#bronson gate

[vhstve591]

Me outside the Bronson Gate at Paramount Pictures in Hollywood, July 2009

This was Paramount's main studio entrance until the double archway Melrose Gate was built nearby in 1978. There used to be a belfry on top of this entrance, but due to earthquake safety concerns it was removed in the late '30s.

I looked much cuter back then....

[iloveadaddy]

Bronson Gates

[badmovieihave]

Bad movie I have Wagon Train: The Complete Season Two 1958

[infamouslydorky]

She sells seashells on a seashore. But the value of these shells will fall.

Due to the laws of supply and demand, no one wants to buy shells 'cause there's loads on the sand.

Step one, you must create a sense of scarcity. Shells will sell much better if the people think they're rare, you see.

Bear with me, take as many shells as you can find and hide 'em on an island stockpile 'em high until they're rarer than a diamond.

Step two, you gotta make the people think that they want 'em. Really want 'em, really fuckin' want 'em, hit 'em like Bronson.

Influencers, product placement, featured prime time entertainment. If you haven't got a shell then you're just a fucking wasteman

Three, it's monopoly, invest inside some property. Start a corporation, make a logo, do it properly.

"Shells must sell", that will be your new philosophy. Swallow all your morals, they're a poor man's quality

Four, expand, expand, expand. Clear forest, make land, fresh blood on hand

Five, why just shells? Why limit your self? She sells seashells, sell oil as well!

Six, guns, sell stocks, sell diamonds. Sell rocks, sell water to a fish, sell the time to a clock

Seven, press on the gas, take your foot off the brakes, run to be the president of the United States.

Eight, big smile mate, big wave that's great. Now the truth is overrated, tell lies out the gate

Nine, polarise the people, controversy is the game. It don't matter if they hate you if they all say your name

Ten, the world is yours. Step out on a stage to a round of applause

You're a liar, a cheat, a devil, a whore.

And you sell seashells on the seashore.

[the-dark-artifices-trees]

The importance of the number 7 in crescent city

Throughout the entirety of the crescent city series, the number 7 plays a huge role in both a symbolic and a literal way

⚠️ House of Flame and Shadow spoilers ⚠️

7 Asteri on Midgard

Rigelus (title- The Bright Hand)

Eosporos (title- The Morning Star)

Hesperus (title- The Evening Star)

Polaris (title- The North Star)

Octartis (title- The Southern Star)

Austrus (title- unknown)

Sirius (title- The Wolf Star)

7 Princes of Hel/ Circles of Hel

Hunt also mentions that “Type-Seven is only for the princes themselves, and given what this thing can do, I’d bet it’d be deemed a Six” in chapter 29 of HOEAB, when talking about the demons and princes of Hel

7 districts in crescent city/ city heads/ gates

7 “Made” objects *

Mask (made by Cauldron)

Crown (made by Cauldron)

Harp (made by Cauldron)

Horn (made by Cauldron)

Starsword (made by Cauldron)

Truth-Teller (made by Cauldron)

Ataraxia (made by Nesta)

*now while nesta did make another sword and dagger, we don’t know if they possess any magic and they don’t have any names either*

7 members of the Pack of Devils

Danika Fendyr (alpha)

Connor Holstrom (second)

Nathalie (third)

Bronson

Thorne

Zach

Zelda

7 courts in prythian

Night Court

Dawn Court

Day Court

Spring Court

Summer Court

Winter Court

Autumn Court

7 tog books (not including novella)

Throne of Glass

Crown of Midnight

Heir of Fire

Queen of Shadows

Empire of Storms

Tower of Dawn

Kingdom of Ash

Known starborn fae *

Fionn

Theia

Pelias

Helena

Silene

Bryce Quinlan

Ruhn Danaan

*The term Starborn describes the descendants of High King Fionn and High Queen Theia.

1. Also when bryce traded places so Danika would get into the Bone quarter, she said the vow (“I wish to trade my place.”) 7 times:

“She’d tossed a Death Mark into the Istros, payment to the Under-King—a coin of pure iron from an ancient, long-gone kingdom across the sea. Passage for a mortal on a boat.

And then she’d knelt on the crumbling stone steps, the river mere feet behind her, the arches of the bone gates above her, and waited.

The Under-King, veiled in black and silent as death, had appeared moments later.

It has been an age since a mortal dared set foot on my isle.

The voice had been old and young, male and female, kind and full of hatred. She’d never heard anything so hideous—and beckoning.

I wish to trade my place. (1)

I know why you are here, Bryce Quinlan. Whose passage you seek to barter. An amused pause. Do you not wish to one day dwell here among the honored dead? Your balance remains skewed toward acceptance—continue on your path, and you shall be welcomed when your time comes.

I wish to trade my place. For Danika Fendyr. (2)

Do this and know that no other Quiet Realms of Midgard shall be open to you. Not the Bone Quarter, not the Catacombs of the Eternal City, not the Summer Isles of the north. None, Bryce Quinlan. To barter your resting place here is to barter your place everywhere.

I wish to trade my place. (3)

You are young, and you are weighed with grief. Consider that your life may seem long, but it is a mere flutter of eternity.

I wish to trade my place. (4)

Are you so certain Danika Fendyr will be denied welcome? Have you so little faith in her actions and deeds that you must make this bargain?

I wish to trade my place. She’d sobbed the words. (5)

There is no undoing this.

I wish to trade my place. (6)

Then say it, Bryce Quinlan, and let the trade be done. Say it a seventh and final time, and let the gods and the dead and all those between hear your vow. Say it, and it shall be done.

She hadn’t hesitated, knowing this was the ancient rite. She’d looked it up in the gallery archives. Had stolen the Death Mark from there, too. It had been given to Jesiba by the Under-King himself, the sorceress had told her, when she’d sworn fealty to the House of Flame and Shadow.

I wish to trade my place. (7)

And so it had been done.”

- HOEAB, chapter 62

2. Hunt was in the Asteri dungeon’s for 7 years

“How long did they do that to you—after Mount Hermon?”

“Seven years.”

She closed her eyes as the weight of those words rippled through her.

Hunt said, “I lost track of time, too. The Asteri dungeons are so far beneath the earth, so lightless, that days are years and years are days and … When they let me out, I went right to the Archangel Ramuel. My first … handler. He continued the pattern for two years, got bored with it, and realized that I’d be more useful dispatching demons and doing his bidding than rotting away in his torture chambers.”

“Burning Solas, Hunt,” she whispered.” -HOEAB, chapter 35

“We need to get out of here,” Ruhn said, and nothing had ever sounded more stupid. Of course they needed to get out of here. For so many fucking reasons.

But Athalar cracked open an eye. Met his stare. Pain and rage and determination shone there, unbroken despite the halo and slave brand on his wrist. “Then talk to your … person.” Girlfriend, the angel didn’t say.

Ruhn ground his teeth, and his ravaged mouth gave a burst of pain. He’d rather die here than beg the Hind for help. “Another way.”

“I was in these dungeons … for seven years,” Hunt said. “No way out. Especially not with Pollux so invested in ripping us apart.” -HOFAS, Chapter 11

3. Apollion (7th prince of Hel) ate the Sirius (7th Asteri)

“No one would dare say his name, not after the Prince of the Pit became the first and only being to ever kill an Asteri. His butchering of the seventh holy star—Sirius, the Wolf Star—during the First Wars remained a favorite ballad around war-camp fires. And what he’d done to Sirius after slaying her had earned him that awful title: Star-Eater” -HOEAB, chapter 51

4. The slave tattoos has seven stars in it

“For there was also no hiding the second tattoo, stamped on their right wrists: SPQM.

It adorned every flag and letterhead of the Republic—the four letters encircled with seven stars—and adorned the wrist of every being owned by it.” -HOEAB, Chapter 6

“Ruhn spied their own solar system in the center of it all. Seven planets around a massive star. Seven Asteri—technically six now—to rule Midgard. Seven Princes of Hel to challenge them.

Seven Gates in this city through which Hel had tried to invade this spring.

Seven and seven and seven and seven—always that holy number. Always—” -HOSAB, Chapter 25

5. 7 is a holy number

“Seven—the holy number. Or unholy, depending on who was worshipping. Seven Asteri, seven hills in their Eternal City, seven neighborhoods and seven Gates in Crescent City; seven planets, and seven circles in Hel, with seven princes who ruled them, each darker than the last” - HOEAB, Chapter 19

“Micah had left the latter’s body up. Justinian would hang there for seven full days and then be pulled off the crucifix—and dumped into the Istros” -HOEAB, Chapter 69

6. Hypaxia and necromancy

“So this is it?” Ithan asked Hypaxia, gesturing with a hand to the seven candles she’d arranged on the ground. “Light the candles and wait?” -HOSAB, Chapter 61

“It took Hypaxia seven hours, seven minutes, and seven seconds to raise Sigrid.

Ithan barely moved from his stool the entire time Hypaxia stood over the corpse and chanted. Jesiba left, came back with her laptop, and worked for some of the time. She even offered Ithan some food, which he refused.

He had no appetite. If this didn’t work …” -HOFAS, Chapter 48

7. Sailings happen on the 7th day after the death

Don’t come to the Sailing tomorrow. You’re not welcome there.

She’d listened to it over and over, the first words to echo in her silent head.

Her mother hadn’t woken from the bed beside hers when Bryce had exited the hotel room on Fae-soft feet, taking the service elevator and leaving through the unwatched alley door. She hadn’t left that room for six days, just sat staring vacantly at the floral hotel wallpaper. And now, with the seventh dawning … Only for this would she leave. Would she remember how to move her body, how to speak.” -HOEAB, Chapter 7

8. Midgard geography

““Seven—the holy number. Or unholy, depending on who was worshipping. Seven Asteri, seven hills in their Eternal City, seven neighborhoods and seven Gates in Crescent City; seven planets, and seven circles in Hel, with seven princes who ruled them, each darker than the last.” -HOEAB, chapter 18

“Bryce didn’t wait for them before trailing the old male up the walkway as the seven planets aligned themselves perfectly, stars glittering in the far reaches of the room.” -HOSAB, chapter 38

“Bryce halted after a turn in the stairs and assessed the long hallway ahead. When it revealed no guards, she stepped into it.

There were no doors. Only this hall, perhaps seventy feet long and fifteen feet wide. Likely fourteen feet, to be a multiple of seven. The holy number.” -HOSAB, Chapter 71

“She’d studied Fury’s rough map of the palace layout. This area was seven levels below the throne room, where the Asteri sat on crystal thrones” -HOSAB, chapter 71

“They could fly no further. The massive black wall stretched for miles in either direction before curving northward, with wards protecting the airspace above it. Hunt knew from maps that the area the wall encircled was forty-nine miles in diameter—seven times seven, the holiest of numbers—and that at its center, somewhere in the barren, snow-blasted terrain, lay the Northern Rift, shrouded in mist. Barriers upon barriers protected Midgard from the Rift, and Hel beyond it.” -HOFAS, Chapter 70

9. Ithan & the number 7

“Sabine stared down at the seven shards the Fendyr sword had broken into, then lifted her furious gaze to Ithan.

Ithan shifted back into his humanoid body with a near-instant flash. “It’s just a piece of steel,” he said, panting, the metallic tang of the blade lingering in his mouth. “All those years you obsessed over it, resented Danika for having it … It’s just a piece of metal. - HOFAS, Chapter 74

“You have seven minutes” -HOFAS, Chapter 81 (when Ithan was talking to Connor)

[bluestar22x]

Mr. Henley

The Rockford Files - Mr. Henley

Summary: A rich man is murdered and you and Tim must figure out which of his family members poisoned him.

Pairing: Tim Rockford x F!Reader (both in their mid/late 40s)

Rating: 18+ Series

Word Count: 13,800 (ish)

Warnings: Smut (w/no protection), violence, a very angry ghost, inaccurate detective work, medical examiner gore, fictionally speedy DNA results, and a mention of euthanizing a pet (cat).

Author's Note: This part was a long time coming - I almost didn't finish it in October. Ack! But it was worth it. I think I'm happy with the results. This has some inspiration from the Merge Mansion ads. I'm not sorry. Also, it seems 2nd parts are for smut in my little writing world. I have a pattern. ha

xxx

October 10, 1996 (Thursday)

You felt like you were being driven straight into a horror movie setting. An early morning fog encroaching on the long, deserted winding road that led to a Victorian styled gate with golden decals. Tim stopped his car at the front and you noted the number twenty-six that was painted onto one of the stone walls the gate was attached to. You were at the right address. You just weren't sure that you wanted to be.

Tim slid out of the driver's side, leaving his door open as he approached the gate with the key he'd been handed earlier by Chief Bronson, opening it up and letting the gate swing widely inward on its own.

When he climbed back into the car you began tapping your fingers on your knees, unsure of what you’d soon be walking into.

It didn't take long for the sparsely colorful forest surrounding the driveway to clear into a neatly maintained lawn lined with pink rosebushes, spread out before a massive white mansion that looked as old as the gate, although they likely hadn't been built earlier than a half a century ago.

Rich people, you thought to yourself, rolling your eyes at the obvious choice the owners had made to flaunt their money. Nobody in American history who had owned such a home had ever actually needed over thirty rooms to themselves. Most people who'd had twenty plus children couldn't afford a mansion.

