.youre probably the best over all, by that's really not saying much

-more flower crowns

-having a part in raines rhapsody and some of their other compositions

-3-way hugs

-being 2nd and 3rd parental figures to king and.... Like 273762th to luz? She has a lot atp

-grudgby matches

-you got a schedule for chores. raine usually cleans, you usually cook, and eda listens to luz explain the plot of the good witch azura for the 33rd time

-helping eda and Raine with their night terrors

#raeda #toh x reader #specter speaks #the owl house #xreader #lumity #huntlow #poly toh x reader

[metamatar]

4, 8, 10 for th ereading ask?

4. Did you discover any new authors that you love this year?

Seth Dickinson, I did not expect them to impress me so much. I'm very shy about reading imperialism focused fiction, especially sff from someone in the metropole. See my review of Arkady Martine.

8. Did you meet any of your reading goals? Which ones?

Uh... not really the read 75 books goal this year. but I started a graduate program in september and I experienced a month where I read zero books bc of Summer SAD so I'm not really bothered about that tbqh. I did read actual published romance, got plugged into a reading community online and offline and actually read books published in the last 3 years after years of being disconnected from contemporary writing. Oh also poorly ran an online bookclub for 6 months. So pretty good year and I still hit 50 already.

What was your favorite new release of the year?

I only read two new releases in Nona and System Collapse. These are hard books to compare tbh, they do different things. Nona is more interesting and richer, there's more in it. So. Nona the Ninth.

#ask game

[alena-reblobs]

Trigun Bookclub Trimax Vol6

Vol01: Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3  | Vol02: Part 1 | Part 2

Trimax: Vol01 Part 1 Vol01 Part 2 | Vol02 Part 1 Vol02 Part 2 |

Vol 03 Part 1 | Vol03 Part2 | Vol04 Part1 | Vol04 Part2 | Vol05 |

Vol06

Quick recap of my thoughts to Vol6 as I'm catching up with the bookclub!

Chapter 1:

The chapter where Marlon is repairing/preparing a new gun for Vash. What's there to say...big dislike for the Sheriff for punching Vash in the gut completely unasked for. Also big satisfaction at the end where the Sheriff gets to see just HOW good of a gunsman Vash is. Another sweet part is Vash using a shot of the Punisher and how Wolfwood is angry about it at the end! If also read some pretty cool analysis about the part where Meryl asks herself if Vash is even able to still fire a gun after all that happened...I have nothing to add! You all are putting these thoughts and conversations apart and analysing them in a way that I would never think of, I'm gaining so much more insight with the commentary by all the other readers!

Chapter 2:

OOOH it's that chapter

Sweet Vash is smiling at him and he looks utterly terrified and shocked. And with the hole in the moon behind Vash, as other posts have already pointed out...All in all such a great chapter, with the dream of Wolfwood before, his memories of meeting Knives and then this...about this scene everything has already been said as well! Theres's only a little smth I'd like to add to this iconic panel:

We all agree Vash was 100% aware of Wolfwood pointing the gun at him. Question is, what does he think of it? I think some people said he knew Wolfwood wouldn't go through with it. In my opinion, the way he looks so completely tired and worn out....I like to think he was being resigned. If it were an enemy or any other person of course he'd defend himself, but if it's Wolfwood? I'm not so sure Vash would have tried to avoid the hit. If his best friend thinks he needs to be eliminated for the greater good, I think Vash would accepted it and thought it right. It's after all what he thinks anyway, that it's maybe better if he weren't here on this world. Obviously Vash doesn't hold it against Wolfwood. Maybe the fact that he had his gun out but didn't shoot Vash made Wolfwood even dearer to Vash, gaining him more trust and friendship points? Well, much to think about with these two, as always!

He is! The prettiest boy! ♥

An awesome page is an awesome page and must be addid to this post, even if only so I can more quickly find neat references when I'm looking through my bookclub folders later!

Oh and also this fight! I read another post that explained what I didn't get the first 2 times reading: While fighting they notice that their respective enemies are not suited for their weapons so they change in the blink of an eye! Which is! So cool and says SO much about how they instinctively know each other and their thoughs and fighting so well!! Which also neatly goes back to the gun pointing scene and you know, trust blah blah aaah I love these two.

Chapter 3:

Reading the Overhaul translation for the first time, I think the sass of Elendira gets through much more better, I have such a better feeling for her character here! Also, Legato hanging in that thingie is super funny. That guy is so nuts and I love him and hate him, because he's such a cool but dislikable character!

Theeeen at the end of the chapter, finally....LIVIOOOOO!! Come here big man. Let me give you a pat on the cheek. The cheek without the skull.

Chapter 4:

Oh yes we see more of Knives! I totally love Knives as a character and I like to see scenes of him...here we get some nice infos about plants. The hair thing. Oh yeah. On my first read I rushed through everything so quickly so I can't really remember my reactions to all the cool scenes and revelations, but that end of the chapter must have been a definite "OH D: " moment. Also, what a cool idea in general, the degrading showing in the hair!

Chapter 5:

oh god it's THAT chapter. (I say to every chapter, because every chapter starts to hurt after vol5) In the church. Here, as well, I have no analysis to further add...just that the emotions displayed here...are so well done. I think in this chapter it really shows just how deep Nightow's characters are, because we are directly being shown and said that characters, even when drawn wearing smiles, laughing, can be hurting SO SO much deep down. Which makes us question just how much masks of Vash we have seen throughout the series until now? And I like that, I like that characters are not only what they seem and how they appear, and I also like it when we DON'T always get to hear the characters thoughts but can only guess what they must be thinking in some situations. It's just what makes this manga stand out so much to me compared to other series. (Because here we have no doubt that the character has a life beside the story which we cannot see, and although there are of course many other series which do this great as well, but often I miss this and don't get this feeling. )

ALSO HOW DARE THEY THROW STONES AT MY BOY. AFTER EVERYTHING HE HAS BEEN THROUGH ALREADY. He's trying to save you all! D:>

Chapter 6:

And Flashback start! The Flashback arc is also amazing, and it's still so cruel how cute Knives was as a child. But more of that in the next recap!

EDIT (pictures that I liked):

scenery and backgrounds looking awesome as always

pretty Vash and Knives who looks so young here (after the Last Run)

God he looks so angry and cool here.

Milly protecting Meryl! And...the moment where Milly understands just how much of a show Vash's smile is.

Tfw when your friends flinch away from you out of fear :( It's instinctual because of what she went through, but ough.

