#if he isn’t re signed i’ll riot

[for-whom-the-bell-tolled]

I am going to sob and also delete Twitter

At least the memes are good 😭😭😭😭😔

#pittsburgh penguins #let’s go pens #penguins #hockey #pens #pittsburgh #nhl #nhl hockey #sidney crosby #kris letang #evgeni malkin #resign geno #sid and geno #if he isn’t re signed i’ll riot #please resign him #i will cry #that’s my emotional support hockey boy #it’s sid AND geno #hockey twitter #twitter #self deprecating humor #humor as a coping mechanism #copium #i am so sad #Alexa play everybody hurts by REM

[irisintheafterglow]

blood moonlit, must be counterfeit

summary: a guy at a party has a really good dynamight costume, and you two get to talking about your favorite heroes. (pro!bakugo x you)

wc: 1.68k

cw/tags: swearing ofc cuz it's bakugo, mentions of drinking and alcohol, halloween party, first meeting, emotionally constipated katsuki and reader is kinda oblivious lol

note: NEW HALLOWEEN HEADER BABY also this idea had me by the throat so i needed to write it down before it consumed my entire psyche. i'm back to writing for bakugo again because iykyk and halloween fics are giving me a lot of motivation right now. hope you enjoy!

likes, reblogs, and replies are always appreciated <3

“I have to admit–your costume is pretty damn good.”

“Yeah? Just ‘pretty good?’”

“Mhmm. Almost looks like the real thing,” you remark, taking another sip of the dangerously sweet jungle juice in your cup. It's an unreadable mix of bad ideas and bold flirtation, perfect for a Halloween party of barely 21 adults. The blonde guy beside you on the worn leather couch tilts his head slightly like he's re-affirming what you just said in his mind. “I think the real Dynamight would be impressed.”

“Would he, now,” he huffs under his breath, mouth curling into an unreadable smirk. He exhales a quick breath of what you think is amusement through his nose, eyes flicking over your body for the umpteenth time since he sat down with you. It makes your face heat up and you casually avert your gaze downward, catching more details of his costume that you didn’t notice before. 

The gauntlets were obviously the star of the arrangement, covered in numerous scratches, burns, and dents that attested to their “battle” usage. The boots were impressive, too, and you wondered how long it took to place every individual orange eyelet over the front of each calf. The cinder block rectangles sitting on his broad shoulders truly looked like real stone, solid like the toned muscle holding them up. It was the domino mask that threw you off the most, though. The guy must have been wearing bright red contacts, or something, because to look so similar to the actual Pro should have been considered a crime. 

“Who’d you come to the party with?”

“Just some friends,” he replies, shrugging an infuriatingly sexy shoulder. His entire look was putting the real Dynamight to shame, in your opinion. He nods upward in the direction of a guy in an equally accurate Deku costume standing with a very convincing Shoto lookalike. “They dared me to wear this and I lost the bet.”

“Must have been some bet, if you’re moping over here like a toddler.” The shrewdness of your words escapes you until they’re already past your lips; thankfully, he just smirks again and leans his head back, resting an arm on the back of the sofa.

“I’ll ignore that you said that, 'cause you're clearly intoxicated” he mutters, shooting you a brutal side-eye. Thanks to the alcohol, though, you’re far from deterred. 

“How gracious,” you chuckle and his smirk gets a little more arrogant. “What was the bet?”

“Some dumb drinking contest. That asswipe in the green can put down more shots than he looks.” He scowls and you fight down the urge to giggle at his bitter expression. He was the only guy you’ve ever seen that could make a grumpy face look hot. The only guy besides Bakugo himself, of course. “I wouldn’t have worn this shit to a party to save my life.”

“What, Dynamight isn’t your favorite Pro?”

“I’m more of an All Might guy,” he replies nonchalantly. He appreciates the classic heroes. Good sign. “If I had to choose a different one, I’d probably say Jeanist.”

“Jeanist is pretty cool. My best friend had a cardboard cutout of Eraserhead in her closet growing up.” He barks out a laugh and it startles you, but a mysterious feeling in your stomach wants to make him do it again. “What do you think of the current gen of heroes?” He hums thoughtfully, running his tongue over his top lip and you swallow back your drool.

“Red Riot’s a good guy. Deku pisses me the fuck off, but he’s got a good head on his shoulders. Same thing with Pinky and that Half-and-Half asshat. Chargebolt…” His expression turns into a frown so deep you’re worried that Chargebolt killed his family or something heinous like that. 

“What about him?”

“He’s just dumb. If given the choice between his life and a grain of sand, I’d take the sand,” he deadpans and you choke unexpectedly, wincing as your drink travels up the wrong tube and into your nose. His eyes widened in concern, reaching out to pat your back but deciding against it at the last moment. His glove-covered hands hover around you like you’re radioactive matter, carefully watching as you regain your composure. “You good, nerd?” Uses the same vocabulary as the real guy, too. Kind of weird, but I guess we all have our idols. 

“Yeah, I’m good. I just didn’t expect you to badmouth him like you two were friends from high school or something,” you joke lightheartedly and the guy blinks at you twice before computing what you said. 

“It’s whatever. They’re super fuckin’ easy to read, in any case,” he states with an air of finality and you down the rest of your drink, the dim lighting starting to blur everything around you into a single greenish-orange blob. “What about you? What are your thoughts on the new gen?”

“I can’t make such bold judgments as you, but I do think Dynamight is pretty cool,” you admit, suddenly feeling a little bashful when having the same question turned on you. The truth was, you followed the lives of the heroes a bit too closely than the average person should. It fascinated you so much that you were majoring in Quirk-specific journalism, studying the social and economic consequences of being a Pro. “I think his public persona is an interesting case when compared to other heroes.”

“How so?”

“Well, I’d like to imagine that he’s not always the loud, arrogant, obnoxious piece of shit that the press shows,” you start and narrow your eyes in confusion when he flinches at your description. You continue anyway but choose your words a little more carefully. Probably isn’t good to upset the guy who might have fashioned functioning gauntlets, if the costume truly is accurate. “There’s a side to him that I think the public doesn’t know about and doesn’t care to know about, since it’s easier to understand him as a loudmouth with no sense of manners. I just wonder who that guy is under all the yelling and testosterone.” His silence is deafening and you worry that you somehow offended him, but his tone is so gentle that your assumption becomes an impossibility.

“Seems like you’ve given this guy a great deal of thought,” he says lowly, voice barely audible over the sound of the blaring house music. 

“Well, he is my favorite,” you add quietly, not expecting him to catch what you said. He does, though, and that mischievous smirk returns to his face. Somehow, you two had inched closer together over the course of your conversation, and you were now close enough to smell his cologne. It was something deep and smoky, with a surprise note of sweetness, like caramel. “I’ve been following his hero career since I was in high school.”

“I didn’t take you for a superfan, but I do appreciate your support,” he chuckles and your eyebrows furrowed in confusion. “You seriously haven’t figured it out?”

“Figured what out?”

“That I’m Dynamight, stupid. This is my actual costume and those are my actual friends. Hell, I'm paying for this whole shitty party,” he says incredulously, genuinely shocked that you didn’t come to that conclusion already. Your skepticism, however, rears its head and you burst out into rude laughter. 

Dynamight? Yeah, right. More like Dyna-maybe. 

“Excuse me?” He stares at you like you’d grown three heads and your heart drops into your stomach. You must have said your thoughts out loud. Fuck! “You’ve got some nerve, testing the patience of a Pro.” His words, under any other circumstances, would have cut down your pride like a knife. However, his eyes were conveying a different story, one of lust and want and holyshityouwantedhim. “Got anything to say, sweetheart? Or are you gonna just keep gaping like a fuckin’ goldfish?” You abruptly snap your jaw back into place, leaning your head into your hand and smiling in triumph when his gaze again uncontrollably rakes over your body.  

“I’ll believe it when I see it.”

“See what, gorgeous?”

“That a Pro kisses better than a normal person,” you murmur and his pupils blow to the size of pool balls. He wastes no time, gently but firmly grabbing your chin with two fingers and pulling your mouth onto his. His lips are ridiculously soft and you muster up the courage to bite him softly, heartbeat racing when he groans into your mouth. One arm drapes itself over the back of the couch, the other pulling you as close to him as humanly possible without practically sitting on him. Your hand combs through his hair and the other keeps him on you by the back of his neck.

Right when you run out of breath, he pulls away and swears colorfully at the phone buzzing in his pocket, answering it with one hand while his forearm is still pressed against your lower back. You absentmindedly trace his jawline with a finger while he curses out the person on the other line, eventually chucking the device over his shoulder like it was the last thing he was thinking about. “You need to go somewhere, sweetheart?” He lightly pinches your side at your mockery and you jump, flicking his forehead in defiance. 

“Nah, that was a job for Dynamight. Right now, I guess I’m still fuckin' Dyna-maybe,” he rasps and leans back in to kiss you again but you push his face away, giving him as sober of a look as possible. “What?”

“If you need to go kick ass, then go kick ass. I’m just some random makeout at a party,” you remind him, painfully aware of the sting if he was to leave you alone. His expression contorts into indignancy again but you still try to convince him to alleviate whatever situation he was called in for. “Your job is more important than a hookup.”

“I don’t do hookups, dumbass. I’m interested in you,” he states plainly and your face is set on fire. The Pro, who you just insulted to his face, was interested in you? “So, let’s get out of here, yeah? I can make you dinner that isn’t shitty pizza.” His mouth breaks into a devilish grin and you’re already grabbing onto his hand like your life depended on it. 

“If someone messes with us?”

“It’s a good thing I’m already in costume.” 

if you enjoy my writing and would like to support me, you can buy me a coffee on my ko-fi! you can also check out my full masterlist here :)

#mha x reader #bnha x reader #mha x y/n #bnha x you #bakugo katsuki #bakugou x reader #katsuki bakugo x reader #bakugo x reader #bakugo x you #bakugo x y/n

[fallen-gravity]

Aftermath

A whole summer later, and Mabel's still having nightmares about being trapped in her bubble. One unfortunate morning, Ford just happens to be the one who overhears her crying in her sleep.

Notes:

A huge, huge shout out to @ariasofelegance

A little white ago I reblogged a silly post that said something like "come into my inbox and tell me what my writing brand is", and without hesitating she dragged me into the dirt. Got me so on the nose that it backfired and whoops, I wanted to write it.

Said ask can be found here

Hope you’re happy with the results, Rin ;)

AO3

It’s the sound of sugary pop music seemingly wafting in through her bedroom window that wakes Mabel first. She assumes it’s just an alarm she doesn’t remember setting, and frantically waves her arm out for her nightstand so she can turn it off and go back to sleep for another minute or ten.

Then it’s the fact that her hand smacks something that squeaks, and okay, maybe Waddles accidentally left one of his toys in her room. He’s got plenty, so she can shrug off that as long as it’s not his favorite then he can go another few minutes without it. She’ll bring it downstairs to him when she wakes up, or if Dipper rises before her he can bring it downstairs instead.

It’s fine. She can brush those things off, and to prove it to herself she turns over on her other side and brings her blanket up to cover her ears. If anyone needs her they’re gonna have to climb the stairs all the way up to the attic and tell her themselves. She smiles to herself at the thought, and settles easily back into her sleep.

It doesn’t really click that something’s…off until the sun shines in through her window. Despite knowing that she’s facing away from her window, the sunlight still pierces through Mabel’s blanket and lands right into her eyes. Even for the mid-summer Oregon sun she’s gotten accustomed to, it’s uncomfortably warm and unreasonably bright for so early in the morning.

…Stranger still, she’s sure that Dipper would’ve already complained about it before she did, or at the very least, she’s sure she already would’ve heard him shuffling around the room by now.

Mabel takes it to mean that he must already be awake and downstairs, and groans. It still doesn’t explain why the sun is so painful in her eyes, but she guesses that could be a result of her sleeping in later than she’s used to.

“Alright, universe, you got me” Mabel mumbles, and stretches as she finally pushes herself into a sitting position. Opening her eyes is a bit tougher with the sun still harshly shining into them, but it’s manageable, and…

…This doesn’t look like the attic.

She attempts to rub the sleep out of her eyes, in case she’s still not fully awake yet, but no, the image in front of her still doesn’t change. She’s about to try standing up to see if walking around will help snap her out of her haze, but before she can even kick her feet over the edge her bedroom door swings open.

“Oh, thank goodness!” Mabel sighs. “Can you close the window? I can’t see a thing”

“Sure thing, Miss Mabel!” a cheery voice that is decidedly not Dipper’s replies, and with a snap of their fingers the lights go out. Now that her eyes finally adjust, Mabel’s able to glance around her room, and…

Oh no.

Oh no no no no no no no.

There are stone statues of her face in every corner of her room, piles of rainbow plushies stacked all over the floor, a collage of sweaters all over the wall, inflatable furniture scattered everywhere, and most notably, a large rug with a bright shooting star embroidered into the center.

“Miss Mabel?” the strange voice asks again, and a bright pink hippo steps into view towards her bed. “Is everything okay?”

Mabel frantically scoots backwards in her strange bed. “Stay back!” she tries to shout, but everything comes out as more of a panicked waver. “Stay back or I’ll grapple hook you in the face!” she frantically pats all around her body for any sign of her trusty weapon.

The hippo tilts its head in confusion, a squeak emerging from it. “Oh, Miss Mabel, you’re a riot! Don’t you remember?”

Mabel freezes in her frantic patting. “Remember what?”

The strange hippo laughs. “Our volleyball match! You promised you’d play with me, but then you took a suuuper long nap instead!”

Mabel shakes her head. It can’t be. It can’t be. She knows Dipper already came to rescue her, she knows they already took the bus back to Piedmont together, she knows they promised to stick together through thick and thin.

Or…did they? What if that was all part of this sick fantasy too? What if Bill just made her believe that Dipper came to her aid, when he’s actually been captured, or hurt, or worse, and Bill is still pacifying her for as long as he can to keep Weirdmageddon going?

She can’t breathe. She tugs at the collar of her turtleneck, but that only makes things worse, because it’s not until she notices the hot pink of her collar that she realizes she’s wearing her shooting star sweater. She wants to rip it off and claw at it until it comes apart thread by thread.

“M-Miss Mabel?”

She has to get out of here.

“Of course!” she replies, just to avoid suspicion. “Let’s go play some volleyball!” She claps loudly, and the pink hippo grins, seemingly unfazed by her behavior.

“Great!” it beams, and bounces happily out the door. Mabel follows more slowly, casting nervous glances everywhere she looks for any signs of creeping yellow eyes.

“Oh, shoot!” the hippo shouts once they’re outside, and Mabel nearly jumps a mile out of her skin.

“What is it?”

“We don’t have enough players,” the hippo pouts. “I can go see if I can find anyone who-”

“No!” Mabel shouts, and a few beachgoers freeze to cast glances her way. She blushes, and tries again. “I...I mean, we could always get my brother to play with us! Where’s my good ol’ twin brother?”

