agent odd


The family that pranks together stays together. Also I’m pretty sure Ezra is just glad that Sabine has stopped pranking him in favor of a new crewmember. Also welcome, Specter 7! Also I SPENT ALL DAY MAKING THIS STUPID COMIC HELP



the goods might also be in love with me



“Hey, Scully. Can I borrow the stapler real quick?”

Something flits across her face, barely there a moment before it’s gone again. If he hadn’t been looking right at her, he would have missed it – the slight crease between her eyebrows, a momentary tension around her mouth. It’s almost an expression of pain, albeit fleeting, and he wonders if it has anything to do with whatever sent her to the ER in the middle of the night.

She looks over at him with a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes, holding the stapler out. “Here you go, Agent Doggett.”

It’s subtly deliberate, the way she says his name, like she’s mad at him but trying to hide it. Damned if he can figure out why she would be, though. All they’ve done this morning is exchange pleasantries and a few words about the field report they’re wrapping up. He can’t think of anything he could have said or done to upset her.

For the rest of the day, though, everything seems normal, and he decides he probably just imagined it.


It’s happened four times now. Four times he’s called her “Scully” instead of “Agent Scully,” and she’s trying not to let it bother her. By all rights, it shouldn’t bother her. Yet every time he does it, it sets her teeth on edge.

It’s completely innocuous, and she doubts it is even a deliberate choice on his part. A “thanks, Scully” here and there, asking her to pass the stapler yesterday and wishing her a good morning just now. Intermittent breaks from their established routine and not even a consistent change. Perhaps that very inconsistency makes them all the more jarring.

She’s angry with herself more than anything. It’s completely irrational for her to be bothered by this; he’s her partner, and this is a perfectly reasonable way for partners to address each other. Partners are supposed to develop a rapport, a familiarity that allows them to work seamlessly together in the field. What right does she have to continue insisting on a barrier of formality between them, even one as minor as never dropping titles when they call each other by name?

It’s just that in Mulder’s mouth, her name alone became an endearment. Maybe that’s a little bit ridiculous, but it’s true.

And even though she’s trying to continue living her life, to carry on despite his absence, there’s a difference between carrying on and growing comfortable. Something in her chafes at the notion that her current situation is anything other than a temporary one, and every time Agent Doggett calls her “Scully,” it serves as a stark reminder of just how much time has passed and how much less temporary her circumstances feel, day by day.

“Agent Scully, I don’t mean to pry, but is something bothering you?”

His question jolts her out of her spiral, and she turns to see him looking at her with quiet concern. Though her every instinct is to wave it off and tell him she’s fine, what she blurts out instead is, “Why have you started calling me ‘Scully?’”

He blinks; this was clearly not the response he was expecting. “I’m not sure I follow.”

Immediately, her face grows warm, and she looks down. This was a huge mistake. What kind of a partner is she, to ask this of him?

“Never mind, I… it’s nothing.”

“No, look, if I’m missing something here, I’d really rather you just tell me. Your shoulders have been up around your ears since I walked in here this morning, and if that’s ‘cause of something I did… or didn’t do… or what, I wanna know so I can fix it.”

She hadn’t even noticed the tension in her shoulders until just now. If she is really so transparent, there’s no way she will be able to convincingly brush this off. No, she has to finish what she started.

“I’m sorry, Agent Doggett. This isn’t really about you, and I’m… I’m somewhat embarrassed to say it’s not especially rational on my part. I haven’t said anything because I know it’s irrational. That it’s my problem to deal with, not yours.”

She dares a glance up at him, then, and he is watching her intently but seemingly without judgment. Taking a breath, she continues.

“Agent Mulder called – calls – me ‘Scully.’ Not ‘Agent Scully.’ And under any other circumstances, that distinction probably wouldn’t feel like such a big thing, but now that–” She falters, biting off the rest of the truth she’s only just realized as it was about to come out of her mouth.

The pregnancy hormones are likely at least partially to blame for the intensity of her emotion over this whole thing. Well, shit.

“But now that he’s gone, it feels weird, me calling you the same thing he did,” Agent Doggett guesses, and he’s not wrong. “I get it. You don’t have to apologize.”

“No, I do,” she says, relieved to have skirted the issue of her pregnancy once more. (She will obviously have to tell him eventually, but she is just not ready yet.) “It isn’t fair to you, and I am sorry to be having this reaction.”

He shakes his head. “Don’t worry about it. I know it must be hard, him still being gone. You don’t have to beat yourself up over feeling however you feel about that. Just part of being human. Sometimes the things we feel aren’t rational or reasonable, and that’s okay.”