#trigun #trigunbookclub #might add pictures from the chapters later when I feel like putting some together!

[somfte]

okay i'm a little bit [REDACTED] right now but i just

please tell me you've all read FletcherHonorama's A Story Is True / A Story Is Untrue?

I fully intend to write a proper review when i have finished this time (doing my third read to actually leave real comments on each chapter, and as a sort of bookclub with @granturn who is reading it for the first time)

But it's just... it's the perfect post-canon story for me? The show itself is sooo good i mostly don't have any interest in fic for it, but i did briefly hunt around for some as bedtime stories before i finished watching the series for the first time. It stood out for its romance at the time, but it has held up on post-series re-reads as a powerful look into what is, for me, Black Sails' most compelling thesis: that comfort and security are often gained at the cost of liberty, or that the struggle for freedom often demands suffering.

I really can't emphasize how well the author has captured the voice of both the show and of th characters that are included in the fic, and because of the choice to use thomas hamilton as the POV character, the author is able to work in a lot of high minded philosophizing that is both in-character and serving a narrative purpose, and that speaks through the fourth wall to the reader.

But what really hits home for me, that fills the small hole in what i wanted from the show, is that even as it acknowledges, as the show did, that freedom often requires sacrifice, it always comes down on the answer that freedom is always worth sacrifice.

#Anarchist™️ #black sails #black sails fic #in a response to one of my comments the author said they're not an but that im welcome to have my own take on it #and lawd is it an anarchist fic #if anyone reads it because of this post and likes it please DM me to scream about it or something #for anyone worried about the flint/hamilton of it all the relationship isn't about trying to turn them back into their london selves #and the author does a very good job reckoning with the ways that thomas' incarceration might have changed him #it's not trying to gas up thomas hamilton

[aundreyrhubbard]

#christianquotes #christians #christianliving #biblequotes #salvation #islam #inspiration #bibleverses #verseoftheday #life #godislove #christianlife #christianblogger #motivation #bhfyp #lord #jesusislord #godsword #holybible #heaven #theology #atheist #jesusisking #catholicism #praise #cross #quotes #atheism #wordofgod #spirituality #christianity #jesus #christian #bible #god #faith #jesuschrist #church #christ #love #prayer #gospel #bibleverse #holyspirit #godisgood #pray #truth #hope #scripture #blessed #worship #biblestudy #grace #amen #religion #jesussaves #believe #jesuslovesyou #peace #catholic #kindle #bookstagram #amazon #books #kindleunlimited #ebook #book #booklover #reading #bookworm #romance #goodreads #ebooks #kindlebooks #author #read #love #authorsofinstagram #instabook #bookaddict #readersofinstagram #bookstagrammer #bookish #booknerd #amazonkindle #writersofinstagram #livros #bookaholic #bibliophile #booksofinstagram #nook #writer #urbanfiction #kindlepaperwhite #indieauthor #kindlebook #reader #bookclub #booklovers #mustread #booksbooksbooks #kobo #novel #amreading #romancebooks #instagood #paperback #literature #bookreview #fiction #blackauthors #literatura #bookshelf #fantasy #kindleunlimitedbooks #library #b #instabooks #igreads #libros #facebook #instagram #youtube #twitter #tiktok #love #instagood #follow #like #socialmedia #whatsapp #music #google #photography #marketing #india #memes #followforfollowback #likeforlikes #insta #a #trending #fashion #digitalmarketing #viral #k #m #socialmediamarketing #o #art #linkedin #covid #instadaily #business #snapchat #motivation #photooftheday #likes #video #f #live #followers #n #s #model #spotify #news #marketingdigital #followme #smile #meme #lifestyle #followback #travel #beauty #l #life #share #facebooklive #fun #facebook #insta #viral #india #likes #followback #tiktok #trending #live #video #youtube #business #followers #marketing #snapchat #news #facebook #marketingdigital #socialmedia #twitter #spotify #facebook #facebookmemes #facebookmarketing #facebookpage #facebookadvertising #facebookgaming #facebookmarketplace #facebookgroup #facebookmemories #facebookshop #facebookbusiness #facebookpost #facebooklikes #facebooklike #facebookmessenger #facebookmarketingtips #facebookquotes #facebooktips #facebooklivestream #facebooklife #facebookgroups #facebook #facebooklive #facebookads #facebookmemes #facebookmarketing #facebookpage #facebookadvertising #facebookgaming #facebookmarketplace #facebookgroup #facebookmemories #facebookshop #facebookbusiness #facebookpost #facebooklikes #facebooklike #facebookmessenger #facebookmarketingtips #facebookquotes #facebooktips

[leschanceux]

headcanon from the tea room!; how does your muse use a public library?

as a precursor to this headcanon; dillon has always been interested in learning things and reading as many books as he can get his hands on, with a particular affinity for non-fiction books. his father had an encyclopedia set in his study ( one of those massive collection-type encyclopedias with multiple books for each letter covering literally everything ) and dillon would spend days and days lying on the floor with one of the books and just read it cover to cover. he's more of an academic reader than a getting lost in a good story reader; for him, reading is all about knowledge and learning, and he gets his pleasure from reading that way, but he fully appreciates the power of a good story and he'll encourage other people to indulge in those too.

- do they just go to browse the in-house catalogue, or do they use it for interlibrary loan & extended research?

dillon ( who does actually work in a bookstore ) loves to read but his focus is more non-fiction, and he finds a different interest or a different rabbit-hole to follow pretty regularly, he'll peruse both the library's in-house catalogue but he also regularly uses the interlibrary loan facilities and research materials to find out as much as he can about different subjects from different places. luckily, his library's interlibrary loan system covers libraries from all over the world - as long as you have a title or a specific subject, the books will be sent from anywhere in the world to that library for you to pick up. these facilities help dillon in his day to day life, but it also helps him to have read a broad range of books on various topics for work, because then he can recommend several titles to customers if they ask about a specific subject.

sometimes this helps when deciding which books to stock in his bookstore; for example, when he went through a plant phase, he borrowed a lot of books on subjects like the medicinal uses of plants, or the language of flowers, or even flower arranging, and they went down quite well with the customers when he ordered a limited amount of stock for his shelves, but other focuses like the history of certain types of machinery are more niche, so they're less likely to appear at the store. it's a balancing act, and dillon can sort of judge by now what would sell better ( unfortunately, even magic bookstores only have a finite amount of storage space, which sucks ).