For the briefest of moments the hippo’s eyes flash yellow, but they’re back to normal just as quickly.

“Over here, sis!” Dippy Fresh waves, approaching them on his skateboard.

Mabel steps back, shaking her head. “Where’s my real twin brother?”

The crowd of beachgoers begins murmuring uncomfortably to each other.

“Aww, c’mon sis, don’t be like that!” he grins, jumping off of his skateboard and taking a step closer.

“You’re not my real brother” she hisses. “None of this is real! I know it isn’t!”

She’s shouting now, but she doesn’t care. “Come out and face me yourself, Bill! I know you’re out there! I don’t want to take part in this sick fantasy anymore!”

Everyone around her gasps, and between one breath and the next she’s painfully tackled to the ground.

“Mabel Pines!” an unfamiliar voice shouts, mixed seamlessly with the shrill echo of Bill’s. “Not only have you broken the one and only law of Mabeland, you have also spoke up in defiance of Bill Cipher, the true creator of this land. A simple court trial will not be enough. For these transgressions, you will be taken straight to the Fearamid for proper punishment”.

Mabel’s face pales. “W-wait! I was only just kidding!” She pleas, but a strong pair of arms is already lifting her into the air. She kicks and thrashes, but no matter how much she fights back, more pairs of hands seem to grab onto her and keep her in place.

“No!” she shouts. “I’m sorry! I won’t do it again, I promise! I’ll do anything you guys want! I’ll never leave you again!”

“It’s too late!” Bill’s voice finally separates itself from the crowd, and he manifests himself in front of her. He lifts her into the air, and she starts thrashing even harder, but nothing she’s doing is working to free herself from her grip.

At the very back of her mind, she thinks she can hear someone shouting her name. But she’s sure that’s all just part of the illusion, that Bill’s using the sound of her own family against her to torture her one last time before she never sees them again, and-

Something brushes against her forehead.

Something soft, and warm, and comforting, and so humanlike compared to everything else around her that it’s enough to make the every single aspect of the illusion disappear into thin air all at once, even Bill himself.

Everything’s black, and then, with a blink of her eyes, she’s staring into Ford’s eyes, soft and loving and pooling with worry. It doesn’t take long for her to piece together that it’s his hand on her forehead.

“Mabel?” he asks, and she realizes quickly that it had been his voice shouting her name in the bubble.

She gasps, bolting upright, and does her best to recover her breathing. Ford doges out of the way to avoid smacking heads, but stays right where he is beside her, rubbing soothing little circles into her back.

Her throat hurts. She must’ve been shouting in her sleep. She wants to cry, but she can’t even do that right, because  the moment a sob tries to escape her throat her chest feels like it’s closing up, and she can’t take a breath anymore, no matter how much air she inhales.

“It’s okay,” Ford whispers to her. “Deep breaths”

Mabel shakes her head. “I…I can’t”

“Yes you can,” he replies, firmly but kindly. He scooches closer to her, slowly as not to re-startle her. “Mabel, look at me”

She does. His eyes are so soft, conveying so many grounding, human emotions that the single moment of eye contact alone is almost enough to completely ground her back to reality. “You’re okay,” he murmurs, once she’s finally able to maintain eye contact without her eyes trembling. “You’re awake, I promise” he offers his hands out to her. “Reach out and squeeze my hands if you need to, but I promise that I really am right here”

Mabel reaches out and takes his hands in her own. They’re so much bigger than hers, and they’re rough with calluses and there’s quill ink stuck under his nails, but they’re so comfortably the hands of her great uncle, all the way down to the extra sixth finger on each hand that the sob stuck in her throat finally breaks its way through. He’s not just another illusion, he’s not a perfect copy that Bill sent to keep her complacent, he’s just…Grunkle Ford.

Mabel throws herself into his arms as her sobs overwhelm her small body. She buries her face into the collar of his turtleneck, and forces her eyes to focus on a little loose strand sticking out at the back of his neck. It’s just a tiny little imperfect detail that could easily be snipped or sewn back into place, but a little imperfection like that to let her know she’s home is more comforting than she’s willing to admit.

Ford wraps his arms around her and holds her closely. He gently runs a hand through her hair, whispering I know and it’s okay over and over again into her hair, and she just buries her whole face into the crook of his neck, inhaling the scent of coffee and ash and ink coming from his sweater like it’s a lifeline.

She stays in his embrace until her sobs finally calm, and they pull away gently. She wipes at her nose with her wrist.

“I’m sorry”

Ford shakes his head. “You’ve got nothing to apologize for, dear. I know firsthand just how awful it feels to suffer through a panic attack alone”.

Alone?

She glances to the other side of the bedroom, and finds Dipper’s bed empty. Her heart drops to her stomach. “Wh-where’s..?” she starts, but Ford places a gentle hand on her shoulder before she can finish that train of thought.

“Dipper’s okay, he’s outside with Soos”

“Grunkle Stan?”

“He ran out to the store, but he’s okay too”  

Mabel buries her face into her hands. “You didn’t…come in here because you could hear me from downstairs, did you?”

Ford shakes his head, a fond smile itching to spread across his face. “I came upstairs when I’d heard you were still asleep and didn’t want my favorite niece to miss out on such a beautiful morning,” he pauses, the smile on his face vanishing just as quickly as it had appeared. “But then when I came in to wake you up, you looked like you were having a panic attack in your sleep, and…” his voice trails off. “You started…crying out names.” He winds a protective arm around her shoulder, and gently squeezes her arm. “I’d never want to make you recount something so awful, but if you want to talk about it, I’m not going anywhere anytime soon”

Mabel sighs. It isn’t even close to being the first dream she’s had about the bubble, so she should be used to all of these strange feelings by now. But this particular dream felt the most based in reality, and it’s the first time Bill’s actually shown up and threatened to hurt her to her face.

She returns his gesture, winding an arm around Ford’s back and giving his arm a gentle squeeze. She scooches just a tiny bit closer to him and rests her head on his shoulder. “I…” she begins, squeezing her eyes shut to brace herself. “I was trapped in Mabeland again. Except it wasn’t like all the other times I’ve had nightmares about it where I knew something was off and I hit the ground running as soon as I realized where I was, it was more like…I felt like I’d always been there.”

With her free hand, Mabel brings the collar of her sweater all the way up to her nose. Anything to distract her from her uncle’s worried expression burning into her. “It was like everything we did last summer was for nothing. I woke up in my bed in the castle, and everyone was acting like it was peachy keen. I tried asking someone about where Dipper was, just for some sense of normalcy, but all that did was summon that dumb clone Mabeland created of him so I wouldn’t get too lonely. I know it’s dumb, but the whole thing just felt…too real. Like I was still stuck there, and the apocalypse was still going on out here, and the whole rescue mission was just a sick dream that Bill put in my head to trick me into believing everything was okay”

Mabel squishes her face into Ford’s sweater and just forces herself to focus on his scent, on the soft material of his sweater, on the gentle pattern of his breathing. “Everything was ripped away from me, Grunkle Ford, and I couldn’t do a thing about it. I tried speaking up for myself, but that only made things worse, because Bill showed up, and he-”

She’s suddenly painfully aware that she’s trembling again, and can’t help the tears building in her eyes. She tries burying her face even further into Ford’s sweater to collect herself and keep going, but before she can she feels Ford’s hand at the back of her head, gently holding her in place as she cries.

“It’s okay,” he tells her, his voice a soothing presence among her racing thoughts. “You don’t have to keep going.” He’s back to gently petting her hair, and the gesture is consistent and familiar enough to ease Mabel’s crying. “I’m so sorry that you’re still having nightmares about this”.

“It’s okay,” she sniffles, and finally finds the strength to pull herself away from his sweater. “It’s not your fault”, she says, and her eyes drop to the hardwood floor of her bedroom. “I’m just so scared, Grunkle Ford.” She grips onto the edges of her skirt. “I know that I shouldn’t be, because I know Bill’s been gone for a year and I know everything’s okay now, but I just can’t help but feel that everything’s not.”

Ford nods solemnly, and for a moment he doesn’t respond, until he shifts in his sitting position so he’s facing directly towards Mabel rather than beside her. “Mabel, may I show you something?”

Mabel blinks, her head tilting slightly in confusion. “Sure, Grunkle Ford, what is it?”

Ford rolls the sleeves of his turtleneck up to his elbows. His wrists are covered in faded white slits, and the rest of his arms are covered in burn scars, scratches, gashes, and decades-old bruises that never healed properly. Some of them are still red and blistering, and others look so faded that she could just as easily mistake them for birthmarks.

It hurts Mabel’s heart just to look at them. Her hands hover cautiously over them, and she glances at the wonderful great uncle that they’re attached to. “C-can I…?”

He nods. “Sure.”

Mabel gently runs her fingers along each of them so lightly that it’s almost as if she isn’t touching them at all. She knows that he’d been hurt in the past, and she knows that it couldn’t have been easy roughing it out in the multiverse for thirty consecutive years, but it breaks her heart to see the evidence of it all up close.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Ford sighs, cutting into her thoughts. “But most of these don’t come from the portal” he pauses to rub at the back of his head. “Or, rather, they do, but not in the way that you probably think”

Mabel pauses. “What do you mean?”

“I mean…sometime after Bill betrayed my trust, but before I was able to get the metal plate in my head to keep him out, he’d take advantage of our deal that let him into my mind whenever he pleased,” he taps at his forehead. “He was furious that I shut down the portal, so any time I fell asleep he’d use the opportunity to hurt me as much as he could. He never wanted to kill me because he was convinced I’d change my mind in due time, but he felt the need to torture me so I’d never act against him again. He’d slit my wrists, he’d burn me, he’d do just about everything he could to make sure I could feel the repercussions of his actions when I woke up.” He rubs awkwardly at the back of his head. “Thankfully he was never able to break a bone before I woke up in time to stop him, but…” he trails off, and for the briefest of moments he looks as though he’s lost in thought.

“I’m getting ahead of myself,” Ford blushes, snapping himself from his own thoughts before Mabel has any time to ask if he’s okay. “The point is,” he says, “Just because you know he’s gone now doesn’t mean that he never hurt you. Your nightmares are your scars, and they’re just as real as the scars under my sweater.”

Mabel wants to respond with a proper thank you, because she’s genuinely touched by the validation, but there’s a part of her that just can’t move past all the gashes and scars on Ford’s arms. She knows she’s seen similar cuts elsewhere, maybe not nearly as dire, but she knows in the back of her mind that’s just because she was just barely able to stop them from becoming much, much worse.

“I don’t think it’s just the nightmares” she mumbles, just barely loud enough for Ford to hear.

“Hmm?” Ford hums. “What do you mean?”

“I mean…” Mabel runs two fingers gently around the white scars on Ford’s wrist. “I don’t think it’s just that he hurt me, I think it’s that he hurt a lot of people that I love, too.” She shakes her head. “I know there isn’t a lot I could’ve done to prevent it, but…I was so oblivious to it, Grunkle Ford. I had no idea he was hurting so many people until it was almost too late”.

She keeps rubbing gentle circles into his wrist, like she can make the scars and all of the memories of the pain he went through vanish into thin air with her loving touch alone. “Dipper’s got these scars too. I know he’s okay now, but…” the sigh that escapes her is broken and shaky. “I know that much worse things could’ve happened to him, too”.

Ford frowns. “He…did tell me about being possessed, yes. But he also told me that he couldn’t have gotten his body back without your help. Bill’s a master at trickery, Mabel, it’s not your fault you couldn’t recognize him in Dipper’s body”.

…But she also knows that the reason Dipper was possessed in the first place is because he was up all night trying to crack a code that she told him she’d help him with, and she also knows that if she found out that it wasn’t Dipper controlling his body until it was too late, then…

“He wrote a letter”

The words slip out of her mouth before she can stop herself, and she slaps her hand over her mouth, tears building in her eyes again.

“Who did?” The soft smile slips off of Ford’s face. “Dipper?”

Mabel shakes her head. “Bill wrote a letter when he was still in possession of Dipper’s body. I’ve never shown it to Dipper before because I didn’t wanna freak him out, but I just…couldn’t bring myself to throw it away, because I was so afraid that if I did, Bill was going to find out, and wait until the moment my back was turned so he could…” her voice trails off, and she can’t finish the sentence no matter how badly she needs to get it off of her chest.

“Mabel?” Ford asks, his voice dripping with worry.

She shakes her head, and hops down from her bed to reach underneath. She grabs a seemingly useless crumped up piece of paper, and carefully unfolds it and pats down all the wrinkles before she offers it to Ford. “Before he could do this,” she replies, her voice barely rising above a whisper.

Ford takes the letter from her, and Mabel takes her seat back on the bed beside him. All she can bring herself to do is just watch as Ford’s expression becomes more and more horrified as he reads further down the letter, and the hurt in his eyes when he looks into hers when he finishes reading is palpable.

“I’m scared, Grunkle Ford” she repeats, her mouth continuing to speak before her brain can stop her. “I know Bill’s gone for good, but how can I be so sure that everything’s okay when I know that this is what he could’ve done to my brother?”

For a few painfully short moments Ford says nothing. Mabel’s sure he’s at a loss of words, or that it was a mistake showing him the letter because he’s freaking out now too, but much to her surprise  Ford’s next move is pulling her into his arms again and hugging her so tightly it’s as if he never wants to let go again.

“I’m so sorry,” he murmurs into her hair, but doesn’t give her enough time to respond before he keeps going. “Mabel, I’m so sorry you���ve been burdened with this. You’re the last person I would ever wish to feel so unsafe that you can’t even trust the quiet moments.”

His breathing sounds broken and shaky, but if he’s tearing up at all he’s doing a really good job at hiding it.  “You don’t deserve any of this. You’re too young to feel like you have any responsibilities over anyone’s life or death. I’m so sorry that he made you feel this way”

She knows he’s not the kind of person to use his words carelessly. She knows that he’s phrasing it this way because he recognizes his own behavior in her. She doesn’t respond verbally, but she reciprocates the hug best she can, and a heavy sigh escapes Ford when she does. They stay there in silence for a few short minutes, just reveling in the comfort and safety of the other’s arms.

When they finally pull away, Ford seems to have gathered his composure again.

“I promise, Mabel” he takes one of her hands into his own. “I promise you that he’s gone. He can never hurt you or me or Dipper or Stan ever again. It doesn’t mean he hasn’t, and it doesn’t mean that recovering from that sort of pain will be easy, but if there’s anything I know for sure, it’s that he’s never showing his face here again”.

Mabel finally crumbles in his arms. She’s sobbing again, but it’s a cathartic kind of sob, and she’s gripping onto Ford’s shoulders like he’s the only thing keeping her together.

“And even if he does, I know just the grappling hook to scare him away”.

Between her sobs, Mabel can’t help but giggle.

