#✘ muse file

[slashervideo]

➠ New Muse Added: Benjamin McKenzie - OC

✘ stats

muse level: primary

fc: dan stevens

type: oc

age: 37

gender: cis male

pronouns: he/him

sexuality: bisexual

occupation: small town cop / former homicide detective in NYC

✘ notes

This is my grumpy man who refuses to believe in the paranormal, even though he has a history of seeing and interacting with ghosts. Below the cut is a ficlet detailing his background.

It all started when I was ten years old. The summer of 1997 in Falmouth, Massachusetts was an unusually hot one. I spent my days out of the house, playing in a creek bed that ran through a forest behind my house. That was where I met Bobby Brinley who was one year older than me. We'd meet everyday out there and play pirates, or cops and robbers. We even built a small tree fort with scrap wood we "borrowed" from my dad's garage. I liked Bobby. He was kind and outgoing. His energy never seemed to dim. We could play in that forest for hours on end until the sun went down we had to part ways for supper.

It was near the end of that summer, late at night, when my parents' voices woke me from my sleep. They were agitated. It wasn't entirely unusual for them to have quarrels now and again, but hearing my name piqued my interest. I crawled out of bed and sat on the floor by the old air vent where I could hear the echoes of their argument with perfect clarity.

"It's not normal, Susan! How can you encourage this?"

"Imaginary friends are a good sign of creativity. Besides, wouldn't you rather he be outside in the fresh air instead of rotting away on the couch all day with video games like those Kelley boys do?"

"Bobby Brinley??"

There was a feminine sigh of exasperation. "He probably heard the name on the news or something."

"You know who my imaginary friend was? Blackbeard. A man of legend and fame. Christ, he could even make someone up for all I care. But ours is the only boy who's imaginary friend is the murdered dead kid they found in the river those years ago!"

That was all I remembered of the argument before a ringing in my ears took over. I stayed up the whole night, unable to sleep as I puzzled over what that meant. When morning came, I ran out of the house so fast that I barely stopped to grab a Pop-Tart on my way. Just as I had for weeks before, I went to the spot at the creek bed to meet Bobby. Only this time, he wasn't there. I yelled his name. I waited for hours. The sun eventually got low in sky, shadows growing longer, when I realized that he wasn't coming. In fact, I'd never see Bobby Brinley again.

The experience didn't instill a belief in the supernatural. Quite the opposite. Even as a child with a wild imagination, I knew that ghosts had no place in reality. I was twelve when I was allowed to use the microfiches in the library by myself. I poured over every article I could find that mentioned Bobby Brinley. Though he was found in the river, he died of strangulation. The killer was never found. A new obsession was ignited within me. I wanted justice for my friend. I wanted justice for all the children who's lives were snuffed out too early while their killers walked free. I studied to become a cop, and eventually, I moved away from the placid little town of Falmouth and became a homicide detective in New York City.

I was damn good at my job, able to notice the small details that most people overlook. Maybe I was too good. I never settled down or married or anything like that. My life was the job, but I didn't mind it that way.

At least, not until that night last November when my very beliefs would be tested to their core.

Homicide in the big apple is no walk in the park. I see the worst of the worst, day in and day out. Things that make an Eli Roth film look like a kid's movie. Though the majority of my cases are one-off's, like petty squabbles turned deadly or mindless thievery gone wrong, every now and then a real sicko comes across my desk. I was working a serial case, trying to track the killer before he could strike again.

It was late that November night and rain pelted the windshield of my old 1970 Chrysler 300. The car was built like a tank, painted tan and chugging along down the street. There had been a phone tip about unusual activity at a particular house in a little suburban neighborhood and I wanted to do a drive by to see the place for myself. The rain made reading the addresses on the houses difficult. As I was squinting to make one out, I suddenly caught sight of the figure in the road. Slamming on the breaks, the Chrysler squealed to a stop before I could hit the girl in the street. Her hands were up and she was screaming, pleading for help. Leaning across the velvet bench seat, I unlocked the passenger side door and she quickly took the invite and hopped in. The poor girl had to be no more than twenty. She wore blue cotton shorts and a pink tank top with no shoes. She shivered as her long, brown curly hair dripped around her face.