- do they take children to events, such as story times or guided crafts? how about teenagers? do they encourage their children to keep going & using resources after they're "graduated" out of story time? are there other support structures in place for children, such a literacy programs?

dillon doesn't have children of his own, but he does have a couple of niblings ( the children of his siblings; his nieces and nephews ) and he definitely takes them to the library when he's looking after them and encourages them to join in with events and interacting with the library. their local library has literacy programs like a reading marathon in the schools' summer break, where the kids have to log each book they borrow and read, write a little synopsis and they get a prize at the end depending on how many they've read. his niblings are good readers themselves; they do enjoy the story time activities when they're small, but they also enjoy workshops geared toward teens as they grow, like the poetry writing sessions or that one write your own comic session that the library offers.

- do they themselves go to events, like open art studio nights, computer/digital literacy classes, community DIY/crafting, or the more traditional book clubs?

dillon's more likely to host a bookclub at the store than attend one at the library. he's been to a couple of events at his local library when there've been things that play into his interests, like a night where they hosted authors from various cultures who'd written books around the same subject, but on the whole, he's not really that kind of person --- though he does keep an event schedule for the library up on the store's noticeboard for his customers, just in case they're interested in such events.

- are they the sort to stay in the library & read their mini hoard, or do they prefer to check out things to take home for a time? what sort of things do they check out (books, DVDs, manga, ebooks, audiobooks vs power tools, fishing rods, museum passes, mobile hotspots, & seeds to be planted?) (yes you can check all of these things out depending on the library)

dillon definitely prefers to take his hoard home with him, just so he can take his time with the materials he borrows and get the most out of them. he also has a favourite reading corner at home with a cosy chair and a lamp that's angled just right and the facilities to make a drink or snack while he reads, so he definitely prefers to go home to read through the pile of books he comes away with.

as for the things he checks out, they're mostly books, but he does also like to borrow audiobooks to listen to while he does the store's stock-check or some cleaning, and he'd definitely borrow museum passes or ingredients ( like seeds ) for potions or magical rituals if his personal stash is running short.

- how do they feel about "human libraries" - programs where you can sit with a human "book" & learn about different cultures, backgrounds, & life experiences? what sort of human would they "take out on loan" & why?

dillon absolutely adores human libraries. as someone who regularly comes into contact with people of different cultures and species, and one whose life has been dedicated to learning so much about as much as he can possibly learn about, he'd spend absolutely ages with those people who are willing to be "loaned" out to tell their stories to other people. he'd spend a couple of days thinking of questions to ask them first, then go along and sit with them and just listen to everything they're willing to tell him.

he'll do his research if he knows the person he'd like to "loan" out in advance, but if he doesn't know what culture they come from, he has a set of more general questions about cultural practices or observations. it's easier when he knows in advance who he'll be meeting, of course, but not knowing is not something that would stop him from utilising such a wonderful resource.

- does their library host D&D events? if so, do they partake or socialize, or do they skip that night in favor of other community events?

dillon already lives in a magical society so they don't have d&d specifically, but they do have something similar that involves creatures like dragons or different bird kingdoms than species like fae or warlocks ( because that's who lives in his society ).

he does attend these nights at the library, but not regularly because that's creating a ficticious storyline and he's not really into that sort of thing. but the concept of it definitely intrigues him and it'd give him the opportunity to create a character that maybe utilises some of the knowledge he's gotten from books, like the plant phase.

- does their library have a mobile outreach service? if so, have their used it themselves or partnered with it for work & community events?

yes, dillon's local library has a mobile outreach service; they actually do book deliveries for people who are stuck in their homes for various reasons ( temporary or otherwise! ) and for schools to make sure that everybody in their community has some kind of access to the library services. and yes, dillon partners with them - he'll take in library books from people to be returned, if they can't make it themselves for whatever reason; he partners with the library to bring some of their events into the store if the times at the library itself is inconvenient for a certain amount of people ( so if 20 people said that they couldn't attend a class on how to start a novel, he'd contact the library and arrange for a repeat of the workshop at a later time for those people, if the library are willing and able to do that! ). he knows the library staff very well at this point, and to be able to join in on spreading a love of books is an amazing feeling.

#HEADCANON; ( DILLON ) #rpcdev #1193 words

[flying-elliska]

We are past chapter 4 with @beeexx in our reading of The Secret History, my thoughts so far (mild spoilers) 

- The Vibe is just so quality TM...i understand why it makes some corners of Tumblr nuts. Just this passage already on p 12 “Commons clock tower : ivied brick, white spire, spellbound in the hazy distance. The shock of first seeing a birch tree at night, rising up in the dark as cool and slim as a ghost. And the nights, bigger than imagining : black and gusty and enormous, disordered and wild with stars.” Perfect for the season. 

- The characters are super flawed and yet compelling as fuck, which really is the sweet spot. Henry is the most interesting to me so far, the contrast of how closed off and almost brutal he looks from the outside but how kind and devoted he is with his friends.  Richard is so relatable to me in ways that make me super glad i’m not a 19 yr old idiot anymore. Francis is intriguing, but still very distant. The twins feel like they’re there more for aesthetic purposes than anything, especially Camilla. We agree w Bex that she’s sort of suffering from Smurfette syndrome, her personality being mostly Girl, pretty and mysterious and incomprehensible to Richard, although I like her style. 

- And then there’s Bunny. Well, I am absolutely convinced he has ADHD, or at least was inspired by someone the author knew who had it. He went to prep school for students w learning disabilities, he’s enthusiastic, friendly, messy, terrible with money, can’t focus or finish his homework on time, has very haphazard incoherent interest patterns but can be extremely persistent on specific topics, he’s insecure and impulsive, etc, all there. He’s also the most annoying and terrible person in the book, and that plus all the characters’ open disdain for his intellectual capacities makes it for Not a Fun Read at times. I mean I want to murder him myself at this point but uhhhhhhhhhhh yeah 

- It feels like a very convincing portrayal of how stupid you can be when you’re 19 and you’re really smart and feel invincible but want so badly to find Meaning in your life, and also Something More, and fall in love with Ideas, but you’re shallow as fuck too and you also want really badly to hang with the Cool Squad and have them be your friends and look down on everybody else, and you’re kind of mixing up the two. From the first page you can tell this story is not going to have a happy ending, but you’re really compelled to see how they’re going to bring it on themselves. It’s often darkly funny ; I might have taken it a bit too seriously if I’d read it when I was younger and taken it as some sort of Guide to Life tm. 