"We have an hour before we have to be back at the department to question the family," Tim reminded you after parking the car, as if you needed to be.

You just nodded at him. A year ago you would've rolled your eyes, thinking he was being impatient, trying to rush you, but you'd learned with time he just worried about being late. He was a reliable person. If he could help it, he was always on time. You couldn't say the same, and you'd butted heads with him more than once over it, but eventually you'd both decided it wasn't worth it.

He fixed the position of the dark rimmed glasses that rested over the bridge of his nose (a recent addition to his attire, much to his dismay) and followed you as you strolled up the marble steps leading to the heavy looking white front door. After he used another key to unlock it you shoved the door open and stepped inside.

You didn't know enough about mansions and fancy furniture, but you knew enough to know that everything inside was mind boggling expensive. The trims were definitely made from real gold. The living room was the size of your whole apartment.

And everything was spotless - except for the dining room you headed straight for like a woman on a mission. Even though it was just you and Tim in the house, at the moment, you didn't want to give the mansion's owner the satisfaction of you having gawked at the place.

The only sign something had gone wrong in the dining room was the yellow tape and the bowl of cereal that was still, disgustingly, out on the glass table, half full of soaked flakes and rotting milk. The stench made you block your nose.

At least the body had already been picked up by Joe while the rest of the Forensics team had scoured the mansion. And the man had been found fairly quickly after his death, so the room didn't also smell like rotting flesh. You always tried to look at the bright side of things.

"I see Elliot Henley was a Frosted Flakes kind of guy," you observed humorously. "It's kind of comforting that corn flakes could potentially unite the rich and poor."

Tim snorted quietly at that, amusement sparking in his normally serious eyes. You beamed back at him. You'd taken a liking to trying to make him laugh with you rather than at your expense, like it had been at first. You were getting better at it.

"You getting any vibes, Psy?"

Where once that nickname had been at your expense, it had long since turned friendly, and in turn, you'd grown fond of it. Only from him though.

"Nothing yet," you replied with a sigh, "I'm not even creeped out by the knowledge that a dead man was sitting at this table at eight o'clock last night, face planted right on the table alongside this very bowl."

Tim arched his eyebrows, surprised. "That once bothered you?"

"It still bothers me often enough," you admitted. "I got this job because of my gift, not because of my tolerance for being around dead bodies. You?"

He shrugged. "It got better with time. It's rare a case really shakes me up."

You know exactly what kind of case shakes him up after Annie. Anything with kids. For most people in their field of work, that was the line, but it was especially true for him.

You hadn't asked Tim about his sister. You didn't need to. Helen had given you more than enough information and it wasn't your business. He was your partner, a friend, you might even dare say, but your relationship was very professional and that meant you didn't get to be nosy.

"I'm going to take a walk through the whole place, alone," you decided, "Just in case he's shy. But it's quite possible Elliot's already moved on. Even if our suspicions turn out right, that he didn't just die of a stroke or heart attack, that doesn't mean he'd linger. You know how it goes."

Tim gave you a quick nod. After working over two dozen cases with you he did know enough of how things worked, or at least how you believed things worked, since you'd yet to convince him your mind wasn't conjuring up these spirits.

Stubborn man.

He left to stand by the main entrance while you wandered room to room, trying to keep your mind focused solely on your surroundings, without paying too much attention to how absurdly "classy" everything was.

You walked the east wing first, finding Elliot's mother's room at the far end. Everything was so white it was near blinding. It felt too clean. Unlived in, except for the hairbrush with silver hair intertwined in the bristles that lay on the desk in the corner of the room next to a big bay window.

You wondered if the room had always been this way or if it had only become so sterile after her husband had died.

You concluded that it probably had always been that way when you searched the west wing and found Elliot's room to be in a similar shape, and the same for his older brother's.

Like many rich kids who hadn't worked a day of their youth away because of their parents' wealth, Elliot and Richard Henley had stuck around after they graduated high school, even into their late thirties.

It was interesting to you that Hazel, their mother, had them stay in a separate wing. For privacy or because she couldn't stand them? Either option was likely. Maybe it was for both reasons.

It took you a half hour to thoroughly check each room and give time for any presence to make themselves known, but none did, and with a long sigh you headed down the hall to return to Tim's side.

He was leaning against the door, arms folded, clearly trying to be patient, but still appearing annoyed. When he spotted you moving towards him he grunted. "Took you long enough."

"There's a lot of rooms," you said defensively.

He dropped his arms to his sides. "Please tell me you at least got something."

You shook your head apologetically and he groaned. "Great. So, this was a bust."

"Mostly, yeah," you agreed. "But I did find out that Hazel sleeps as far away from her sons' rooms as possible."

"They probably partied late into the night," Tim guessed.

It was as good of a guess as yours, but for some reason your intuition was screaming at you that there was something more to it, and in your experience it was wise not to ignore it. You'd definitely have some questions to ask the family when you got back to the police department.

Tim gestured to the door and you both stepped outside together, back onto the porch. As he locked the door again, a gust of wind ripped through the sheltered area and you shivered. It could have been just from the cold weather, but normal wind didn't usually make your skin crawl.

You glanced around warily and Tim noticed. His eyes filled with concern at your discomfort. "You sense something now?"

"That gust didn't feel right," you informed him, wrapping your arms around yourself for warmth and a sense of security. "Too cold for the season." You snuggled your nose into the wool jacket you were wearing.

His eyebrows furrowed at that. "What does that mean to you?"

"If Elliot's spirit caused that sudden gust of wind," you hesitated, not wanting it to be so, "Which I'm almost certain of, he's furious at something. Probably someone. Not necessarily who killed him. I've had several cases where the spirit was upset about something that happened right before they were murdered, since sometimes they aren't aware enough to remember what happened to them." You bit your lip. "Angry spirits aren't discriminatory. They want to lash out, get revenge, and it doesn't matter who's on the other end of their fury, as long as they are affected. Not everyone is, but sensitives like me are."

"You've been hurt by spirits before?" The lines between Tim's brows deepened. You wondered how much of it was from disbelief and how much was from genuine concern, but the fact there was concern at all was nice.

"No, I haven't had a spirit hurt me physically," you answered. "But they're great at causing nightmares and I had one purposely spook me into stumbling backwards. I was at the top of a flight of stairs."

You could've sworn a flicker of fear flashed in his eyes in reaction to what you'd disclosed, but it was gone in the blink of an eye. "Let's get you out of here then."

You didn't need to be told twice.

x

The first stop you and Rockford made after returning to the department was the Forensics Division to check for updates. You sought out Joe, finding him in the basement examining Elliot's body.

It was your first time seeing Mr. Henley outside the few family photos that had been scattered about in the mansion, and it was unsettling. It wasn't the first time you'd walked in on an autopsy, but it was the first time you'd seen a brain outside a body, in the gloved hands of the medical examiner. Your stomach did a little flip at the sight, and you tried to keep your eyes from directly looking at it and Elliot's open skull after.

"Got anything for us, Joe?" Tim inquired.

The rail thin man continued his study of Elliot's brain while he spoke. "I've got enough. Elliot here had a cardiac event. Some of his heart valves are damaged. But it wasn't natural. And my conclusion has nothing to do with him being thirty-five. Look at this."

Joe placed Elliot's brain back into his head and pointed out some dark pigmentation scattered on his skin and under his nails. "Hyperpigmentation." He pulled out a kidney that was sliced in half. Even for one that belonged to a deceased person it didn't look too healthy. "Renal damage. Any guesses as to what happened to him?"

You frowned as you pondered over it. A lot of things could cause these symptoms. But there were few that would make Joe behave this way. "Poison," you said in unison with Tim. You both glanced at each other. "Jinx," you declared, chuckling. He grunted.

"Arsenic to be exact," Joe told you, theatrically gesturing to his desktop computer in the corner of the room. "The blood results were positive for it. The hair samples are still being studied to figure out when the poisoning began, but by the evidence it seems it has been a long while."

"Arsenic is natural though," Tim pointed out. "He could have ingested too much of it by mistake through drinking water or food."

"Ah." Joe nodded. "Yes. But a very high dose was in the milk sample we took from his bowl this morning. That's not typical of pasteurized, grade A milk. Guessing he wasn't dying fast enough for whoever was adding it to his diet so they threw caution to the wind. Funny enough though, the high dose wasn't in him long enough to be the reason his heart failed. That was from the previous attempts stacking up."

"Please tell me someone's on their way to pick up that bowl before someone else gets dosed by accident," you said, though you were certain no one would dare eat from that disgusting bowl.

"Katie's on her way to rectify our mistake of leaving it behind," Joe assured you.

"Do you know if he sought out any medical attention?" Tim asked.

"I called the local hospital," Joe stated, "His primary care doctor works there, but hasn't seen him in two years and he hasn't shown up in the Emergency Room ever. I have no doubt he was suffering for weeks from this, but for whatever reason he never went to the hospital. Maybe he had nosocomephobia?" He shrugged.

"What's that?" you questioned, squinting at him in confusion.

"It's an intense fear of going to the hospital," Tim informed you. "My great tia Lucia had that phobia. She broke a hip one time, fully separated it. Despite the pain, she insisted it couldn't be broken even as she tried and failed to stand over and over. My grandmother was with her at the time."

"That's awful," you remarked, mouth agape. You'd never broken anything before, but you knew hip fractures were one of the worst breaks a person could have. She should have been seized up with pain.

"Fear is pain's greatest competitor," Joe told you solemnly.

Tim tilted his head in his direction.

"So, who do we think did it?" you quizzed. "It must be someone in the family, right?"

"Usually is," Tim replied. "Hazel would be most likely."

"Isn't their mother like eighty?"

"Seventy-eight," Tim corrected you. "And it doesn't take a body builder to kill someone by poison. You should know murderers come in all shapes and sizes and ages."

"Of course." And it wouldn't be the first time you'd helped investigate a murder where the mother killed their child.

"Anything else?" Tim asked Joe.

Joe shook his head. "I'll let you know if there's anything else useful to you as the results come in."

"Time for the interrogations then," you figured.

Tim was already halfway out the door.

x

Upon your arrival at the Homicide Division, Pete Woodward, a young, eager homicide detective-in-training approached you and Tim. Practically flew at you, really. "We've got Hazel and Richard Henley in separate interrogation rooms, ready to talk with you, Rockford. Victim's sisters will be in at noon."

Having lived in the same home, being family, Hazel and Richard were the priority to talk to. They'd been brought in as soon as the investigation had begun, though not officially arrested since there wasn't any solid proof either one of them had motive to kill Elliot yet.

You followed Tim into the first room finding Richard standing inside in a corner, looking bored out of your mind. You wouldn't have expected that from a man that had just lost his brother. Maybe suspect number two was actually the murderer?

"You want to take a seat Mr. Henley?" Tim inquired, gesturing at the gray chair across from yours and his as you both sat down.

"Call me Dick," Richard told him, plopping down on it.

"Really?" You couldn't help the slipped comment. You just didn't understand why anyone would be willing to take on that nickname, especially as a rich person. Did he not notice the possible implications of using it?

Richard either didn't hear you or didn't care; either way he paid you no attention. Tim's eyes however did dart to you for a second before he cleared his throat. "This conversation is going to be recorded, Dick. Is that alright?"

"Whatever you must do, detective. I've got nothing to hide."

Tim pressed record on the voice recorder to his left. "What can you tell us about your brother?"

Richard snorted. "Besides him being a hopeless lazy leech?"

"Aren't you also living with your mother?" you countered.

"I work," Richard informed you defensively, "I only moved back in because I recently got divorced and my new home hasn't been finished yet."

"Uh huh." You'd barely started talking with him and you were already starting to lean more towards him as Elliot's killer than their mother. He had clearly held disdain for his younger brother. That was a pretty good motive.

"Did your brother have any enemies?" Tim questioned.

Richard shrugged. "None that I know of, except his own damn self. He was a loner, mostly. Spent a lot of time online playing games."

"Do we dare ask you how he was with your family, with you?" you inquired.

He chuckled and leaned back. "He was Dad's favorite when he was alive, for some damn reason. Mom loves him out of duty. Our sisters and him get along fine but they don't hang out."

"And you and him?"

"I don't like him not putting in any effort to make his own life," Richard told you, eyes narrowing, "But I wasn't upset enough over it to kill him, if that's what you're wondering."

"We have to consider every possibility," Tim explained to him. "Murders often are committed by those closest to the victim."

"So it is murder?" Richard asked, pursing his lips. "You sound certain."

"We've got evidence that suggests Elliot was slowly poisoned with Arsenic," Tim replied, "Found some in his bowl of cereal."

Richard's eyes widened. "Shit."

"Who normally fed him his meals?" you prompted.

He frowned. "He usually made his own cereal whenever he chose to eat later at night."

"Was he the only one in the house who drank two percent milk?"

His jaw slacked a little. "Yes. Mom and I drink whole milk. You think maybe whoever did this poisoned the whole bottle?"

"I only just considered it now," you admitted. Your eyes flicked to Tim. "Looks like Katie's going to have to bring the jug in now too."

