#I cannot believe they let his decrepit ass inside

[superm4ks]

Max excusing himself from the drivers briefing after brad pitt asks why drivers go on hard tires and not easy ones

[seijorhi]

The Fall

Somebody said Devil Kuroo and I have not recovered since. Anyway, enjoy my first offering for the Spooktober event!

Kuroo Tetsurou x Female Reader

TW Dub/non-con, blood, gore, minor character death, religious themes, nsfw, mild smut

It’s subtle, the shift in the air as two polished black shoes cross the threshold. The candles on the altar spit and sputter, and a shiver trickles down your spine. 

You wonder if the humans scattered along the pews can sense it too, if they can taste the bitter, metallic tang in the air, feel the same prickling sensation at the nape of their necks as  tiny hairs stand on end. The woman seated two rows in front of you stiffens, her breath catching between her sobbed prayers, but she doesn’t turn and neither do you.

Do they have any idea the evil that’s trespassing on holy ground? The danger that they’re all in - the danger that you’ve inadvertently brought upon them?

This is all your fault.

His footsteps, slow and measured echo mockingly throughout the nave, but you’re rooted in place. It’s instinctual, you think; the fear that sinks its claws into your heart, seeping into your veins like ice. 

There is nowhere left for you to run. 

You have no more aces hidden up your sleeves. 

The wards that protected you, kept you safe and hidden for years are broken, and your friends-

Blood slicked floors, body parts strewn across your apartment. A howling scream pierces the air around you, and it takes a moment to realise that it belongs to you. You fall to your knees, bile rising in your throat as you stare in wide eyed horror at the grisly mess he’d left in his wake. 

He could have killed them with a snap of his fingers, but he’d taken his time, hurt them, ripped the spines from their bodies slowly, keeping them alive as they screamed and begged through tears and snot and blood and vomit…  

He’d left them for you to find like a gruesome homecoming gift. Punishment, you think, for daring to hide you from him. 

It’s late, well past midnight. The only people in the crumbling, dilapidated church at this hour are those with nowhere else to go. Vagrants, the helpless, those lost to grief and addiction seeking the barest semblance of comfort amongst the burning incense, high ceilings and grimy, stained glass windows. 

And you. 

Though you suppose you fit into the former. Where else could hope to hide now that your sanctuary has been torn to pieces? This is the last place you’d choose to go, even now the long healed scars on your shoulder blades sting and burn, a painful and persistent reminder that you no longer belong amongst these hallowed halls.

Foolishly, you’d still come. Consecrated ground was supposed to protect you, however temporarily.

He shouldn’t be here. He can’t be here, it’s not possible, but-

Dressed in a crisp black suit with a blood red tie, the handsome figure settles himself down on the pew beside you. A smirk curls at his lips as he stretches long legs, crossing his ankles and leisurely fixing the sleeves of his jacket as if he doesn’t have a care in the world. 

You don’t dare draw breath. Sitting stiff and ramrod straight, you stare at your trembling hands curled into fists on your lap, the ancient golden pendant lying broken in your palm. There’s dried blood smeared across the back of your hands, flecks and splatters hidden among the dark fabric of your skirt. The sight of it makes your stomach churn.

His chin tilts, golden, cat-like pupils settling on you. You fight the urge to fidget, to flee, fingernails biting into the soft, delicate skin of your palm as he studies you. 

“Hey, angel,” he purrs, his voice like warm honey. “It’s been a while.”

Finally you tear your eyes away from your lap, meeting his smirk with an icy glare. “Don’t call me that,” you snap bitterly. 

He laughs, stretching back to drape his arm over the wooden backrest of the pew, his fingers just barely grazing your shoulders. “But I like calling you angel, and I’ve missed you.” The last part is growled, a low and rumbling timbre, too deep, too rich to be mistaken for anything close to human. It makes your hackles rise and your stomach clench uneasily. Unbidden, memories flash to your mind- his teeth at your neck, his sweat slicked body moving atop yours. Unbearable, searing heat flooding your core, large hands encircling yours to hold you down as his hips eagerly rut up against your ass, “Give into me, angel, you know you want to.”

His grin widens, and you know that it’s deliberate. 

You don’t have the luxury of anger, not when the fear so visceral it threatens to choke you demands attention. He’s smiling amiably, but you’re not so naive as to believe that he’s not furious with you, that there won’t be punishments that await you for your escape.

One hundred and twenty years might pass in the blink of an eye for him, but it wouldn’t make a difference if it were only one, or even a single month, a day. You ran from him, and for every moment you were not at his side he would make you suffer - excruciating pain inflicted with pleasure until your mind broke and you couldn’t distinguish the two, until you were a babbling, beautiful mess begging for mercy.

Until you regretted ever even considering leaving his side after all that he’d done to keep you there.

He’d promised you as much a long time ago, hissing the threat into your ear as he forced you to ride his cock.

You’d fled anyway. And now, you’re trapped with nowhere left to run, and he knows it just as well as you do. But it’s not yourself that you’re scared for. 

There will be plenty of time for that later.

Six innocent, oblivious humans dot the derelict pews, and the Father you’d watched tend to the burning candles and incense at the altar, meeting your stricken gaze for just a moment before returning to the task at hand. 

It is for their sakes that you are afraid.

“A church, angel?” he sounds amused. “You know, I expected you to run after you found the dead witch and her partner, but here?” he tuts, shaking his head with a sigh. Pain, raw and visceral stabs at your heart and your shoulders shake with barely concealed anger, hands clenched so tight that blood seeps from the crescent shaped cuts in your palm. He eyes the gold pendant flecked with crimson in your grip, and for the first moment since he arrived, you watch that cavalier facade slip - a flicker of something dark and jealous twisting at his features. “They were the ones who kicked you out, don’t you remember? They ripped those lovely wings-”

“You tricked me, Kuroo! You lied!” the words spill from your tongue before you can hope to stop them. His golden eyes widen for a split second, surprised by your outburst, but it only lasts a moment before he’s smirking indulgently at you once more. Too late you realise your slip. The devil has a thousand names, but Kuroo was the one he gave when he first came to you. 

You haven’t uttered that name in almost two hundred years. 