- I love Richard and I understand his urge to make himself into someone he’s not because he’s been so utterly starved by his surroundings growing up, of affection and intellectual stimulation and of something to dream about ; it sounds like a class issue but you soon realize that they all have that in common, with their cohorts of absent/dead/immature parents...or maybe all ppl were like that in the 80s and she’s just being cynical about humans lol. I understand their fascination with a dead language and world and how easy it is to mysticize it and make it appear as pure, and it’s so comforting in a way because the past is dead and you have no responsibility towards it, you can just make it what you want in your head. They have, to the exception of Bunny, personalities that turn towards the absolute, and so they just want something to be devoted to, reasons to be noble, and so it becomes a group and a very us vs them sort of thing. Which the teacher totally encourages. It’s fascinating and it’s soooooooooo unhealthy. It’s like a classy cult, and those things really interest me, especially in more grey areas where there isn’t a clear cut leader but it’s more of a group mentality thing. It makes it really bittersweet and sad already, because who hasn’t wanted to belong. At the same time they’re all such terrible elitists it’s hard to feel too sorry for them. And I already feel the core tension of the novel lies somewhere around there : the dangers of idealism as a way of setting yourself apart and above people, to a place where you end up not caring for human life. 

- And listen I too was doing arcane rituals with my friends in the woods at night when i was 19 and we managed not to kill anyone so really these kids are super dumb 

- Overall I am enjoying it a lot -  it took a left turn way sooner than I anticipated, with some caveats. She writes so well, you feel immersed in the POVs of the characters but the satire aspect is also very enjoyable. I’m waiting to see if it can stick the landing in a way i like. 

#the secret history #ths bookclub #dark academia

[bookedwithlucieandann]

📚🎄Winter Reads 🎄📚 We just got back from our December OC Books and Brunch Book Club White Elephant Exchange and are very happy with our picks. We both loved Maybe in Another Life which was December’s read and are ready to get stuck into January’s book The Gifted School.

#bookworm bookstagram books booklover bookstagrammer bookclub bookish maybeinanotherlife theguernseyliteraryandpotatopeelpiesociety shrill th

[thisliterarylife]

Beauty is terror. 🍂 #bookstagram #bookworm #bookish #bookquotes #bookclub #darkacademia #thesecrethistory #donnatartt #amreading #currentlyreading #ths #favoritebooks #bookquotes https://www.instagram.com/p/B6MrO6wH6mr/?igshid=1c8sivzbwsfq2

#bookstagram #bookworm #bookish #bookquotes #bookclub #darkacademia #thesecrethistory #donnatartt #amreading #currentlyreading #ths #favoritebooks

[justgillespie]

Missing (2/?)

Summary: Your next door neighbor, Luke Patterson (a.k.a. your longtime crush) has gone missing, and you think you could help finding him.

Word count: 2.1k

Warnings: none!

Author’s Note: Hey, it’s me again! So I’m back. I noticed that I didn’t mention before that the reader is a dancer! So I hope that didn’t bother anyone. And I’m sorry there’s not much in this part, but I’ll try to upload the third part as soon as possible xo

Part 3

•

You came up with a few rules, if you were willing to do this. Rule #1: You would not think of Luke as the boy you have a crush on until you know for sure that he doesn’t have a girlfriend. Rule #2: You were taking Max with you wherever you needed to and whatever you needed to do. Rule #3: You would do as much as you could to find Luke. Rule #4: Find Luke.

The information Tamra gave you was enough for you to wait impatiently for school to be over the next day. The bookclub’s meetings were on Thursdays at 6:00 p.m.

Today was Thursday.

You talked to Hannah at lunch, asking her about the bookclub. She told you about the book they were reading and the social environment, but she didn’t mention the band. You didn’t make any specific questions either, since you didn’t really want to tell her what you were actually doing. Hannah also offered you to take you the library. But you politely declined. You were just taking the bus with Max. For which he complained, later on when school was over and you both were heading to the library on the bus.

“She OFFERED to take us there, in a CAR, and you said no?!”

You rolled your eyes.

You were all dressed in your dance uniform, wearing a comfortable sundress on top of it and some shoes that you randomly picked. And you had your dance bag, seated at your feet. Your dance class was at 6:30, but you weren’t worried about the time. You calculated that if the band had to set up their equipment, then they would definitely be there earlier then the rest of the bookclub members.

“First of all, she offered ME a ride. Not us. She didn’t know I had company.” You said, checking up the watch on your wrist. 5:25 p.m. You looked back at him. “And second of all, if you weren’t too afraid of driving, then maybe, we could’ve given that car of yours some use.”

Max told you that the car parked in his garage was his, and was given to him on his seventeenth birthday, months before you moved to the neighborhood. Since Max was afraid of driving, his mom was the one using the nice car.

“Uh, yeah? Why don’t you try driving then?” He said, cheeks flushed.

“I did. Several times.”

You just weren’t perfect at it yet. Not that you were desperate to drive. Your sister would always drive you wherever you needed to, so what was the rush? You didn’t need a car yet. You just couldn’t ask her to take you to the library today because she had to recover a piano lesson she missed a few days ago.

“Then why-?”

“Oh my gosh, Max, let it go. Tamra’s picking us up once we’re finished. Geez.” You said, frustrated. This guy could complain and argue for hours if he wanted to.

“Sorry.” He said rolling his eyes. “So what are we doing?”

You snapped your head at him. “Didn’t I tell you anything yet?”

“I know it has to do something with Luke, because of what you asked me last night. And that we’re going to the library... Now that I say it out loud, we’re going to that bookclub they play at, right?”

You definitely forgot to explain. Your so focused on getting started with your plan that the only words that came out of your mouth that afternoon when you called him were: “Come with me to the library.” He didn’t asked much in that moment either, so it was on both of you.

“That’s right. How could you just jump in with me without even knowing what I was dragging you to?”

“Because I was waiting for your call. You said you were gonna tell me what you were up to, so I just linked everything to that. You still didn’t explain yourself, by the way.”

So you explained to him. That you were on sort of an adventure/investigation about Luke’s location and that he was your Watson.

“I am Watson?! I gave you most of the information you know now.”

“It was just an expression, Max.”

Soon after, you were both standing in front of the big public library. Once again, you checked the time.

5:37.

“Come on. They’re probably there already...”

“Wait a second.” Max grabbed your arm, stopping you in the middle of the steps. “Luke ran away from home, right?”