"I'll call her," he said, standing up as he dialed Katie's number and leaning against the wall as he explained to her that she needed to go back to the mansion a third time in less than half a day.

Poor Katie, you thought.

"Who besides you and your mother have access to the fridge on a regular basis?" you pressed.

"The cook, maid, the gardener, the whole family," Richard listed. "None of them have motive to do it."

"That's for us to decide," you told him as Tim sat back down.

Richard turned to him. "Anything else you want to know?"

"Plenty," he said, lifting his eyes to meet Richard's. "Where were you this morning?"

x

It was nearly a half hour later when Tim finished with Richard, letting him go with a warning to not skip town. You were ready to feel that twist in your stomach, your gut instinct, to tell you letting him go was a mistake, but you didn't get it. As much as you'd thought Richard's attitude towards his brother was bordering hate you didn't get murder vibes from him. His nickname suited him well, but being a dick didn't automatically make someone a killer.

The interrogation with Hazel, their frail appearing seventy-eight-year-old mother who looked every bit like the grandmother to four she was, went similarly to the one with Richard. Although Hazel did not share the anger Richard had towards Elliot, she wasn't shedding any tears either. It was so odd to you. You'd had a shaky relationship with your mother before she passed, but you still had felt the loss after she died. You'd still sobbed when she was laid to rest in the cemetery of your hometown. You'd heard of people being numb at first to loss, like they were in some kind of daze, but you doubted that was it.

You started to truly understand for the first time what kind of people tended to find themselves leading successful businesses. You didn't like what you saw.

"Mrs. Henley, did you hate your son?" you inquired boldly.

Her eyes grew wide. "Of course not. I wouldn't have let him stay home if I did. To most he was lazy, but he helped me around the property. Spent time in the garden with me every afternoon. Adopting him was the best decision I ever made."

For the first time in the last fifteen minutes you and Tim had been talking with her there was sadness in her eyes.

Maybe she isn't a psychopath after all, you mused.

"You adopted Elliot?" Tim prompted.

Hazel nodded. "We knew his biological mother. When she died, we decided to take him in, treat him as our own. It's what friends do."

"So kind of you," you said, trying to sound sincere. You couldn't help but think that there was something more; that there was no way this lady had adopted a child out of the goodness of her heart. Adopting him had probably come with tax breaks or something like that.

Elliot and Richard's older sisters, Heidi and Jeanine, who were both in their forties, blonde, and mothers to two children each, all in their teens, weren't much better than Hazel and Richard, clearly not much more than spoiled trophy wives to their rich husbands.

"Maybe Elliot poisoned himself," Heidi suggested, "He didn’t have a lot going for him, you know? I loved him, but he was always the mess up of the family. It had to have eaten at him."

"My brother was kind, but didn't make anything of himself," Jeanine said later during the interview with her. "I'd think him committing suicide makes more sense than murder. None of my family are capable of that."

The linear ceiling light above started blinking furiously above the three of you and you felt the air get thick with tension that was cutting knife worthy. Anger. Your breathing picked up to compensate for the lack of oxygen getting to your lungs. You shivered as a draft hit the back of your neck. Out of habit your eyes darted to and fro, looking for danger but finding nothing visible.

You knew he was there though, watching, and he was trying to tell you his sisters' theories were way off. He definitely had not killed himself.

Tim and Jeanine clearly hadn't felt anything in the air change, surprised by the intense reaction you'd had to the lights flickering, but they had at least seen the lights go off. Once again Tim was studying you, expression trained. "You alright?"

"I'm okay," you answered, "Nothing new for me."

It was true it wasn't new, but it had still shaken you. Kind Elliot Henley seemed to have a lot of hate in his soul in the afterlife. You honestly couldn't blame him though. None of his family, even his sisters who were supposed to like him, had shed any tears in front of you and you were pretty sure shock couldn't account for any of it.

After the interviews were over, you and Tim headed to the office you shared.

"What a piece of work that family is," you muttered as he closed the door behind you. You turned on your heels to face him.

Tim nodded. "Sure is."

"I’m almost certain there's no way either Jeanine or Heidi murdered him though."

"Their alibis are too solid," he agreed. "And they sounded more like they pitied him than were angry at him."

"Exactly."

"We're still going to do a solid background check on them."

"Of course."

He sat down at his desk and you at the computer one, and you both got to work.

x

After thorough searching you and Tim uncovered that the Henley family were generally law-abiding citizens - except for a few speeding tickets (Richard) and a couple court cases for tax evasion by Hazel and her belated husband Roderick, one that had been proven and had ended with him being in prison for a few months. Not with the general population, of course. You'd bet his prison room had been private and clean. Safe.

Though the day had mostly been a bore, you still found yourself exhausted by the end of your twelve hour shift, not hesitating to turn down an invitation to eat out with the floor secretaries from Helen. All you wanted to do was make a sandwich, eat it, and go to bed, as much as you liked Helen.

And that's exactly what you did, not even taking time to read before bed like you typically did.

You startled awake just after midnight to a loud cracking sound. It sounded like one of your potted plants in the living room had been knocked down from one of the wall shelves and had broken when it hit the hardwood floor.

Back in your early thirties you'd taken in a smokey gray cat with stunning light green eyes named Blue that had been owned by a woman who had been murdered in a burglary gone wrong. He'd been a serial houseplant tipper. It had been almost guaranteed one of your houseplant pots would fall victim to him during the course of a week until you learned to tape the underneath of each one to the shelf beneath them.

In your sleep haze you figured he'd finally managed to knock one down, but after a few moments your mind caught up and you remembered that you'd had to give Blue’s vet permission to euthanize him over six years ago, his kidneys having failed at the ripe age of twenty.

Dread seized you, tightened your throat. Had someone broken in? Had you forgotten to lock the door? You were usually very careful about it, but you had been pretty tired.

You reached blindly under your bed for the handgun you kept there, locked away in a black box in the off chance you'd ever need it, and without switching on any lights loaded the chamber with a couple bullets before heading down the short hall with it, into the living room.

You turned the corner carefully, gun at the ready, finger curled right next to the trigger, but the room was clear, except for the spider plant and its pot that had shattered on the floor, spilling most of its dark gardening soil all over the surrounding floorboards.

You sucked in a deep breath and moved into the kitchen but no one was there either. There had to have been someone though. Unless there had been an earthquake, but one of that magnitude would've jostled you awake before the pot had fallen.

You felt it then. Him then. That eerie feeling of being watched by someone no longer quite human creeping under your skin, making you quake, as it often did.

Saying that you were alarmed would be an understatement. Bullets didn't harm spirits.

You slowly twisted around to find him there, looming smack in the middle of the start of your hallway, half hidden by the shadow of your fridge, barely seven feet from you. He was standing with a hunch in his back and an arm curled around his belly, a stance of someone with some kind of severe abdominal pain. His eyes did not hold any of that pain though. All you could see in them was rage.

It was the kind of expression that would make any sane person flee, especially since he wasn't a little guy, so that's what you did, bolting for your car keys on the table and then the front door.

Before you could make it out, as you were slipping through the doorway, you felt searing pain as something sharp dragged down your back, and you concluded in terror that he'd scratched you, all the while racing for your 1991 Taurus.

It wasn't until you'd already driven a mile out from your house that you were able to breath properly again. It was at that exact time the tears spilled from your eyes and everything that had happened during the previous ten minutes settled into your memory.

Elliot was severely pissed, feral. The worst kind of lost spirit. And it had taken him less than a day to get that way. It seemed that the kind man his family had described had hidden an inner darkness. Maybe he'd been successful in life at beating it down, but in death all bets were definitely off. You'd never known a spirit to lose control so fast, even those who had managed to attach themselves to their murderers.

And he'd clearly latched onto you, followed you home. It wasn't the first time a spirit had, but it was the first they could actually harm you to any degree by touch. You swallowed hard. You'd only temporarily escaped. He'd find you again. It would be instant if you returned home any time soon, so you drove around the city aimlessly for a couple hours, after hiding your gun in the glove compartment. You didn't have a concealed weapon permit, but you didn't think leaving it on the passenger seat was wise either if a patrol cop happened to pull you over.

It was past two when you found yourself rolling up into Tim's driveway, not sure where else to go. You knew where Helen lived too, but you did not want to chance dragging her into the mess you found yourself in. She was just a secretary. At least Tim had some training dealing with violent situations, not that it would help much in the face of a being he could not see, let alone hurt.

That was your reasoning at least as you studied the plain looking two-story house in front of you. It was encased in white painted wood where yours was in brick, but with the addition of that second floor it was bigger. Probably not much more expensive though. The house was old, aged by at least three decades where yours had been built less than a decade ago. The paint was also chipping, the outdoor upkeep of it clearly not a priority for him.

Despite the house looking prime for a haunting it called out to you, beckoning you inside, because the man who called it home was your most trusted friend and you knew his presence could at the bare minimum comfort you after the trauma you'd just been through.

You approached with the energy of a woman half your age, sprinting up the front porch steps and pounding on the oak door more demandingly than you had intended.

Tim swung it open a full minute later, in nothing but dark gray sweatpants, his heavy eyes peering out at you, his hair tussled from what had probably been a deep, satisfying sleep.

You'd have felt guilty for waking him if your heart hadn't nearly stopped at the sight of his bare, broad shoulders, defined upper arm muscles, and soft belly.

You'd admittingly dreamed of him more than once in the last year you'd known him, your subconscious mind not caring one bit that he was your partner, but your brain hadn't quite done him justice. You wondered in what other...areas your dreams failed him, but you refused to let your gaze drop below the beginnings of the happy trail on his lower stomach.

"Psy, what are you doing here?" he asked, eyes widening as soon as his brain registered who was standing in front of him.

"Can I please stay here tonight?" you pleaded hurriedly, afraid if you didn't get what you wanted to say out fast that you'd chicken out.

"What's going on?" he questioned, pursing his lips. There was worry in his eyes again. He stepped aside before you could answer, gesturing for you to enter his cozy home.

You did so gratefully and folded your arms self-consciously over your chest. It had just occurred to you that since you were in nothing but thin cotton long sleeved forest green pajamas that your breasts were well defined underneath, especially after standing outside in the chill of an autumn night for some time.

"Elliot's spirit followed me home," you informed him, rubbing your upper arms with your hands, attempting to warm them up. "He attacked me."

"Attacked you?" Tim sounded startled. You met his eyes and saw his concern deepen. He hadn't thought to say that it was impossible because it was all in your head. You wondered if he was finally starting to come around to the idea that spirits existed.

If he wasn't, he surely would after what you'd do next.

"He scratched me," you continued, voice shaky as you turned your back to him and curled the tips of your fingers around the hem of the back of your shirt. "How bad is it?"

You rolled it up as high as you thought the scratch went and heard Tim inhale sharply as you revealed it to him. You felt his rough yet gentle hands glide over yours as he lifted your shirt up just a little higher to take in the full damage.

"Elliot did this?" he growled, sounding outraged, a fierce anger in his tone that you had not been prepared for, typically a man who was subtle with all his emotions.

"How bad is it?" you repeated, wanting desperately to know.

"There's three long marks diagonally along the center of your back," he stated stiffly, attempting to rein in his upset. "They are about four inches in length, start to finish. Luckily they don't look too deep, but judging from the blood on your shirt, they did bleed for some amount of time."

You stepped away from him and dropped your shirt back into place before facing him again. "I wouldn't do that to myself."

"I know," he said firmly. You could tell from his tense expression alone that he believed you. "There's no way you could've reached back there to scratch yourself up like that. No normal human's nails could mark you that badly anyway.”

There was great relief from him finally accepting that spirits were real, especially that night. You desperately had needed him to believe it after having been shaken up so significantly. Your sight was blinded by tears again.

Tim reached out to squeeze your left shoulder supportively. "Does it hurt? Do you want to go to the hospital? I can drive you."

You shook your head, unable to prevent the smile that briefly adorned your face, remembering how'd he been with you when you first met. Oh how the times do change. "No, I just need a place to crash. Can I take your couch?"

"Better yet, you can take my spare bed," he replied, dropping his hand back to his side. "Follow me up. I'll show you to the room and get a fresh shirt and dressing for you. Going to need to clean those marks to make sure they don't get infected."

You nodded and trailed him as he climbed the stairs to the second floor without another word, flipping on lights as he went.

He entered the first room on the left and made his way in the dark to the nightstand to turn on the white lamp centered on its surface. The light emitted from it was dim, but good enough to use while cleaning your wound. Without a word Tim gestured for you to sit on the edge of the bed and strolled out of the room to collect the items he'd need to treat the scratches on your back.

He returned a few minutes later with scissors, gauze, medical tape, disinfectant, and an old plain black t-shirt in hand. He offered the shirt to you as soon as he was within your reach. You noted the charcoal gray t-shirt he'd slipped on while he was gone.

"I didn't think you owned anything besides black and white suits," you teased, trying to lighten the mood as you accepted it, folding the black shirt up on your lap until you could switch it out with your bloodied pajama one.

"We've never been around each other on our off days," he pointed out, a hint of a teasing tone in his voice. "I like to be comfortable just like anyone else."