“Did you think that the grace of God would protect you here, angel?” He slides closer, long, nimble fingers plucking the cross from your hands only to cast it aside. The faint metallic clinking as it falls and clatters across the marble floors makes you flinch, but he pays it no mind. “Did you truly believe that there is an ounce of anything holy left in this crumbling, decrepit shithole? And even if there were,” he pauses, leaning down to whisper in your ear as a warm palm slides up your thigh, “did you really think that would be enough to keep me from you?”

“K-Kuroo,” you gasp as he leans down to nuzzle into the crook of your neck, his mouth laving wet, hot, open mouthed kisses against the delicate skin there. His fingers delve under the hem of your skirt and it’s pure, unadulterated fear that hits you like a tidal wave, compelling you against your better instincts to claw at his wrist, halting him in his tracks.

He stills, warm breath fanning across your skin as he exhales sharply, leaving goosebumps in its wake. The flames from the candles on the altar sputter once more before they swell with frightening intensity, surging as the temperature in the chapel spikes. 

“Angel,” he purrs lowly, the barest hint of an underlying threat lacing the endearment, and it feels as though there’s an invisible hand inside of your chest, clenching around your frantically beating heart. It’s a mistake, you know that even as his other hand reaches for your chin, gripping it tightly as he forces you to meet his molten gaze. “If you keep denying me what I want, I will raze this fucking church to the ground and let them all burn.”

This time you don’t so much as flinch when he tugs your panties to the side, rough fingertips brushing teasingly along your slit. “You’re going to let me defile you, sweet thing. You’re going to remember why you fell for me.” 

His eyes are blown wide, dark pupils almost swallowing the gilded irises. Gone is the perfectly crafted human facade - this is the beast that lurks beneath, and you have run from him for long enough. Your heart hammers against your ribs, your tongue darting out to wet your lips, fighting back a shiver as he tracks the movement with predatory focus. You know as well as he does that the games are over, and you have lost.

Every cell in your body is screaming at you to run, but you cannot move.

His breath is ragged, a flush of pink dusting at his cheek as he stares at you, an unholy desire burning in those bottomless depths.

One beat passes, and then another-

He closes the gap between you two, crashing his lips against yours. The kiss isn’t sweet. It isn’t tender, but it sets you alight nonetheless. Without warning his fingers plunge into your plush, velvet walls and you gasp for him, clutching at his jacket sleeve.

“And when I take you, fuck you on these floors until you sing for me, angel, you’re going to love every second of it,” he snarls.

[aloysiavirgata]

Xenia

Title: Xenia By: Aloysia Virgata Rating: PG Category: MSR Timeline: X Cops Summary: Brunch in WIllow Park Notes: For @perplexistan​, who came up with this amazing idea.

***

He’s staring out the window into the grungy hotel courtyard when he hears the knock at the door. Mulder frowns and, against all recommendation, tucks his gun into the waistband of his boxers. He approaches the door as though it may be on fire. “Hello?” he calls.

“Mulder, it’s me.”

He puts his gun on top of the microwave, unfastens the three locks to admit Scully. “What’s up, buttercup?”

She’s snapping a pink card against her palm, scowling as she passes beneath his arm. “Brunch,” she says.

Mulder shuts the door before following her to the bed. She’s hunched there like a tiny storm cell, glowering, gathering steam. He decides against a romantic overture, though it’s been a week since she last spent the night and he wants to...to lick her.

“Brunch?” he repeats.

She holds the card out. “Sergeant Duthie has accepted an invitation on our behalf.”

Mulder, baffled, takes it from her. The card is flamingo pink, ornamented with two palm trees and two gold-rimmed champagne glasses. In careful gold calligraphy, it invites them to join Steve and Edy for BRUNCH AND BUBBLY! at 10:30.

His jaw drops. “You cannot possibly be serious.”

She snatches it back from him. “Serious as hantavirus. I hope you brought something in a nice madras.”

He sits next to her on the bed, stunned. “Why has Sergeant Duthie done this to us? We were helpful, Scully. You rendered medical aid. You did a late night autopsy out of the goodness of your heart.”

Scully, prim, tucks the card into her jacket pocket. “I did a late night autopsy because you’re bossy and demanding, but that isn’t the point.”

“Do we have to go?” he asks, like she’s his mother.

Scully glares at him. “’Do we have to go?’” she mimics in a falsetto. “Of course we have to go, we’ll look awful if we don’t. The tabloid headlines will practically write themselves. FBI SNUBS LOCAL NEIGHBORHOOD COUPLE. You wanted to go charging around on camera talking about fear monsters for the noble cause of cryptozoology and look where it got us.”

He sighs. “Well, of everyone we encountered on that little goose chase, they’re not awful. I wouldn’t want to have brunch at the crack house.”

She chews the inside of her cheek, stewing. “I can’t believe this.”

Mulder thumps her back in a comradely manner.  “The food will probably be decent, right? Probably good coffee, too. Not to mention the bubbly!”

Scully scrunches her nose, pressing her hand to her eyes. “Mulder, I swear to God…”

The event begins to take shape in his mind, Steve and Edy’s tidy home with little morsels on trays. He tries to remember the campy snacks his mother ordered for her bridge club. Lots of puff pastry and ornamental parsley.

Scully gets to her feet. “Well, shower and iron your seersucker suit,” she says gloomily. “I’ll call a cab.”

“It’ll be fun,” he says, excited as always by any novel experience. He considers too that Scully needs to be socialized more often, and it’s not like he takes her on real dates. This will be good for her. He will make her enjoy herself, he decides.

“Oh, I can’t wait for you to get halfway through your third mimosa and start dispensing relationship advice,” Scully says. “Between Edy and Hollman, maybe you should quit the FBI and start a romance column.”

“I get no kick from champaaaaaagne,” he croons.

“Mulder.”

“Mere alcohol doesn't thrill me at all…”

“MULDER.”

“So tell me why should it be true, that I get a kick out of you?”

His gun falls off the microwave when she slams the door.

***

The driver takes them to a decrepit looking stucco building to procure a hostess gift from what he assures them is the best bakery within 20 miles. Dubious, Mulder and Scully follow him inside. Behind the ancient formica counter, a withered old woman brandishing an immense wooden spoon speaks loudly with the cabbie for several moments in an unknown tongue. He points at his fares, gesturing broadly.

Mulder tries to look respectable, the kind of person who deserves only the finest. He nudges Scully, who offers a vague wave at the proprietress.