“Yes, that’s what Mrs. Patterson said...”

“Well, don’t you think that a performance in a bookclub full of people would be too... I don’t know, noisy? I mean, if he ran away, it means he doesn’t want to be discovered. I don’t think hey will perform today if that’s the case.”

You stared at him for a second before you hit him in the arm.

“Hey! What was th-?!”

“You couldn’t have said that before coming all the way here for nothing?!”

“I just thought of that! And you could’ve thought about it too! Don’t blame it all on me!”

You frowned and walked down the stairs.

“Where are you going?!” Max asked.

“Home. Dance. I don’t know.”

“Don’t be dramatic. We’re already here. We can still do some research. They probably have their information here. I don’t think they would even let them perform if not. And besides, we don’t even know if I’m right about before.”

You turned back to him, this time, embarrassed. You were being a little dramatic.

And maybe a little too optimistic.

No, you stopped yourself before any negative thought clouded your mind, no one’s ever too optimistic.

And you couldn’t back up from the investigation in the first day. That was basically breaking rule #5.

You walked back to Max and without saying anything, you walked into the library together.

As much as you wanted Max to be wrong, he actually was right: the guys didn’t show up. And maybe it was also because of what Max said, but it was not the reason the people at the library told you. You asked about them and most of the workers frowned immediately at what you said, either confused or mad.

“Those guys aren’t allowed to play here. They just showed up a couple of times, but trust me, they won’t come back.” The librarian told you.

Therefore, Max’s backup idea didn’t work either.

Ten minutes later, you and Max sat on the steps outside the library, not knowing what to do next.

Your watch ticked 5:50. Tamra said she would be there at six.

You said hi to Hannah when she got there. She asked if you were going in.

“Not really.” You sighed, and decided to tell her the truth. “I came to do some research on that band... It’s named Sunset Curve. Tamra told me they played here the day she came with you.”

“Oh, yeah! I almost forgot that happened.” She chuckled. “I didn’t come to the meeting prior to that, so I wasn’t aware that a band would be playing in our bookclub. That’s why I forgot to tell you about them, I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay. Did you get to talk to them?”

“A little bit. They stayed for the whole meeting and then ate almost all the snacks on the table. We just talked about music for a bit. Well, Tamra did. I was just standing next to her having no idea of what were they talking about... But if I see them today I can try to get more information, if you want.” Hannah offered when she noticed the disappointment in your face.

“They’re not coming today. Or ever, again. I already asked. But thanks, Hannah, I really appreciate it.”

She smiled at you sweetly and squeezed your shoulder. “I’m sure you’ll get something soon. See you guys around.”

You checked your watch for the hundredth time now. 6:04.

“When you said that Luke’s band plays at a bookclub.” You said to Max some minutes after Hannah left. “I thought you meant they play here OFTEN. You didn’t mention they played here TWICE before and weren’t even allowed to do so!”

“I didn’t know that either! I just supposed...”

“You supposed?!”

“Well, yes! I heard the other day at school... some of the Math Club members attend this bookclub and they said that Luke’s band performed there so I just guessed they might just play here often!”

“I can’t believe you sometimes.” You felt mad. But tried to calm down. You would get nothing by reproaching him.

You decided to stay quite. Otherwise, you might yell at him.

“So what are we doing now?” Max spoke after a while.

“I don’t know.” You said honestly.

Another silence.

And then, you had the most simple idea, which, you thought, you should’ve come up with way earlier.

“Can’t you ask a friend if they know more about Luke’s bandmates?”

Max blushed, and you thought that was suspicious. “Don’t think so. My friends are... busy.”

You frowned. “All the time?”

You said, more than asked.

“Y-yeah...”

“Every single one of them?”

“Yes, Y/N.” He rolled his eyes, but his nervousness was still visible.

“Max.”

He looked at you sideways and then sighed. “Fine, I... don’t have many friends at school. I don’t make much of an effort to make more, either.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. I’m just not the social type.”

“But you have friends?”

He rolled his eyes. “Yes, I have friends. Well... one friend. His name is Ian. We’ve been classmates since first grade. And we moved together to the same high school.”

“What about the guys from the neighborhood?”

“Well yeah, them too, I guess. We’re just not too close.”

“Like Luke.”

Max scoffed. “Yeah, with the only difference that Luke could be close with everyone if he wanted to. I am not close with anyone because, again, I’m not exactly sociable.”

“But you could be.” You insisted.

“I guess. It’s not that easy, you know...?” He then gave you a look and shook his head. “You don’t know. You are sociable. Like Luke.”

You weren’t sure of what to say, so you just stayed quiet.

“Speaking of which, why are you so invested on finding him, anyway?”

It was your turn to blush, but you were saved by Tamra, who stopped the car in front of you.

“Let’s go.” You said, and he followed you.

So today’s mission didn’t go exactly as planned, but you had lots of clues. It was impossible not to find anything. This day had to end on a good note.

Tamra left you at your dance studio before going back home with Max. You told him you would call him later.

During your dance class, you managed to distract yourself for a bit. But you came back to trying to come up with something as soon as you got out of class.

“I’ll use your landline! Call me when dinner’s ready!” You said once Tamra parked in the driveway.

You said hi to your parents and ran to your room to pick your notebook and then go to your sisters’ room.

So you did come up with something.

You decided to call every kid from the block that knew Luke, and try to get more information. Your last alternative was to go to the Patterson’s house and talk to Emily herself, although you were kind of nervous at that idea and you weren’t too hopeful about it since Max mentioned she didn’t know much about Luke’s band.

“All she knows is he has a band and that she doesn’t like the idea.” He’d said that afternoon.

You took the phone and dialed the first number: Amy Campbell.

You decided to go straight to the point with everyone, just to not lose any time and call Max as fast as possible to update him.

“Hello?” You heard Amy on the other line.

“Hey Ames! It’s Y/N-.”

“Y/N! You’re coming to my pool party, right?”

You blinked. A pool party?

Something clicked in your head. Amy’s pool party, of course. It was this weekend. You forgot to ask permission to your parents.

“Of course I’m going.” You said, even though you weren’t actually sure. Amy cheered.

“Awesome! Almost everyone already confirmed they’re coming, except for... Luke.” She said, and you rapidly took the opportunity to ask her about what you originally called for.

“Actually, I wanted to ask you about him, um, don’t you happen to know anything about his band?”

“Oh my gosh, are you helping to find him? That sounds so much fun!”