For some reason it had been hard for you to imagine him in anything else but his work apparel. It was strange seeing him in casual clothes. Strange because it felt almost intimate. Like it was a part of his life you shouldn't have seen as his professional partner.

"Gonna sit behind you," he informed you quietly, gruffly. "Can you hold up the back of your shirt while I clean your wounds?"

You nodded, finding yourself tongue-tied, and couldn't help but note how much the mattress sank as he settled on it just outside of your peripheral vision. You could feel the front of one of his knees lightly brushing against your back after he was seated. You tried not to think about it as you lifted your shirt so he had easy access to the scratches.

"This is going to sting," he warned.

Nodding again, you tensed as he pressed a wet gauze to your upper back, hissing at the sting of the disinfectant he was using. It was the only painful thing about Tim tending to your wounds. His calloused hands occasionally brushed your sensitive, slightly inflamed skin, but they were as gentle as they could be. You found yourself trembling under his touch, and it wasn't because of the pain. With every feather light glance of his fingertips the desire you'd consistently tried to stomp out for months flared with newfound strength.

"Sorry," he apologized in the softest tone you'd ever heard him spoke in. "Almost done."

You clutched at the mattress beneath you as he taped gauze to your upper back, trying to focus on that rather than his presence, grateful that your reactions were only coming off as ones of pain to him. He wasn't completely wrong.

“All done,” he finally announced, and you expected to be relieved when his hands pulled away from you, but instead you felt your hunger for him surge within you. You couldn’t keep still. You needed his hands back on you.

You twisted in place, dropping the shirt that had been on your lap, and crashed your lips into his desperately, hands splaying out on his chest as you prayed silently that he would respond, and respond he did, tugging you closer, curling a hand around the base of your neck, and licking into the heat of your mouth and you realized in that moment that he had desired you just as much.

When you both took a breath, he pulled his head back far enough to study your face, searching for anything in your expression that could tell him what more you wanted from him. He would only give as much as you asked for.

You answered his silent question with another searing kiss, your hands traveling to his back and up into his hair, ruffling it as you sought purchase. You pressed yourself closer to him and he embraced you, arms wrapping around your lower back, careful to avoid your bandaged wound.

It wasn’t long before you guided his hands to the edge of your shirt and he got your message instantly, easing your sleep shirt up off of you and chucking it to the floor.

The chill in the room had your bare nipples immediately hard, and he didn’t miss it, his thumbs tracing your stiff buds, blown dark eyes flickering between your breasts and face. “Okay?”

“Yes,” you whined. You lolled your head back and one of his hands left your chest to support your neck again as he leaned towards you to lave at your exposed neck. Your fingers slipped into his short, slightly wavy hair again as you hummed under his attentiveness. "So good."

You reached for the chord of his sweatpants to untie it, the back of your hand brushing against the hardening bulge behind it, and he groaned as he jerked away from you, as if it was painful to do so. “We don’t have to do anything else if you don’t want to.”

“Where’d you get the idea I didn’t?” you chuckled. You definitely did not want to stop.

“I don’t have any condoms on hand,” he admitted after a few moments. “The last box I had expired.”

“Well, lucky for the both of us I’ve already gone through menopause,” you told him, kissing the corner of his mouth fondly, his moustache scrapping pleasantly against your lips. “And I’ve been just as focused on work as you have been the last few years or so.”

He caught onto your underlying meaning and tilted his head to catch your full mouth again as you loosened his pants, tugging them down as far as you could while still on the bed, revealing his black and white checkered boxers.

In a brief, humorous thought, you made a mental note to get him items of clothing that weren’t black, white, tan, or gray for his next birthday. The man needed more color in his life.

He didn’t notice the amusement on your face as he stood and kicked the pants the rest of the way off him, and when you laid back so he could remove your pants, it was gone. Nothing but want to invade your mind and your face.

Slowly but surely the last articles of clothing remaining on you both were added to the pile on the floor as your mouths and hands explored each other greedily. Once you were free, you knelt on the edge of the bed in front of him and reached out to hold the heft of him in your hands, stroking him confidently, spreading the precum leaking from his head up his entire length. Your firm, yet caressing touch had his knees buckling, and he groaned into your mouth as he braced himself against the bed with an arm, the other molded around your hips. You glanced up at his face briefly as you continued to pump him with your hands and the edges of your mouth lifted, taking delight in watching him watch you work him up with hooded eyes.

Once he was firm you shuffled back on the bed to make room for him to join you, mirroring your kneeling position. He reached down between your legs and you gasped as his fingers made contact with your clit, circling and tracing it until you were thrusting against his hand and him sliding two thick fingers inside you was enough to make you come, a warmth flooding your core as you lurched forward, panting against his chest, giving yourself time to enjoy the waves of ecstasy that followed. It had been quite some time since someone had made you feel that way.

When it was over you firmly pushed him back onto his palms and heels, a soft smile on your face. He raised his eyebrows slightly at you, wondering what you had in mind, but did not resist, curiosity winning out over any yearning he might have to be in control.

You had an idea of what you were doing, but most of it was instinct, wanting to be face to face with him without either of you being on your backs. You clung to his shoulders with your arms, lifting yourself up high enough to hover over him as you climbed onto his lap and folded your legs around his waist, lining your entrance up with his head before you let yourself slowly drop down on top of him.

He was thick, and it was a tight fit, but the foreplay had done its job, making you slick enough to take him deep. The drag of his cock inside you had him gritting his teeth the whole time you slid  him into you. He wound his strong arms around your lower back to brace you as you began to roll your hips against him and he joined in your rhythm, gliding in and out of you at a steady pace. Your faces stayed close, cheek to cheek, his beard prickling yours. You whimpered when he hit you particularly deep and he turned his head to nuzzle his nose against yours. “Okay?” he rasped between soft grunts.

You nodded vigorously, eyes snapped shut, breaths heavy. There were no other words spoken between you as you rocked together, letting your bodies and the sounds that slipped out of your mouths do the communicating.

It took you a little longer than it would’ve when you were younger, but when he found that special spot inside you his insistent press into it had you squeezing him and moaning loudly, invoking praise from his lips in the form of your name. He stilled in you soon after, cock spasming, spurting hot inside you as he emitted a low satisfied hmph, kissing along your lower jaw through both of your aftershocks.

When it was over, he let himself fall back onto one of the bed pillows and you followed him, still on top of him, allowing him to linger inside you as he softened, as your racing hearts returned to their normal rhythms, as you caught back your breaths. You were silent the whole time, not saying a word, just enjoying the intimate closeness with him. Trying not to let any of the fears and doubts knocking at your door in as your mind cleared from your lustful haze.

Eventually you rolled off him and he made a move to stand, only having managed to sit up when you pressed a palm against his broad chest in attempt to stop him from moving anymore.

“Stay with me, please?”

His eyes turned up to the doorway then back to your face, his expression saying what he wouldn't. He was uncertain if he should stay, though you could tell he wanted to. A brief kiss to his shoulder was all it took to convince him. "Alright. I'll stay."

You both took time to clean yourselves up in the bathroom across the hall, dressed back into your sleep clothes (you wearing his black t-shirt), and unmade the bed together, curling up under the thick blankets immediately after. You flipped onto your side, a hand folded under your pillow, and you smiled as he molded his burly body against your back, careful not to put any pressure on your wounds. His right arm draped over your stomach and you reached down to clasp his hand in yours, grateful for his affection. You felt safe in his arms, in a way you hadn't felt in a very long time, not when violent deaths and literal ghosts were a consistent part of your work. The warmth radiating off his body relaxed you as well, lulling you to sleep.

The last thing you felt as you drifted off was him burying his face into your neck.

x

You woke in the early morning to the beginnings of daylight spilling into the bedroom from the small window inside it. You were still warm, but when you registered that Tim's body was no longer pressed against yours, dread filled you. Had he decided to go back to his own bed after all?

You forced yourself to stand, quietly moving down the hall to peer into the next room over, the only other one with a bed in the house. The bed had been clearly used the night before, but it was empty, and when you dared to walk over to touch the sheets, they were freezing cold. You couldn't help the sigh of relief that escaped your lips at that before you tip toed back out the room. It had to be a good sign that he'd stayed the whole night with you, right?

You chewed on the inside of your cheek as you headed for the bathroom and locked the door behind you so you could pee in privacy, still trying to push away your anxiety over how this morning would go. How Tim would be with you, what he would say. Where would you stand? You couldn't imagine the previous night being the one and only time you ever spent with him intimately, but you knew if he didn't want a real relationship you'd turn down any halfway offers. You weren't built for sex without emotion tied to it. It was in part why you hadn't had any for years, besides the forementioned workaholic issue.

You tried to ignore the ache that was forming in your chest as you washed your hands then brushed your teeth, splashing water in your face after, in an attempt to look put together when you were anything but after all that had occurred with Elliot and then Tim.

You strolled into the kitchen, finding Tim at the counter, pouring steaming hot coffee into two mugs. "Just in time," he said, his back still turned to you. You mused that he must have better hearing than you if he'd heard you padding into the room in your socks. None of the floorboards had squeaked. Maybe it was the job that had made him hyper aware.

"You want some coffee?" he asked, like everything between you was the same as it had been twenty-four hours before. You felt a tinge of annoyance that he could act so normal, but you hid it from him.

"Sure, if you have sugar and milk."

"Of course." He nodded at you and reached inside the fridge so he could grab the whole milk inside and mix a teaspoon of it into the coffee mug on his right, followed by a teaspoon of sugar from the canister on the countertop. He left his free of additives, preferring his black, something that still had you twitching your nose even after having seen him drink it nearly every day for the past year. You couldn't imagine drinking coffee as is, even if it was made with high quality whole beans.

Tim passed you your mug as you sat down at the small kitchen table in the far corner of the room. Instead of joining you he leaned back against the counter, eyes focused on his mug when he wasn't sipping from it.

"Are we going to talk about last night?" you inquired after a few minutes, the silence bothering you more than the fear of the conversation you were about to push.

Tim lifted his head to meet your eyes, appearing a bit ashamed. "I shouldn't have. Should've backed off. You were afraid. Seeking comfort. I feel like I took advantage of you."

You huffed. "I didn't sleep with you because I was afraid. I slept with you because your hands felt good on my skin. Because I trust you. Because I have feelings for you. Have for a long time. Do you know how good you look in suspenders?"

He snorted quietly, eyes falling back to the mug in his hands. "I've felt something for you for a while too. I've just been denying it to myself."

"Because of my abilities?" you guessed, trying not to be bothered by what was in the past.

He shook his head, looking back up at you. "I've been in denial about that too. Last night was not when you finally convinced me the spirits you see exist. It was slow, it snuck up on me, my belief, increasing with every case we took on that had an active one interacting with you. The way you consistently knew things you shouldn't have. The occasional unexplained eerie feeling I got sometimes right before you'd react to one showing itself to you. That's what eventually sold me. I just never imagined one would hurt you."

You recalled his reaction when he saw your scratches for the first time. "You were afraid for me. Last night."

"Of course," he confirmed with a growl. "Still am. He hurt you, he could hurt you again, and because Elliot's already dead I can't do shit about it."

There was a hint of defeat, of helplessness in his voice that made you feel like your heart was in a vice grip. You wanted nothing more than to run up to him and hug him, to reassure him it would be fine, but you denied yourself of that moment to further the conversation.

"The only way Elliot leaves me alone is if we solve the case," you told him. "And we've got a little over a couple hours before we can get back to that task. In the meantime, we need to figure out where we stand."

"Like if we pretend this never happened or we report to HR?"

"Something like that."

He peered back down at the coffee in his mug. "What do you want?"

"What do you think?" You curled your fingertips tighter around your mug. "I want whatever you want, unless that boils down to meaningless sex. I can't do that. What do you want?"

He sighed heavily. "A part of me wishes I could take last night back, and another part has no regrets." You swallowed hard, but said nothing as he continued, "This will complicate things at work. No matter what route we take. There's a reason HR frowns on people in the same unit having any kind of intimate relationship with each other."

"Because they're stupid," you muttered, sipping at your coffee, eyes shifting to peer up at him, waiting expectantly.

He couldn't help but chuckle even as he shook his head disapprovingly at you.

"I asked what you wanted, not HR," you reminded him, as you abandoned your mug at the table to join him by the counter.

When you got just within arm's reach he cupped your face with one palm gently, stroking his thumb over your cheek. "I want to see where this goes," he admitted.

"Then let's do that," you said as a weight lifted off your chest. "Screw HR."

Tim grunted. "We'll have to tell them eventually."

"Well, eventually is not going to be today."

He nodded his agreement as he guided your face closer to his, pressing a kiss to your lips more sweetly than you could've imagined him capable of.

When he pulled away you touched your forehead to his shoulder. "I need to get my work clothes at my house."

Elliot was not likely waiting there for you, and he could turn up anytime, anywhere, he even could've popped up right then and there in Tim's kitchen, but you still were not looking forward to it.

"I'll go with you," he offered immediately. "Let me put on my glasses and a pair of jeans and I'll drive you, go inside with you. You can grab whatever you need to get dressed for work and bring it back here. If that would make you feel safer."