#my writing #gravity falls #ford pines #mabel pines #sweater twins #mystery twins

[duhragonball]

Cult Classic

I had a really exhausting week, so I’m going to try to chill out by writing this thing about cults that’s been bouncing around in my head since... oh, like January 6th?   For some reason?     But it’s also about my insanely long OC fanfic slash vanity project slash concept album.  Join me, won’t you?

Okay, so back in... geez 2018?   Has it been that long?   Around October 2018 I started working out the details for the big climax of the “1000 years ago” section of my fanfic.  From the start I had this idea that the Legendary Super Saiyan would be locked into a death struggle with pretty much the entire Saiyan population, led by a Saiyan King who just can’t handle being upstaged.   But I had to figure out a lot of details to make that actually work.   What I finally ended up with was the Jindan Cult. 

Why a cult?  Because I wanted my King character to be the main villain, but also be physically weaker, but also he needed to be powerful enough to challenge the heroine. I came up with all these different ways to beef up his power level without making him a Super Saiyan himself, but ultimately I wanted him to have an army of Siayans at his back.   That led me to consider some sort of magic elixir that would make them all stronger, but especially the king, since he’s ultimately in this for himself.  At first, I considered having him mind-control all of his goons, but I spent the mind control nickel in earlier arcs, and I’ll have to use it again later, because Towa and Demigra use it.   Then I thought of drug addiction, which is sort of like mind control but not literal brainwashing or anything like that.  And that led me to the cult concept.  

One major inspiration for me was the real-life cult called “NXIVM”, which made the news back in 2018 when their leaders started getting arrested, including “Smallville” star Allison Mack.   Every time I read about it, it felt like something from a movie, but it was real.   I guess the celebrity angle made it more bizarre to me, because it’s sort of like “Hey, this isn’t just some group of randos; someone you’ve heard of is in this thing.”   Not that I ever paid much attention to “Smallville”, but you get the idea.  She didn’t just join NXIVM, she eventually became one of the top recruiters.   Some of the character arcs in my fic were my own attempt to understand how a person goes from Point A to Point B. 

The big plot hole, though, in my mind, was that I came up with this whole master plan for the bad guys, but it involved sending wave after wave of Saiyan cultists to die in pointless, unwinnable battles against Luffa.    I couldn’t have them win much, because if they beat her, they’d just kill her, and the story would be over.    It struck me as fishy that these Saiyans would sign up for a war where the casualty rate is 100%, but I tried to lampshade it as best I could.   “Yeah, all those other chumps couldn’t beat Luffa, but I’ll pull it off because I’m special!”   It still seemed a bit unlikely.  

But then 2020 happened, and I guess the main thing I learned from that year was that people will accept almost anything in order to believe a comfortable lie.  The joke I’ve seen on the internet is that we need to retire the expression “avoid it like the plague”, because it turns out a lot of people don’t actually avoid plagues very well at all.   The horrifying thing about COVID-19 is how easily people will accept the climbing death tolls.   “Oh, well this person was already in bad health, so they would have died eventually anyway.”   I don’t want to get too political here, but I’m pretty sure a lot of the anti-mask, coronavirus-is-a-hoax crowd are the same people who made up tall tales about “death panels” in Obamacare.    “They’re gonna euthanize your grandma!” they would say, but now they say your grandma is acceptable losses if it means reopening bars and restaurants.

Actually, I do mean to get political, because holy fuck, Qanon stormed the Capitol Building.    Look, if you don’t believe Joe Biden won the election, I don’t know what to tell you, except please get far away from me, right now.  If you’re not familiar with Qanon, a few years ago some guy on an image board posted a bunch of cryptic messages and claimed to be an important government figure who would know about important things.    People started “deciphering” his “clues” and when he stopped posting new ones they started inventing their own “clues” and interpreting them any way that suited them.    This led to an overarching narrative that Donald Trump was actually part of this massive sting operation to arrest hundreds, maybe thousands of left-wing politicians, celebrities, and whoever else.    Any day now, he was supposed to have Hilary Clinton arrested, and also JFK Junior would somehow show up and help him, even though he’s been dead for 22 years.  Every day, these Qanon guys would add on more bizarre lore to their “theories”, and every day none of their predictions would come true.  Then Trump lost the election, which put them in a bind, because their whole mythology is based on the idea of him saving the world as POTUS, and now he wasn’t even going to be POTUS for much longer.  

I’m pretty sure this had a lot to do with the lies about election fraud.    Trump himself refused to accept defeat, and his supporters didn’t want to accept it either, so they all told each other that it wasn’t real, and they believed each other so much that they dug in their heels.   But then they’d take this stuff to court and the judge would be like “Uh, what evidence do you have of mass voter fraud?” and they would just be like “lol nvm!”  I mean, if there was proof for any of this, why would they not want a judge to see it?   But for Qanon, it was more than just being sore losers.    They needed all their whackamaroo predictions to come true, and Trump losing re-election would upset the applecart.  

So then they started telling themselves that they could win this thing through the boring certification process.   I think it was like, December 14 when all the states had to certify their results.   So they held out hope that nothing was over until then.    Then they pinned their hopes on the Electoral College, and that there would be enough faithless electors to hand Trump the victory, in spite of the voters.   I found this one amusing, since I used to see tumblr suggesting the same thing back in 2016, when they were still trying to come up with ways for Bernie Sanders to win.  

Then they decided Mike Pence could fix everything, because on Jan 6, Congress would officially count the Electoral Votes and formally declare the winner, and Mike Pence would step in and overrule the whole thing, because the Vice-President oversees that process.    Except he just oversees it, he can’t legally change the outcome, especially on a whim.    And then the riot at the Capitol happened, and I’m pretty sure all these Qanon types thought it would mark the beginning of a nationwide uprising, with all seventy-odd million Trump voters going apeshit, but it... didn’t work out that way.  

Then they convinced themselves that everything was building to January 20, because the innauguration was actually a clever trap, and once Joe Biden took the oath of office, he could then be arrested for treason, so you see, they had to make it look like Trump lost the election, because it was the only way to fool Joe Biden into incriminating himself... or... something.   But Jan 20 came and went, so the latest fallback position I heard was that there’s a double-secret REAL inauguration day, and it’s in March, and the January 20 one isn’t legitimate, even though Trump was inaugurated on January 20, 2016, but whatever.    That, or the guy we see in the White House now is actually Trump disguised as Joe Biden, or a Joe Biden android or something.   

I think I sort of understood that Qanon is a cult, but I didn’t really put the pieces together until the events of January unfolded.    Pre-November, it just seemed like a conspiracy theory, without any real timetables or prophecies, like Flat Earth.    But once the end of the Trump Administration was in sight, it really started to look like all the doomsday cults I’ve heard about over the years.  The predicted events wind up failing to come true, and they invent new predictions to explain away the old ones.   It’s not about the veracity of the claims as much as the claims themselves.    People want to believe there’s this whole elaborate explanation for everything.    They wanted to believe that Trump was this hypercompetent superheroic messiah, because the alternative is to face the uncertain reality: that he had no idea what he was doing, and real people were going to suffer for it.  

I think I sort of worked that idea into my fictional cult, but I backed into it.   NXIVM was a sex cult, not a doomsday cult, or an elaborate conspiracy theory, so I was mostly fixated on all the depraved things the cult could do to its members.   But they all share the same lure: a belief system that promises to make everything fit. I’m not sure what the hook was for NXIVM, but Allison Mack didn’t go in thinking about how much fun sex trafficking would be.   That came later, after she was convinced that NXIVM had all the answers, and one of those answers involved sex crimes, apparently.   In the same vein, Qanon attempted to explain mass arrests and executions by claiming that Hilary Clinton eats babies or something.   “Well, I don’t want babies to get eaten, so I guess breaking into the Capitol building seems like a reasonable course of action.”  

Weighed against real life, a bunch of Saiyans accepting a 100% casualty rate doesn’t seem so outrageous.   It also helps that sometimes the leaders of these groups can buy into their own hype, and think they’re infallible when they’re really not.    This week, I started reading the Darth Plagueis novel again, and I’ve seen the Sith from Star Wars referred to as a cult, but I never gave it a lot of thought until I noticed that Plagueis buys into the whole Dark Side of the Force thing a little too hard.   At times, he’ll wax philosophical about how the Jedi are the real bad guys when you think about it, and he’s not just saying that to be manipulative.   He honestly believes that the Sith can save the galaxy from decline, which is stupid and hypocritical, because they’re the ones causing all the decline.    I always got the impression that Darth Sidious understood that it was all about accumulating power as an end unto itself, and any high-minded talk of necessary evil was just to keep the rubes in line.    Rise of Skywalker plays into that idea nicely.   He somehow survived Episode VI, but he let the Empire collapse, because if he can’t rule it, he doesn’t want it to exist at all.   But he’s still playing himself, because he thinks he can win by following the same failed ideology that got all the previous Sith Lords killed.   

That’s pretty much all I have to say about it right now.    I need to move on to other topics, because Towa’s not doing a cult thing, so my fic is moving in a different direction.   But I feel better for getting this out of my head.

[haloud]

into the palm of your hand ch. 2

- ao3 -

Jake is tall. That’s the first and only thing Michael notices about him. He has to unfold himself out of the chair to avoid banging his knees on the bottom of the table, and when he manages and pulls himself up to height he towers a good six inches over Alex and Michael both. He has a nice smile, too, if you’re into that sort of thing. And he’s beaming as the two of them approach, comes out to meet them with his hand already outstretched to shake, and Alex takes it, Jake pumping his arm up and down while he grins so big his face must be killing him. Michael hangs back to let the reunion happen, hands in his pockets, thumbs in his belt loops so he can tug at them with all the nervous twitching in his hands.

The restaurant is nice, but not too nice, not even by Roswell standards. Jake’s clearly made an attempt with his clothes, but his attempt is a business-casual button down with the top button undone and the sleeves rolled up to reveal his tanned forearms. His slacks are pressed and neat as a pin, but Michael won’t judge too harshly for that. His hair is still close-cropped like it was Halloween of 2009. He’s…yeah, he’s handsome, in a normal and kind way, an honest way that reminds Michael of the smell of the old hayloft in the summer and the feeling of straw on his back and warm hands exploring his body on a scratchy old blanket. Michael doesn’t trust easy, but if Jake’s calling up memories like that, he can let himself relax a little bit.

“Jake, this is Michael. My boyfriend.”

“Hey,” Michael says, taking Jake’s hand. His handshake is a little more subdued than the workout Alex got, but Jake is still firm and eager, and he hasn’t dropped that grin of his.

“Thanks for coming! I was a little worried when Alex said he’d like to bring you—thought I might be signing myself up for the third degree or something—but when I found out it was the same Michael I knew I had to meet you.”

“The same Michael?”

“Yeah.” Jake winks at him, and Michael’s eyebrows go up. “I’m happy for you guys.”

“Uh…thanks?”

“Should we sit?” Alex cuts in. The tips of his ears are bright red, and Michael’s eyebrows climb even further towards his hairline.

“It really is so good to see you,” Jake says as they take their chairs.

The second they’re seated, Alex grabs Michael’s knee in a vice grip, nails digging into the denim. His hand is a little sweaty, clammy when Michael covers it to try and settle him. Is Michael being here part of what’s making him so nervous?

“Gotta say, I was surprised to hear you re-upped this time,” Jake continues.

Alex clears his throat. “Yeah, well…you know how it is.”

“I do. And if nothing else, I’m glad it’s giving me an opportunity to work with you again.” Another ready smile follows right on the tail of the last one, even if this one is a little more subdued and sympathetic. “How do you feel about it, Michael?” He takes a sip of water, and his muddy hazel eyes are suddenly hawklike over the rim of the glass.

“Uh.” Alex’s hand digs into him harder, and Michael rubs the back of his hand with his thumb. Jake hasn’t even opened his menu yet; he watches and waits for his answer with that smile on his face and something dangerous in his eyes. “Uh,” Michael glances over at Alex, who is laser focused on his glass of water, face like stone. “Well, I mean, it’s what he—what we thought was best at the time, and since he was able to get it in his contract that he’d be staying put for a while, I was…fine.”

Oh, you know, I’m still working through the soul-crushing guilt that not only did Alex sell more of his life to the military to help me and mine but also I that I was too busy trying to drown myself in household chemicals to talk about it with him, but every relationship is a work in progress! Anyway, I’m an alien who’s wanted by the same government you serve for blowing up one of the black site prisons they use to experiment on my people and also for existing, how’s your mother in law doing?

“Fine, huh?”

“Jake,” Alex says.

“Okay, fine, I’m being a little intense. I’ve got family who don’t get why I stay,” he directs to Michael, then to Alex he says, “I got in a huge fight with Sarah over it, like, five hours before I got on the plane. Sorry for being weird.” He laughs and looks genuinely contrite.

Michael tries to relax, but Alex doesn’t lose any of the stiffness in his posture. He does at least stop squeezing Michael’s knee like he’s trying to rip his kneecap off, though, and Michael massages the back of his hand again.

“How is Sarah?” Alex asks, then to Michael he explains, “Jake’s sister.”

Jake shrugs, his massive hands coming up in an exaggerated ‘what can you do’ gesture. “She’s doing well. Divorced and remarried since the last time you saw her. Went back to school and got a teaching degree, and she’s real happy with the new guy, so. It’s just we still don’t see eye to eye on most things. But I’m happy for her.” He fishes his phone out of his pocket and holds it out to them, flicking through an album of pictures of what looks to be Sarah’s wedding day. From the pictures, Michael wouldn’t be surprised if she was even taller than Isobel, so it must run in the family. The last one in the album is of Jake on the dance floor with a guy in a matching vest, the two of them chest to chest and mouth to mouth, off in their own little world.

“That’s Rohit, my boyfriend. He couldn’t get away from work to come out here with me, but he’s visiting for the first time in about three weeks.”

Michael makes a sympathetic noise. “That sucks for you guys. Been together long?”

“Almost five years, right?” Alex says. “After you had your appendix out, wasn’t it?”

“Okay, the pictures are going away now,” Jake replies, his skin showing a blush way brighter than Alex’s does, “Didn’t realize I’d be roped into telling that story just for showing off my guy but okay I see how it is.”

Alex grins his sharp grin, finally looking up, and after one last brief squeeze his hand comes off Michael’s knee. “You should have been more prepared then, Lieutenant.”

“Let’s just say that the man I love is as patient as I am susceptible to the aftereffects of anesthesia and leave it at that, huh?”

Alex laughs, a true rocking-back-in-his-seat laugh, and it sets Michael fully at his ease, most comfortable letting Alex lead the emotional tone of the conversation. With the tension finally cut, Michael lets himself lean forward and rest his chin on his palm, watching Alex talk, letting the conversation flow over him without cutting in while Alex reconnects to his friend, talking more with his hands, laughing more easily. Jake seems kind of contagious that way, a smile and a laugh for everything—and he doesn’t try to freeze Michael out of the conversation, either, even though Michael is content to just sit there and not really listen and watch Alex talk and move. He’s gorgeous tonight, his shirt open a little at the neck, his long-fingered hand back on Michael’s knee, warm and caressing this time.