I turned on the heat and started again down the road. "The station's not far from here. I'll get you help. You're safe now," I tried to reassure her.

"No!" she yelled. "Right! Turn right! Turn right now!"

There was such a frantic determination in her voice that I was compelled to comply. That's when I heard her mumble a number over and over. It wasn't hard to decipher that she was giving me the address. "Fifty-one fifty-two. Fifty-one fifty-two. Fifty-one fifty-two."

When I saw 5148, I knew I was close. Grabbing my radio, I called for back up, having no idea what I was walking into. Then 5152 Elm Lane came into view. The small, one story house sat dark, appearing as though it were trying to look hidden on the street. "This one?"

The girl looked right at me, opened her mouth, and let out a heart rattling scream. It startled me and I jumped slightly, but quickly composed myself. She was clearly under duress. "It's ok, it's ok. Stay in the car and lock the doors. I'll be right back, okay? Lock the doors." I grabbed my gun from the glove compartment, checked the chamber, the holstered it before getting out into the unrelenting rain. Catching her eye, I pointed at the door handles and she understood, leaning over to lock the doors of the old car. Satisfied that she was safe, I headed into the house.

"This is the police! Is anyone home?" The first thing that hit me was a wave of a putrid scent. I knew that sickening smell all too well. It was the smell of death. This was definitely the right house. "I'm armed! Come out slowly." Unnerving silence was the only reply I got.

Gun held, just as I was trained, I slowly made my way through the living room and towards the kitchen, straining my ears for any sound that didn't belong. "I repeat, this is the police and I'm ar-" A sudden movement whipped behind me before something large and heavy was brought down on my head. Knees buckled and I fell to the linoleum floor, trying to blink away the stars in my eyes. Looking up, I saw a young man standing over me, the bat in his hands raised above his head. I was startled to see how normal he looked. Clean cut, short blonde hair, jeans and a sweatshirt. But those eyes... There was nothing in those brown eyes, even as they widened to show off the whites all around the irises. They were dead eyes, and I knew they were the eyes of a killer.

The bat swung again and I felt a sharp pain in my fingers as my gun went skittering across the floor. I stared up at him, waiting for the final blow as he raised the bat once more. Instead of my skull being cracked in, I heard two gun shots. A small spray of blood hit my cheek and I looked up to see the crazed man fall to his knees, a look of disbelief written across his face as he hunched over onto the floor.

Back up had arrived in the nick of time. As the cop tended to the wounded assailant, I grabbed up my gun and got to my feet. "McKenzie!" I heard the familiar voice of my partner yell from down the hall. "Get in here! You'll wanna see this." I knew instantly that the sight that awaited me was in fact something I'd never want to see, but something I had to. Joining my partner in one of the bed rooms, I was met with a grisly sight indeed. A young girl lay sprawled across the bed, her limbs tied down. She wore blue cotton shorts and a pink tank top. Her eyes were open with the unmistakable vacant look of death in them. It was the long, curly brown hair that stood out for me.

"Jones. What about the girl in my car?" I asked, unable to tear my eyes from the body.

"What girl in your car?" Jones replied quizzically. I met her gaze and saw that my partner was speaking in earnest.

Without explanation, I hurried out of the bedroom, down the hall and out the front door of the house. In the driveway sat my 1970 Chrysler 300. Empty. But the locks on the doors were still down, showing that it had been locked from the inside.

That was the last case I worked in NYC. After packing up, I moved back to Falmouth and took a job as a cop there, hoping for a quieter life. And therapy. Oh, there was so much therapy. Because surely the problem was with my head and not actual ghosts, right?