You faked a chuckle. “Yeah, yeah.”

“Well, I don’t know much, but... I saw them perform in front of this club once, when I was going out for dinner with my family. We stopped to watch them along with some other people. Before they were kicked out. Oh, I also know his parents don’t love the idea of him on a band.”

“Do you remember the name of the club?”

“Oh, not really... but I can tell you it was close to that restaurant... Delish Japan? Yeah, I think that’s how it’s called.”

You wrote that down.

You thanked her and hung up. So your first call went well.

Although the rest of the calls were pretty similar. Most of the kids said they saw the band playing either in front or in the back of different clubs. One of them mentioned they saw them play at another bookclub.

“Any news?” Max said once he answered your call.

“Kind of.” You checked the names of the clubs written in your notebook. “Almost every kid said they saw the band playing in some club or bookclub. It seems that they do that, without asking.”

“You mean playing in places people might see them?”

“Yes. They know it’s not easy to book a gig at any place. Especially since they don’t have a manager and they’re just teenagers...” You sighed. “This information is pretty much useless, isn’t it?”

“I didn’t want to say it but... yes.” You groaned while Max kept talking. “I mean I guess we could go check those clubs but one, we’re minors and two, they just set their stuff, play and then they get kicked out. I don’t think any of those places have their personal information.”

“My other idea was to go and talk to Mrs. Patterson but... I don’t know if it’ll be useful. I don’t know what else could I do anyway.”

“Me neither.”

You already thought of something else, actually.

You sighed again, this time more dramatically.

“If someone around here at least went to the same school Luke does... That way we could ask some people about him and his band...”

“Come on.” You could practically hear Max rolling his eyes. “I don’t wanna do that.”

“Max, this could go faster if only you took the courage to talk to people. I’m not asking you to go out with them. Just ask them about Sunset Curve...”

“Y/N. I told you before. It’s not that easy for me-.”

“Y/N! I’ve been calling you for half an hour now! Come down for dinner!”

You heard your mom yelling from downstairs and you froze. You said you were going the first time you heard her but you didn’t realize it’s been half an hour since then.

“I’m coming!” You yelled back, and then said goodbye to Max.

You frowned while jogging down the stairs. You told Tamra to tell you when dinner was ready. Now your mom would be mad at you.

After your mom reproaching that she called you “a million times”, you defending yourself that you asked your sister to call you and her saying she never actually agreed to doing so, your dad stopped you. Silence flooded the room for a few minutes.

“Tamra told us you went to the library to do some research on Luke.” Your dad talked. “Did you find anything?”

“Not really.” You said, finally letting the disappointment get into you. “Any of our plans worked.”

“Don’t worry, sweetheart. I’m sure you’ll get something soon.” Your dad squeezed your hand and you smiled at him.

“Let us know if you need any help.” Your mom added.

You slowly nodded.

When you finished your food, you decided to stay and just listen to your parents’ conversation.

“Are you done?” Tamra asked then, and you frowned.

“Why?”

“Just- Yes or no?”

“Yes, I’m done.”

“Good. Come with me.”

You and Tamra thanked for the food and she guided you to her room. You sat on her bed while she started looking through the mess.

“What are you doing?” You asked, and she didn’t respond.

“Here” You heard her say before stretching down to take a purse from the floor.

She then went through it and took a piece of paper out of it, which she gave to you and you looked at it closely. A phone number was written on it.

“It’s one of the band members’ phone number. Not sure who, but he was flirting with me the day I went to the bookclub with Hannah.”

Your face beamed.

“You’re not gonna need it?”

“Pff, no. I have a boyfriend, remember? And he was not my type anyway”.

Actually, you forgot she had a boyfriend. They started dating just a few months ago but Tamra hasn’t taken him to the house yet.

“Why didn’t you tell me before?!” You said.

“I forgot I had it.” She shrugged.

You were too excited to get mad at her. You hugged her and asked to use her landline again. She agreed and left you there.

As fast as you could, you took the phone and dialed the number.

#luke patterson x reader #luke patterson #julie and the phantoms #julie and the phantoms x reader

[dethroned-uncrowned]

I've basically dropped off using ths site now cos life has been..... interesting. Yes, pandemic, but also some good life things have happened for me. Started Testosterone, me and Lawrence are moving to a new home (no more freaking crappy landlords and rented flats) in the new year, I've got a much better social life and better friends somehow (love u queer Bookclub pals). Even work has managed to get better after a very disastrous "time when the only other person who can do some of my job is furloughed and I have too much work" situation. Went on a cool podcast about the LGBT metalhead community, which really speaks volumes about how much more CONFIDENT I've become as the year has gone on.

Life is... not bad. Not quite right, there's a lot of things I miss so much, but not bad actually.

#Idk I felt like I wanted to out some thoughts out into the world where no one really knows me #so i'm here #Briefly #And this is probably the best I've ever been in my life #Which feels weird to say in the midst of a pandemic but it's true #I think personally the pandemic brought some issues to head earlier than would have naturally happened and dealing with them has on the who #So yeah #byeeeee

[darkesttimelinestuff]

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

[snowbryneich]

I was tagged by @lodessa thanks hun! 

1. Relationship status: Married

2. Lipstick or chapstick:  Lol neither – I always have dry lips. I guess I wear lipstick slightly more like on nights out or interviews but still very seldom.

3. Three favourite foods: chocolate, bacon, carbs (stealing the broad idea)

4. Song stuck in your head: Shallows from A Star is Born

5. Last movie you watched: A Star is Born

6. Top 3 shows:  Star Trek (being deliberately nonspecific) Stargate (likewise) and Rome. (Only shows that had made the comfort rewatch list.)

7. Books I’m currently reading: Listening to the audiobook of In Other Lands by Sara Rees Brennan and re-reading The Wise Man’s Fear by Patrick Rothfuss and just started The Silent Companions by Laura Purcell for bookclub

8. Last thing I googled: specific property laws in 18th century for women (for a fic, google was unhelpful)

9. Time: 23:48 PM when i got to this question

10. Dream Trip: Somewhere I could just laze around and read and no-one could phone me.  

11. Anything you want: I would like my mother’s recovery to go a little smoother and for her to get some mobility back in part because of course I want her to get better, but also in part so she will leave me alone.

Rules: Tag 15 people you want to get to know better. 