He knew as well as you that it didn't matter to Elliot where you went, but he also knew going back to your home so soon after the attack would be difficult for you and that him being there would make a difference to you mentally.

"Thanks," you murmured. "I'll take you up on that."

"You can also stay here until the case is solved," he added, "No strings attached. I'm not expecting last night to happen again any time soon. I'm not trying to rush things. I just don't like the idea of you being alone while Elliot's still around, even though I know logically I wouldn't be able to stop him from hurting you again."

You beamed at him and wriggled your eyebrows. "Who says I don't want to repeat that any time soon?"

He cursed under his breath as you pulled away from him with a playful smirk and headed for the door. "I'll wait in the car."

"That's not fair, Psy," he called after you.

You didn't look back, but you were smiling warmly as you exited the house.

x

Luckily your fears of returning home were unwarranted, your quest to gather a few sets of clothes and beauty products uneventful. Maybe it had something to do with Tim standing formidably in the doorway to your bedroom as you packed your suitcase. Did the dead ever get intimidated by the living?

In any case you were grateful to get out of there without another confrontation with Elliot.

As soon as you and Tim arrived back at his house you both showered, him in the master bathroom and you in the hallway bathroom. He was dressed in a half hour and you in an hour, barely finishing up in time to not be late for work.

You and Tim took your own vehicles (well, he took his detective car), not wanting to spike the curiosity of any prying eyes and nosey noses in the department. Helen, bless her soul, would've been the first asking twenty questions and it was the last thing either of you wanted with your newfound relationship literally only hours old.

When you entered the Homicide Division you spotted Tim towards the back of the room having a conversation with Katie. You strolled up to them, a polite smile on your face.

"Anything new, Katie?" you asked lightly as you came to a stop between them, making sure you were no more closer or farther from Tim than you usually positioned yourself.

"Nothing with me personally," she told you, "But the Henley case, oh boy. Dex, the poison expert on our team tested a mystery substance in a gas can found half buried in the woods behind their mansion."

"And there were traces of arsenic."

"Of course," she said, "But that's just the beginning. There was blood on the canister. Just a speck. Looks like the killer cut themselves on the hard plastic trying to open the lid. I swabbed it and compared it to the oral samples we took from each of the Henley’s. Compared it to a blood sample from Elliot for good measure..."

You waited but after several seconds of silence you huffed. You hated when people stretched out tension, like a reality show going to commercial break right before the winner is revealed. "What'd you find kid?"

You could've sworn Katie's eyes were glowing with excitement. Whatever information she had was juicy.

"First off, you remember how Elliot is adopted, right?"

You raised your eyebrows. "Yeah..."

"Well, turns out he is actually related to Richard and his sisters," Katie informed you, "But not Hazel."

"Roderick cheated on her," you concluded, eyes broadening. "And she let him adopt his son when his mistress died?"

"She might have not known," Katie offered, "Not until now at least."

"Are you suggesting she's our prime suspect?" Tim quizzed.

"I would be," she replied, "...if it wasn't Richard's blood on the canister."

"He described Elliot as a leech," you recalled. "A lazy one at that. It wouldn't be a big stretch to think that after finding out Elliot is their father's bastard son that he might consider him unworthy of living in their mansion. Worse than an interloper; living, breathing evidence that their father was not faithful to their mother."

"We've got enough for you to get an arrest warrant," you stated.

"Let's get going then," Tim said, buttoning up his trench coat. "The sooner we have that warrant the better."

He didn't mention that it was because Elliot had become a threat.

x

By mid afternoon Richard was back in the same interrogation room he had been in the previous day, dressed in a suit and tie, having been caught on the front porch of the mansion right after returning home from a business meeting.

At first he wouldn't stop rambling, mostly about how he was going to sue the whole department for every penny for falsely accusing him, but he'd been quiet since Tim had revealed that Forensics had DNA proof that he'd opened the canister of arsenic, the gravity of his situation having finally sunk in.

"I know you said you're not going to talk anymore until your lawyer gets in," Tim started as he sat down in front of him, "But indulge me. Let me tell you how I think everything went down."

Richard stared at him, maintaining a neutral expression.

"I think somehow you found out Elliot was actually your half brother," Tim continued, "And I think you decided your good-for-nothing half brother had to go. You couldn't risk it getting out that your father, the head of your family, had once had a mistress. You had to keep your family's reputation clean of that kind of scandal for the sake of your business' success. Am I right?"

Richard had been well trained in the art of, well, training his face, but you had trained yourself well in the art of observation and you'd had several more years than him to practice. When Tim had called Elliot his half brother Richard's eyes had widened just a bit.

"You didn't know he was your biological brother," you realized. "You didn't murder Elliot." You took a step towards him, away from the wall your back had been pressed against. "Who had you open the gas canister, Dick?"

He refused to speak.

"Was it Jeanine? Heidi? No..." You paused, "It was Hazel after all, wasn't it?"

"Dick, without your statement, without the truth, we will have to go ahead with prosecuting you," Tim declared. "All the evidence points to you. Unless you can say otherwise or tell us of other evidence that would contradict what we've gathered."

"Guess I'm going to prison then," he snarled.

"Well, no one can argue you're not a good son," you said with a shrug, trying to act casual. "Guess there's nothing left for us to say here."

You headed for the door and Tim followed you out. "You have an idea."

"Actually, I don't," you admitted. "I was hoping you did. Since my little ghost problem won't go away until we put his real killer behind bars."

Tim worked his jaw. "We let Richard sit in prison for a few days, then let Hazel visit him and talk with her again after. Maybe she loves him enough to confess."

"A few days?" You arched your brows and he narrowed his eyes at you, his expression warning you not to say anything else.

"I don't have any ulterior motives behind the time frame," he told you. "We have the weekend off and Richard needs time to stew. To realize how awful prison truly is. Either he breaks or Hazel does."

You couldn't help the crooked smile that formed on your face. "Cold..."

“Apt.”

"True."

x

You spent the rest of the day digging up information on the Henley family history at the public library seven minutes away from the department and going over some photos that had been confiscated from the mansion.

One in particular got your attention. A wedding photo of Hazel and Roderick. “They look so happy,” you observed from over Tim’s shoulder as he studied it in one hand, his glasses grasped in the other. Something occurred to you. “Do you think she killed him too, for cheating?”

Tim shook his head. “I checked into his death. It was from lung cancer. He was a heavy smoker.”

"Of course.”

Tim checked his watch. "Time to clock out. Do you want to head out to a bar?"

It was a fairly common for him to ask you if you wanted to hang out at Liquid Alchemy on a Friday night, or after a case was closed, but it was the first time he had suggested a bar and not Liquid Alchemy by name. You cocked an eyebrow. "What do you have in mind?"

"There's this upscale full bar in the Lazy Queen restaurant on the other side of the city," Tim informed you. "I've never been, but I've heard good things. Though it's a little pricey for everyone here. For one night it wouldn't hurt to indulge though. I'll pay."

You got the message. The bar's location and prices would keep anyone you knew from work away and would allow you both to enjoy the rest of the night without prying eyes.

You glanced at the doorway of your shared office, making sure no one on the floor outside of it was within earshot. "Sounds like a date."

"If you'd like it to be."

"I would."

Tim dropped the photo in his hand on the desk and put his glasses back on before pushing himself up onto his feet with a small grunt, his left hand briefly clutching at his stiff lower back. You held back a comment about him needing to get a new office chair. You'd already mentioned it to him several times before, but he was stubborn.

"I'll head out right now," he told you as he shrugged on his trench coat, which had been draped over the chair in front of his desk. "Give me five before you follow me. We'll meet up at my house and you can jump in with me, okay?"

You grinned. "Sounds like a plan."

He dared a quick kiss to your temple as he passed you on the way out of the room and your lips pulled back even more.

Dating Tim was going to get dangerous. You could get used to him being affectionate with you.

x

The Lazy Queen's restaurant had the best Margaritas you could ever recall, and they hit hard too. After only a couple your usually not-so-lightweight self had become a chatty twenty questions kind of gal. It was so out of character for you Tim was amused by your behavior, lips quirking up on several occasions as you continued through your list of questions which he all answered patiently.

"Horror or action films?"

"Action."

"Have you ever seen snow in person?"

"Of course. It snows in Portland. Just not every year. Heard rumors we might this December, but it's not something to bet on."

"What's the story behind this?" you quizzed, stretching forward to clasp his left hand in yours, displaying the small target tattoo in between his thumb and index finger.

"I got it when I first started basic training," he answered. "It was to remind myself to hit bullseye every time. Literally and figuratively. To never lose sight of my goals."

"And have you not?" you inquired.

"Not what?"

"Lost sight of your goals."

He shrugged, taking a sip of the fancy drink in his right hand, and you realize you've forgotten the name of it. You pushed your current Margarita, your third, away from you. "I've had to take a few failures like everyone else. We can't solve every case."

There was something in his dark eyes, a hint of grief and guilt, that sobered you up a bit because you knew then that he was thinking about his lost sister.

"Think you're sober enough to drive us home?" you asked him with a sigh.

His eyebrows shot up. "You moving in permanently?" He was smiling lightly, teasing.

"Not yet," you huffed. "You know what I meant. Your home."

"Yeah," he said, an index finger circling the edge of his glass. "I'm sober enough. I don't even have a buzz. I've been nursing this lone drink all night. You didn't notice?"

"Shut up."

x

You were running barefoot through the forest at night at full speed, in a flowing white dress that reached your knees, eyes darting over your shoulders on occasion to make sure whatever you were trying to escape wasn't gaining on you. It was too dark out to see that far behind you though.

Fallen leaves crunched under your bare feet, damp moss made you slip twice, and you had to leap a few tree roots that stuck out of the ground but you didn't slow your pace for even a moment.

You heard a river roaring in the distance and for some reason you were convinced that crossing that would save you, so you aimed for the sound, stretching your legs out as far as you could in hopes of covering ground even faster. You stopped looking back, certain if you kept moving that you'd get to safety.

You pushed through a thicket of trees and had to skid to a stop, narrowly preventing yourself from falling off the cliff on the other side of it, one of your feet halfway over the edge. You were right next to a waterfall. You gasped at the close call.

Remembering that you had been running from something you twisted around and your eyes grew into saucers when you spotted it. A black human shaped mass easily flowing through the trees, into the same open space you were in.

"You can run, but you can't hide forever," said a furious masculine voice. It was coming from the black mass, though you could not see a mouth, let alone see it move.

"Why are you chasing me?" you demanded fearfully.

"Because you are fleeing," the voice growled, like it was the simplest thing. Maybe it was to him. Nothing but a predator chasing prey.

You swallowed hard as he took a step forward. "I spent so much time living fictional lives, I forgot how entertaining the living could be to mess with."

Your eyes grew bigger. "Elliot," you whispered. "You don't belong here."

"In your dreams, or in the world?" he hissed as his form reshaped into the man you'd seen lying dead on a cold table less than forty-eight hours ago.

"Both," you replied. "Spirits who stick around can become troubled fairly quickly."

"You think I'm one of your troubled ghosts?" He chuckled, a gleam in his already eerie gray eyes. "All I've done is discover the benefits of being dead."

"This isn't the man who sat with his mother in the garden," you noted.

"No," he agreed. "That man was murdered by her. Apparently."

At your surprised reaction he beamed. "I was there when you interviewed my brother for the second time. I just made sure you couldn't tell. I'm getting better at stuff like that."

You shivered. "This isn't you, Elliot." You knew it to be true in your gut. Everyone had the capacity to commit evil, some more than others, but what mattered was how you had behaved, and while Elliot had maybe been lazy, nothing you'd heard or read about him had hinted at him behaving badly in any kind of way. The in between had twisted him beyond recognition.

"Who says anyone has to stay the same?" He strolled towards you and you took another step back, finding yourself teetering, dangerously close to falling over the cliff. He grinned. "It's fun messing with you."

He shoved you, catching you off guard for a second, sending you flying over. You heard your skull crack against a stone before you collapsed into the frigid water at the bottom.

x

Your eyes snapped open and you pulled ragged breaths from your lungs as you shot up into a sit in Tim's guest room bed. For a few seconds you didn't move other than to press your right hand to your chest and close your eyes as you focused on recovery.

It had felt so real, but it had all been a dream. You could hardly remember the last time you'd been so relieved. It was short lived though, as you realized that Elliot might've been the crafter of your nightmare. After all, though it was rare, it had happened before with other spirits. It would explain why you were still shaking. He was nearby, close enough to affect you, for you to sense him on some subconscious level.

On the way back to Tim's house you'd both decided that sleeping in separate bedrooms would be best for your relationship for a bit, not wanting to rush into it any more than you'd already had.

You regretted that as you rolled over and ran your hand over the cold spot next to you on the mattress in an attempt to seek comfort. You'd taken pride in yourself all your life for being independent, for not needing anyone else when you left the office, but there were occasions, nights like these, when the solace of another body besides yours would've been much more preferable.

For the first time in your life when a spirit had taken the reins of your subconscious, you had the option to change your situation. To seek that comfort you wanted so profoundly. You slid out of bed and walked into the doorway of the room next door, quietly knocking on the solid oak, trying to wake Tim without startling him.