The old woman considers them for a moment, then chooses several items from her display case. She secures them in a tidy parcel, which she passes to Scully, who accepts it like an IED.

The woman beckons Mulder down to her and when he obliges, bent nearly double, she pinches his cheek and whacks his arm in a loving manner with the spoon.

Scully, delighted, pays and tips her generously before they get back on their way.

***

The cab stops in front of Steve and Edy’s house. Mulder, who feels this is all becoming a splendid adventure, praises the cabbie for his excellent service. He leaves an extra five on the front seat before they get out.

Scully holds the bakery box with a mournful air. “Well,” she says. “Here we are.”

Mulder opens the gate in the chain link fence, striding along the walkway to the house. He is already on the porch, examining the empty birdcage, when she trudges up.

He chucks her under the chin. “Smile pretty.”

Her nostrils flare, but there is no other response.

Mulder knocks at the door, and is greeted almost immediately by Edy. She is wearing tropical print harem pants, a purple tunic, and a white turban ornamented with a tremendous topaz brooch and a single peacock feather. She squeals delightedly and flings her arms around him.

“AY-gent Mulder,” Edy gushes. “Well don’t you look mighty handsome. And Agent Scully, child, you did NOT have to bring a GIFT.”

Mulder extricates himself from Edy’s grasp. “Thanks, uh, for having us. It wasn’t necessary.”

“No,” Scully pipes up. “It really wasn’t.”

Edy waves her elegant hand. “It is absolutely our pleasure. Now come on in.” She swans into the kitchen, leaving them stranded in the living room. The house smells gloriously of food.

Scully shuts the door with her hip. “Um,” she says.

Mulder directs his attention to a collection of ceramic animals on a shelf. A little seal balances a ball on its snout, so shiny it looks like hard candy.

Steve emerges from the hallway, dapper in a crisp button down. “I heard her fussing from the bathroom,” he says. “She changed her outfit five times.”

“Well, it’s certainly nice to feel wanted,” Mulder observes. He looks at the vase of flowers on the table, the bright cloth beneath it. The sweet domesticity tugs at him.

“We brought this,” Scully says, nearly shoving the box into Steve’s hands.

Steve takes it, smiling. “Well, isn’t that mighty nice of you? You went to Sofia, that place is real good. Bulgarian.” He places the box on the table. “Go on and take a seat, just going to help out in the kitchen.”

They sit across from one another at the table after he disappears from view. Mulder rubs his arm. “I think the bakery lady left a mark.”

“You’re probably betrothed now.” Scully toys with a crystal salt shaker. “Some old Bulgarian custom.”

“Jealous?”

She offers a moue of disdain.

Edy emerges from the kitchen with a bar cart. As predicted, there are flutes of mimosas on the top of it, and a whole pitcher besides. The rest is loaded with food. “TaDAAAAA!” Edy sings, with a grand flourish.

“Edy, this is too much,” Mulder says, rubbing his hands together. Even Scully looks impressed.

“She’s been busy all morning,” Steve says proudly, hands on her shoulders.

Edy beams, hands them each a plate of Eggs Benedict. “I make that Hollandaise myself,” she says, taking her seat as the peacock feather sways. “Grow the lemons out back, too. All this out back.” She surveys her table, a presiding empress. 

Steve unloads the rest of the cart, plates of fruit and tiny tomato sandwiches and cheese straws. A mound of home fries glossy with butter and fragrant with browned onions.

“Don’t forget the bubbly,” Edy says, scandalized. “We need a toast.”

Steve dutifully passes them each a mimosa before sitting down. 

Edy lifts her glass. “Well, I will just say thank you to our new friends from the FBI who are doing their best to keep us safe even with a bunch of skanky-ass crackheads running around, may they rest in peace. Amen.”

Scully is staring at the table, chewing hard on her bottom lip to keep from laughing.

Mulder doesn’t dare try to catch her eye. “Uh, amen,” he says, and takes a sip of his drink. He blinks; Edy has a heavy pour.

“I squeezed that juice myself too,” Edy says.

Steve rolls his eyes. “You sound like the Little Red Hen, you gonna let us eat or what?”

“I told you he disrespects me,” she mutters into her glass.

Scully has recovered herself and is cutting into her egg, which spills golden yolk onto her plate. She removes a wedge of the sandwich with surgical precision and puts it into her mouth, wary. Her face brightens as she chews. “Edy, this is delicious.”

Mulder is proud of Edy.

“My Granny Minerva taught me to cook,” she says. “I grew up with her mostly, in the Lowcountry.”

Mulder perks up. “Oh, did you? My grandparents had a place in Hilton Head.”

Edy snorts. “Mmmhmmm, I bet they did. I bet you’re a trust fund baby to the cradle, you have pretty hands.”

Scully laughs around a chunk of watermelon, sputters and coughs. She presses a cloth napkin to her mouth, blushing pink as the fruit.

“You okay?” Steve asks, his brow furrowed. “You need a drink?”

Scully, still magenta, shakes her head and gulps half of her mimosa. “I’m fine,” she manages. Mouths “pretty hands” to Mulder.

Mulder scowls at her. 

“ANNNyway,” Edy continues. “I lived with Granny and I learned all her secrets.” She gestures at the tomato sandwich on Mulder’s plate. “The trick is you pat the tomatoes dry first, did you know that, Hilton Head?”

Steve refills his glass. “She lived with Granny Minerva because her mama was a runaround.”

Edy whips her head around. “I have TOLD you not to disrespect my mama.”

Steve purses his lips but says no more. 

Mulder applies himself to his Eggs Benedict, which is rich and delicious and speaks highly of Granny Minerva. Scully is nibbling a cheese straw with interest.

Edy props her chin in her palm, tapping her cheek with her fingers. “The FBI, now what is that like to do? It seems real scary to me.” She looks at Mulder through her extravagant lashes.”Real daaaangerous,” she purrs.

Scully’s lower lip is back between her teeth.

Mulder chases a potato around his plate with his fork. “Well, uh, it depends, I guess. I mean sometimes, sure, it’s pretty dangerous I guess, depending, but we have a lot of training and all and there’s paperwork mostly too, which is only dangerous if you get the math wrong and there’s an audit, haha, so…” he trails off.