She lets out a breath and nods, feeling as though a weight has been lifted. “Thank you, Agent Doggett.”

The Moon

the series read as follows:

SupermanMondayCheezy PouffsBaconStumblingTrail Mix …  PunchFridayPreparationUncle MudlerNormalBackseatMudler-senseThe FBIUnthinkablePatienceElephant JokesCooking Rickety TablesMr. SkimmerBert and Ernie … Midnight Confessions


There’s some stuff at the end .. fun stuff .. stuff the cat said was inappropriate for virgin eyes … I told her to go take a nap …


Frustration won.

Growling in the darkness, heart racing, mind flying, she banged the mattress with balled-up fists, “stop. I’m sorry. Can you stop?”

Mulder, having felt her getting nowhere fast and the tension building up accordingly, slowed, then stopped his fingers, burying his lips above her ear, whispering through a kiss, “can’t stop thinking, can you?” Wiggling her hips slightly, she waited for him to remove his hand before she dropped her forearm across her eyes, not daring to look at her partner in that moment, choosing dark embarrassment over honest concern. Mulder, however, wasn’t having any of it, reaching up to gently pull her arm away, “hey, it’s okay.”

Groaning now, she hauled herself up, sitting on the edge of the bed, feet resting on bedframe, elbows on knees, head in hand, “really? Because it feels fairly annoying to me.”

1am had its good moments and 1am had its bad moments, “I’m just telling you what I think and I think that maybe you went looking to forget a little too fast.”

“Are you honestly going to psychoanalyze me in the middle of the night?”

“Nope.” He stood up, then took her hand, a little rougher than usual but feeling it necessary to get her to move, “come on.”

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“Irresistible” Chapter 5 Dean Winchester x Reader

Words: 2,886

Dean Winchester x Reader

Warnings: Language, smut, oral sex (fem. receiving), fluff, gun use, threats of being shot, angst

a/n: omg im sorry it took me forever to get this chapter out but ITS WORTH IT I PROMISE

ch. 1  ch. 2   ch. 3  ch. 4  

“Oh my, fuck,” You moan out, tangling your hands in Dean’s hair as he moves his tongue up and down your clit.

“Dean, yes,” You start to roll your hips. Dean grabs on to your thighs to hold you down, flicking his tongue at a faster pace. You can feel the familiar heat rising up in your lower area, indicating that your orgasm is near. You bring your hand up to your breasts, playing with your nipple as Dean now enters two fingers inside of you as well.

The pleasure is almost too much to handle. He really knows what he is doing.

“I’m coming, oh god, yes,” You yell out, and release yourself over him. Dean gets up from between your thighs, a smile plastered on his face.

“I will never get tired of this.” Dean smirks, bringing himself up on top of you.

It’s only seven in the morning, but Dean recently has been waking you up more often than not quite pleasurably. Whether it be sex or him eating you out like you’re candy, mornings have proven to be amazing with this man.

Lately, Dean’s been staying at your house while he was in town, which was not very often anymore. He basically moved in- he even has a key to the house and extra clothes for when he stays over. He’s been extremely busy with work lately, so anytime he had at home, he spent it with you. Whether that be at your house, or out going on dates, you’re spending almost all of your time together.

You love him, you know this. Who couldn’t love this man? He’s perfect in every way possible. He’s treated you better than any man has ever treated you before. You know there are things about his past that he is keeping from you, but you know that it’s for a reason. Ever since that talk you two had a few months ago, you haven’t brought it up since. He’ll tell you whenever he is ready.

“Don’t go to work today.” Dean breathes out, lying down next to you in bed. His hand is playing with your hair, and his other hand was rubbing circles on your stomach.

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Heartbreak Love

PAIRING: reader x Steve Rogers


WARNINGS: Angst, swearing. 

Request from Anon- Hey love :) I hope I can request an imagine with Captain Rogers where you’re an avenger and fall in love with him but then you see him kiss Sharon and leave the Scene heart broken. What you don’t know, Steve also fell in love with you and the kiss with Sharon didn’t mean something to him. Back at the facility Wanda informs Steve that you left and he immediately tries everything to find you and tell you that he wants to be you to be his one and only? <3 that would be really lovey :) & his POV maybe. 

So this maybe a little it emotional, sorry about that! I haven’t done a an angst in a while, Enjoy (may need tissues idk?) 

GIF NOT MINE:- imagine without the blood mainly for the expression! 

Originally posted by harrleyquinzel

Being in love was one of the most beautiful and once in a lifetime feeling. Nothing compared to it, it was euphoric the feeling was indescribable, to know that another loved you just as fiercely and passionately as you did. To know that they would do anything for you, risk their life you even. Well that’s what you had been told love was like. No one ever told you the feeling of unrequited love, the love that pierced your heart each time you looked at them. The devastating feeling knowing that they would never love you as much as you ever loved them. It was soul destroying, but addictive. 