@apirateslifeforme123 , @dittesblog , @norrington-hell , @orionredstarr , @shahfla , @ladydavenokingtondegraaf , @and-will-nice-hat , @dying-suffering-french-stalkers , @rumaan , @misshoneywheeler and anyone else who wants to! 

#meme

[ofdragonsdeep]

31 (Buckle)

Surprise extra ffxivwrite day! You get my cat being a stubborn teenager. This is technically another quick prompt from the Bookclub, and again is. Significantly more than 100 words, though we're not at "Star" levels of ridiculous this time.

Neither he nor Thancred held up well to scrutiny.

(m!WoLxHaurchefant)

The hum and bustle of the Rising Stones was quiet as the evening gloom settled over Mor Dhona. All but a small few of the Crystal Braves were otherwise engaged, and the remaining Scions spread out over the space. It did not quite feel empty, but it was far from full.

In the back room, which had but a few moons prior been converted to something akin to a training area, Ar’telan was stood opposite Hoary Boulder and Coultenet, grimoire in one hand, the other held out to better command the egi he had summoned. A small group of Domans had gathered around them, watching with awe and interest as Coultenet did a few minor feats of thaumaturgy to test its endurance. The robes that the Sons of Saint Coinach had recovered from their dig site did not fit as well as they might, but the aetheric threads woven throughout the fabric were still more than enough for Ar’telan to feel the difference.

“These constructs are truly fascinating,” Coultenet remarked as the egi dispersed with a burst of heat and light. “To be so similar to the primals from which they are drawn, but safe and contained… A fascinating art to revive.”

“Assuming people want to get close enough to a primal to try,” Hoary added, and Ar’telan grimaced.

“I think I would avoid it given the chance,” he agreed, returning the grimoire to its bag, clipped onto the belt of his new jacket. “Thank you for the tests.”

“Any time, my friend!” Coultenet replied, and Ar’telan offered a slight smile as payment for their time.

F’lhaminn nodded at him as he passed the little bar, Moenbryda and Thancred clearly making use of it in a table off to one side.Thancred was far worse for wear than Moenbryda was, which was impressive given the constitution Ar’telan knew Thancred had for drink, but a sideways glance at Moenbryda’s half of the table also suggested she had not exactly been keeping pace with him.

“Oh, are those the summoner robes?” Y’shtola remarked, looking up from the documents she was staring at. Ar’telan nodded, and she got to her feet, examining the outfit with a nod of appreciation. “Y’mhitra has told me a little of what you have been doing. I hadn’t realised it had come so far.”

“It was luck more than anything else,” Ar’telan replied. “The Sons found some coffers in their site by the Crystal Tower.” Y’shtola nodded again, one hand raised to her chin in thought.

“Considering where they found the soul crystals, that is unsurprising,” she said. “Have you not the horn?” Ar’telan cringed, fishing the bright red contraption out of one of the jacket’s many pockets.

“It looks a little silly.” he said, but Y’shtola motioned to him to put it on, so he fastened the straps around the back of his head, adjusting the front until it sat on his forehead in a way that passed for comfortable. The horn channeled aetheric energies, he knew that much, but the vibrant red creation made him look like a particularly well-dressed unicorn.

“Fascinating. I have read a few studies on the subject of summoning, though nothing like as many as my sister,” Y’shtola said, reaching up to help Ar’telan adjust the horn. “They never did find anything quite so adept at focussing primal aether than these creations, though as I understand it a number of potential designs existed.”

“What on earth is that on your head?” Moenbryda said, leaning back in her chair to get a better view of the allagan miscreation.

“An evoker’s horn,” Ar’telan replied, feeling embarrassment sink into every fibre of his being.

“It is an Allagan artifact of immense power,” Y’shtola clarified, not that she had seen his response. “It aids in amplifying the primal energies that summoners call upon to command their egis.” Thancred squinted. Ar’telan wasn’t sure if it was to focus, or just because of the alcohol.

“Y’know what it looks like,” he started, and Moenbryda rolled her eyes.

“An ancient. And powerful. Artifact?” Y’shtola offered, her voice terse. Thancred made a noise that might once have been amusement, but just sounded like a sideways cackle.

“Could prob’ly’ve got one cheaper in th’ right alley in Limsa,” he slurred, Moenbryda gently confiscating the bottle he reached for lest he make the situation worse. Ar’telan reached up, but Y’shtola put one hand gently on top of his arm to stop him from just pulling the horn from his head.

“Thank you for your contribution, Thancred,” she said, shaking her head at his antics. “You are fine, Ar’telan. Perhaps if it bothers you a glamour prism may assist?”

“Y’mhitra said that might interfere with the aetheric signatures,” Ar’telan said. “Something about the weave having its own-”

“Gotta have somethin’ worth takin’ t’... th’ ‘lezen you’re after,” Thancred said, and Ar’telan tensed. He could feel Y’shtola try to pull him away, but he turned back around regardless.

“We are not-”

“Wha’, he’sh a slut f’any advent’rer in, in Eorzea, but not f’you?” Thancred said. Moenbryda grimaced. “M’be you need a bigger ‘horn’.”

The silence carried the same tension that it always did when he and Thancred argued now. Y’shtola had told him not to rise to the beat, that Thancred would regret what he said when he sobered up, to be the bigger man. But it stung. Stung that he hadn’t been good enough to repair things after Lahabrea’s meddling, that Thancred would rather trade jipes and drink himself into unconsciousness than try.

“Haurchefant doesn’t-” Ar’telan started, but Thancred waved a dismissive hand at him and looked away from his attempts to sign a defence.

“Thancred, I think you have had quite enough to drink,” Y’shtola said, hands on her hips, disapproval colouring every syllable of her word. Thancred snorted.

“Y’ know ‘m right. Goin’ up to Coerthas ev’ry hour he can. Might’s well kneel at ‘is desk an’-”

Ar’telan pulled the evoker’s horn from his head and threw it across the room. It hit the table in front of Thancred, scattering the remains of bottles that rested there in pitiful emptiness, startling Moenbryda.

“Maybe they are more welcoming than my ‘friends’ here,” Ar’telan said, jaw clenched, and turned and walked from the Rising Stones. The door slammed behind him on the cacophony of noises that his swift departure started, from Y’shtola calling after him to Moenbryda attempting to salvage the situation with Thancred.

He didn’t care. He was tired of it. Over and over again they tried to reassure him, but for all they talked, none of them could ever stop Thancred when he was deep in his cups. Maybe Lahabrea had been right. Maybe he was just another tool to them, a primal-killing weapon, a convenient servant, content to smile and nod at every job they gave him, no matter how grim.