“Agent Mulder just doesn’t want you to feel concerned,” Scully interjects smoothly. “Situations like the one you experienced are exactly what we’ve been trained to do, so there’s no need to be worried. We go through a pretty extensive program in the Academy.” She spears a slice of kiwi and pops it into her mouth.

Mulder could kiss her, right in front of Steve and Edy and God and everybody. Haul the camera crew back for all he cares. But he knows better. She’ll get there on her own.

Edy fans herself. “I just can’t imagine.  We are too glad you were here.”

“Baby, they brought dessert from Sofia,” Steve says. “Wasn’t that nice?”

She claps her hands happily. “Ooohhh, that little old Bulgarian lady runs that place.”

“She hit me with a spoon,” Mulder says, pointing at his arm. “About took my cheek off too.”

“That means she likes you,” Steve tells him. 

“Giiirrrl, you better watch out,” Edy warns Scully, with a knowing expression. “She’ll snap him right up.”

Scully looks alarmed. “Pardon?”

Edy smirks. “You may have trained at the A-cad-emy, but I studied theater and I can read all kinds of things in people.”

Scully’s face has gone from alarm to panic, and Mulder knows she is trying to recall every word, every movement the cameramen may have captured.

“Theater?” he asks, to divert her. “You’re an actress, Edy?”

Steve puts his head in his hands. “Lord help us.”

She gets to her feet, arms held out like a goddess on a Grecian urn. “My sister Veronica and I did this double act and my husband, Charlie, traveled around with us. Now for the last number - “

“Chicago!” Mulder exclaims, then is embarrassed.

They all look at him in surprise. 

“You like musicals, Agent Mulder?” Edy asks, practically glowing. “What’s your favorite?”

“Yes, Agent Mulder, what’s your favorite?” Scully asks, eyes dancing.

He draws little squiggles in the remains of his Hollandaise sauce. “Oh, just, my mom used to take us to shows, you know, when I was a kid.”

“But your favorite,” Scully insists, because she is mean.

“Chicago’s good,” he mumbles. He will never tell her the real answer, which is My Fair Lady.

“Honey, Chicago is the BEST.” Edy goes to a bookshelf and removes a large album.

“Ohhhh, no!” Steve asserts. “Didn’t I already tell you nobody wants to see your ass? Now go on and put that back.”

Edy glides back haughtily, places the book on the table, oriented towards Mulder. She opens it to a page with a glossy 8x10 of her as Velma Kelly, in all her black sequined bodysuited glory.

“Wow,” Mulder says, feeling sympathetic pain as he looks at the bodysuit.

“Virgin Indian hair on that wig,” Edy says, tapping the photo. She stares at Scully.

Scully leans forward to examine the photo. “You look really nice.”

Edy turns a few pages to another picture. She is luxuriating in a claw foot tub, one leg draped over the edge. The bubbly water is at a strategic depth between her legs. Mulder feels as though he should avert his eyes, but gazes on.

“Now these,” Edy says, “are from some modeling I did for a boudoir photographer.”

Steve groans. “Baby, why?”

“It is called art,” she snaps. “Now Agent Scully, girl to girl, you understand this. Sometimes you just want a record of you at your best, you want to share that with your man.” 

Scully smiles blankly. “Mm.”

Mulder studies the picture with renewed interest. “A boudoir photographer?” he asks.

Edy favors Scully with a sly glance. “See that’s what I thought.  It’s very tasteful, isn’t it?” She turns the page, displaying herself in a ruffled white corset, heeled white ankle boots, and a lace parasol. “It’s very elegant.”

It is, strangely enough. Mulder assumes there must be boudoir photographers in DC. He can import one, if necessary. From the edge of his peripheral vision, he sees Scully studiously peeling a grape.

“I think it’s time for dessert,” Steve says. “Honey, go put those pictures back so they don’t get ruined.”

Edy, looking triumphant, gives Mulder a saucy wink before sashaying back to the bookshelf.

“Lord,” Steve mumbles. He opens the bakery box, then smiles. “You tell her you were coming here?” he asks. “You got all my favorites.”

“I think the cabbie must have,” Scully says, abandoning her grape. “They were talking for a bit, but we didn’t know what they were saying. We never even mentioned your names, I guess he knew the address.”

“Musta been Anzhelo,” Edy says, settling on Steve’s lap. “That’s her grandson, he helps me with my garden a little bit. That boy is always hustling.”

Steve puts a golden pastry oozing honey onto his plate. He cuts off a morsel with his fork and feeds it to his lady, who giggles. 

Mulder smiles at them. “This, uh, this has been really wonderful, but we have to go get our stuff together for the flight home.”

Edy pouts. “Well, that’s a shame. You oughtta stay another day or so, we could show you around town. We know everybody.”

Steve moves on to a dense wedge of chocolate cake. “Lots of walnuts in this, you got any allergies?”

Scully holds up a hand. “No, thank you, I’m qui-“

“She’s gotta keep her cute figure for that boudoir photographer,” Edy says. She licks honey off of her fingers.

“Can we help you tidy up?” Scully asks, as though Edy hasn’t spoken.

“I got it,” Steve says. “That’s our system. You go on back to your hotel, I’ll call Anzhelo.” He pats Edy on the side, and she gets up so he can head to the phone.

“Where’s the restroom, please?” Scully asks.

Steve sprawls on the red velvet sofa, pointing her down the hall. He picks up the receiver and starts dialing.

Mulder watches Scully disappear around the corner, wondering if he would like to thank Edy or strangle her.

“He'll be here in just a few,” Steve says from the couch. “I called him on his cell phone, how times change.”

“You tell her not to worry,” Edy says with a wink, resting her hand on Mulder’s shoulder. “The cameras don’t get everything.”

Mulder adopts what he hopes is a confused expression and shrugs. He busies himself stacking plates, pausing to take a swipe of chocolate frosting with his finger. He downs the rest of his second mimosa, considers a third.

Scully emerges then, her hair smoothed and her lipstick freshened. “Again, thank you both for the hospitality.”

“You better call us when you’re in town again,” Edy says, wagging a stern finger. “I will hold you to that, Agents.”

There is a honk outside. “Oh, that’s our cue,” Mulder says, rising. He reaches for the small of Scully’s back but it feels conspicuous now. He converts the motion to a wave.

Edy follows them to the door, blowing kisses all the way.

They climb into the waiting cab. “You like my grandmother's baking?” Anzhelo asks, peeling away from the curb.