The conversation flows for a good couple hours. Michael is a convenient audience for them to share stories and relive them a little bit over again. Even when they’ve paid the bill and are getting up to leave, it’s with promises to do this again when Rohit is in town and Michael smiling to himself with a wry little smile because he’s the double dating kind now and goddamn if he isn’t happy about it.

Then, when they reach the parking lot, Jake stops.

“Hey, do you mind if I borrow him for a couple minutes before we head out?” Jake asks, inclining his chin toward Michael. Alex raises an eyebrow and glances between them, and Michael just shrugs his agreement.

With a bemused smile, Alex says, “Sure. I’ll be in the car.” He gives Michael’s shoulder a squeeze as he passes, and Michael looks around to watch him go, eyes on his back until he slips behind the driver’s side door.

Michael shoves his hands in his pockets for lack of anything else to do with them. If Jake wants to corner him to read him the riot act or tell him he’s not good enough for Alex or something he could have at least had the decency to do it somewhere Michael had something to lean against or sink into, to hold him up or have his back.

“You got the height advantage, but I’ll warn you—I’m scrappy,” Michael drawls.

“I’m…not going to hit you? What the hell, man.”

“Just like to be prepared. I got one of those faces.�� Michael gives Jake a grin and a wink, but all Jake gives back is a concerned look starting to border on shrink-y, so Michael hurries on, “What’s up?”

“Okay. Okay.” He takes a huge breath like he’s psyching himself up for something. “There’s no socially acceptable way to say this, really, so I’m going to jump in.”

“I’ve never been socially acceptable a day in my life. Shoot.”

“Okay.” He takes another huge breath. “The first guy I loved was killed in a drive by when we were eighteen.”

Michael rocks back a bit at that, at the ice-cold awkward shock of someone else’s old grief. His eyes go huge and wide and he scrambles for something to say, something that’s different from the plain shit people spout.

Jake doesn’t wait for him to find it, though. “He was coming out of a club and a car jumped the curb and it was just…over. There was no real way to know if it was a hate crime or if the driver was just drunk. I was two hours away at school. We didn’t talk every day, so I didn’t even know for two weeks. His parents wouldn’t even let me go to the funeral, because I turned their son gay, and if he hadn’t been at a gay club then he’d still be alive.”

“Fuck, man.”

“I know. And I’m sorry to dump all that on you, but it’s important for what I need to tell you. It’s why I joined the Air Force in the first place—I was lost, depressed. I couldn’t keep going in school and I couldn’t stand the thought of going back to my hometown where everything would remind me of him, so I dropped out and joined up. And then I met Alex.”

Michael coughs to hide the catch of his breath. He can picture it so clearly—the way Alex looked with his hair shorn and his dark, dulled eyes set straight ahead, like the way he looked when Michael hid behind the neighbor’s car and risked getting hauled in for trespassing or—caught—so he could see Alex off that day he left to report for training.

“I was—I mean, I was a mess. Could barely keep it together. Kept getting everyone in trouble because of it, and he was so…when he cornered me one day, I honest to god thought he was going to kill me. But he helped me instead. Taught me how to keep my head down and survive, and I just…my story just came out. And after that, I didn’t know why until way later when he finally told me about what happened with his father before he enlisted, but we just kind of clung to each other.”

And again, Michael is relieved that Alex wasn’t as alone as Michael was, that even as tangled up and hurting and hollow as he must have been, he had someone to help him, someone to share that piece of himself with even when it was against the law. Michael owes this man, even if he wouldn’t accept it, even if Alex would deny it too. Michael’s in his debt.

“We dated for a little over a year before we broke up because we didn’t have a whole lot in common other than a little bit of shared trauma. If you haven’t noticed, I’m kind of chatty.” He winks. “And since I’d already spilled my tragic backstory, I wanted to talk about Jordan, like, all the time. Things I missed. Regrets I had. Fears. And Alex was a great listener…but not so great at reciprocity. He’d never let me in, never let me take any of his burdens on. Made me feel like a real dick. But there’s one thing he did let me do. Insisted, actually.”

“You don’t have to tell me this,” Michael says. He leans back as far as he can go without actually taking a step back, trying to give Jake space, trying not to look too interested. He’s hungry, yeah, for any scrap of information he can get about this part of Alex’s life. But if Alex wants him to know, he has to trust that Alex will tell him. It took a massive government conspiracy to get Michael to open up the first time. He can’t be overly critical of Alex’s struggle to do the same.

“I think I kind of do, actually.” Jake shoves his hands into his pockets and lets out a long breath, steaming the cold night air. “I don’t know if it’s for me or if it’s for Alex or what, but I think I should tell you this. You know…I look at him and I still see that nineteen year old kid. My escape. The only gay guy I knew, the only person who knew my grief. It’s not especially healthy. It’s a big part of the reason we’ve been avoiding each other for half a decade. But yeah, I think I need to do this for him more than anyone else.”

Well. What’s Michael supposed to do with that? At seventeen Alex had big, expressive eyes and he licked his lips as a nervous habit and Michael could have sat for hours in the too loud violent cafeteria watching him paint his nails from four tables away. He didn’t know Alex at nineteen, not really, but Jake did. And Michael wants to honor every version of Alex everywhere.

He sends a quick text: Jake caught me up talking about the good old days. You ok with that?

Alex types, then erases, then does so a couple more times before a reply finally comes through: I love you. Tell him I said thank you.

Michael slides his phone back into his pocket. “Okay. Hit me.”

“It’s just this.”

Jake holds out his phone, open to his contacts. And right there: Alex’s Michael.

Michael’s fingers tremble, just slightly, as he reaches out to take it, to hold it in his hands and marvel over it and what it could mean.

Jake shoves his hands back in his pockets. “I’ve had you in my phone for nine years. Don’t know if the number’s any good anymore, of course. But you were the one thing…he never wanted to talk about the past. He never wanted to talk about you. But before we deployed, he asked me…if anything happened to him, if I would talk to you. Tell you he was sorry. That he was always thinking of you. ‘Hear his voice for me one last time.’ That’s how he worded it. I’ve never been able to forget those words.”

Michael’s mouth is too numb to form any words at all. He’s all—cracked open, Alex has reached inside his chest and pried his ribs apart. Michael used to write Alex letters and burn them in his fire pit because smoke becomes air and particulates travel on the wind and there was as much chance of Alex breathing him in from a world away as there was him opening any letter Michael sent him. Then there are the letters he kept, the ones full of hope and pain and—Michael kept them, just in case, like he kept one of Alex’s too-small black hoodies, so that he’d have something to bury if the nightmare came to pass.

Alex’s Michael. It’s there like teardrops smearing the ink off his ten cent ballpoint pen. It’s there like a cotton sleeve held to his cheek on a sleepless night.

“You don’t have to say anything,” Jake says, slipping his phone out of Michael’s limp hand. The man has a smile for every occasion, and the one he’s wearing right now is sweet and sad. “I really am just so happy you guys found each other in the end. It was really nice to meet you, Michael. Thanks for helping me keep a promise, yeah?”

And with a jaunty two-fingered wave, Jake turns around and heads for his car, those long legs eating up space so quick that before Michael can process him leaving, he’s gone.

His phone buzzes: Just saw Jake’s car leaving. Everything ok?

Fine. Headsd yiour way, he responds. It takes him four tries to type the message even that legibly, his hands are shaking so bad.

He nearly jogs across the parking lot, fumbles with the handle before he can yank the door open and climb inside, climb over the gearshift still clumsy and needy to stuff his unsteady hands into Alex’s pockets.

“Hey,” Alex croons, cupping the back of his neck when Michael ducks in to rub his forehead against his shoulder, sawing out rough breaths in the space between them.

“Hey, it’s okay,” Alex says, holding him close. “Whatever he had to say, it’s in the past. I’m here. You’re here. We are.”

There was a time when Michael laid on his back and begged the sky to let him stop needing Alex Manes, and there was a time it broke him that the begging didn’t work. And now he’s here, with Alex’s voice present and physical in his ear, the whole biological process of speaking, from the vibration of his chest to the movement of his throat and lips and tongue to the way his breath blows past the outside of Michael’s ear, and he’s home. He’s not alone.

“Michael?” A little bit of fear creeps into Alex’s voice, so Michael pulls back to look at him, blinks away the wobbly film of tears in his eyes.

“I just. Love you. God, I love you,” Michael rasps. He’s never going to stop saying it, now that he’s allowed, and it’s never going to feel any different. Like ripping the Band-Aid off a cut that’s all healed and feeling fresh air on the skin beneath.

“I love you too,” Alex whispers back, a kiss pressed to Michael’s temple, his other hand coming up to grab his waist.

“Take me home,” Michael says, but he doesn’t let go, not to let Alex drive or for any other reason, not for several long minutes.

#my fic #malex

[nyanzaya]

Queen

(🐾) Fall had always been a season Zuo didn’t enjoy. The day would grow shorter as the harsh winter would creep forward. How the days grew colder and everything seemed to return to a state of hibernation.

He had always preferred the warmth of the summer sun and how it would keep him warm even with a soft breeze.

Of course, all good things must come to an end.

The cream-colored feline understood this well despite the hurt he felt in his chest. He had been avoiding this meeting with his beloved but he knew he had to face him again but this wasn’t how he envisioned it.

Standing in front of their tombstone. 

His heart clutched with a tight pain at the sight as he held the flowers in his arms. The bundle he held were a mix of red and pink carnations, morning glory red and dark crimson roses. Zuo knew that they couldn’t possibly be able to see the red and the pink without their glasses but as long as he could see the Morning Glory, the rest didn’t matter. 

The feline took in a deep breath before he exhaled a ragged sigh. “I know... I shouldn’t have stayed away for so long.” Zuo gave a soft, broken laugh. “But, I brought you your favorite flowers, see?” He offered, getting on his knees to place the flowers on the ground in front of the stone. 

Zuo waited as if expecting some kind of response. His ears turned back as he looked down at the flowers before he looked at the stone again. He couldn’t stand reading his name:

Iza Omen Orihara. 

That wasn’t the name he knew them by. Queen was a better fit. Zuo reached out to touch the stone, “It’s hard, Iz.. I think I’m the only one stuck in the past, you know?” He spoke again and paused for another answer that won’t come.

“I wish I could have saved you.” Zuo bunted his forehead against the stone as he closed his eyes, his shoulder shivered as his ears laid flat. He re-envisioned that day. 

The day his other half was dying in his arms. How he had held the black feline so tightly, as if he could keep them together even if Zuo knew that it was impossible, but he still held on to the naive hope that it wasn’t too bad. That he had rushed to his side quickly enough to catch him before he fell, but always, he was too late. 

It should have been the other way around. Zuo would tell himself. 

Why was it reversed in this lifetime? Every time before this it was him first. It was something Zuo simply couldn’t understand. The universe itself was strange and had its own plans and intentions but to think this time was different was baffling. And because the universe played by its own rules, Zuo was left here alone in the cold of the nighttime evening of fall sobbing over his entire world that slipped through his fingers. 

He slammed his fist on the stone, “It’s not fair! It should’ve been me-! It should of been...” Zuo wept, trying to cover up his sorrow with a fit of anger. 

His hand hurt. He wasn’t able to break the stone that still stood before him, almost mocking. It showed off his weakness, his fear, and how helpless he was to stop such a fate from happening. Zuo dragged his hand across the name, his forehead still pressed against it as he looked at his hand. The scars almost seemed to laugh at him. They proved how much he had survived and lived through and yet they had been cut by a simple stone. 

He gave a bitter laugh. It felt as if Iza himself were scolding him for such weakness but Zuo knew Iza better than that. This was a sign that he was stronger than he appeared. He pulled back, reading the text again before he stood up, using the hand that had gotten cut to wipe his tears away. Zuo took in another breath, exhaling his breath upward. “I still have to apologize.”

The feline put his hands on his coat pockets. “I didn’t listen to you but..when did I ever listen to you anyway?” 

                 ‘Don’t do anything stupid, Zuo.’ 

Iza’s last words echoed in his mind, before he gave a quiet hurt laugh as he looked back down at the tombstone. “After it all, I did the one thing you’ve always wanted me to do.” 

His ears turned forward and his tail swayed. He remembered the afterward, how he felt the energy and how the crowd had turned hectic before he took control. The power he felt. It was almost too much and within that brief moment he understood how Iza felt.

The feeling of being on a stage and in the spotlight.

With high emotions of revenge, grief and anger on his mind. The scent of iron clear on his sense that had never smelled so sweet until now. It made him understand just what Iza meant. 

                 ‘I’m doing you a favor, Dear. Isn’t the scent wonderful? It tells us that we are survivors. So, why don’t you draw some blood as well?’ 

He turned the crowd into a riot. 

Zuo shook the memory away and with shaky hands he pulled out a catnip cigarette and lit it, instantly taking a deep breath of it before exhaling. It was out of habit. The catnip didn’t work anymore. 

“I don’t know if you’d be proud or not.” He said honestly, but Zuo knew Iza wouldn’t accept such a thing. The feline wondered if perhaps their roles had changed in that moment.

By the end of their time together, it was Iza who didn’t want there to be bloodshed but Zuo couldn’t have possibly known Iza’s true intentions behind the meaning of his last words.

Zuo took another huff of the mint. “I fucked it all up. I could blame you for it all but I know you. You’re too petty and stubborn to die like that. You probably cursed me for another hundred years, huh, Amour?” He gave a bitter laugh at the thought.

Of course, he knew that he’d find Iza again whatever form he may be in.

The feline took out a white envelope and put the used catnip cigarette inside before pocketing it in his coat. “I’ll fix this for you.” He promised. Zuo had foolishly let his emotions get the better of him at the time and ruined everything that was built was a mistake. A fatal mistake that he would regret until the day he finds himself in a new life.  

A new life that he hoped he could live right, even if it meant being at opposing ends with his soulmate again. 

With a slight bow, Zuo turned to leave before he stopped. The feline turned back again, “I forgot, but...happy birthday, Iza.” 

With new resolve Zuo found it in himself to turn away and do as promised. He never broke his promises and intended to keep this one.

Even if it would kill him, he knew he had to fix this. He wore the rings that had been given to him on each middle finger. They were from Iza. Even if they were gifted, Zuo knew exactly what they were supposed to be:

A token of their union at last.

#hi this is very sad so uh... I guess just be careful of reading it LOL #idk what triggers to put but...? #ask to tag #Drabbles #v; tempestuous #finally got a verse name for post!Tranquility

[robininthelabyrinth]

Fic: An Internal Affair - Chapter 19 (Ao3 link)

Fandom: The Flash Pairing: Leonard Snart/Barry Allen

Summary: Leonard Snart, the CCPD Captain of Internal Affairs, is known as Captain Cold for a very good reason: He hates corrupt cops with a merciless vengeance, and once you’re on his list, you’re in serious trouble.