He still flinched a little when he woke up, glancing around sleepily as he rolled from his side and onto his back. When he noticed you wordlessly standing in his doorway he blinked at you, confused. "What's wrong?"

You were suddenly shy, feeling stupid. Like you going to see him was childish, even though your nightmare hadn't been just a nightmare and you had every right to be afraid. "Elliot's nearby."

Tim sat up in bed quickly, the blankets that had covered him up to his shoulders slipping down to his waist. He had kept on the plain red shirt that he'd worn that night to bed with a fresh new pair of light gray sweatpants. "Where?"

"I don't know," you replied. "But he was in my dreams. He said he overheard that it was his adoptive mother who killed him and then he pushed me over a waterfall and I woke up."

"I'm sorry, Psy," he said, standing so he could rub your arms comfortingly. "Maybe waiting for Hazel to confess was a mistake."

You shook your head. "It's the only good plan we have. Any other could've screwed up the case. It's not your fault. And at least he didn't show up here in the house."

You still weren't exactly sure why.

"Do you want to stay with me?" Tim questioned. "Share the bed? Would that help?"

You shrugged. "Maybe. He doesn't seem to like interacting with me when you're around for some reason."

"He is shorter than me," he stated as if it made total sense.

You snorted at his joke but some part of you wondered if Elliot really was intimated by him. Sometimes spirits still acted like they were living and breathing. That could include fearful behavior.

In any case, you weren't about to turn down the offer you'd been hoping to get. "I'll take the right side, if that's alright. I sleep better there."

"You're in luck," Tim told you. "I actually sleep on the left most nights."

He returned to his bed, lifting the blankets high enough so you could easily follow, tucking yourself into his side. "Is this okay?" you asked him.

"Perfect."

Saturday and Sunday night were also spent cuddled up with each other in the same way. Tim didn't complain, and since you didn't have sex, you figured you were still complying pretty well with the promise you'd made to each other to slow things down while you began to learn each other on a much more personal level than you had before.

You were really reconsidering it though.

x

Monday morning you and Tim returned to work refreshed, coming back from a mostly relaxing weekend filled with old movies, takeout, and the background noise of rain.

You were so ready to get back to the case on that crisp, sunny day that it startled you when you spotted Hazel waiting for you both outside of the department's main entrance, extending her wrists out towards Tim in a gesture telling him to arrest her.

You and Tim both nearly dropped the coffee shop cups in your hands.

"I've come to confess," she declared, as if she needed to. "I killed Elliot."

Tim slapped the pair of cuffs he always kept on him while on duty onto her wrists and made sure they were secure. "Hazel Henley, you have the right to remain silent..."

x

Within ten minutes you, Tim, and Hazel were settled into one of the interrogation rooms, and Tim was holding up a voice recorder in front of her, flicking it on to record. "Start from the beginning. State your name and explain why you are here."

"My name is Hazel Henley, and I am here to confess that I killed Elliot Henley."

There was a slight tremble in her voice, but you were almost certain it was from having to admit to a crime and not because she regretted that he was dead.

"Mrs. Henley, why did you kill your son?" you prompted, trying to ignore a thickness that started to fill the air, making it a little harder to breath, putting something deep inside you on edge. Elliot was in the room, and he wasn't trying to hide it.

"Because he wasn't mine," she huffed. "Not really. Not at all in my eyes."

You frowned. "You didn't care about him; not even when you intially adopted him?"

"No," she answered bitterly. "How could I? Knowing he was my husband's bastard son?"

Tim lifted a brow. "You knew?"

"Of course I did," she said with annoyance. "I'm not stupid. Roderick was the one who came up to me suggesting we adopt him, nearly begged me. It was obvious. He would've never begged for a kid that wasn't of his own blood. Son of a friend or not."

"You knew Elliot's mother?"

"She was a neighbor of ours," Hazel explained. "Born into her money. Loved doing charity work as a job. The only sweet thing about her. She lived alone but had a way with people. Knew how to intertwine herself into everyone else's lives, make them worship her, or at least invite her to parties. She probably got pregnant on purpose in attempt to make Roderick leave me for her. I got the last laugh. Or so I thought, until the bitch died in a car accident."

"Why'd you agree to adopt Elliot?" you inquired, genuinely curious.

"Because Roderick always got his way," Hazel told you. "I wasn't always a strong-minded woman. I was worried saying no would be the last straw in our already broken marriage. I was trying to mend it."

"Then Roderick died..." Tim trailed.

"Then Roderick died," Hazel repeated. "And I was free to get rid of him before I got too old, before he could get a cent more of our money."

"Why did the canister of arsenic have Richard's blood on it?"

Hazel raised both of her hands in the air, palms down. They were tremoring slightly. "I can't get a good grip on most things nowadays. I needed someone to twist the lid open and pour some into a few smaller jars."

"He had no idea what you were doing?" you asked.

"He didn't even question what was inside," she replied. "He just poured it and left. My ever loyal son. I'm only confessing because he doesn't deserve to be in prison because of me. He has so much life left ahead of him."

You felt a flash of anger lick at your insides. Even though Elliot's spirit had attacked you twice, he'd only done that because of what Hazel had done to him. "Elliot had so much life ahead of him too."

She scoffed. "Playing video games? He was just like his mother. Living off his father's money. No ambition."

"You'd be surprised the money people can make playing games while others watch," you told her. "Some make millions."

"He wasn't," she assured you, eyes narrowing. She turned them back to Tim. "Anything else you need to know?"

"Plenty more," Tim said, "Starting with where you got concentrated arsenic."

She nearly smiled at him. "That's an interesting story, but a long one."

He gestured at her to go for it. "We have all day if necessary."

So she jumped into a story about how she found herself buying from black market dealers.

It was afternoon by the time you and Tim were done with her, by the time a prison guard was pulling her away from you both at the door where prisoners were dropped off.

On your way back to Tim's car you spotted Richard walking free, out of the chain link lined yard, a duffle bag over his shoulder. And Elliot was right there behind him, leaning against the fence, watching.

He must have felt you peering over at him because Elliot glanced up in your direction, and what you saw in his eyes surprised you. Getting justice must have calmed him because his expression was nothing like the one he'd worn either of the times he'd attacked you. It was like the madness had finally been lifted.

Strange how that sometimes worked.

You hesitantly gave him a curt nod and he gave you one back, disappearing immediately after, to God-only-knows where. Or maybe gods-only-know where.

You just knew that a subtle, insistent tension you hadn't really noticed was there before snapped and it seemed like the sunny day had become even brighter.

Elliot was gone.

x

That night Tim followed you back to your house, wanting to be there as you unpacked and settled back in, even though you'd assured him that Elliot had most definitely moved on.

That had eventually led you to asking him to stay for popcorn and a movie, to which he agreed to readily. It was almost ten o'clock when he got off the couch to leave.

"I'd better go," he said decidedly. "Getting late for a work night."

"I've been thinking," you told him.

"Oh?"

"About our agreement," you continued, standing up to give him a swift kiss on the mouth. "And I was thinking we should amend it."

Tim arched an eyebrow. "What were you thinking?"

"That we just do whatever feels right in the moment," you answered. "Within reason of course. We still have to be professional at work, of course. Even after we tell HR what's going on with us."

"So...no more slowing things down?"

"Technically we've already been in a relationship for thirteen months," you told him. "Just not a romantic kind. And we had our first date. Already have done plenty of cuddling..."

A subtle smile played on Tim's lips. "What are you suggesting, Psy?"

"You could stay here tonight," you replied, placing your hands on his suited chest. "You could show me what you'd have done that night if I hadn't taken lead. If you want."

He dived in to kiss you until you were both panting, until you were burning up inside. "I want," he confirmed, barely a whisper away from your mouth.

You grinned. "Then lead the way."

xxx

Tagged: @harriedandharassed

xxx

Series Masterlist

Main Masterlist

xxx

[broadway-dave]

we are tinfoil hats ON tonight people

i repeat tinfoil hats the fuck on

were dropping sick conspiracies out here like you wouldnt believe man

when are we doing a boston tea party

except its like a can town cake party

or well it would also be a tea party dont they serve cake at those?

fuck if i know

anyway enjoy

lyrics under the cut

Strange time we're living in, panic and hysteria Poor man learn the rich man don't care for ya Narcissist mindsets spread like malaria

(DS: OBAMA)

Sit back and watch the show, America!

Earth C split through fickle shit A government of hypocrites These Crocker-picked politicians sit In parliament, not adequate

Needlessly bleeding resources all dry Turn a blind eye if it means a pay rise "Oh what a shame it would be I would die" If Crockercorp factories burned in a fire

Only joking, only messing, don't be stressing I'm a peaceful adolescent, there's no need to be unpleasant Write my thesis in a rhyme scheme To analyse the brain While my fingers on the trigger of a money game

Oh rain, rain, rain, rain A storm, it comes our way And those who rise through distorted lies Poisoning the veins But we like to point the blame, blame, blame, blame It's easier to blame But point the mirror at ourselves We're all part of this old money game

Money is a game and the ladder we climb Turns a saint into a sinner with his finger in crime I'll break it down for you motherfuckers line by line This is business economics in a nursery rhyme

She sells seashells on a seashore But the value of these shells will fall Due to the laws of supply and demand No one wants to buy shells 'cause there's loads on the sand

Step one, you must create a sense of scarcity Shells will sell much better if the people think they're rare, you see Bear with me, take as many shells as you can find and hide 'em On an island stockpile 'em high until they're rarer than a diamond

Step two, you gotta make the people think that they want 'em Really want 'em, really fuckin' want 'em, hit 'em like Bronson Influencers, product placement, featured prime time entertainment If you haven't got a shell then you're just a fucking wasteman

Three, it's monopoly, invest inside some property Start a corporation, make a logo, do it properly "Shells must sell", that will be your new philosophy Swallow all your morals, they're a poor man's quality

Four, OBEY, SUBMIT, CONSUME Send drones, cut wombs, resist, big boom

Five, why just shells? Why limit your self? She sells seashells, sell oil as well!

Six, guns, sell stocks, sell diamonds Sell rocks, sell water to a fish, sell the time to a clock

Seven, press on the gas, take your foot off the brakes Run to be the president of the United States

Eight, big smile mate, big wave that's great Now the truth is overrated, tell lies out the gate

Nine, polarize the people, controversy is the game It don't matter if they hate you if they all say your name

Ten, the world is yours Step out on a stage to a round of applause You're a liar, a cheat, a devil, a whore And you sell seashells on the seashore

Rain, rain, rain, rain A storm, it comes our way And those who rise through distorted lies Poisoning the veins But we like to point the blame, blame, blame, blame It's easier to blame But point the mirror at ourselves We're all part of this old money game

[ask-thegoatbro]

Ichi:

She sells seashells on the seashore But the value of these shells will fall Due to the laws of supply and demand No one wants to buy shells cus there's loads on the sand-

Step 1: you must create a sense of scarcity Shells will sell much better if the people think they’re rare, you see Bare with me, take as many shells as you can find and hide ’em on an island Stockpile ’em high until they’re rarer than a diamond

Step 2: you gotta make the people think that they want ’em Really want ’em, really fuckin’ want ’em, hit ’em like Bronson Influencers, product placement, featured prime time entertainment If you haven’t got a shell, then you’re just a fucking waste, man

Three: it’s monopoly, invest inside some property Start a corporation, make a logo, do it properly “Shells must sell”, that will be your new philosophy Swallow all your morals, they’re a poor man’s quality

Four: expand, expand, expand Clear forest, make land, fresh blood on hand Five: why just shells? Why limit yourself? She sells seashells, sell oil as well

Six: guns, sell stocks, sell diamonds, sell rocks Sell water to a fish, sell the time to a clock Seven: press on the gas, take your foot off the brakes Then run to be the president of the United States

Eight: big smile mate, big wave, that’s great Now the truth is overrated, tell lies out the gate Nine: Polarise the people, controversy is the game It don’t matter if they hate you if they all say your name

Ten: the world is yours Step out on a stage to a round of applause You’re a liar, a cheat, a devil, a whore And you sell seashells on the seashore

"W-why? Why do you know this song- HOW DID YOU GET THAT BEAT?!"

[kayssweetdreams]

Maestro Hiccups 3: Chaos Incarnate Ch 91

Even though you feel like you can beat the game, you can't help but feel guilty about not trying to go after Vito and Luigi...They are Drew and Mario's family after all. So without a doubt, you follow the sounds of the voices.

The group made their way to the side of the castle where they heard the voices, and found them coming from a secret doorway on the side of the tower. "In there!" Mario shouts, as fireballs begin to shoot out at them. "Look out!" Drew shouts, tackling Leo and Emma to the ground so they wouldn't be incinerated.

"Hurry! Before the bridge falls!" Peach yells, running as fast as she could across the now melting bridge. The group scurried across and made it into the secret door. Drew caught his breath before he heard Vito's voice again "DREW?! BRO?! IS THAT YOU?!" The voice yelled. "VITO! HANG ON!! I'M COMING!!" Drew yells, determined to help rescue his brother from the crazed family.