The crowd in Mor Dhona parted around him as he stomped through Revenant’s Toll, the workers on their breaks from building the walls to the refugees to the House of Splendors vendors all aware from the lines of tension on his face that he was not in the mood for talking. He took the north exit, the purple-tinged gloom of the Toll giving way quickly to the sharp cold of Coerthas.

Was he proving them right? Gods, maybe he was. His linkpearl chimed in his ear, and he ripped it out and stuck it in one of the pockets that the ancient robe had so many of. He had stood against primals, mastered the trails of aether they had left indelibly on his soul in their wake, torn tiny pieces of them from the aether, and his reward was crude jokes and the reminder that he did not matter beyond what he could give them.

—

The night had set in quickly, and Ar’telan was too far down the road to turn back by the time the cool air cleared his senses a little. The snow crunched under his feet, his passage leaving deeper marks in what was left of the trail than he was used to, and the wind was howling at a wicked clip. He didn’t want to go back to the Rising Stones, even though he anticipated that Thancred would be out cold, because Y’shtola would have that look on her face that spoke of despair at his childishness. Alphinaud wouldn’t even know what the issue was, just tut at his outbursts. He could go on to Dragonhead - they were not expecting him, but Haurchefant would always find room for him regardless. He had his grimoire, but he hadn’t intended to wear the old robes for long, and had basically nothing else. Not even enough gil to get to the aetheryte. Well, if he walked he would at least make it by morning.

The snow drove itself with a wicked sharpness into Ar’telan’s face, the collar of the coat doing little to protect him from its ravages. The knights of Ishgard had long since given up on lighting the trail, probably glad for the inhospitality keeping out the nosy outsiders who might try to weasel their way in. The glimmer of the aetheric core of Ice Sprites took Ar’telan from the path more than once, hoping it was the distant glow of the Observatorium’s tower, or even the one at the border, but with the deepening snow he was not even sure where the path was.

In short, he was lost.

With a huff of effort and a poorly-concealed shiver, Ar’telan picked a direction and walked in it. He could barely see in front of his face in the snow, so he pried the tome from his side with stiff fingers and invoked fire. It was not enough to warm him, but the glow inherent to Ifrit-egi’s being would serve the twin purposes of letting him not fall into a chasm and keeping away hungry beasts who thought to brave the cold for a quick meal.

After more trudging through thick snow than Ar’telan had even wanted to do in his life, he found - not civilisation, far from it, but an outcropping of rock, shielded from the worst of the storm. He ensconced himself within it, calling the egi close to him to try and get some of the warmth back into his fingers. Piling the snow up around his sides kept it from becoming a slurry of water wherever the egi hovered, but he was still freezing. Allag’s summoners had fought in warm places, he supposed - Meracydia was warmer than this, and surely it must also have been before the Calamity that had devastated so much of it. Maybe they hadn’t thought of how to fend off the snow.

He was tired. Everything felt heavy after his hours of walking, and now the tension was gone there was an ache in every muscle that had stiffened in misplaced anger. Huddled in a miserable heap with the feeling leeching out of every extremity, he wondered if it would matter if he closed his eyes, just for a moment. He pulled the coat from his back and put it over his head, to stop the wind from sneaking in. The egi would keep him safe. The beasts wouldn’t be out in this weather. If he closed his eyes for just a moment, the snow would stop…

—

It felt like breathing through slurry. He could hear voices, but couldn’t make out the words. With more effort than he had ever thought to put into something so simple, he forced his eyes open, and everything was blurred and out of focus.

He couldn’t see his egi, nor feel its presence in his aether. Couldn’t feel his fingers either, for that matter, or indeed most of his limbs. He heard the voices stop as he managed something akin to a groan - a distant cousin, perhaps, a whispered sound from what was left of his throat. Most of the figures left, but one walked up to him.

“Master Qin. Can you hear me?” The curt tones and painfully Ishgardian accent of Camp Dragonhead’s lead Chirurgeon. Ar’telan had worked with him more than once, helping to heal the wounded knights brought in from defending Ishgard from her many enemies.

Ar’telan tried to raised his hands to agree, and found them unresponsive, so he made a vague noise of assent and nodded his head. The chirurgeon sighed, and a little blinking brought his face into something resembling focus.

“They found you out on the road to the Observatorium. You were lucky-”

“Ar’telan!”

Haurchefant’s voice cut the chirurgeon off mid-sentence, and with a flurry of sound and movement the elezen was beside him. He could feel, just about, Haurchefant’s hands taking one of his, but it was still heavy and bitterly cold.

“When they brought you in we thought you dead. What possessed you to do something so foolish?” Haurchefant said, worry lining every word. “Out in a blizzard with nothing but a coat - you could have teleported to the aetheryte, something-”

“Lord Haurchefant,” the chirurgeon said, and Haurchefant shook his head, attempting to regain his composure and failing most utterly. He did not look like a man who had done much sleeping recently. With effort, Ar’telan willed his hands to respond, and signed something that came close to sorry.

“I know. Don’t try to move too much,” Haurchefant said. “They said they found you before the frostbite could set in properly, but it was a near thing. By the Fury, have you any idea how worried I- how worried we were?” Ar’telan managed a weak, pathetic little smile. He wanted to explain - wished it was so easy as speaking, though even that would have been difficult even if his throat was not damaged. Felt very foolish for needing to explain something so embarrassing as the sequence of events that had led him to this shameful state.

“We have contacted your friends in the Scions,” the chirurgeon added, making Ar’telan grimace. “The runner should be reaching them presently, assuming they were not waylaid by heretics, as seems to be the flavour of the moon.” Haurchefant made a weary noise, a harried look on his face at the reminder.

“It will take you a few days until you can move about properly again,” he said, looking as though it pained him to say it. “Though the chirurgeons will stay with you, of course. Just… promise me you will never do something so foolish again.” Ar’telan tried to flex his fingers, and Haurchefant took his hand again, the warmth of him radiating through every digit, though not quite enough to stir them to action.

He nodded his head, and hoped that it conveyed a promise more than a yes.

#what the FUCK is WRONG with you??? #welcome to the train from Haurche #ffxivwrite2021 #Both Ar'telan and Thancred have made a number of mistakes lately it's true #Ones they will both in fact regret #Warrior of Light (solo story) #Haurche is too busy being ride or die with the WoL to note that the second half theoretically exists and he's very angry about that