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Blast From The Past: Part 12

Pairing: Reader x Bucky
Word Count: 1K
Warnings: Angst

A/N: Short one again, they’ll get longer soon!

Feedback is always appreciated. Let me know if you want to be added to the tags list.

Part 1 // Part 11

Sam yanked you arm further behind your back, making your shoulder twinge with intense pain. You tapped the floor of the sparring ring repeatedly until Sam released your wrist.

“What is with you today?” he huffed out in annoyance, as you roll onto your back and stare up at him.

You usually dominated Sam in a fight, but you were too worried to think straight. It had been 4 days since Steve and Bucky had left on the mission, and just over 22 hours since anyone had heard from them. Everyone was reassuring you everything was fine, but you had a gut feeling that is wasn’t.

You shrug, “I don’t know,” you lie, while absentmindedly fiddling with the necklace Bucky had given you.

Sam jutted a hip out and stared down at you, “Sure it’s got nothing to do with ya boy, G.I. Bucky?”

“What?” your eyes flew open, and you could feel your cheeks growing hot, “What do you mean, ‘my boy’”

“Oh, come on! Everyone knows you guys are together,” Sam smirks,

“Damn it, Natasha!” you furrow your brow, 

“Nat didn’t say anything. Everyone’s known for weeks,” he chuckles,

“Wait, weeks? Plural? We’ve only been together for a week,” you get to your feet and grab your water bottle to take a sip,


“No, really. We got together after my birthday party,”

Sam hummed in amusement, and then straightened up, “Alright, let’s go again,” he gestured with his hands for you to run at him.

Just before you launched yourself, Nat burst into the gym.

“I need you both. Communications room. Now!” she shouted at you and Sam. You both jump into action and sprint out of the gym after Natasha.

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It’s the final countdown...

We done did it!  22 stories for 22 asks from the 100 Prompts List!!!

@summerblosoms requested #91 (yay for the only DIY pick).  They said,

“If you could make Spencer have something along the lines of appendicitis and be really sick that would be great.  Like have him faint at work or something from being so sick.”

Your wish is my command!  This is probably slightly medically inaccurate.  I’m basing it on what I think I  know about Harry Houdini (which is not a lot).

Bear with me; it’s a bit long.


“Are you sure you’re ok?” JJ asks.

Spencer pauses as he slides into the backseat of the black SUV, trying not to wince as the change in position agitates his stomach.

“You took a hard hit back there.  I wish you would’ve let the paramedics check you out.”  JJ holds the car door open and watches Spencer shakily fasten his seatbelt.

“I’m ok,” he says.  He’s been saying it for hours now.  After the unsub had punched him in the gut, to the police and firefighters surrounding the scene, and a thousand times on the flight back home to Quantico.  “I just need to wait for it to bruise and start healing.”

JJ sighs and gives him a sad smile.  “At least come by my desk and get some Aleve.  You…look like you’re having a hard enough time.”

“Yeah, ok,” Spencer replies.  He waits for JJ to shut the door and climb into the SUV’s front seat, then leans back and shuts his eyes. The pink inflamed skin on the right side of his abdomen is tender to the touch of anything from his fingers to his shirt, and the dazed nausea that follows such a hard hit still lingers.  He’s sure nothing’s damaged, though.  The pain he feels isn’t the sharpness of a fracture in his rib or hip bone.  Just generalized discomfort.  That’s currently making him feel like he needs to vomit.  But he’s fine.

The ride from the airstrip back to the office is short, made to feel shorter by the sleepy darkness outside.  It’s after 11 at night, and while the agents are used to odd hours, it doesn’t make the prospect of sleepy paperwork any more inviting.

“Just do the minimum,” Hotch says when everyone piles out of the elevator and heads to their desks.  “Only the most important paperwork.  Get things written down while they’re fresh in your mind.  Then go home.”  He makes eye contact with each team member to ensure understanding.  “And sleep in tomorrow.  I’ll call if another case drops.”

Spencer trudges to his chair and opens a drawer of files.  He selects blank case report forms and a pen, then sighs and bends over the desktop.  The position forces his ribcage to put pressure on his stomach, and exterior pain and interior nausea combine in swirling uneasiness.

He works on the papers for a few minutes.  He’s forcibly reminded of being a child in school, scribbling out answers on worksheets while trying to hide an upset stomach lest he be sent to the nurse’s office.  He’d been eight years old.  And he’d thrown up all over his math workbook.