Mario followed Drew as he was lead deeper and deeper into the secret door, blindly following the voice, as it lead them further and further away from the others "Wait! Drew, Mario! We can't keep up!" Peach yelled, as Leo and Emma were getting tired of running after them. By the time Drew and Mario made it to the source of the voice, they were confused when they saw...nothing

"W-What?! What is this? What's going on?!" Drew asked, just as a gate slammed behind them, and the 'voice' was only just a small recording, and two crudely sewn dolls of Vito and Luigi. "HA HA!! DID YOU THINK WE'D JUST HAND THEM OVER?! THINK AGAIN!!!" The sound of Bowser Jr's voice crowed. "I think that it's time to "Play." Oh CHAIN CHOMP!" He yelled.

A loud barking was heard as a large, and very lethal Chain Chomp then appeared...and devoured the two brothers. Your 2 lives then were chomped down until only one was left. You feel your heart drop as you hear Kiara give a digital scream as she was pulled into the dream world. You are now on your last life...and that last life was YOU.

The screen flashes "GET READY" as the same intro scene plays again, and this time, you don't feel tempted to try and follow the false voices. This time you immediately walk into the castle. Ready to end this game, and save everyone. You Press the buttons swiftly and surely, making sure that you didn't make any mistakes that would cause your demise.

When you finally made it to the boss arena, you saw The King of the Koopas, along with a middle aged man with the same features as Bowser. "Well well...So nice of you to finally make it to my humble abode." Bowser taunts. "Not very HUMBLE the way I see it." Leo snarks, looking around the lava infested arena.

"Oh well thats not nice...and here your FRIENDS thought it was comforting." Bronson says, snapping his fingers. Suddenly, the Koopa Kids, along with their Linkers appear...and underneath the clown car they were riding in was a caged up Mei! "Especially this one! She's not from around here!" Benjamin says, a bit of Mayhem in his voice.

Your jaw dropped. So THAT'S where Mei was! If you could rescue her, you might be able to finish the game! And get out of there! But that's when the Link Button glows again. The idea is tempting, but what if that does more harm than good? Especially when you're on your last life...

Mei, Drew, Vito, Kiara, Bronson, Benjamin and his Family, and PLU belongs to @sundove88

[acesophiewalten]

just saw phantom of the opera. going a bit insane!!!

i saw julia udine as christine, ted keegan as the phantom, and bronson norris murphy as raoul and my god were they Something.

buckle up, buddies, i have Thoughts

so julia udine's christine is super interesting to me, because her character arc is really pronounced, right? she starts out as almost a husk - during Hannibal she's confused, messing up her steps, meg has to help her along. i think she was full-on dissociating (christine, not julia udine). during think of me, she was still like - restrained, almost, holding back. she's visibly traumatized during act one, from her quiet voice to the way she pretends not to recognize raoul to the way she jumps when the phantom begins to chastise her. she's incredibly scared, completely under the phantom's spell, but not romantically; he has an entire hold on her. even when talking about him with meg she seems scared and almost trying to convince herself this is a good thing. she embraces raoul and is ecstatic to see him, but she can't bring herself to betray her 'angel.' during phantom of the opera she makes several attempts to look back/walk away from the phantom, though he always catches her arm and pulls her back in. this christine, in act one, is very much the phantom's victim - during stranger than you dreamt it, she keeps her head entirely down, during ll muto she's terrified of taking up the countess role, (she goes "Role?!" when they announce it and i like to think she only had the script half-memorized) and the only real happiness she gets is during all i ask of you, when she and raoul sing together and she gets a moment of rest - before the phantom absolutely wrecks her shit.

now, here's where it gets interesting. christine in act 2 has - realized that she has power. that she can fight back. she first gets an inkling of this during notes 2, when she leaves the entire main cast without saying a word (seriously, not even an "i can't!" someone tell me if julia messed up or if this was written in). wishing you were somehow here again is delivered - not as her breaking down, but as her realizing that she has the strength to try, to continue on without her father, or her angel, or anybody there - that she has to start living for herself. and her reaching out for the phantom is her buying into this idea that she has to rely on people, that she needs the phantom in order to live - but she doesn't. and its most pronounced in point of no return, when she realizes halfway through that he's the phantom, marches to the middle of the stage, and continues singing, while glaring at him like a madlad - if he wants to sing with her, oh boy, he's gonna get it. she even waves the guards away when they come to shoot the phantom, as if she's gonna deal with him herself. and during final lair, her main focus is always on escaping with raoul, even trying to duck under the gate with him - until she realizes that, wait, i've been fighting the wrong way this entire time. and she kisses him, showing him compassion and understanding, and he lets her go. and she looks so, so genuinely sad to give him back the ring, not like "ah shit im making the wrong choice" sad, but like, "oh god, oh shit really im just leaving you here, oh no, oh god." girlie is gonna have SUCH a guilt complex for the rest of her life <3

NOW, ted keegan's phantom was very interesting. im gonna be talking about him more generally, since his character arc isn't as pronounced as christine's. ted keegan plays the phantom as overdramatic: he swishes his cape, he yells, he smiles widely, he loves chewing the scenery and he loves showing himself off to christine. he's in so love with her and he genuinely believes that this is the right thing to do. the feeling i got from him was that - he had a plan, right? become christine's voice teacher, kidnap her, she falls in love with you, you get married and its a happy ending for everybody. but people kept fucking up his plans - from christine being, at first, too traumatized by him and then too angry to truly fall in love with him, to raoul showing up, to the new managers putting up a fight, to christine removing his mask and him scaring her. and at every detour from his plan, at every event that removes his suave, frightening-but-sexy persona, he gets more and more desperate, and more and more - real. he stops being overdramatic at very specific moments: when christine unmasks him and he realizes he just yelled at and threw her, ("oh - oh christine....") when he's on top of apollo's lyre post-all i ask of you, (begging the singing to stop, covering his ears, wiping his eyes, generally just bein' sad) during down once more, ("christine, christine, why?" and then he goes back to "WHYYYYYYYYYYYYY?") and finally, when she gives him the ring back.

and this is, i think, where his character really shines. he doesn't stop at the "christine, i love you" bit, he keeps on repeating, "i love you, i love you" even as she's leaving, not sadly, but as if its a realization. i love the idea that this phantom - always had this idea of christine in his head, someone he could show off to and sing his songs and be good and his idea of a perfect woman, but when she gives him back the ring, when he lets her go - he's finally fallen in love with her as she is and not how he wants her to be. she is christine daae and he is overwhelmed by his love for her, not how she sings his music or how she acts or how much she resembles an ideal he can never have. just plain her.

also its worth noting that during the kiss he just does not know what to do and its Hilarious. his hands are out, his eyes are open, he's barely kissing back, mans is shocked. especially when she goes in for another kiss, he's just ????????!!!!!!!!!!! it was highkey hilarious

oKAY, finally - bronson norris murphy's raoul. this guy was SO SWEET. from the beginning, he was clearly enamored with christine - hugging her, holding her hands, trying to break her out of her shell. when christine announced that her father was dead, he gave a little gasp and then bowed his head. even his invitation to supper was very nervous - he seemed to be like "okay yeah im suave im cool im winning she likes this!" like he was trying to be 'manly' and win her over. during notes he was snooping around, comparing the handwriting, asking around, even being really suspicious of madame giry immediately. he also partners with meg to look in the envelopes, which i find adorable. when christine shouts "role?!" during ll muto, he says "don't worry, im right with you!" which is just. so cute. and during all i ask of you, when christine is worried about the phantom being there, he literally checks the stairway for her, showing that nobody's there. he's really wonderful, here - and i love how his arc almost mirrors christine's? he starts out with a big crush on christine, going through the motions of courtship because he doesn't know what else to do. then, by notes, he realizes that christine needs help, more than he ever thought, and he commits to being there for her. all i ask of you was wonderful solely because raoul was so devoted to christine, waving her around, kissing her hands, shyly getting down on one knee. while the phantom is overblown in his affections, raoul is shy and clearly just wants to be with christine.

during act 2, he gets - hardened, a lot like the other characters. he's insistent on helping christine and making sure everyone's safe, and that means putting himself into Situations (confronting madame giry, setting up the don juan plan, even walking towards the phantom with his arms out while the phantom chucks fireballs because christine is more important) that he otherwise wouldn't have dreamt of. he has to face this very ugly reality (is that a pun?) very quickly to protect the woman he loves and he does do a decent job of it, however you have the sense that he doesn't quite know what he's doing. even when running off with christine in final lair, his first instinct is to stick around when the phantom tells him to leave - almost feeling bad for him. if not for the phantom doing his "go now and LEAAAAAAAVE MEEEEEEEEEEEE!" thing i think raoul would've picked the phantom up by the scruff of his neck and carried him back and given him therapy himself.

also when christine did her kiss-hug-kiss with the phantom, raoul really fucking struggled in the noose and it was hilarious. he looked so angy. bud i promise its okay!!!

so those are my thoughts on the main three, not even touching on how madame giry is somehow more like the persian than before, or how carlotta is much more sympathetic, or how i was sitting underneath the chandelier so i got to see it fall really close up,

thank you for reading my rant, have a nice night!!

[uhuh100]

she sells sea shells on the sea shore, but the value of these shells will fall; due to the laws of supply and demand, no one wants to buy shells 'cause there's loads on the sand!

Step 1: you must create a sense of scarcity. shells will sell much better if the people think they're rare, you see, bear with me, take as many shells as you can find and hide them on an island, stockpile 'em high until they're rarer than the diamond,

Step 2: you gotta make the people think that they want 'em. really want 'em, really fuckin want 'em, hit them like bronson. influencers, product placement, featured primetime entertainment; if you haven't got a shell then you're just a fuckin' waste, man.

3: it's monopoly, invest inside some property. start a corporation, make a logo, do it properly. "these shells must sell," that will be your new philosophy. swallow all your morals, they're a poor man's quality.

4: EXPAND, EXPAND, EXPAND. CLEAR FOREST, MAKE LAND, FRESH BLOOD, ON HANDS.

5: why just shells, why limit yourself?! she sells sea shells, sell oil as well!

6: guns, sell stocks, sell diamonds, sell rocks, sell water to a fish, sell the time to a clock,

7: step on the gas, take your foot off the brake, then run to be the president of the united states!

8: big smile mate, big wave, that's great, now the truth is overrated, tell lies out the gate!

9: polarize the people, controversy is the game! it don't matter if they hate you if they all say your name!

10: the world is yours. step out on the stage to a round of applause. you're a liar, a cheat, a devil, a whore, and you sell sea shells on the sea shore.

[wrestlingisfake]

ROH Fake Rankings, 12/2/2023

Men's singles division - babyfaces

Eddie Kingston (ROH men's world champion, STRONG men's champion)

Dalton Castle

El Hijo del Vikingo (AAA mega champion)

Komander (AAA cruiserweight champion)

Ethan Page

Lee Johnson

Gravity

Trent Beretta

Metalik

Willie Mack

Men's singles division - heels

Wheeler Yuta (ROH pure champion)

Brian Cage (ROH trios champion)

Kyle Fletcher

Tony Nese

Josh Woods

Evil Uno

Nick Comoroto

Unranked: Fred Rosser, Gringo Loco, Jack Cartwheel, Slim J, SK Bishop

After Tony Khan launched AEW in 2019, ROH went through a bit of a dark age until Khan acquired the promotion in 2022. Few names from that era remain on the roster--Castle, Yuta, and Woods are the most prominent on the weekly TV series right now.

We're two weeks away from ROH's next pay-per-view, Final Battle, and the men's side only has one match announced--a six-way for the television title, which Samoa Joe abandoned. Joe is putting his focus on chasing the AEW men's world champion MJF, who has been one of the ROH tag team champions for three months and has yet to appear on an ROH show. As for the six-way, only Castle and Komander have been confirmed as participants thus far.

I assume there won't be a men's world title match on the PPV, since Kingston is busy with AEW's Continental Classic tournament. Similarly the pure title has seen more action in AEW than ROH. Brian Cage and the trios title are effectively on ice until his tag partners return from New Japan's World Tag League.

I have no doubt Final Battle will end up being a good show. But with ROH in the state it's in, the quality of the show will largely depend on how many big names from AEW (or perhaps New Japan) will come in for exactly one night, tear the house down, and then not stick around. That approach isn't going to convince people to pay $10/month for the weekly TV.

Men's tag team division - babyfaces

Darius Martin & Action Andretti

Dralistico & Preston Vance

Iron Savages - Boulder & Bronson

Shawn Dean & Carlie Bravo

Christopher Daniels & Matt Sydal

The Outrunners - Truth Magnum & Turbo Floyd

Colt Cabana & Brandon Cutler

The Boys - Brandon Tate & Brent Tate

The Bollywood Boyz - Gurv Shira & Harv Shira

Men's tag team division - heels

Gates of Agony - Bishop Kaun & Toa Liona (ROH trios champions)

The Righteous - Vincent Marseglia & Bobby Dutch

The Butcher & The Blade

Shane Taylor Promotions - Shane Taylor & Lee Moriarty

The Workhorsemen - Anthony Henry & JD Drake

Cole Karter & Griff Garrison

Spanish Announce Project - Serpentico & Angelico

The Wingmen - Ryan Nemeth & Peter Avalon

The West Coast Wrecking Crew - Jorel Nelson & Royce Isaacs

Unranked: Jacoby Watts & Sebastian Wolfe, Trevor Outlaw & GPA

On paper this looks like a stacked tag team division. However, most of the teams listed are booked like jobbers when they appear on AEW teleivison, and get booked 50/50 in ROH matches. I think the Iron Savages, the Infantry (Dean/Bravo and Trish Adora), and the Outrunners have a ton of potential, but I can't fool myself into thinking they're being pushed right now. Andretti/Martin and the Righteous are presented like big deals, but their win-loss records don't reflect that--hell, the Righteous couldn't even beat MJF two-on-one.