His next target?

A CCPD lab tech named Barry Allen who’s developed a suspicious habit of disappearing at random intervals.

—————————————————————————————————

Len is so far from having a good day, he can't even begin to quantify it. It's like something out of one of his worst nightmares.

(There had better not be a meta with the ability to turn nightmares into reality, because if there is and they have anything to do with this, Len is going to throttle them and he won't even be sorry. Well, maybe a little sorry.)

But seriously, he’s having trouble picking the worst thing that’s currently happening to him.

Mick is gone - hurt, kidnapped, probably dying from lack of hospital access, trapped at the mercy of some superhuman monster that likes to play with people before he kills them.

Trapped in a room knowing there’s nowhere to go, just like Len was.

If Len thinks about that for too long, he’s going to crack, and he can’t crack, not when Mick's counting on him, so he can’t think about it.

But if he’s not thinking about Mick, then he’s thinking about the fact that the Families are on the cusp of closing a deal that will give them fresh blood and power and vigor, thereby undoing all the work he's so painstakingly accomplished with twenty years undercover.

Or the fact that the police force he gave his life to, his friends, his family, his truth to, is corrupt beyond all belief, beyond even his admittedly negatively biased views of it.

That the city he loves is a ticking time bomb and he's one of the few people who knows it.

That Barry is still fucking perfect.

Okay, that last one is probably not at the same level as the others, but damnit, it feels like it should be.

Barry has no right being so damn wonderful. He committed horrible crimes!

...which he accepted, taking responsibility for and accepting the consequences of. He didn't make excuses, he didn't try to explain himself, he just looked Len square in the eyes and said: You're right, I was wrong, I will never let it happen again, I will do better, but just saying so doesn't change the fact that what I did was wrong and I will pay what I must for it.

And he was manipulated by Wells, who's apparently good enough to play politics with the military and the Families and the Central City government, all at once, and that's without considering how he tricked Barry into seeing him as a surrogate father figure, utilizing his apparently extensive stalking (including, apparently, cameras in Barry's bedroom which really is the stuff of nightmares) to figure out the best ways to get under Barry’s skin.

Under the circumstances, really, one could see many of Barry’s actions as being taken under a form of emotional duress...

Damnit.

Mick was right, as he so often is.

Barry really isn't corrupt. Barry's trying his best and making mistakes (if very bad ones) in the process. But deep down, Barry’s still a good man.

And Len is head-over-fucking-heels in love with him.

A realization that helpfully arrived after he destroyed Barry's life and those of his closest friends and family.

He fully expects that this has almost certainly ruined his chances to ever get Barry’s forgiveness, even after Barry serves whatever time he must. Acceptance, tolerance, understanding, maybe, but nothing else.

Nothing like love.

Great.

Way to go, Len. Way to fucking go.

At least Len’s still in charge of the investigation in some part – really, he ought to have recused himself as soon as he’d processed what Hartley had told him, given his emotional involvement with one of the targets, but he was just so upset that he utterly forgot – so there's a chance he might be able to present evidence of what mitigating factors exist to explain Barry’s actions, and hope that that's enough to convince someone impartial to take pity.

The alternative – Barry's spirit getting stamped out of him by the brutal realities of prison, or indelibly tainted by a quiet and unethical dismissal designed to avoid having to re-open his cases – isn’t worth thinking about.

So he won’t.

Len’s gotten very good at not thinking about things.

At least he has now: this wonderful, awful interlude where they're working together, a unified front, the way Len wishes they still were.

The way they were before Len screwed everything up because he just couldn’t help his knee-jerk instinct to assume the worst in people and refuse to listen to any explanation they might have. If only he'd confronted Barry in private, maybe...

Still, if this little bit of teamwork is all Len can get, he'll take it.

Of course, despite his confident words to Barry, actually getting everything into action and going to STAR Labs to defeat Wells and rescue Mick and Thawne isn't as easy as just saying that they’ll do it.

Len has a time and a half getting the Feds on board, but twenty years of being one of their most reliable local guys pays its dividends and they agree to come with whatever resources they can spare, which on such short notice – the day before, really, Snart, you getting lax on us? – isn’t much but will have to do. Len puts his contacts in touch with Singh at the CCPD and Cecile Horton at the District Attorney’s office, the only two he personally trusts to not be on a Family payroll, to work out the business of getting warrants and putting together an actionable plan for how to deal with what’s coming.

Unfortunately, getting in touch with the CCPD means that the CCPD, leaky boat that it is, knows that something big is going down.

There’s no way to avoid it, but Len didn’t spent his years undercover twiddling his thumbs, either.

“Singh, I want you to go for a walk with someone and mention to them that they’ve got to keep it real hush-hush, but the Feds are getting involved ‘cause someone’s threatening a terrorist attack on Election Day,” Len instructs. He’s getting annoyed that he’s still on the phone while Barry’s already finished up making plans with Iris, called in Ramon and Snow to go help the CCPD with gadgets and triage for potential injuries respectively, and is now standing around and is, in fact, twiddling his thumbs.

And, to add insult to injury, he didn’t even use superspeed.

“Yes, I know, the cover story won’t last past impact,” he adds impatiently when Singh protests. “That ain’t the point. The point is that we don’t know who in the department is on the take and who ain’t, and that means we tell all of ‘em the cover story in an attempt to keep the Families from panicking before the Feds can show up with RICO warrants. Just drop the story publicly, then keep going with it in private until everyone’s convinced that’s the reason for the time being.”

There’s more arguing on the now-conference call line.

“No, we’re not getting clearance from the Commissioner,” Len says. “Not till we’re sure he’s clean. Listen, he gave me free clearance to recruit as many people as I wanted to my Weird Things task force, right? And basically no mandate? I’m recruiting your entire precinct, it can go under my name, it’s fine – yes, I’m aware that it’ll blow up in my face if this intel’s wrong, I don’t care, I’m willing to take the risk.”

That convinces a good few people. Amazing what the opportunity to cover your ass will convince people to do.

After a bit more insistence, they finally agree to accept his idea and to implement it in just the way he proposed, and then they move on to debating mechanics – where to put up barricades to help reduce damage if there are, as expected, riots, explained away as preparations for a potential panicked response to the ‘terrorist attack’, how many resources they need to divert to reinforce Iron Heights to ensure there aren’t break-outs in the meantime, etc.

Len waits a few more minutes and, when he’s pretty sure they don’t need him anymore, says, “In the meantime, I’m going to go deal with an outstanding issue –”

Immediate protests.

Goddamnit, people, you’re adult policemen! Do your goddamn jobs! Without Len holding your hand the entire time!

“Are you done yet?” Barry asks hopefully.

"You know what, yes," Len says. "Fuck this. Let's go. Yes, I’m hanging up now – no, you can’t call me back, I’m going to mute my phone the second after I hang up, I don’t care – listen, if I survive what I’m about to go do, I promise I’ll sign off on all of this minutiae and if I’m dead, just blame whatever you do on me. I ain’t gonna care, I’ll be dead. And right now, I don’t know which one of ‘em’s a better option!”

He hangs up.

“Sometimes I wish we still had flip-phones,” Barry says nonsensically, but it makes sense when he adds, “I feel like it would have been more satisfying to slam something closed or down in the hanger or something, rather than just angrily stabbing the ‘end call’ button.”

“Very likely,” Len says, and then his phone rings again.

He lifts it up to throw it down on the ground, only for Barry to flash it out of his hands before he can. “I’m gonna turn off your phone,” Barry says wisely. "It's clearly stressing you out."

"Mick is missing and maybe dead, the Families are going to destroy my city, lots of people are gonna die, and even the police I trust not to be corrupt are being pests," Len says, scowling. Barry hands him back his phone with the setting firmly on ‘mute’, which helps a little. "I think I’ve gone beyond stress."

"Where we're going, we don't need neurotransmitters."

Len pauses. "We're in the middle of a crisis and you’re paraphrasing Back to the Future?"

"...maybe?"

Stop being perfect.

"Right," Len says instead. "Let’s find a private corner and you can take us to STAR Labs. When we get there, if you see Mick and Thawne -"

"Don't you dare say that I'm to prioritize getting them out," Barry cuts him off. "I can only carry two people, and I'm not leaving you alone."

"Barry -"

"You can't defeat him. I barely stand a chance."

"I have the cold gun –"

"He's a speedster. You got one over on him the last time because he wasn’t expecting it, but now that he is, you'll never get the chance to use it."

"It doesn't matter," Len hisses. He knows that. He knows that all too well. But ultimately, in the end, it doesn’t matter. They still have to try. "Barry, please. When we get there, you have to listen to me, okay? I'm not going to say you have to prioritize them, we'll make a game-time decision on that depending on the circumstances, but I have to trust that you'll listen to me."

For some reason, that makes Barry pause. "Okay," he says. "Okay. You can trust me. I'll listen to you."

"Even if I order you take them out and leave me behind?"

"Even then. But we have to try to get everyone out before we resort to that, okay?"

"Deal." Len tries on a smirk. “I don’t intend to let Wells have the last word – besides, didn’t you hear? I’ve got paperwork to do.”

“Just so you know, that conversation doesn’t actually give me a lot of confidence in your desire to survive this,” Barry says dryly, because he knows Len pretty well, but he runs them to STAR Labs anyway.

Despite the fact that the sun is rapidly setting around them, almost all of STAR Labs’ lights have been shut off, likely because Ramon wasn’t around to turn them on, lending the building an eerie, deserted feeling.

It's "almost all" because once they walk through the main doors, they see that it's not entirely true that the building is deserted – the lights in the base of the Accelerator itself, the very core of STAR Labs, are still on.

“Wow,” Barry says. “So, everyone who thinks this is a trap, say ‘aye’.”

“Aye,” Len says. “Sadly, we’re going in anyway.”

“Should I pick up my Flash suit?” Barry asks. “It’s in the main lobby, and it could offer some extra protection –”

“No, don’t. Ramon made that, and it lives here; Wells could’ve tampered with it at any time.”

Barry makes a face. “Yeah, point. I’ve seen some of the stuff Cisco can do remotely with that thing; I don’t want to get trapped or lit on fire or something like that.”

He still looks wistful, though, so Len adds, “If we survive here, you can get him to make you a new one. Ramon, that is; it doesn’t seem like Wells took him into his confidence.”

Barry nods, looking a bit cheered. “Stop saying ‘if’,” he advises. “We’re going to survive. Better, we’re going to rescue everyone.”

Determined optimism is a good look on Barry.

Everything is a good look on Barry.

(Barry's beautiful.)

God, Mick was right -

He can't think about Mick.

Mick, who was torn away from the hospital equipment he still needs to live. Who could already be gone, dying a torturous death of sepsis or an infection or even just an inability to keep all his body functioning...

He can’t think about Mick.

“Let’s go,” he says, and makes his way into the Accelerator.

It’s not even a surprise to see Wells waiting patiently for them down on the Accelerator’s floor, a door pulled open from the floor to reveal a ladder undoubtedly leading into a secret basement room.

Len assumes that’s where Mick and Thawne are being kept.

Wells is wearing the yellow suit with the hood pushed back off his face. It looks exactly like Barry’s Flash suit, only in reverse colors and with a lightning bolt facing the other direction.

Creepy stalker.

Len wonders if Barry’s suit was always designed to be the opposite of Wells’, and if so, what that was supposed to signify.

“Take us down,” Len tells Barry. “Fast.”

He grits his teeth through the run, even though, as always, his back and leg protest the movement. It’s fine, though; he’s prepared. He can’t show weakness right now.

He's always been good at ignoring pain to avoid showing weakness.

“Mr. Snart,” Wells says. “Mr. Allen – no. Barry. Welcome. I’ve been expecting you for some time now.”

“What can you say,” Len drawls. “Sometimes I can be a bit – slow.”

Barry, who was standing as tense as wire string and almost undoubtedly working himself into an anxious frenzy that would do nothing but make him less capable of thinking through his actions before he did them, audibly snorts at that, relaxing into a more comfortable stance.

Len knows Barry pretty well by now, too.

“Indeed you are, Captain Cold,” Wells says. “Slowing things down is rather your specialty, isn’t it?”

Len isn’t impressed with Wells right now. “You realize that’s a precinct nickname, right? And I’m pretty sure you ain’t a cop.”

“In my time, you are known almost universally by your chosen appellation,” Wells says. “I’d start adjusting now, if I were you.”

“In your time?” Barry asks. "What - do you mean that you're -"

No way.

No fucking way.

"Oh yes," Wells says, and smiles. It's a very creepy and intimidating smile. "It’s true. I'm from the future."

Len shifts to lean more of his weight on one crutch, pulling it in tight against his body for better balance, and raises his other hand into the air like a schoolboy.

"...do you have a question, Mr. Snart?" Wells says, his voice a little strangled, his creepy smile gone crooked with confusion. Probably wasn't expecting Len’s infantile behavior, but in his defense Wells is clearly setting up for a nice lecturing monologue, so it seemed appropriate.

Barry just has his eyes closed like he's trying to keep himself from kicking Len and his lips pressed tight to keep himself from laughing.

"How far in the future?" Len asks. "Are we talking one day? One week? One year? Ten years? A hundred? A thousand? Has the sun exploded yet?"

"I - no? Why would the sun have exploded?"

"Ain't it supposed to do that in a billion years or so?" Len frowns at him. "You're a scientist, don't you know that?"

"He's a particle physicist, Len," Barry says, sounding long-suffering but also highly amused. "You don't have to take astronomy courses to get a degree in that. He's not some sort of all-around mad scientist from a novel or television show or something. Besides, time travel we know is real; multidisciplinary studies is just implausible."

"Fine, fine," Len says, even though as a non-scientist that sounds highly dubious to him. "The question still stands - are we talking real time, or is he just being really pretentious about having come back about a week or so?"

"I traveled back a thousand years to find the Flash," Wells snaps. "And when I did, I discovered that he wasn't worthy of the honors history had bestowed upon him! I was alone, Mr. Snart; the only one in my era like me, the only one gifted with these powers, and yet when I sought out someone who could understand, he rejected my friendship -"

"Rejecting a crazy murderous fanboy," Len says. "Can't imagine why he did that."

Wells scoffs. "The people I kill here now have been dead for centuries to me, Mr. Snart. They were insignificant to the timeline; it makes no difference."

"Makes something of a difference to them," Len says. "Lemme guess the rest, yeah? You got powers - maybe you even gave yourself powers, after hearing about what the Flash could do from your history books - and then you realized that it's too damn easy to be the only speedster around. So you found a way to go back to the only place you knew you'd find another one, 'cept you're a waste of space personality-wise, a self-absorbed asshole with delusions of grandeur, so when Barry here didn't immediately give you all the attention you wanted, you decided you hated him and that you were gonna kill him. Except for you, it wasn't enough to just kill him, 'cause then he'd still be alive for you, wouldn't he? Not like those other, insignificant people - no, you needed to wipe him outta history. So you went back to when he was just an insignificant little kid. Something like that, yeah? Stop me if I got anything wrong."