But that’s not the situation now.  Spencer’s an adult.  Case reports are immensely more important than arithmetic problems, and he should be focusing.  So what if he’s hurting a little bit?  He can’t let small things distract him.  It doesn’t even hurt that much.  He’s fine.

“Spence?”  JJ’s at his shoulder with a bottle of pills and a Styrofoam cup of metallic-tasting tap water.  “Here.”  She portions out a dose of naproxen sodium and hands it over.  Her soft fingers linger for a moment on Spencer’s clammy palm.  He draws back and tosses the pill down his throat, mostly dry-swallowing it before gulping down the water as a chaser.

“It’s ok if you’re hurting, you know,” JJ murmurs.

“I’m ok.”  Spencer really wishes he has something else to say.

One by one, the agents take their leave.  Garcia promises donuts and lattes in the morning to make up for the late night.  Hotch tells her to stop spending her own money on the team, but the blithe tech analyst just whips out a pom-pom topped pen and scribbles down everyone’s usual Starbucks order.

“Americano with way too many sugars?” she asks when she makes her round to Spencer’s desk.

It is his usual favorite, but right now it sounds revolting.  Spencer tries not to let it show in his voice when he says, “Yeah.  Sure.”

“What’s wrong?” Garcia asks immediately, her mouth turning down in an expression of concern.

“Nothing, I’m fine,” Spencer lies again.

“Hey, but, no, no you’re not.”  Garcia puts a hand on Spencer’s shoulder.  “You feeling ok?  I heard you got beat up…”

“Yeah, I’m just kind of tired,” Spencer says.

“Then get out of here.”  Hotch approaches on Spencer’s other side.  He has his briefcase in hand and his coat over his arm as if he’s on the way out the door himself.  “Really, with a memory like yours, you can work all your forms in the morning.”

Normally, Spencer would humbly agree.  It’s usually not a challenge to recall past events with a good degree of exactitude.  Now, though, everything seems fuzzy.  Except for the memory of the gloved fist coming into slow-motion contact with Spencer’s side before he’d had the opportunity to don a bulletproof vest or draw a weapon.

“I will,” Spencer says.  “In just a minute.  I really want to get this first page done…”  He looks down at his sloppy scribbles and the two or three blank spaces still remaining on the sheet.

“I’ll take your word for it,” Hotch says, giving Spencer a serious nod.  “If I find out you’ve stayed here halfway through the night, we’ll have to talk about you working yourself too hard.”

“Yes, sir,” Spencer articulates.

“I’ll get you an extra-special donut,” Garcia promises.  Worry flickers in her eyes for a second, but Spencer pulls a pained smile that seems to placate her enough to take her leave.

Finally all the other agents are gone.  Spencer lowers his head to his desk, ignoring the greasy forehead print he’s leaving on the case file.  He should go home.  He wants more than anything to sleep.  But his gut is brewing a queasy feeling that ricochets off the pain in his stomach and shoots up to his skull.  Because a headache to match his stomachache is exactly what he needs right now.

Standing up and walking and sitting and driving and walking and lying down all seem like hassles Spencer’s not equipped to deal with in his current state of misery.  Maybe the painkiller JJ gave him will kick in soon and relieve some of the awful, swirling stress.  He’ll shut his eyes, just for a moment…

Spencer starts awake and sits up abruptly.  He’s still in his office chair, and papers and files leave creases in his clammy cheek. Dizziness assaults him as soon as he’s upright.  The lamp on his desk is on, but all other lights in the bullpen are extinguished.

The lighted dial on his watch tells Spencer it’s a bit after 4 in the morning.  He’s slept some, but in an uncomfortable position.  He’s still less than rested.  Spencer scrubs his hands over his face, his fingertips tingling as they drag over stubble on their way up to his hairline.  His whole body feels sweaty and just shy of disgusting.  A feverish ache thrums in his temples, and pain lances up and out from his stomach.

It’s too late to go home.  But it’s also too early to do anything else.  On a normal day, agents generally start filing in around 7.  But after yesterday’s late night and the promise of a less-than-early start, Spencer doubts he’ll see anyone before 8:30.  So really, he does have time to go home, shower, sleep, and come back.  He abandons the idea when the motion to stand up has him swallowing down bile.

There’s still a clean shirt in his go-bag, so Spencer digs it out and heads for the bathroom to change.  He’ll take every precaution if it means he can avoid his fellow agents knowing that he’s spent the night here.  Spencer uses his shoulder to open the heavy washroom door, and the motion-detected light snaps on as soon as he’s crossed the threshold.