“Phenomenal,” Scully says, because she is kind. “We’re stuffed.”

Anzhelo smiles proudly in the rear view.

Mulder slumps against the door. “I feel like one of those big snakes after it eats a whole wildebeest. I need to sleep off all that food.”

“I was a little ambitious myself,” Scully says. She sits up straighter, eyes wide. “Oh, Mulder. Oh shit. You know Bill watches Cops?”

Of course he does, of course. Mulder makes a noise of dismay, unable to address this news on so full a stomach and so heavy a head.

“Mulder, he’s going to see every terrible minute and just snap,” she moans. “Werewolves!”

Mulder, buzzy, imagines Bill and Tara on the couch, eating Corn Nuts, when his sister appears onscreen. He imagines Bill leaping to his feet in outrage, scattering a plate of Li’l Smokies cooked in grape jelly. He starts laughing.

Scully punches him in the arm. “It’s not funny, Mulder!”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he pleads, holding up his hands in defense. He is still laughing.

“Oh my god, the Wasp Man! Mulder did you say anything awful when you were unattended?”

Tears are running down his face at this point. It’s all so ridiculous. Bill in his base housing, finding out that his sister was two hours away chasing invisible monsters and crackheads without even calling. Mulder thinks he may, if suitably provoked, let him know what else his sister has been doing.

He smiles darkly to himself.

Scully punches his arm again, harder, and he stops laughing. 

“Ow,” he says, sulky. “It’s nothing he doesn’t know.”

She hides her face in her hands. “I could just die.”

Mulder draws her onto her side, curled with her glossy head in his lap. He strokes her smooth pixie cap of hair, the color of autumn in New England.

“I hate you,” she mumbles into his thigh.

He traces her ear. “I know,” he soothes. 

“So much.”

“Yes.”

“And you can stop thinking about boudoir photographers, because it’s not happening.” She traces little shapes on his knees.

“Mmm,” he says, non-committal. Mulder pets her until they pull up at the hotel, and he has to get to his wallet. He pays Anzhelo and sends regards to his grandmother, to Steve and Edy.

They clamber out, Scully blinking in the vivid sunlight. Anzhelo waves from the window as he drives off.

“You ready to go home?” Mulder asks.

She looks up at him. “No photographer,” she says again. “But.”

He’s intrigued. “But?”

“My room has a corner tub. It’s not, uh, a claw foot or anything, but it’s pretty roomy.” Scully looks shy as she takes his hand. “This is still weird,” she confesses.

“Yeah. But it’s, I think it’s good weird, right?”

“Yeah.” She smiles, squeezes his fingers.

He kisses her in the bright LA sunshine, in front of the bellhop and the taxis and God and everybody. She doesn’t pull away, puts her arms around him in fact, and still the world turns and turns and turns.

[allthefilmsiveseenforfree]

Teen Witch

Controversial opinion: stories about witches are the best stories. Just look at WandaVision - bitches ate that UP because it’s about WITCHES, which means it’s ultimately about loss and trauma and female (literal) empowerment in the face of those tragedies (and I mean there’s some complicated stuff in there about inflicting trauma upon others, even accidentally, and that’s kind of a witch thing too). And Sabrina is all well and good and everything, but what if you want your witch story to be a little less Dark Arts and a little more candy-coated? Have I got the film for you! Wes requested Teen Witch as part of his quest to expand my cheesy 80s cult classic knowledge, and boy did this one deliver. How 80s-tastic are we talking? Well...

The basic story is this: Louise (Robyn Lively) is a typical teen girl who occupies the nerd level of the high school hierarchy. You know the type - soft-spoken, nerdy best friend, has a crush on the cutest guy in school (Dan Gauthier), made fun of in gym class by all the cheerleaders. One day she crashes her bike in front of a psychic’s home/place of business and goes inside to use the phone, but gets her palm read first. The psychic, named Madame Serena, (Zelda Rubenstein, playing, I’m assuming, herself) tells her she will soon come into some witchy powers on her 16th birthday. When Louise’s birthday rolls around, you guessed it - witching aplenty. She gets the popularity, she gets the cute guy, she ditches her nerdy friend; it’s basically The Princess Diaries without Queen Julie Andrews. But then, y’know, she learns a valuable lesson about the high price of popularity and how important it is to be true to yourse--wait, no she doesn’t, she takes off her magic necklace and smooches with the boy she likes at the school dance and that’s how it ends.

Some thoughts:

This slow motion credit sequence is incredible. See, we just don’t have this anymore, where the movie starts and you have no fucking idea what’s going on. The 80s really knew how to draw an audience in. Is this a dream? Is this a music video? No one knows! That’s why it’s exciting!

Why are tv and movies so obsessed with a completely made-up depiction of what takes place outside a high school’s entrance before the first bell? Apparently there’s a busker festival going on at this high school every day - there’s guys doing BMX tricks, an all white rap group, I think I saw some jugglers.

I’ve actually taught in both middle and high school, so I know this English teacher (Shelley Berman) wouldn��t be fired for being such a shitty teacher, but he should be. 

Is this like...a musical? First there was the terrible rapping, now there are cheerleaders doing “the new cheer” which is literally a song just saying “I...LIKE...BOYS!” and there’s a dance routine on top of lockers - there’s a lot of towel choreography. It feels like a musical in the sense that it’s nonsensical, but I don’t actually think it IS a musical. Genre-defying!

It’s kinda creepy that Louise is watching an extended montage of Brad (Gauthier) working out shirtless from the shadows but like...same, girl. Damn, Brad.

Aw, at least Brad is reasonably nice. Louise, show some backbone! You shouldn’t have been too proud to let him drive you home after he ran you off the road on your bike accidentally!

I am just mystified by the market for roles that were appropriate for Zelda Rubenstein in the 80s. What is this niche? Which came first, Zelda Rubenstein, or these characters? 

I am also mystified by this gremliny little brother (Joshua John Miller) who seems to be obsessed with eating cake and never washing his hair. He’s like a goblin trapped in a diminutive nonbinary body made of pizza and spite. [ETA: I now feel a little bad for finding him so repellent in this, as the actor wrote one of my favorite meta horror movies, The Final Girls, in 2015. So at least he grew up and made something cool of himself.]

OMFG did Brad just hit the soda machine for her like the fucking Fonz? 