The main exception is Kaun and Liona, who are booked like monsters. But there's no sense of that leading to them challenging for the ROH tag title. The main idea is that they're part of a monster trio with Brian Cage. But after a year at the top of the trios division, they've destroyed every possible trio combination on this roster, and it feels like only an AEW superteam could topple them.

Women's division - babyfaces

Willow Nightingale

Billie Starkz

Leyla Hirsch

Rachael Ellering

Kiera Hogan

Trish Adora

Women's division - heels

Athena (ROH women's world champion)

Marina Shafir

Nyla Rose

Mercedes Martinez

Diamante

Emi Sakura

Robyn Renegade

Charlette Renegade

Unranked: Amira, Brooke Havok, Heather Reckless, Heidi Howitzer, Johnnie Robbie, Kel, Ronda Rousey, Zoey Lynn

The biggest storyline in ROH lately has been Athena training Starkz to be her "minion," and feuding with Shafir, until Starkz flipped out on both Shafir and Athena, and challenged Athena for the title at Final Battle. At this point I'm not sure which of the three are supposed to end up being babyfaces or heels, but the story's still in progress.

They're also doing a thing with Hirsch trying to decide whether Ellering or Maria Kanellis truly has her back. So good for ROH for actually having multiple women's storylines, although I wish the second one wasn't the same passive-agressive "are you really my friend?" stuff we see all the time in women's wrestling.

The Renegades have gotten involved with both of these storylines, in tag matches against Athena/Starkz and Ellering/Hirsch. That's a good idea to keep things interesting. Unfortunately the Renegades have the same problem the Bella Twins had in WWE--their whole deal is being a cohesive duo, but the promotion doesn't have a women's tag team title for them to dominate.

OK, this next part is where I list wrestlers who are on the roster but haven't had a match in over a month. Thing is, ROH doesn't really have an official roster. So this is just a selection of wrestlers who are either on AEW's official roster or free agents that seem to be ROH regulars.

No televised ROH matches in 30 days: Allysin Kay, Blake Christian (GCW world champion), Kip Sabian, Lady Frost, Marti Belle, QT Marshall, Rocky Romero (CMLL historic welterweight champion), Scorpio Sky, Skye Blue

No televised ROH matches in 60 days: Angelina Love, AR Fox, Claudio Castagnoli, Chuck Taylor, Jimmy Jacobs, Leila Grey, Nick Wayne, Silas Young

Last televised ROH match between June 1 and August 31: Alex Reynolds, Big Bill (AEW tag team champion), Cheeseburger, Daniel Garcia, Eli Isom, Jacked Jameson, John Silver, Leon Ruffin, Madison Rayne, Mark Briscoe, Matt Taven, Mike Bennett, Miranda Alize, Penta El Zero Miedo, Rey Fenix, Rhett Titus, Samoa Joe, Stokely Hathaway, Stu Grayson, Tracy Williams

Looking at all these names, you can see talent that will probably be back before long, and others who have clearly moved on. I really doubt Castagnoli and Samoa Joe will be back. The Kingdom (Taven and Bennett) feel integral to 2020s ROH, but their AEW act with Roderick Strong is so hot right now that it'd be silly to move them back here. In other cases (for example, Isom, Cheeseburger, Williams, Titus) I never know if they're just on a hiatus or if Tony Khan has just decided to stop booking them altogether.

I would guess about half of these names will return to ROH now and then over the next six months. But "will return" could mean "will appear weekly leading to a PPV match" or just "will do one match and then nothing for another six months."

Inactive

Bandido (left wrist - triangular fibrocartilage complex tear)

Katsuyori Shibata (leave of absence)

There's no way to know if either of these guys will be ROH regulars when they return, but they were when we last saw them. By the same token, Dante Martin (who was injured on an ROH show months ago and has just made his return) could be headed back here or maybe he won't.

Conspicuous by their absence on this list are the ROH tag team champions, since Adam Cole hasn't wrestled under the ROH brand since 2017, and MJF never has. I thought it was possible they'd at least show up for Final Battle, but there's no timetable for Cole's return from an ankle injury. MJF could show up to defend the tag belts solo, or with a substitute partner. But considering he's working through a torn labrum, and trying to make it to the December 30 show, Final Battle is probably a low priority for his schedule.

[twothpaste]

little fic snippet below the cut, in which lucas n' bronson n' pals begin to uncover ghosts in the ruins of new pork

The whole place is haunted, mind you. Not just Lucas' cranial cavity. God knows what groans beneath their weight, every now n' again. Long, guttural wails, sifting through caked layers of apocalypse. You'd think it's just tectonic. Bronson sure does. Tide comes in. A thousand tons of rubble give way to sinking pressure. Natural as the sea, he maintains. Sheep shakes their head, though. They know what a crumbling tower sounds like. This? This invokes somethin' else. Like the mourning calls of long-extinct pilot whales. Or a million memories, snuffed out at the City's gates. Or zombies. Maybe.

Gilbert swears on his life it was solid ground one moment, and not the next. That he was swept off his feet, onto his bloodied knees, in all of a paranormal instant. Bronson says that's New New Pork Harbor for ya. Nana tells Toothpicks he can squeeze her hand, if he needs to, when she douses his wounds with rubbing alcohol. And his ears with an elaborate tale about how she learned to play the cornet, rekindling destiny, after swearing off brass instruments in her youth. She performed for an audience of none on a cliff by the sea, when she visited Kyushu-Two, and serendipitously charmed an adolescent short-tailed albatross. She named it Petunia. Gilbert squeezes tight. And draws the deepest sigh he can muster.

"For what it's worth? I think y'all're all a buncha yella-bellied nervous nellies," Claus jests. Radiating sunshine n' lackadaisy, from a walkway overlook. Helpin' themself to a hearty bite of beef jerky. "Environment's got a profound effect on an animal's nerves, y'know. This place is prob'ly just gettin' to your heads."

Below, the chicken coop in question clucks middling counterpoints. Earning Claus' grins n' snickers. Beside his brother, Lucas extends a sympathetic arm over solid steel. N' mutters,

"Y'ain't projectin', are ya?"

Turning rightwards, their eyebrow concedes a flicker. As does the wavelength between the two of 'em. Psionic technicolor. Warm to sudden cold tones. And back again. With a crooked smirk.

"It happens to the best of us," they shrug and say.

Regarding the supposed spectral force plaguing the junkyard mire - or the potency of places over people - Lucas has his faith, and his doubts. A wealth of experience on either front. If he had to wager? He suspects there's a truth to both sides.

"Whaddaya know?" snarks the Porky in his head. "When a leftist finally grows the hell up, he becomes a centrist, after all."

You don't know what either of those words mean.

"Hahahah."

An adamant realist, on the other hand, Bronson fears no ghosts nor hauntings of the past nor present. Nope. No siree, he whistles. But he keeps his wits about him nonetheless. For everyone else's sake. He promised Abbey n' Abbot he'd watch over the whippersnapper, in particular. No easy task, he soon comes to learn. Lil' lassie's workin' hours trend lengthy and precarious. Scouring sunset overtime, just to plunder a few more trunks n' glove compartments. With metric tons piled on top of each other, and rumors of shifting terrain, the prospect of one misplaced boot has the admiral on edge. Perhaps with good reason.

"Ah? Hey! H-Hey! Abelle!!" he barks, abruptly.

She turns on a dime. From her perch atop the leaning tower of pizza delivery vehicles. Bright eyes drawn dinnerplate-wide.

"Y'better get the hell down from there, if you know what's good for y--!?"

Before Lucas' addled reflexes even spark a flinch's inkling, the flash is said and done. Glassy chime above. A crash in every key, glanced off an impervious surface. Bronson jolts like artillery fire. Craggy wrinkles illuminated in the ward's gracious gleam. Behind him, unbeknownst to him - a second heap had budged, see. Of its own ghoulish accord, or by incidental laws of physics, is anyone's guess. The fallen piano's no mere specter, though. Hilarious as it might seem. Were it not for Shield Omega, he'd be crushed to smithereens.

Abelle's pupils relinquish their neon glow.

"Gosh! Careful there, Mister Bronson! Now, what's that you were sayin'?"

His jaw slacks open. His lungs, however, manage little more than, "I… I, er.. ah…?"

"Nice save," both twins call. In almost-unison.

"Oh! Why thank ya!" Abelle waves back.

[adamwatchesmovies]

Enter the Warriors Gate (2016)

Enter the Warriors Gate a.k.a. The Warriors Gate is bad but kind of cute. I could even see some viewers looking past its numerous and obvious flaws and having a good time. That ending though; it’ll convince just about everyone that what they just saw has been done better elsewhere.

Teenaged Jack Bronson (Uriah Shelton) is a wizard at video games. His skills lead a real-life warrior from the past, Zhao (Mark Chao), to confuse him with a skilled fighter. Zhao must protect Princess Su Lin (Ni Ni) from Arun the Cruel (Dave Bautista), who wants to force her into marriage and steal her kingdom. After the princess is kidnapped, Jack is transported to the past and forced to fight.

This setup is nothing special. A normal teen is brought to a mystical world whose inhabitants confuse him for a mighty warrior. Most of the time, our hero/heroine finds a way to become the person they need to be by using knowledge of history or by replicating modern-day technology to combat their enemies. This story by Luc Besson (yes, really) and his frequent collaborator, Robert Mark Kamen gives Jack many unearned wins. Most come rapid-fire in the last 15 minutes of the story where a happy ending is basically served on a golden platter. Many come even earlier. Uriah Shelton looks about as Chinese as a Big Mac but he communicates with all of these people from the past with no problem. They just stop speaking Mandarin a couple of minutes into the film… until the end when director Matthias Hoene suddenly remembers he's trying to appeal to both Western and Eastern audiences simultaneously.

The biggest surprise is that this film never dusts off that old “This hot dog, what kind of dog is it made from?” line. When we learn Jack lives alone with his mom, you assume it’s either so the film can have our hero eventually overcome the grief born from his parents' divorce or so we can swiftly shoo mom away and get the adventure started. Guess which one Enter the Warriors Gate chooses to go with. I’ll give you a hint. It can’t even manage to get its title's grammar correct, much less handle complex character arcs.

Where this picture wins some points is in the comedy. There are numerous off-hand remarks made by Arun the Cruel and his chief executioner that’ll make you laugh. Once in a while, it’ll blindside you with some unexpected gags and you’ll take a break from laughing at the film to laugh along with it. And there are numerous reasons for you to ridicule this adventure. Most come during the conclusion. Even before then, there’s some bad and needless CGI, awful wigs, and cringe-inducing dance numbers. The writing is quite poor, particularly when you realize the wizard (Francis Ng) introduced at the beginning of the movie could’ve probably done everyone a favour by single-handedly defeating the baddie on his own.

Enter the Warriors Gate feels like a release from 30-40 years ago. Everything about this tale you’ve seen done before, many times. Seemingly aware of this, it tries to keep things interesting by having both someone from another world comes to ours, and the reverse too. At least the actors are likeable, which goes a long way. It’s competent but never inspired. (April 4, 2020)

[tengomilpalabrasparati]

Cumpleaños 🎂

ED HARRIS, uno de los más grandes, cumple 72 años

Edward Allen Harris (Tenafly,Nueva Jersey; 28 de noviembre de 1950), más conocido como Ed Harris, es un actor, productor y director estadounidense, ganador del Globo de Oro y candidato al premio Óscar en cuatro ocasiones.

Es conocido por sus actuaciones en los filmes "Las horas", "Appaloosa", "La Roca", "The Abyss", "Apolo 13", "The Right Stuff", "A Beautiful Mind", "Pollock", "A History of Violence", "The Truman Show" y "Enemy at the Gates", entre otras.

Su padre era cantante. Durante los años de escuela fue un atleta destacado, lo que le valió una beca para estudiar en la universidad de Columbia, en Nueva York. Dos años más tarde su familia se trasladó al estado de Oklahoma y Harris siguió a su familia, habiendo descubierto su interés por la interpretación después de actuar en varias obras teatrales en la universidad.

El primer papel importante que Harris hizo en el cine fue en "Borderline", con Charles Bronson, en el que interpretó a un asesino

Fue candidato en cuatro ocasiones al premio Óscar, dos veces como mejor actor de reparto por "Apolo 13" y "The Truman Show", y dos veces como mejor actor principal por "Pollock" y "Las horas".

Harris está casado desde 1983 con la actriz Amy Madigan. El matrimonio tiene una hija, Lilly, nacida el 3 de mayo de 1993, diez años después de casarse.

[djducats]

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