He squints against the brightness, but Spencer can clearly see that he looks awful.  He slips out of his cardigan and unbuttons his white oxford shirt.  He sheds his undershirt, wads up the fabric, and uses it to dab oiliness and sweat from his face.  Then he turns his attention to the patch of blushed purple spreading over the right side of his abdomen.

The skin isn’t broken, but it’s inflamed with the slight puffiness that surrounds healing cuts.  Blood has seeped under the skin to show up as a reddish-violet shadow that’s sure to darken to all colors of black and blue and green as it heals.  Spencer dabs at the injury, and searing heat follows the touch of his fingers.  His skin hurts on the outside, and something definitely hurts on the inside. Spencer’s stomach clenches, and he wonders if he’s going to throw up as he stands there, clutching the counter with one hand and praying he doesn’t fall over.

Pain signals often redirect to nausea.  It’s unfortunate, but not uncommon.  But Spencer feels sick too.  Not just to his stomach, but all over.  Tender aches creep into his lower back and up and down to the joints of his arms and legs.  His head’s wanging.  But that might be from dehydration.  Besides the sip of water Spencer took along with the painkillers last night, he doesn’t know when he last drank.  Or ate.  But he feels so far from hunger it’s almost comical.

Spencer scoops water from the bathroom faucet and splashes it over his face.  He uses a couple paper towels to dry off and wipe perspiration from under his arms.  Satisfied that he’s as clean as he’s going to get, he shakes the wrinkles out of his fresh shirt and buttons it over his bare chest, cringing as the starched fabric brushes his injury.

He exits the bathroom and drops his dirty clothes in his go-bag.  Then Spencer glances around for something to keep him occupied for the next few hours.  He considers going back to the case file, but too much work done on it will arouse suspicion and potentially alert his co-workers to the fact that he’s been here all night.  Spencer’s eyes alight on the coffeemaker, and though the idea of putting anything in his stomach is still revolting, at least sipping will be something to do.  And perhaps the caffeine will get him feeling back like himself.  Or at least make a dent in the headache.

He returns to his desk once he has a steaming foam cup in his trembling hand.  The first sip feels energizing as Spencer swallows it, but it doesn’t taste good.  More sweat breaks out across his moustache, and the heat of his bruise flares as the liquid drips into his stomach.

Heaving a deep sigh, Spencer opens his desk drawer and paws around for anything worth passing time with.  He pulls out one of Rossi’s books and stares down at the face of his friend and fellow agent on the dust jacket.  Spencer’s read it before, and he recalls most of the main points, but he opens it anyway and begins to read.  He goes intentionally slowly, hearing Rossi’s voice in each word.  Spencer’s used to reading for content alone, and he has to admit that the hours passed moving his gaze at a snail’s pace across the page is a welcome change.  Or at least it is until his eyes start to lose focus and nausea begins creeping up on him again.

Overly sweet and coffee-flavored spit floods Spencer’s mouth.  He sets the book on the desktop where it flops shut, losing his page. He brings both hands up to cover his nose and lips and sucks in a long breath that does little to soothe the bubbling tumult in his stomach.  Heat flashes over Spencer’s skin, and his hands and feet feel unnaturally cold and damp.

He stumbles up and trips toward the bathroom as his liquid stomach contents start to make a reappearance at the back of his throat.  Spencer sprints past the row of sinks and throws himself head-first into the lonely stall.  He retches as soon as his knees hit the ground.  His abdominals contract, igniting lines of lightning-hot pain across his bruised stomach.  Spencer moans into the echoing toilet bowl and spits out strings of mucous.

The fact that there’s little to purge doesn’t stop Spencer’s stomach from turning itself inside out.  He’s empty and aching after a few decent heaves, but dry retching quickly sets in, bringing more pain with each spine-arching contraction.  He wraps his long fingers around the toilet seat and watches his knuckles go white from the bone-crushing pressure.  He’s still so seasick he can barely move.

When the heaves dissolve into hiccups, Spencer shakily pulls himself to his feet, using the toilet paper dispenser for support.  His eyeballs feel like they’re vibrating in their sockets, giving him the overall feeling that the earth is jittering beneath his feet.  He crosses to the counter of sinks and splashes his face again, bringing a handful up to his lips to rinse the disgusting taste of caffeinated bile from his tongue.  

After pressing a paper towel to his ashen skin, Spencer exits the bathroom.  His loose plan is to head back for his desk and curl inward; just standing upright stretches the skin of his stomach and invites the roiling throb to escalate.

All ideas are dashed, though, when he opens the door to see the back of a blonde head and pink-sweatered shoulders bobbing around the desks in the bullpen.

Spencer lets go of the bathroom door without realizing what he’s doing, and the resulting slam jars him as much as it does Garcia.