"Very clever, Mr. Snart," Wells says. He looks like he's just bitten into a lemon. Probably wasn't expecting Len to steal his thunder like that. Pity for him that Len’s actually read a book or two in his time, and he likes scifi. God, what a cliché. "Unnecessarily editorial, but right on the important points."

"That's why you killed her?" Barry asks, blankly, numbly. Another dagger in his heart, courtesy of Wells - was there no way this man would stop hurting him? "Because - because of me?"

"You were my target, Barry, yes," Wells says. His voice is kindly, almost paternal, if you ignore the batshit crazy stuff spilling from his mouth. "Your future self stopped me, stealing you away and saving you, and I killed her in anger. But it was my good fortune that I didn't succeed - killing your mother was enough to derail your future and stop you from being the Flash. But it was only then that I realized: without you to inspire me, I would never have obtained my own powers. My access to the Speed Force was cut off, and I was trapped in this primitive era - and my only way back was you, Barry. I need you. Only you will be fast enough to help me use the Accelerator to open the time portal I need to get back home."

"That's why you wanted me to get faster," Barry says, his eyes fixed on Wells much like a man confronted by a venomous snake. "As soon as possible. That's why - but why in the world would you think I'd help you? Especially now? Why?"

"Because, Barry, I can help you fix it," Wells says, his eyes avid. "The same speed that will enable me to return to my era will help you go back to when you need - to stop me from killing your mother at all - to erase my mistake, that caused you so much pain -"

"You know what, I don't believe you," Len announces.

"You - what?!"

"I don't think you killed her."

"I beg your pardon?!"

"You're a speedster, Barry's a speedster," Len says with a shrug. "Who says the real Man in Yellow couldn't've been a third guy? You might just be claiming credit."

Wells looks irritated beyond all belief. Barry is just staring at Len in total disbelief. Lots of belief going around here.

"What?" Len says. "He's got a nice story - ooooh, I'm from the fuuuuture, how narratively satisfying - but no proof. Why couldn't he be taking advantage of someone else's crime to get what he wants? It's not like he knows any details about the murder that only the murderer would know or something -"

"I murdered Nora Allen in her own living room," Wells snarls. "With a stainless steel knife measuring approximately eight inches, taken from the kitchen - the second drawer on the counter, the third one down the right side of the knife block, knocking down several pans that were hanging above as I did - and then I stabbed her in the thorax between the seventh and eighth rib, using enough force to cause traumatic bruising throughout -"

He stops abruptly. And then he starts chuckling.

"Oh, very clever indeed, Mr. Snart," he says, his voice soft and menacing. "Always thinking ahead, aren't you? I assume you're recording this conversation?"

"My phone's uploading to a cloud stream right now," Len confirms cheerfully. "Scattering the evidence onto a dozen different servers all around the world - none of which you'll be able to track, being a particle physicist and not a computer engineer. Thanks, though; that'll make proving Barry's dad's innocence a heck of a lot easier."

Barry looks touched.

"Besides," Len says, "your plan won't work and you know it."

Wells scowls at him. "And why not, exactly?"

"Because you know very well that I made Barry promise me he wouldn't go back and change significant events in the past," Len says. "I've got some mistakes of my own that I need to confront and accept, and knowing there was a way to reverse 'em was too easy. So I made him swear." He shrugs. "Barry's a bit of a liar, don't get me wrong, but once he promises something, he sticks to it."

Wells looks even more lemon-faced, probably because he's spent significant time with Barry these past few months and knows that what Len's saying is, in fact, true.

Barry's a stickler for his promises, even if he lies like a scarlet-and-gold Aladdin-style rug when confrontation is in the air.

Len's pretty sure that Wells already knew all of this, though, which means he's just posturing - and still has cards left to play.

"Well, then," Wells says, and sure enough he doesn't actually seem surprised by the revelation. "It appears we are at something of an impasse. Unless you're willing to release Mr. Allen from his promise?"

"Nope," Len says. "Sorry. And yes, before you start, I included the event of my death in the things he ain't allowed to change. So that's my last word on the subject."

"Luckily, it isn't mine," Wells says, and smirks. "I heard you, you see, in the hospital - very touching, confessing your love for Mr. Allen -"

"His what?!" Barry blurts out.

Great.

Thanks, Wells.

"- but you also made something else very clear," Wells says. "You vowed that you'd never pick anything over Mr. Rory ever again, didn't you?"

"You stole him from a hospital bed," Len says bitterly. "One attaching him to things he needed to live. Given that he's probably already dead now, what exactly are you offering me? A redo where you don't take him?"

"Oh no, Mr. Snart -"

Wells blurs, and suddenly Mick is there - on his knees, his arms bound before him, a gag in his mouth - but he's alive.

He's alive.

He's –

Noticeably less injured?

Still burned, yes, the burn scars still ugly across his neck and his shoulders and chest beneath the ill-fitting STAR Labs sweatshirt Wells put him in, but he's breathing on his own and he's not bleeding and his muscle tone looks vastly improved.

He looks like he could almost be - okay.

"One of the many advantages of future technology, Mr. Snart," Wells says. "When I took Mr. Rory - admittedly, more in the interest of tormenting you than in preparation for this moment, but waste not, want not - I realized swiftly that he would soon expire if a number of his more serious injuries were not resolved. And so: I did."

Len swallows.

Mick.

Mick, alive, better - and probably about to be murdered by a speedster.

Well, two outta three ain't bad.

"And so I offer you a deal, Mr. Snart," Wells says. "You may love Mr. Allen, but you also love Mr. Rory. Which one do you love more?"

"Why'd you take Thawne?" Len asks, playing for time. That didn’t sound like the sort of ‘deal’ he’d be interested in. "Instead of Iris?"

Wells smirks. "Ah, yes; hadn't I mentioned? My name is not Harrison Wells - that was merely an identity I assumed upon coming to this era. Instead -"

"You're a Thawne," Barry breathes, inadvertently interrupting. "That's it, isn't it? You're his descendant! If anything happens to him, that would affect you, wouldn't it?"

"Very good, Barry," Wells says, because apparently Barry interrupting him with insights is all well and good while Len doing the same is just annoying. It's okay, Len knows who the favored child here is, and he doesn't envy Barry one bit. "My true name is Eobard Thawne - a descendant of a great and noble house, politicians and scientists and kings, the great movers and shakers of history. It occurred to me that continuing to run around with Mr. Snart here could lead little Eddie into trouble. And while he himself wasn't anything special, his death would be - paradoxical."

"Very Back to the Future of you," Len says.

"Indeed. Very well, enough of this - Mr. Snart, I will give you Mr. Rory, in his new stabilized condition, as well as my word that I will refrain from harming both of you. In return, however, you release Mr. Allen from your promise - and leave him here with me."

Barry swallows. "Len," he says before Len can react.

Len looks at him.

"It makes sense," Barry says quietly. "I'm the only one who's a match for him - even with your cold gun, you won't be able to do much. This'll at least keep you guys safe. It's a good deal. You should take Mick and go."

"That's right," Wells adds gloatingly, smirking as Barry flinches. "Just take Mr. Rory. You love him more, after all -"

"S'got nothing to do with who I love more!" Len exclaims. "That doesn't matter!"

"It - doesn't?"

"No! I'm a goddamn cop! Trading one innocent life for another is unethical."

"Unethical," Wells says blankly.

"Yes! Ethics! Contributing to another person's crime makes you part of it, while doing nothing doesn't. Listen, even for a psychopath like you that don't got a little voice that tells you right from wrong, there are rules that lay it all out, and the rules are real clear on this one. Emotions don't even come into the goddamn equation. No one's getting traded for nobody."

And then he catches Mick's eyes and without saying a single word they both act at once, in one gloriously synchronized motion the way they used to do when they were proper partners, Len acting as a distraction by pulling out his cold gun, keeping Wells' (Eobard's?) attention while Mick swings his bound arms straight across, thereby hopefully giving Len a chance to finishing getting his gun out.

Wells might be a speedster, but he still needs to notice something coming his way.

He also reacts to being punched in the balls the same as any other man.

Unfortunately, he recovers much faster.

Much, much faster.

He knocks Len down, only to be hit in the side by a charging Barry, and next thing Len knows the two of them are running through the Accelerator.

It's no contest.

Wells is faster - much faster. He has more experience, more practice, more time to experiment - he knows tricks Barry hasn't even conceived of.

He's leading Barry on a pointless chase through the Accelerator - or maybe not so pointless, given what he said about using the Accelerator to open a time portal.

Not good.

"Barry!" Len shouts. "Get Mick and Detective Thawne outta here now!"

Yes, he's aware that he could have safely left Thawne in, er, the other Thawne's custody; Eobard-Wells has already admitted he doesn't plan on killing him.

Not on killing him, no. But harming him...

There are plenty of ways to harm someone if all you need from them are their genes.

Besides, Len would never leave someone trapped in a small room, an oubliette, abandoned and losing all hope of rescue - especially as Wells would undoubtedly move him to somewhere equally secure but less easy to find if he were given the chance.

At least Wells wasn't expecting Barry to veer off so sharply, obeying Len's orders without hesitation, and he actually comes to a complete stop for a moment, staring after Barry as the yellow flash of light zips out the door.

Then he turns to Len.

"Cold, Mr. Snart," he says, and his tone is murderous. "Very cold. When given a choice of which one of three to sacrifice, you choose - yourself. The cripple."

Suddenly he's in front of Len, standing far too close, the cold gun batted out of Len's hands to their feet. Len can't bend to pick it up, not with his injuries, and he's pretty sure his conventional weapon will be less than useless.

"Pity," Wells says conversationally. "I would have liked to work with you, one day. But I suppose you'll have to serve my purposes by showing Barry that nothing he loves will ever be safe until he defeats me. Me - and only me."

Len doesn't even feel the blow that throws him across the room, but he does feel it when he hits the ground, hard, his crutches clattering down around him, his side and leg on fire, his head spinning from the impact as he stares blankly up at the Accelerator's glass ceiling.

He can see the stars in the darkening evening sky.

Only two, mind you, but that's light pollution in Central City for you. Plus he's pretty sure only one of them's a star and the other a plane.

Still - not the worst view to end a life on.

He regrets it, of course, but Mick will be safe and well, and Barry - well, Len already broke Barry's heart when he turned him and his friends in to the police. Barry will mourn him, of course, and probably the what-might-have-beens, thanks to Wells’ little revelation, but he'll be fine, in time.

Wells appears above Len and hauls him up.

"Not yet, Mr. Snart," he says. God, what an utter cliché he is; Len could practically recite his next few words with him. "First I'm going to wait until Barry comes back. Then I'm going to kill you."

Yep. Just as expected.

"Boss!"

Wait, what?

That was not part of the script.

Especially since that was Danvers' voice, rather than Barry's or Mick's.

"Who are you?" Wells asks, a bit blankly. He's probably never even seen Danvers before.

"That's my secretary," Len says, just as blankly. He has no idea what she's doing here - Iris must've told her where they were.

"Admin assistant, boss!" she shouts, a kneejerk instinct.

"...right," Wells says, obviously deciding that he doesn't care. "Unless you've instructed Mr. Allen not to return -"

Damn, Len wishes he'd thought of that.

But no, it's too late for that, he can already see the red-and-yellow streak that is Barry Allen, running towards them desperately, and he can see that Wells sees him, too, and Wells lifts his hand, vibrating as fast as a saw, and -

Suddenly there’s glass everywhere.

Glass?

Oh, he's gone through STAR Labs’ glass ceiling.

Wait - how?

Danvers has him in her arms.

(Heh. Women and glass ceilings - there's a pun in there, somewhere.)

Wait, is Danvers flying?

That seems impossible, but they're definitely hovering far above STAR Labs, looking down at Central City, all lit up for the encroaching night, laid out beneath them. Which - huh?!

They float there in silence for a long moment.

It’s getting awkward.

“Well, Danvers,” Len finally says, because he’s never been awkward with Danvers and he has no plans to start now. “No wonder you never had train problems!"

#coldflash #leonard snart #barry allen #eobard thawne #mick rory #eddie thawne #kara danvers #my fic #an internal affair

[ti-bae-rius]

Alec as Consul - oneshot

From the headcanon of @sweetcabbageprince that I answered a week or so ago. It was so fun writing this and I adore writing the malec family dynamic. I haven’t written any malec in a while - though they used to be my main muses. It’s nice writing them again. I’ve missed it. 

“Chin up, darling.”

Alec sighed and smoothed his jacket. It was so strange, Magnus thought, to see Alec in a suit. Objectively, the blazer looked far better than his usual ratty sweaters. However, it did mean he lost a little Alec-ness that Magnus missed. But he looked formal and his hair was neat. Well, mostly neat. 

“Come here,” Magnus said, shaking his head fondly and smoothing down the cowlick at the back of his boyfriend’s head. “There.” He put a hand under Alec’s chin gently. “Hey, it’s going to be okay,” he whispered and Alec looked up at him.

“They’re going to hate me,” Alec replied and Magnus looked uneasy.

He couldn’t deny it. The Cohort were going to throw a fit. The amount of fuss they’d kicked up when Jace voted Alec forward for Consul had shut down the meeting for the rest of the day.  Now that he was actually up for election, there was going to be a whole world of chaos for their family. For a long time, the two of them had discussed whether or not Alec should run. Magnus had always said he thought Alec should do it, but he’d listened to Alec’s 2 a.m. monologues about all the problems with it regardless. He was mostly terrified it would expose the children to scrutiny. (’Like their lives haven’t been hard enough, Magnus’). They were just children, Alec argued. They didn’t deserve to be put under the Clave’s microscope just because Alec was selfish enough to want to run for Consul. He’d eventually been convinced to at least attend the meeting by a strong barrage of arguments from his friends that, if he refused to stand, they’d end up with another Cohort member in leadership. That settled it. The past month with Horace Dearborn in the role of Inquisitor, had been pure hell on earth. Max and Rafael had been kept firmly away from Idris. As much as Magnus and Alec wanted to help everyone in Alicante, they were obviously far more dedicated to their children. The couple had lived in permanent fear since adopting their sons that the Clave would force them apart. When Jia Penhallow and Alec’s father had been in charge, that fear was less of a reality and more a nervous parental worry. Now, with Horace Dearborn and his sycophants, all harbouring views that vilified the couple, the fear their children might be taken away felt more and more rational by the day. 

Magnus never would’ve expected he’d become a family-oriented man, but here he was. His apartment which had once been the notorious hub of New York’s party scene was now decorated not in half-empty liquor bottles and glitter but in toys and books with the thick cardboard pages with bright, round writing. 

“Maybe they will,” Magnus said softly, pressing his lips to Alec’s cheek briefly. “You’ll still have two sons who adore you. And you’ll still have me.”