There is (temporarily) a Very Good Dog who is not harmed in any way.

In what universe does Louise see what her date, David (Jared Chandler), is wearing and be like “he’s such a geek” when she looks like an extra from Leave it to Beaver. 

The DJ just said “OK guys, grab your wallets, it’s a slow song.” What...does that even mean? Is he implying that slow dances are expensive? Ooh or even more nefarious, that there’s a rampant pickpocketing problem during slow dances?

Did Louise...just imply that the number of light years away a star is dictates how soon a wish you make on that star would come true? Listen. I’m no astrophysicist. But I have read enough Neil Degrasse Tyson tweets to know that that’s not how any of this works. 

OK I take back what I said, David is a fucking CREEP. Drag his ass, Louise. However, I think she may have straight up murdered him by making him disappear. David is never seen or heard from again in this film. 

Obsessed with the dad’s sweaters both because they are ridiculous and because he is the lesser Darren from the original Bewitched. 

It feels weird that Louise’s revenge involves forcing Mr. Weaver to take his clothes off in front of the class.Who wants that? Like I get that it’s humiliating for him, but really, you’re only punishing yourself here Louise. 

There is a rap-off that is meant to convey electric sexual tension between two nerdy ass white kids. 

I don’t know what it was like at your school, but I can tell you for sure that at my high school no one ever applauded when the most popular girl in school walked into the classroom like she’s Kramer making an entrance on Seinfeld.

Why is Brad taking her to an abandoned house in the middle of nowhere? And why is she wearing heels?

Oh god she took the heels off and now she’s barefoot in this decrepit house, that’s so much worse! TETANUS EXISTS LOUISE.

Wait are they going to fuck in the abandoned house? Brad has a girlfriend! You brought heels, but did you bring condoms?? I guess she has bigger concerns than tetanus now. Also I feel so bad for these actors, they are both DRIPPING sweat. That must have been a miserable shoot.

I’ve said this before, but the 80s were such an incredible time for himbo fashion. Crop tops, those tank tops with the giant holes for the arms, teeny little basketball shorts. In the 90s all we had were JNCOs and weirdly “urbanized” Looney Tunes characters on baggy t-shirts. Gen X has no idea how good they had it re: male fashion. 

I’m genuinely obsessed with the idea that popularity means the school just has banners all over that say “LOUISE” and she gets like, cards and fan mail that say “Louise U R the best.” This feels like if you ask a kindergartner what being popular means.

Madame Serena just said “the real magic is believing in yourself” which is exactly what Louise’s dad said like 15 minutes ago, but I guess he wasn’t a 3-foot-tall witch so no one paid attention when he said it. 

Y’know for an 80s prom outfit, Louise’s dress is pretty cute. 

I cannot stress enough that Brad’s girlfriend is at this dance while he and Louise are kissing! Does no one care? Were high school attitudes toward monogamy just way more flexible in the 80s? 

Did I Cry? Shyeah, right. 

This is such an odd, mostly charming, but wildly perplexing little movie. There was no antagonist or real conflict here, at all. Louise barely struggles with any sort of tension or remorse about having her powers and what it means for her life, she just kind of decides at the end that she’s over it, and she still gets the guy and no actual negative consequences from bending the entire school to her will for the past few months. I mean, in The Craft, when people use magic for their own gains, other people fucking DIE. I was definitely entertained, but a lot of it was due to me saying, “What? How? What?” loudly at the screen. I can see how this has gained a cult following in much the same way that other oddball 80s fare like Better Off Dead or Girls Just Wanna Have Fun did. Watch it once, then watch it again while you get drunk with your friends (in a post-Covid world, obviously) and you’ll probably have a pretty great time. 

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[spookyspaghettisundae]

The Gun Priest and the Blind Devil

A quaint mansion stood atop the hill, overlooking rolling plains—the ocean of grass, as many of the frontiersmen were wont to name it. Alone and far removed from the nearest settlement, only a thin trampled down road led to the demesne.

The blades of grass swayed, subject to powerful winds.

Moving along at a gentle pace, a van drove up the road with gravel crunching underneath its wheels. It rolled to a stop outside the garden’s gate. The driver cut the ignition and the engine went silent.

What followed was a long period of time filled only with the howling of the winds.

The van waited there and whoever was inside hesitated to leave. Or they observed.

A bright red yet tiny and concentrated glow of a cigarette flared up behind the vehicle’s tinted windshield. Just like the mansion’s master watched from a window of the majestic edifice looming over the garden maze, the people inside the vehicle surveyed the area.

That same morning, a storm had passed the outskirts of Off-Core Colony 3. Heavy clouds still drifted at a low altitude across the endless horizon, painted in a depressing blue shade while the sun set behind the mountain range to the north. The evening made way for twilight and a misty fog would arise soon.

The rumbling of new thunder rolled in the distance, faint but menacing. Within the garden labyrinth, warded off by a heavy wrought iron gate, the wind carried leaves over its gravel-laden grounds, and caressed the hedges, making them whisper.

The van’s side-door slid open with a loud noise and a lanky man garbed in a brown long coat emerged from it in a fluid motion, standing tall outside the jet-black vehicle. Contrary to what the mansion’s master expected, he wore no hat, unlike other gunslingers who arrived here. And unlike all others thus far, a thin silver cross dangled from a fine chain around the killer’s neck. Silver cross-shaped cuff links and crosses engraved on the handles of the revolvers at the man’s hips just drove home the identity of the bounty hunter.

A priest turned gun for hire.

“If I’m not back in twenty minutes, you can call in the Emperor’s Finest,” said the priest. His chest heaved with a sigh. Eyes like emeralds scanned over the hedge maze with a piercing, unblinking gaze.

“Idiot. None of us even have a watch. We’d have to steal one first,” someone inside the vehicle replied.

“Make it thirty minutes, then,” the priest replied. He slipped out of the long coat and discarded it inside the vehicle. Then he slung a belt around his hips, upon which two semi-automatic pistols were holstered. Finally, he added a third belt to his equipment, from which a sheathed curved sword hung.

“Right. And thirty creds say we’re gonna to have to drag your sorry ass back out of there,” said the man inside the vehicle, taking another visible drag from a cigarette.

The driver flicked it out through the open door, and the priest standing outside of it stamped out the butt.

“Bad habit. It’ll kill you,” said the priest, tilting his head back and forth and emitting a loud crack from his neck.