“Oh my god!” the tech analyst shrieks, dropping the box of donuts in her arms and sending them bouncing across the floor and under Morgan’s desk.  She whips around and looks for the source of the noise.  Her eyes widen behind her brightly colored glasses when she sees Spencer.  “Oh my god,” she repeats.

Garcia’s high heels clack as she rushes to Spencer’s side, but the sound grows fuzzy on its way up to his ears.  Stars start to blink at the corners of his visual field, and Spencer’s head feels heavy and lopsided.  Without warning, the world tips sickeningly, and the ceiling swaps places with the bullpen’s eastern wall.  He blinks hard to see if the illusion will clear.  But it doesn’t, and the back of his head smack against something hard.

“Reid!  Oh, god, sweetheart…”  Warm hands find Spencer’s shoulders, then move up to cup his cheeks.  He forces his eyes open to see Penelope’s blurry face, then doubles instinctively onto his side as a rush of nausea forces itself up and out.

“Ok, you’re ok,” Garcia murmurs, patting Spencer on the back as he throws up spit and air.  Then she changes tact, the panic in her voice escalating.  “You’re not ok.  You’re really sick.”  She palms Spencer’s sweaty forehead.  “You’re really, really sick.”

Spencer coughs and clutches his stomach, grunting in pain when he presses too hard on the wound dominating his right side.

“Your stomach?” Garcia asks.  She reaches down and lifts the tails of Spencer’s untucked shirt to expose the bare skin underneath. “Oh my…” she trails off when she sees the spread of bruising.  “You’re—Reid, I don’t…I’m gonna call an ambulance, ok?”  She lightly palpates the discolored area on his stomach, and Spencer lets out an involuntary cry when her fingers rebound.

“Oh god, that’s right where your appendix is,” she worries.  “If you got hit and it’s all infected…”  Penelope trails off and yanks her neon-encased cell phone from her pocket.  “I’m calling right now.  You’re gonna be ok.”

Spencer hears the phone ringing out a couple times before an operator picks up.  And over the tone, he can hear Garcia whispering, “You’ll be ok.  You have to be ok.”

The ambulance ride and everything after is a blur.  The next thing Spencer knows, he’s in an unfamiliar bed in an unfamiliar room. He’s groggy, and every inch of his body hurts.  He can see a nasal cannula in his peripheral vision, dispensing oxygen into his tired lungs.  A glance to one side shows an IV stand and heart monitor.  In the other direction is a chair.  Garcia’s slumped against the wall, her eyes closed and mouth open in the posture of uncomfortable upright sleep.

“Garcia?” Spencer wheezes.

“Huh?”  Penelope snaps up, wiping drool from her lip with the back of her hand.  “I said you’d be ok, right?” she says sleepily.

“Yeah.”  Spencer nods.  “Yeah, I think you did.”

Random Thought

What if Jessica could also talk to Type Threes? There’s really not a lot to support this, but rereading TSS and TWS it just struck me how quick Lockwood is to assume that Lucy can talk to the dead.

Long before the skull starts to talk to her, he asks her over and over if Annie Ward is telling her things. Considering the fact that Type Threes even existing is a “matter of faith” (according to TWS) for most agents, it seems odd to me that he’d jump immediately to the conclusion that Lucy’s conversing with ghosts.

It might also help to explain his concern about Listeners being “too sensitive” if Jessica was an exceptionally talented Listener and he saw the toll it took on her.

Again, not super substantial. Just throwing ideas out before TEG.

#TwinPeaks: Kyle MacLachlan on creating doppelgängers and Dirty Cooper

  In the original Twin Peaks, Kyle MacLachlan was Agent Cooper, one of the great heroes in TV history. On the new Twin Peaks, the star plays multiple Coopers, but none of them are yet the Agent Cooper we know. He’s Cooper’s disembodied spirit. He’s Cooper’s evil doppelgänger, driven by a ruthless desire to survive. He’s Cooper’s evil doppelgänger’s dim-witted, adulterous, everyman double (now deceased). He’s a reincarnated Cooper but sapped of mind, memory, and much personality (though blessed with incredible gambling luck). It’s like co-creators David Lynch and Mark Frost have teamed with their actor to turn Agent Cooper into an art project: the loss of heroic goodness and the flourishing of anti-hero on TV. 

That’s just my theory. MacLachlan himself is just having fun. The actor, 58, says the new Twin Peaks presented him with a challenge that was nerve-wracking and thrilling, and he delighted in the creativity of making it work for his longtime friend, Lynch, who directed him in Dune and Blue Velvet. He tells us we haven’t really seen anything yet from Twin Peaks, although, of course, he’s sworn to keep the details secret. “It’s David Lynch,” he says, “and he’s taking you to a place that he wants to go. It’s in his mind, we’re going on this journey with him, so buckle up, here we go!”