Alec smiled a little, the air behind Magnus’s words stirring his hair. “Well, that does sound good,” he murmured. “I’d better go. I wish you could come with me,” Alec added, and in that moment he sounded for all the world like the 18 year old boy Magnus had first met, insecure and nervous and shy.

“I can try and arrange for someone to look after the boys,” Magnus offered but Alec shook his head, his resolve firmly set again. All trace of vulnerability left his face. Well, all that anyone else might see. Magnus could still see the waves of self-doubt swimming in Alec’s blue eyes. 

“It won’t be as bad as I expect,” Alec said, injecting fake confidence into his voice. “I’ll see you tonight.”

Magnus lingered in the doorway as Alec went into the boys’ bedroom, kissing each of his sons in turn on their foreheads. Max started fussing as Alec pulled back and Magnus swooped in to pick the boy up. He gave Alec one last smile as he left and sat down on the carpet beside Rafael, joining in their pretend game. He hoped Alec was right, that it wouldn’t be as bad as they were predicting. The swan dive his stomach took as soon as the door closed made him think otherwise. 

As soon as the front door opened that night, Magnus knew something was wrong. There was a tension in Alec’s stance that put him immediately on guard. He didn’t say a word before heading to the bedroom. 

“One second, mi lindo,” Magnus said to Rafael who gave his father an imploring look as he put down the book they’d been reading together. Magnus knocked the back of his hand gently against the wood of the bedroom door. 

“Give me a minute,” Alec said tightly. Magnus pushed the door open in response. “I said give me a minute,” Alec repeated tersely. 

He was sat on the bed, tie in his hands and shirt collar askew. He held up a hand when Magnus began to ask if he was okay, which Magnus took carefully and lowered onto his knee as he sat beside his boyfriend. The Lightwood ring gleamed on his hand and Magnus stroked a thumb over the signet softly. 

“What’s wrong?” Magnus asked and Alec put his head against the other man’s shoulder in defeat.

“I won. I’m the new Consul.”

“Alec!” Magnus exclaimed. “That’s amazing!” When Alec didn’t say anything, he looked across in confusion. “Isn’t it? What’s up?”

“They hate me.”

“What happened?”

“There was a picket line, Magnus,” Alec said, voice strained. “I had to cross a picket line to get to my own meeting.”

“A picket...?” Magnus trailed off, shocked into a rare moment of silence. 

“Some of the signs...” Alec looked broken. “Some of the signs were awful. They weren’t just angry with me, they were protesting against you and the kids and gay shadowhunters and mixed Nephilim-Downworlder families and...”

“The Cohort are assholes.”

“Some of them weren’t even Cohort members,” Alec replied. “Some were just normal shadowhunters who don’t like us. I feel like...like I’m doing more damage than good. I’ve never seen protests like this over a Consul election. Before now, maybe those complaints were still there, but they weren’t voiced so publicly. Having me in charge is just adding fuel to the fire, giving them a platform to spread their hate. The stuff on those signs...” Alec swallowed hard. “It honestly made me feel sick. I guess I’d kind of tried to forget that people actually still thought like that. I thought it was better now. I can't just think about myself anymore. There are young gay shadowhunters to consider. If I’d seen those kind of riots when I was still in the closet, I don’t know if I’d have ever come out.”

“But think how much it would’ve meant to you to see a shadowhunter in power who was like you,” Magnus said, tugging on Alec’s arm. His eyes were gleaming with earnest. “And not just any shadowhunter, but the Consul, the highest Clave member. Think how much that would’ve meant. You said it couldn’t be all about you, and you’re right. You have to do this for the kids like you, the adults like you. Besides, think what it would mean to the Downworld. Which shadowhunter would understand them better than you? Not only are you dating an infamous warlock -” At that, Alec cracked a smile and squeezed Magnus’s hand. “- and you have a warlock son but you know what it’s like to be ostracized by the Clave. You know what it’s like to be treated differently for who you are, for something you can’t change. You already founded the shadowhunter-downworlder alliance. And, not to brag, I do have a certain amount of clout in the Downworld.”

Alec brought their hands to his lips and kissed Magnus’s knuckles. “Thank you.”

“What’s next?” Magnus asked.

“There’s an inauguration dinner together and then I move into my new office in the Gard on Monday.”

“Do you happen to have a plus-one?” Magnus asked, and Alec looked uncertain. 

“I do. But I don't know whether it’s wise.”

“Alec, darling, I don’t want to panic you, but I think they all know you have a boyfriend,” Magnus whispered jokingly. “I think you can come out now.”

Alec shoved him gently in the shoulder. “I just meant that it might make things worse. Besides, I don’t want them to say anything to you.”

“I’m a big warlock, Alec. I can handle it,” he said, kissing him gently. 

“Papa!”

They exchanged a look and Magnus stood up. “Coming, muru!” he called. 

The handle of the bedroom door turned and Rafael’s face peeked into the room, his hand clutching Max’s, pulling his little brother along impatiently. Alec bent down and Rafael dropped Max’s hand to run into Alec’s outstretched arms. Max toddled over, not wanting to be left out.

“How are you?” Alec asked, burying his face in Rafael’s black hair and kissing the boy’s head. “Have you eaten yet?”

“Nope. We were waiting for you,” Magnus said, and Rafael scrambled up onto the bed and into Magnus’s lap. Max barrelled forward into Alec’s chest enthusiastically and Alec carefully untangled a ringlet of blue hair from where it was caught on his son’s budding horns. They were coming through. It was like teething again but without the resources of ten Google pages of parenting blogs to consult for advice. 

“Well, let’s go get dinner. This little blueberry looks hungry,” Alec said, and hitched Max onto his hip. “Let’s see what we have, Max.”

Magnus watched him go, their son on his arm, and pulled Rafael closer. Maybe some bigoted shadowhunters thought their family was wrong. Who could argue that their family - their beautiful children, his boyfriend who sung lullabies vaguely out of tune, the way Rafael’s hand curled around his thumb - was anything less than any other family? Who out there was protesting against the families who threw out their downworlder children? Who was protesting Horace Dearborn forcing his warped ideals onto his daughter, Zara? No one.

“Papa?”

Magnus looked down at Rafael and smiled. “Come on, let’s go and see what Dad and Max are doing.”

“Do you really think we can bring the kids to Idris?” 

Magnus rolled over and looked at Alec, laid flat on his back, hands resting on his stomach over the bed covers. 

“I don’t see why not. The dinner tonight was okay, minus some passive aggressive commentary from a Cohort members. Besides, I doubt anyone will really be there tomorrow. You’re just moving into the office, right?”

“I guess that’s true,” Alec said, and turned to look at Magnus. “Am I being crazy?”

“No more than usual.”

Alec shoved him in the shoulder, laughing quietly. “Shut up! I’m just worried. I don’t want the kids to get caught up in this. I don’t want to drag them into this mess. I don’t even want to drag you into it, but I don’t think I have a choice in that one.” He smiled and Magnus nodded. 

“You’re right. There’s nothing I love more.” Magnus pulled Alec toward him and rolled over, his back flush to Alec’s bare chest. “Mmm,” he said sleepily. “We’re coming with you, Alexander - all of us. I’m proud of you, darling. I’m not going to be scared away by some Clave assholes. They’re going to have to raise hell to drive us apart.”

“That didn’t work so well last time we went to hell,” Alec teased, kissing along Magnus’s neck gently. The warlock gave a mumble of pleasure and leaned back into Alec’s arms.

“Exactly. So Horace Dearboring isn’t going to have a chance,” Magnus said, wrapping his feet around Alec’s ankles. “Sleep, love. We need to be up early.”

“Can’t you distract me instead?” Alec asked and Magnus rolled over, eyes glinting. 

“And suddenly I’m awake.”

Alec laughed.

“So, how would you propose I distract you, Consul Lightwood?”

Alec grinned. “I’ll leave that up to you.”

“Say no more.”

“I’m exhausted.”

“Yeah? And whose fault is that?” Magnus laughed, scrambling eggs.

“Well, I mean, technically yours,” Alec said, kissing his boyfriend’s cheek from over the warlock’s shoulder. “I’m going to go get the kids ready.”

Magnus watched Alec go, watched his shoulders move under the light grey t-shirt he slept in. When he’d made his breakfast, Magnus took the bowl into the boys’ room where Alec was simultaneously trying to stop Rafael getting toys out to play right before they left and wrestle Max’s feet into light-up sneakers.

“Why are you fighting me? You like these shoes,” Alec said in exasperation. “Rafey, no toys now. We’re setting off soon.” He glanced up at Magnus and sighed. “Oh well, I’m glad you got your eggs.”

“They’re great,” Magnus teased. “I’d go as far as to say they’re even better than reasoning with a three year old - and everyone knows that’s my favourite pastime.” 

Alec rolled his eyes fondly and turned to Rafael and Max. “Okay, both of you come here. I need you to listen really hard.” When he’d managed to get both boys sat on Rafael’s bed, he bent down in front of them. “I need you to stay close to Papa when we’re in Idris. If you can’t see Dad or Papa, stay exactly where you are and we will come and find you. Don’t talk to anyone you don’t recognise. We’re going to use our very best manners. And if anyone asks who you are, you are Magnus Bane and Alec Lightwood’s sons, okay?” The boys nodded solemnly and Alec smiled. “No, no, don’t be nervous. It’s fine. Dad’s just worrying. It’s all going to be just fine.”

He straightened up and picked Max up to carry him through the portal. Magnus took Rafael’s hand and squeezed it comfortingly. Well, it was now or never. He pulled Rafael gently after him through the portal and into the whirling abyss. 

The portal spat them out at the base of the hill on which the Gard sat. Max wriggled to be put down and Alec placed him gently on the grass, compliant. 

“Race!” Max declared and set off running, Rafael a beat behind, though he easily overtook his little brother. When he dramatically slowed, Magnus raised his voice.

“No slowing charms, Max! No using magic on your brother!” he called and Max stopped and reluctantly reversed spell on his brother.

Rafael scowled and sprinted after Max, who was now motivated both by the prospect of winning and a desire not to be wrestled to the ground by his older brother. Magnus gave Alec a despairing look, but Alec looked nervous. 

“It’s fine. They’re fine,” Magnus said and Alec nodded, sighing.

“Sorry. I’m just a bit tense.”

“You’re always tense. You’re on a goddamn knife’s edge, Alexander. Just breathe. It’s going to be alright.”

Alec nodded and exhaled slowly. “Okay. I’m good, I’m fine. Let’s go after them.”

Before they’d even got fifteen feet though, a familiar voice called out: “Papa! Dad!”

Rafael. Magnus and Alec exchanged a look at the tone of his voice and set off running. When they crested the hill, the two froze in unison. Rafael and Max were there, hand in hand, facing the Gard. Alec walked over to them and put a hand on Rafael’s shoulder gently.

“Come on, let’s go in,” he prompted and Max looked up.

“But...”

“I know, blueberry. Just...just keep walking.”

Alec could see the small crowd gathered around the door to the Gard, every person accompanied by a picket sign. He hoped his sons couldn’t understand them, but both were strong readers and the look on Rafael’s face said that he understood more than Alec would’ve wished. Magnus followed behind, one hand on Max’s head and the other on the small of Alec’s back. Some signs hurt more than others - Alec was far less offended by the ‘Not my Consul’ signs than the ‘Register your “son”‘ ones. Alec curled his hands into fists. What did those quotes imply? Max was his son. Rafael was his son. He didn’t care about blood, about magical race. He couldn’t imagine loving anyone more than his sons. Alec pulled the boys along quickly and ignored the shouts and chants. As soon as the doors to the Gard shut behind them Alec breathed out. Max and Rafael looked at their dads, confused. 

“Why are they mad?” Max asked. 

Magnus started telling them not to worry, but Alec sighed and pulled his sons into his new office. He lifted them both onto the big oak desk in the middle of the room, their legs dangling, and bent down in front of them. 

“Okay, firstly, I need you to know that you’re both perfect exactly as you are and you shouldn’t ever change for anyone. Those people out there are from a teeny tiny minority of shadowhunters. It’s a silly thing to think, because everyone is the same, regardless of what kind of blood they have. They don’t like me and Papa very much because they don’t think shadowhunters and warlocks should love each other - and some of them think you should have a mommy and a daddy, not two daddies.”

“Why?” Rafael asked. 

Alec shrugged. “It’s just what they think, but that doesn’t make it true.” He took one hand from each boy in one of his own and smiled. “You have an exciting chance to prove to them that they are wrong. You get to show them that it doesn’t matter that you have two dads, or that one of them is a warlock and one is a shadowhunter, or that you two aren’t exactly the same. What matters is what we have in common, and that’s that we love each other, that we’re family. What matters is that we’re happy, and I am happy. You have dads who love you - and each other - more than anything. Don’t listen to them; make them listen to you.” Alec stood up and kissed their heads softly. “Right, go and explore. Don’t go too far, and stay in this wing.”

Rafael jumped down off the desk and Alec lifted Max down too. Once the door closed, he leaned against the desk and looked at Magnus. 

“Well that sucked,” Alec said, rubbing a hand over his brow. “I really didn’t think we’d be having that conversation with them that early. Sorry I kinda monopolised it.”

Magnus kissed his cheek gently. “You did great. Close your eyes.”

Alec obeyed and when he opened his eyes again, Magnus had moved all the things they’d boxed up last night into the office. On the desk, nestled with the pens and pencils was a small rainbow flag. Photo frames with pictures of Alec’s siblings and Magnus with the kids littered the desk. Alec grinned and sat down in the desk chair, meeting Magnus halfway across the desk to kiss him. 

“Wow, the Consul and the warlock representative. What a scandalous power couple,” Magnus grinned. “I’m gonna go find the boys, check they aren’t vandalising Clave property or whatever.”

Alec watched him go and leaned back in his chair, pushing it to swivel with his foot. It had been a rocky journey to his office, but it had been more than worth it to be sat here. Finally. 

#malec #Magnus x Alec #magnus bane #Alec Lightwood #alexander lightwood #tmi #the mortal instruments #malec fic #headcanon #cassandra clare

[nomunun]

can you rec kirubaku fics?? ily btw

of course!! i’ll just make a lil list with my all time favs (•̀ᴗ•́)و

One Step Closer by @tusslee​ (Rated M)

“Hope flickers pitifully beside the fire of determination inside of him. Whatever it takes, he decides, he’ll prove them all wrong.

Injured in a car accident, Bakugou Katsuki has to learn a new way of life as he slowly, but surely recovers with the (unwanted) help from his physical therapist, Kirishima Eijirou.”