Surely there couldn't be ghosts...

[emma045]

[thescullyphile]

'who fell first, who fell harder' is just wayyy too easy with Mulder and Scully. You're telling me Fox 'Martyr' Mulder didn't recognize his feelings immediately and decide to painfully carry a torch for the better part of a decade? You're telling me Dana 'Repression' Scully didn't press everything back until she was so undeniably in love that the wind got knocked out of her?

[zenerased]

muse - the handler during the soundcheck at exeter hall in 2015, aka the only time matt came close to perfecting the guitar solo while playing it live

uploading for archival purposes bc this isn't on any streaming site nor on musebootlegs

[sainz100]

Max & Daniel throwback to 2018 | Futsal in São Paulo | x

[movietonight]

The most unhinged lone gunmen moments are actually not in the x-files or the spinoff they're in the comics and novels where they 1) fake their death to live in a bunker 2) Langly gets really high with Mulder by accident 3) they become besties with the Transformers and worsties with the Ghostbusters

[kimsuyeon]

send me an idol and era ↳ sungah + hurt locker era for @ashmp3

[starlit-eudemonia]

Me cracking open my old physiology textbook in the summer to see if it’s plausible for Ais to feel through his horns (he probably can b/c they’re probably attached to his skull with living tissue connected there and it probably can’t regrow). Or if they could break off with minimal consequence (they can’t b/c they aren’t structured like antlers).

[sunnyyflowerrs]

if only writing itafushi was a full time job

[slashervideo]

➠ New Muse Added: Ada Wong of Resident Evil

✘ stats

muse level: primary

fc: jessica henwick

type: canon

age: 20s-30s

gender: cis female

pronouns: she/her

sexuality: bisexual

✘ notes

Ada is canon to the games and animated films associated with them. I have not read the novelizations yet, so she may develop as I dive into those. Her background and much of her personality is all headcanon'ed by me to fill in gaps that aren't in canon.

[dalkyeom]

and you kiss me in a way that’s gonna screw me up forever!

[thescullyphile]

Obsessed with the ridiculous chastity of the X Files while starring the two horniest actors ever. Creates the delicious dichotomy that I could believe that they made out sloppy style in the very first episode AND I can believe that they both died virgins in a distant future where they never got over themselves. Thank you Chris Carter (:

[notta-robot]

009. — NINE TO FIVE

A clean, simple paper template. It can be anything! From an application form to a special agent file with little bits and bobs for notes, lyrics, and even shopping lists. Built for plenty of text, it’s perfect for any characters with their fair share of lore.

&& —

Instructions on using and customising the document are provided with the purchase.

Please do not remove my credit.

The face claim used in the document is Dev Patel.

Likes and reblogs are appreciated :)

— DOWNLOAD

[unremarkablehouse]

It’s funny seeing all the continuity Polaroids of Gillian from The X Files because I’ve worked on a lot of Productions as an AD and know she was the crew favorite. I have stacks of silly Polaroids of different actors from my productions where we’re goofing around while taking a pic for make up continuity because it’s been a looooong day and everyone is a little punchy. For an actor to be a crew favorite they usually have to be able to fit in with the oddballs, have a good sense of humor about themselves, and respect the people working with them. Most actors usually only talk with each other, 1st unit, and will make polite conversation with make up/wardrobe as needed. I have nothing against that, I think David Duchovny might be a bit like that to work with, but from a crew point of view I get a kick out of the fact that Gillian was probably a lot of fun to work with back in the day.

[drekkavacedits]

𝐓𝐇𝐄  𝐂𝐎𝐋𝐎𝐑𝐅𝐔𝐋  𝐋𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐔𝐀𝐆𝐄  𝐎𝐅  𝐀𝐍𝐘𝐀  𝐁𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐄𝐒  𝐏𝐓.  𝟏

mutuals may interact & reblog.

[offshore-brinicle]

Remembrance.