The gun-priest slammed the door shut. He flicked the safety pin on his pistols and and paced towards the gate. Gripping its iron bars, he slowly pulled the over-sized gate open to a chorus of screeching metal hinges. Leaving the gate ajar, he wandered into the maze.

The master of the mansion—the ‘Blind Devil’ as the bounty posted nicknamed him—continued watching with morbid fascination.

A faint jingle came from the spurs on the priest’s boots with each step. His breathing was heavy with anticipation, and he took a few wrong turns through the maze, having to back-track three times. While walking through the labyrinthine corridors, he reached out with a gloved hand and caressed a thick branch jutting out of a green portion of the maze’s unkempt walls.

Many rose patches dotted the walls of the maze, overflowing with thorny brambles growing out of them. Keeping his gaze transfixed on the center of the maze, he plucked one of the wild roses and smelled it. The priest tossed it aside when he reached a pavilion in the center of the maze.

Another gust of wind propelled a mystifying rain of dying rose petals to cross his path and the silent watcher sensed the impatience growing to an overwhelming crescendo inside the priest’s heart. The gunslinger’s blade appeared in a flash and slashed away some thorns. Blinking and missing the rest of his motion, the priest had somehow propelled himself upwards in an astonishing set of leaps. The ‘Blind Devil’ chuckled to himself as he saw the priest land atop a wall encasing the maze’s center, perched on thick branches, overlooking the maze from above.

This was no ordinary bounty hunter. But what drove a man of the faith to kill for money?

The watcher knew many motives to kill for money, but he had never in his life even heard of a stranger like this.

The priest leapt from one walltop to the next. Branches groaned and leaves rustled and the howling winds died down to an ominous whisper. Here some branches cracked, and there the priest finally landed by the steps that led up towards the majestic entrance of this huge mansion. The killer sheathed his sword and wandered into the shadows cast by the roof above the front doors.

The ‘Blind Devil’ descended down the forked stairwell of the pompously-sized hall beyond the entrance.

Thumping, heavy knocking erupted from the front door. The priest asked for entry.

With no response to the request, a gunshot blew out the lock, a merciless kick knocked the door open, and the old wood creaked.

The master of the mansion stood there, upon the stairwell. The dim light flooding in from the oversized windows caused the rosary in his hands to glisten. He wore a tattered old leather coat, not much different from the one the priest had discarded by the van.

The priest’s eyes focused on the rosary, and the two figures studied each other in a long minute of intense silence.

The priest appeared youthful, in his early twenties. The ‘Blind Devil’ who fiddled with the rosary in his hand was balding and had gray hair, a face that looked like it had been carved out of stone, especially in the stark contrast of this eve’s eerie twilight.

Neither bounty nor hunter looked weak in any way. The young priest appeared wiry and lithe. The old man was built like a lumberjack—tall, broad-shouldered, and with significant muscles causing his clothing to bulge.

Two revolvers hung from the old man’s hips. No sword.

A stifled gasp escaped the priest’s lips when he noticed the old man’s eyes. Milky-white and staring at a point to the priest’s left.

A tingling, spine-chilling sensation shook the priest’s body when he realized that his mark had earned his nickname—for he was truly blind.

“Greetings,” said the old man in a calm and gravelly voice, seizing the initiative. “I believe you seek to kill me. Do you wish to duel to death for it in a gentlemanly fashion?” He stopped circling the rosary in his meaty calloused hand.

The priest asked, “You are the one they call the Blind Devil?”

Something crunched underneath their boots, both poised to draw.

The man pocketed the rosary and lowered his hand to his side, letting it hover over the holstered revolver.

“Aye,” said Blind Devil. “I am no man of blades. How about firearms only?”

The Blind Devil lied. The priest believed him.

“Be my guest,” replied the corrupted priest.

The Blind Devil nodded in return and folded his hands behind his back. The priest’s right hand twitched but did not yet dart for the grip of the handgun by his hip.

“Very well,” the Blind Devil said in a most tranquil tone. “Pass through the west wing’s gate, I shall pass through the east wing’s gate. As soon as we meet somewhere within the manor, our duel has already commenced.”

He swiveled around, revealing his hands to be resting in reposed fold behind his back.

“How do I know you’re not going to just shoot me in the back the second you see me? These are your home grounds, after all. You have the advantage,” said the priest.

The Blind Devil paused but did not turn around nor did he answer.

“I mean no disrespect. Didn’t mean to say you’d do such,” the priest added.

The Blind Devil only turned his head, not fully turning around to reply to the priest, “I cannot see you, for truth be told, I am blind. But—mayhaps I’ll shoot you in the back once the duel commences. That is part of this duel. Or do you wish to negotiate different terms?”

“No, never you mind. Let’s do this,” muttered the priest.

He looked around and headed for the large doorway to the left. The priest shot nervous glances over his shoulder, creeped out by the unnervingly calm air about the Blind Devil.

“Wait,” said the priest. “How is this gentlemanly? With you being blind, and all? That is hardly fair.”

Not turning around at all this time, the old man’s words rang sinister when he answered, “Oh, it’s fair alright. I can smell you.”

The Blind Devil chortled and then disappeared into the opposite doorway and closed the door behind him. It shut with such a gentle click that a needle dropping would have been louder.

The twilight faded fast as night draped itself over the prairies. The inside of the manor followed suit, making it hard for the priest to see. Not a single light was on inside the building. With a growing sense of futility, the priest flicked every switch he came across, eventually questioning if the old countryside palace even had any working electricity.

The priest continued wandering through the dark bowels of this old masterpiece of colonial architecture. Before long, he paused every now and then to find his way using only his sense of touch, creeping through dark hallways and holding his breath whenever he thought he heard the Blind Devil sneaking up on him.

The interior of the mansion was far more decrepit than the outside had let on. Moth-eaten rugs so thick that they still absorbed his footsteps, rotting paintings on the wall, tarnished brass ornaments that shone softly in the moonlight, and dark wood worn down by being lived in for generations and the sands of time eating away at it.

The priest’s eyes adapted to the low amount of light within the mansion. Still, deeper darkness filled many nooks and corners where the moonlight failed to reach.

Cold.

The nightly air quickly turned frosty in this region, this time of year, but the priest felt even colder inside the mansion. His breath condensing into little clouds before his mouth with every breath.