We caught up with MacLachlan for coffee and a brief chat about creating his multiple Coopers before he left for France to bring Twin Peaks to the Cannes Film Festival.

ENTERTAINMENT WEEKLY: Are you pleased with the response so far to the show?
KYLE MACLACHLAN: I am. I thought the reviews were acknowledging that they were seeing something unusual and very difficult to judge because it’s a small portion of what is clearly a longer journey. At the end, there will be a lot of things written, I can imagine, about the experience, whether it was fulfilling or not. But right now, it seems like the reaction we’re getting is, if this is your cup of tea, it’s a pretty great journey to take.

Did you watch the premiere when it aired?

I didn’t. I had seen the first two when they were screened at the Hollywood premiere, and the impact on me was pretty profound. So I’m sitting in that before I go back and revisit it again because I know my second time through, I’ll become very critical. I think that’s part of the process. Unlike so many other things on television – and this is not a criticism, it’s just the way it is – this is something that you really need to sit with, I think. It resonates and it continues to resonate if you let it.

  What did you make of Cooper’s dark doppelgänger when you first 

encountered him in the script or when David and Mark told you about him?

I felt challenged, immediately. When we met initially, David said, “We’re doing Twin Peaks, I need Cooper, are you in?” And I said yes — that’s a no-brainer — and then he said, “Well, there will be a few other things, too,” and he didn’t go into great detail about the “other things” that I would be doing that I can remember. But when I read it, I went, “Oh, wow, okay.” I was nervous, but I was — and am — also incredibly humbled that David would give me this opportunity to play a character that is so unlike me and anything I’ve done, that he believes in my ability enough to trust me to do it. Because he’s got no choice! He’s got me! I’m Cooper! But that he has the trust that it would work meant a lot. I still didn’t know if it would work until I saw it the other night. I mean, I remember the filming of it, I remember feeling pretty good about it, but to actually see it, and see if it was successful, I was really pleased.

How did you construct the look and tone of this Dirty Cooper?

I remember in the early stages, I said to David, initially out of my own insecurity, that I thought one thing that would help would be black contacts for the eyes. I had seen it done before, used to make it feel like there was an entity in there, behind the eyes. I ran it by him. I half expected him to say no, we don’t need that, but he said that might be good. So we tried a variety of contacts, from very dark to not so much and different styles. I kept asking David, “Is this taking you out of the process, is it taking you out of the journey of this character?” And he said no, it’s working great. It looks like there’s a darkness there, but you’re not completely sure. Everything about him is dark. My skin is mottled, my hair is greasy and kind of long. You know how Javier Bardem did it in No Country for Old Men, where he had that very specific look, where he was almost angelic, but in a demonic kind of way? We wanted something that was like that, but not too over the top. No long scraggily hair, for example. This is kind of coiffed in an awkward way. That was an important part of the look, as well. We found all these elements separately and it worked. It was a great process. I don’t usually get to do that.

And obviously, we’re supposed to be getting a hint of demon BOB in there, right?

Oh, yeah. Yeah.

How about the wardrobe, the shirt and jacket?
That was David. We tried a few different ones before we found the one we really liked. We went through some jewelry options that were all discarded and rightfully so. Simple is always better. It’s always about finding the character without cluttering the character. In my mind, you want to put in just enough salt. You want to come up from underneath him and stop just when you find him and not go any further. Knowing when to stop is really important.

You also lower your voice, and while we get intensity, even interest in the game of staying alive and in the world, you don’t play his evil with much joy for it.

Yes, I thought there should be gravity there, there should be stillness there. Rhythmically, he should be different, different on so many levels. I tend to be a little more animated in real life and when I work, and Cooper is certainly animated in life and my work. This guy doesn’t have any of that. He is there to be served.

How do you conceptualize a character like this in your head? Do you think of him as a human being? A demon? An idea?

He’s a shark. There’s no remorse, there’s no happiness, there’s that quality when the shark is feeding and relishing it, the frenzy — the inhaling of someone’s soul — that’s him. He, for me, was real, insofar as being a living thing. But it was more about playing his force, his energy, his will. Those were the things that I hung onto, as opposed to making him real. He goes to places I haven’t been much as an actor. There was a thing I did several years ago called Where the Day Takes You (1992), where I was a drug dealer. This character is kind of in that direction, but it was a long, long time ago, so this was a new place for me to go. Thank god it did. I remember thinking, if I’m going to go someplace new, who better to take me there as a director than David? Because I know I am going to be completely protected and cared for. And that’s great for me as an actor I don’t have to self-monitor.