The priest wondered: How would the Blind Devil “smell him” over the scent of musty rotting curtains?

Minutes dragged on in this deceptive silence, but if felt like an eternity to the priest—the bounty hunter—the killer.

The Blind Devil took his time and moved with caution, closing in on his prey. He hunted the hunter, waiting for the precise moment to strike with extreme prejudice and merciless abandon.

The priest arrived in another hall of impressive size where a once magnificent statue stood. Presumably, it had once portrayed an angel with outstretched arms, but chunks of its stonework had crumbled away, leaving only a single wing and arm and the rest of its former glory reduced to debris lying around it in the hall. Pillars lined the walls of the hall, offering ample amounts of cover.

On second glance, the priest perceived countless bullet holes riddling the walls and pillars and even the statue. Spots that he had confused for mold were more likely patches of dried bloodstains.

Despite the silence, the priest heard yells of fury and screams of agony in his head, echoes of the battles that must have taken place here, fights that had scarred this massive chamber.

No sane person would choose to live here. Blind Devil must have lived for this fragrance of death. For that is what it smelled like: death itself.

A bullet almost hit the priest and instead glanced a pillar within his reach. He darted into cover behind it, estimating the direction of fire.

“I can smell you,” the Blind Devil said with melody in his voice. A disheartening chuckle followed, echoing through the giant hall.

The priest cringed, forcing his eyes shut and drawing a pistol in each hand. No matter how hard he focused, could not hear a damned thing from his opponent. Another revolver bullet hit the pillar that constituted as his cover. A gentlemanly reminder to move.

So the priest took a run for it—surprising the Blind Devil with acrobatics like he had displayed in the hedge maze. The priest vaulted off an old bureau by the wall with one step and from the wall with another, landing on top of the ruined statue.

A sub-machine gun roared up with its rattling automatic fire and it ripped chunks out of the statue, beheading it just after the priest jumped off of it and tumbled behind another pillar.

The priest returned fire, the thundering single gunshots revolving and alternating between each weapon in his hands. But the fire was erratic, blind, trying his luck. The bullets found no flesh, the Blind Devil had already changed positions. The bright muzzle flashes from the weapons blinded the priest, causing him to see stars.

He dashed to the next pillar, jaw quivering as another volley of bullets tore through the pillar he had last stood behind.

Not fast enough—the priest groaned in pain. Only with delay did the pain set in after a salvo had slammed into his bulletproof vest, tearing part of his stark white shirt to shreds. He wheezed and struggled to get air back in his lungs, then rolled to the next set of cover, just in time as more bullets flew his way.

Firing blindly in return, a smirk made its way across the priest’s lips when he heard the Blind Devil grunt. His shot had punched a hole through the old man’s hand, indicated by the sound of the automatic gun clattering on the floor.

The priest fired more shots around the corner, hoping to force the Blind Devil into cover and to give him some breathing space.

He used the opportunity to move on to the next pillar. A shadow figure faded behind a pillar on the opposite side of the hall. A familiar cracking and clicking sound followed, and then a small, round metallic object bounced across the floor, coming to a halt near the priest’s cover. The smoke grenade hissed as a thick obscuring mist exploded out of it, clouding the priest’s vision and causing him to cough.

The priest held his side and sprinted past the next few pillars and ran right into a thin short blade. The Blind Devil left the combat knife sticking out of the priest’s belly region and whispered, “Nice shot, young man.”

The reflection of moonlight flashed when another combat knife came out from behind the Blind Devil’s back, but the priest managed to whip it out of his hands with one of his guns just before it connected with his chest—around the whereabouts of his heart. He went for his sword, but the Blind Devil knocked it away from him with a vicious blow to his wrist.

Muzzles flared up again as more shots followed, both from the priest’s pistols and a revolver the old man had slung out in a blaze. The armor had caught another bullet but the shot knocked all air right back out of the priest’s lungs once more, causing him to fall onto the ground.

“Warned you. I can smell you,” said the old man.

The priest fired wildly until he had emptied his weapons to clicks that made his heart skip a beat. It had bought him some time, forced the old man into cover again while the priest scrambled away, getting back up on his feet and limping away.

When he heard the sound of the dagger’s blade scraping over the floor, he ran for it. The old man chased him. Blood rushed in the priest’s ears, his own wheezing breaths and the thumping of their footsteps and a sudden gleeful cackle from behind him eclipsing his senses. The priest dropped his pistols and slung out his revolvers.

He fired behind himself without looking back, but the Blind Devil was another step ahead of him, charging into him from an impossible angle and smashing him into the bullet-riddled wall.

The priest yelled out in pain from the knife still sticking out of his gut. He yelled again when he yanked it out and pressed the searing hot barrel of his firearm against the wound where fresh blood pumped out of.

His vision blurred, allowing only the sight of a huge dark figure looming over him.

The priest stared straight into the business end of the old man’s smoking gun.

“You fought well,” said the Blind Devil calmly as he neared. Despite being blind, the old man aimed at the priest’s head with perfect precision.

The big bang that followed did not kill the priest, however. Instead, the world turned into an apocalyptic hell of wood splinters and glass shards flying all over. The van had burst through the wall, the driver revved the engine and flashed his headlights upon the Blind Devil.

The old man retreated behind cover and planted two shots on the bulletproof windshield, shots that would have otherwise killed the driver. The Blind Devil covered his ears with one healthy hand and one bleeding hand when the driver honked his horn multiple times and revved the engine again.

The van’s side-door slid open and a figure darted out, hooking arms underneath the priest’s shoulders and dragging the wounded man into the vehicle’s confines while the driver lowered a window and unleashed hellfire from an automatic weapon. When that weapon stopped spitting bullets, the pillar behind which the Blind Devil hid had been torn to shreds and the old man’s body slumped to the ground.

A hand grenade flew right after and exploded with a bright red flame, blowing the Blind Devil up. Fleshy bits landed in different places with disgusting squelching sounds.

“Told you we’d have to drag your sorry ass back out, idiot,” snarled the driver.

The third hunter shut the side-door.

A metallic taste spread throughout the gun-priest’s mouth. He smelled cigarette smoke. Someone swore a lot but it was distant and muffled. His fingers began to feel numb.

He clutched the silver cross that hung from his neck when the world faded to black.

—Submitted by Wratts