I have a visceral reaction to scenes where characters throw up, so part 3 was something of a treat. Your Coopers threw up a lot in that hour. That must have been fun to do.

It was vile. Vile. Yeah, that was not the most comfortable sequence there. I was sort of overwhelmed by the amount! That’s all I can really say about that. It was vile and it was a lot.

What was it made of? 

I know cream corn was part of it. But after that, I’m not sure what they used.

 You also got to play another version of Cooper, Dougie Jones.

That was a fun little departure,. It was all about trying to capture in a few little moments, the awkwardness of that and the reality, of that guy, and the fun of it. He’s s screw-up, a lovable screw up. That was fun. It was very brief, just a day, maybe two days of filming.
  The first two episodes and part of the third, Agent Cooper exists in these otherworldly, metaphysical spaces — high concept, very personal scenarios of David’s design. What’s it like as an actor to navigate those scenes when you’re performing them? And how much of those sets are built-out and how much of it do you have to imagine?

  Some practical, some descriptive, but either way, always, I’m checking with David to get as much info as I can on the environment. What am I falling through? What is the texture? What could I possibly see? How overwhelmed or underwhelmed am I by the experience? That’s always a key concern for me. Always I’m trying to find the regulator, so I’m in the right state of mind for that moment.

What advice did he give you on how to move through the sequence that opens part 3, when Cooper finds himself in that space with the woman with sealed-up eyes?

What I have found in those situations is that most of the time the audience will do most of the work for you. So while David will tell me things like, “Look off the edge and watch her fall,” I don’t have to reflect back your reaction, to do the shock or the GASP!, because the audience will do that for you. What I’m doing as Cooper is to be in the moment with my wits about me, taking in everything, recognizing that I’m on an unusual, strange journey. I took the position that Cooper knows that this is going to be crazy, that something weird is going to happen, and he just needs to go with it. He’s going to need to have to use his wits to find his way through, the best way he can, but ultimately, he’s going in the right direction. That’s what I held onto. We filmed that sequence in all sorts of bits across time and I can’t wait to see how they all flow together.

 What was it like to act with talking trees in the Red Room scenes?
I had no idea. It was an X on the curtain. The first time I saw the trees was when I saw it on screen at the premiere.Was there a description in the script?
No. it was just a voice. I don’t think there was even any dialogue. Yeah, that was odd.

Agent Cooper is back on Earth, but he’s not yet the Cooper we know. Can you describe a bit how you make sense of this Cooper? 

This is a guy that is a child — not even a child, a baby, who has the focus and the capability of a baby. So if something is interesting to him, all his focus and attention is on that object for as long as it’s there or until something else gets his attention. Everything is new for this character. Just the exercise of it was fun, and finding the funny quirky moments, too. And to play with tempo — how long can you play something out? And that plays into one of the things that David is so brilliant at, which is rhythm. Rhythm and tempo. So it was just great playing in that space and style that he does.

There’s that moment in part 4 when Cooper takes the drink of coffee, and I thought maybe, in that moment, his mind would come rushing back.
Yeah, I thought that too. It’s going to be interesting to see how that tension plays out and how the audience responds to it. I was thinking about this and how people are responding to it right now — there is just so much more to come! Each time, each part, there’s going to be such new stuff. And people will go back and start to put the pieces together, they’ll start assembling this story. It’s unlike anything I’ve seen before on TV.New episodes of Twin Peaks air Sundays at 9 p.m. on Showtime.

link (TP)

my fav things r when york and delta are interacting and theyre just

“give me a drum roll, d” “i would prefer not to”

“from a statistical standpoint, the odds of agent carolina-”  “in other news, hurricane delta continues to rain on my parade” 

“i think ive narrowed down my line to like two options, okay? here the- here they are. one: ‘hey there carolina, if I said I like your armor, would you hold it against me?’ or two-”  “york, please focus” “what? pickup lines are important, d. “

Agent Jack and Warfstache

Septiplier - [Jacksepticeye x Markiplier] About Septiplier, I know it’s not an actual thing. It’s called fanFICTION for a reason. Just enjoy the story and it’s characters!

Summary: SecretAgent!Jack finds himself tied up after being knocked out by some villain named Warfstache, he apparently wants the codes, and has ways of getting them.

I love feedback! Critique is greatly appreciated! I… I tried? I don’t know if this is a good one or not. I think it’s okay. I’m not good at writing warfstache dialouge. 

Edit: This is officially going to be a series and an original AU called Agents and Alternates

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