-(i think it’s save to say that this one is definitely in my top 3. i cried so much while reading it so you better buckle up for a wild, emotional ride)

the rest is under the cut (｡•̀ᴗ-)✧

2 A.M by cityboys (Rated T)

“Caught between cities, phone calls and shifts he didn’t sign up for, Katsuki finds that he doesn’t travel light as well as he thought.“

heart stains on the carpet by cityboys (Rated T)

“"She’s saying we’re dating,“ Katsuki says, trying to put as much disgust into the word as possible. “Me. Willingly being around your freeloading ass—”“Ah.” Katsuki is definitely developing a special kind of intuition for when Kirishima’s about to dish out bullshit—because he feels it now, watching the guy do that thing where he shrugs and smiles in an attempt to appear innocent. “Katsuki’s a little shy about this sort of thing, you know, and we weren’t going to say anything.“For effect, he ends with an apologetic smile.

Summer that year brings Kirishima Eijirou to Katsuki’s front door.“

-(fake/pretend relationship babyyyyy!)

ghosts beneath ink wash stars by cityboys (Rated T)

“Eijirou’s evolution from Bakugou’s delivery boy to kind of, possibly, someone to come home to.“

-(everything from cityboys is so beautifully written so they all share a spot in my top 3)

the fool’s rush by @chonideno​ (Rated T)

“Settling down with each other is naturally what comes after being dorm neighbors for years. It’s time to navigate through adulthood together, to live the daily grind of being pro-heroes, to learn more than they thought they’d like to know about each other, about themselves.

Or how Bakugou and Kirishima find a way to call each other “home” and struggle with the realization that once all their bills are on auto-pay, the only thing they still have to deal with is this pit full of feelings they have ignored for too long.”

-(this one hits really close to home and i love it a lot!)

cotton candy hands by @chonideno​ (Rated T)

“Studying to become a hero requires knowing how to take care of yourself. Sometimes you might need help on the way so if your crush offers to do your hair for you or to give you a well-deserved back rub, it’d be stupid to say no.

A series of soft vignettes in which a love-struck Kirishima and a touch-starved Bakugou care for each other and it’s definitely not making their hearts jump through hoops, they’re never this close to kissing, no, they’re totally best friends bro“

-(after a while you’ll just start yelling at the screen for them to just kiss already lmao)

but i’ve got an angry heart by @newamsterdame​ (Rated T)

“He’s about to open his door to go to the shared bathroom on this floor when he notices the scrap of paper that’s been pushed under his door. It’s a salmon-colored flashcard, the type that’s sold in 500-packs with multiple colors. Bakugou stoops to retrieve it, frowning at the message he finds written on it.

Hey neighbor, welcome to the house! I heard you knocking things around, yesterday, and I think you maybe punched a wall? Anyway, the landlady gets pissy if you put holes in the wall, but I have a punching bag! You can come over and use it, or I can move it into the hall, if you want!

There’s only one other bedroom on the fourth floor. Now, Bakugou crosses the hall to the bedroom on the right side, slamming the post-it note against the door.

Fuck off and die, it reads.

Bakugou Katsuki is not going to jeopardize his future a second time, and that means staying away from anyone who gets too close. Kirishima Eijirou has never learned how not to be close to someone. Of course, they end up as next-door neighbors.”

-(one of a view fics i re-read a couple times bcuz it’s just that good!)

quote love unquote by @newamsterdame​ (Rated T)

“Sero nods. “It’s the chance of a lifetime, really,” he says. “We want you to date Bakugou, for the sake of his reputation with the press. Some public appearances, a few ‘candid’ photos. For at least a couple of months.”

“Bakugou sent you to ask me to date him?” Kirishima asks, baffled.“

Of course not. We, his people, are asking you to date him. He’s going to have to get on board, if he wants his career to survive. And in the bargain, Riot will get all sorts of publicity, because their lyricist will be dating one of the industry’s hottest stars. A win for everyone.”

When Kirishima Eijirou’s band hits the big time, he’s not prepared for his newfound fame. He’s even less prepared to meet the actor he’s been crushing on for years, or to start dating him as a publicity stunt. The closer Kirishima gets to Bakugou Katsuki, the more he realizes he’s in over his head. But it’s hard to stop, once his heart is in it.“

-(still ongoing but trust me it’s worth it! that fake/pretend celebrity au we all need)

Perihelion by @tauontauoff​ (Rated T)

“Bakugou was a comet, blazing out of reach. Kirishima knew he was stupidly lucky that his furious trajectory went by close enough that his fingertips got to graze the cowl of fire. It was enough.

During Christmas Class 1A and 1B spend a laid-back week learning about extreme environment hero work in the Alps. Kirishima was used to keeping part of his feelings for Bakugou hidden, and had every intention of keeping it that way, but things don’t always go according to plan.”

Six Page Spread by @indigonow (Rated E - there’s no smut yet though)

“They’re 22 and Bakugou’s finally gotten control over his public image. Think more…"bad boy” and less “explosive asshole”.

Kirishima is weak (though he always has been).

Bakugou is never going to be a “nice guy”, but he’s managed to stop people from thinking he’s a villain. This is my take on the trials and tribulations of (Kirishima) being in love with said not-nice-guy in a world where heroes are always in the public eye and nothing’s ever simple.”

-(also ongoing but oh boy its worth the wait)

Indisputable by @indigonow​ (Rated M)

“He strains, he yearns for praise, for compliments, for recognition. All he wants is the positive attention, and he blooms under it like a flower turned to face the sun. With encouragement he is the best, and without it he’ll push himself without regard for anything around him until he’s there again at the forefront of people’s minds. He’ll force them to acknowledge him if he has to, because he can’t live without it.

Bakugou has struggled all his life to be number one, and he’s cracking to pieces every moment that he isn’t.“

-(ongoing. also a personal fav bcuz so far it’s the only one where mitsuki isn’t portrayed as a Good Mom™ but rather it addresses her abusive behaviour towards bakugou and i appreciate it a lot)

No Decision by @clairesail​ (Rated E)

“Kirishima Eijirou’s a newly contracted fighter for Japan’s major Mixed Martial Arts promotion and Bakugou Katsuki’s its volatile middleweight champion. But when the two men meet in a chance encounter and discover Kirishima can’t be knocked out by the champ’s famous elite strikes, it sparks a rivalry and fascination between them that can’t be settled in the cage.“

-(that’s the fic that originally got me into MMA)

The Lost Continent by cattchi and paglykos (Rated E)

“Kirishima Eijirou is from a noble family of pirate exterminators.Bakugou Katsuki is rising as one of the most fearsome pirates on the seas.

When a trade goes awry, Kirishima finds himself cast among Bakugou’s crew, having to learn the ropes and the sea as they chase after All Might’s infamous hidden treasure.”

-(still ongoing pirate au!!! also fair warning: this fic has a lot of smut. it’s all skippable without missing anything of the main plot tho so even if you dont like smut i highly recommend it bcuz the story itself is amazing!!)

like the first day of summer vacation by @hellsuga​ (Rated T)

“Bakugou prepared for this. He prepared for flipped canoes and snotty children, skinned knees and spiders in cabins. He prepared for a summer of complete and utter bullshit.

Bakugou did not prepare for Kirishima Eijirou.”

-(summer camp au, still ongoing)

#im emotional now i wanna reread all of them (*꒦ິ ꎁ ꒦ີ) #have fun reading dear anon! #anonymous #msg #boku no hero academia #fic rec

[randomly-random-jen]

Heaven Can’t Wait - Chapter 37

Chapter Thirty-Seven - Confused and Conflicted

One of the girls that works in the mess hall passes out candles. Bellamy’s is in a little tin cup. Clarke and Niylah share one which means they’re going to be together after lunch. Probably going back to Clarke’s quarters.

When Clarke reaches for Niylah’s hand, he can’t take it anymore. He knows he’s being a jealous, petty ass, but it’s been a crappy couple of days, and after everything, he can’t watch the two of them together no matter how platonic their relationship might be.

“I’ve got some work to do,” he mumbles as he collects Heaven, Bae, and the scraps of food.

Clarke starts at his sudden movement. Niylah gives him a thoughtful look as usual. Her hand slips from Clarke’s—a lot more naturally than when Bellamy attempted the same thing minutes ago. She knows. Goddamnit, she knows. How does everyone know except Clarke?

Maybe if you quit being an idiot and tell her.

Shut up.

“Bellamy-” Clarke says softly, tearing at his heart. But she doesn’t say anything else so he leaves. Like an idiot.

She probably does know. You’re not exactly good at hiding your feelings, especially for Clarke.

Then why doesn’t she say anything?

Because you don’t talk about it.

But why does it have to be me that starts it?

The thoughts spin in his head, adding to his ever-present headache. Why does everything have to be so hard?

“Bellamy, wait,” Niylah calls, catching up to him. She doesn’t have a candle. “I need to talk to you.”

“What about?” he asks in what he hopes is a neutral tone.

Niylah looks back at the mess hall. “I didn’t want to say anything in front of Clarke, but-”

He tenses. “Something did happen to you.”

“Nothing serious—just several people near my quarters that yell obscenities. Some graffiti. Then yesterday-” She took a deep breath like she was making a decision then pulled up her sleeve. “One of my neighbors didn’t like the way I was looking at him.”

Bellamy sees red. He hates to think any Arkadian could be that cruel, but he knows it’s true and will get worse. “What’s the neighbor’s name?”

Niylah hesitates. “I’d rather not say—I don’t want to cause more trouble; I just thought you should know.”

Now I’ll have to talk to everyone in that hall. To Niylah, he nods. “Thanks for letting me know. If anything else happens-”

“I know.” She smiles at Heaven then returns to Clarke. Bellamy waits until she’s near the weak light coming from the mess hall before he leaves

Nothing is ever easy. At least his excuse to Clarke isn’t a lie anymore—he really does have some work to do.

Thankfully, the guard office is empty. He sets Heaven on one side of the desk, clearing a space for the candle, and rips another page from the old ledger book. He sets it and the marker in front of Heaven.

Heaven’s grin calms his nerves and eases the dread knotting his stomach. He watches her scribble intently for a minute before grabbing the closest tablet. 

“Bae,” Heaven says, holding up the paper.

Bellamy smiles. “It looks just like her.”

Heaven nods like she agrees then gets back to work, tongue caught between her teeth in concentration. She’s adorable. She’s exactly what’s been missing in his life. The thought startles him, and he shoves it away, focusing on the tablet.

He scrolls through the files, looking for the reports from the yard incident. There are seven now including the one he’d typed up when he couldn’t sleep. The others are from Miller and his dad, Cadet Camden, and Harper. Tyson and Olsen also each filed a report. Half of them didn’t see anything, and the other half are full of shit. There is no way those two grounders started something with Henderson with all of those people around. Sure the grounders like to fight, but they’re not stupid.

Of course, the reports he can trust—from the Millers and Harper—didn’t see the fight start but were there when it escalated into a near-riot. The cadet’s account sounds coached so probably useless. Tyson’s and Olsen’s reports are the most interesting. According to them, they saw the Grounder prisoners attack an unsuspecting Henderson. They did their best to control the fight but were outnumbered and attacked themselves.

Bellamy tosses the tablet onto the table. What a bunch of bullshit. Control the fight? Control it so that Henderson had a better chance of beating the Grounders. Outnumbered? Maybe by the Guard trying to stop the riot but there were only two Grounders there. He feels a sick growl building at the back of his throat. He’d wanted to be a guard since he was ten and figured out he could help keep his family safe that way, but this isn’t the Guard he joined six years ago.

Heaven yawns so he sets her on the sofa, tucking his jacket around her. She curls up with Bae, a little smile on her face. And, god, his heart is shattering because this is going to all be over in another day.

Then life can go back to normal.

He wishes he knew what the hell normal was. And why it had to be so miserable.

With a heavy sigh, he drops back into his chair and rubs at his face. The tablet’s harsh light isn’t doing anything for his headache, but he goes over the reports again, noticing one thing missing—statements from the Grounders. He frowns. It’s not surprising considering what happened. There also wasn’t anything he could do about it at the moment. He glances at Heaven, already snoring softly.

Could all go back to normal, the voice goads.

His head falls against the metal desk. He bangs it softly a couple times, frustrated.

“Knock, knock,” someone says at the door. Bellamy looks up at David Miller. “I didn’t want to wake her.’

Bellamy looks over at Heaven again. “She’s kind of used to it by now. Did you need something?”

“Oh, no, I just left my jacket earlier.” He points to it hanging behind the desk. Bellamy leans back and snatches it from the hook. He expects David to just leave, but the older man fidgets, twisting the jacket between his hands. “Nathan says Kane’s really been pressuring you about this Commander thing.”

Bellamy makes a face and pretends to go back to reading reports. “He’s crazy.”

“I know you don’t believe it, Bellamy, but there are those of us that support you. You’re exactly what we need here. I know you see the mess things are in. Loyalties are split, morale is low, accountability is almost nonexistent. Kane’s too busy worrying about keeping us all alive.”

“Did he send you over here to sell me on his crazy plan?”

David grins. “No. I wasn’t planning on getting involved-”

“No more than throwing my name into the hat.”

David sits in Heaven’s abandoned chair. “If you want my opinion, I think we need someone younger in charge. Someone that didn’t live by the old rules. Someone that has experience with the Grounders, and not the kind of experience Tyson and his goons have. They don’t see them as people. And I know you have your issues with them-”

“Number one being they all want me dead.”

“But from everything Nate’s told me, you’d never let your personal feelings get in the way of doing your job.”

“Well, I’m not sure where Nate was those first months on the ground because it apparently wasn’t in my camp. We survived because of Clarke, not me. I just made things worse.”

“Don’t sell yourself short, Bellamy.”

Bellamy sighs, leaning back. He shoves his hands through his hair. “David, I appreciate the pep talk and your faith, however misguided, but I don’t know how I’m supposed to do this job when the Grounders are plotting to kill me and at least a quarter of the Guard kicked the crap out of me the other day. I can’t do this.”

“What were you doing before I came in here?”

Bellamy takes a moment to answer, blindsided by the sudden change of subject. “I was reading through the reports from the attack.”

“Why? It’s not your job to read reports and investigate crimes. You’re a guard. Barely above a cadet. Do you even have a rank?”

Bellamy crosses his arms irritated. “Your point?”

“You know my point. You have to take care of everything and everyone yourself, and you would hate yourself if something happened that you can prevent. What you did with those kids—keeping them alive, getting them out of Mt. Weather—isn’t something to scoff at. A bunch of juvenile delinquents with authority issues. But you did it because you couldn’t not do it.” He stands, slipping on his jacket. “Maybe it’s time you have a little faith in yourself.”

Just as David gets to the door, the lights pop back on, nearly blinding them. David grins. “A sign?”

David leaves Bellamy feeling even more confused and conflicted. He’s crazy. Just as crazy as Kane.

But what if they’re not?

Bellamy shakes his head. They are. End of story.

Chapter 36 | chapters | Chapter 38

#the 100 fanfic #heaven can't wait #bellamy blake #david miller #niylah #have a little faith in yourself bellamy

[for-whom-the-bell-tolled]

I hate it when guys assume I only watch hockey for the hot guys. I watch hockey because it’s my favorite sport and has been forever.

…that being said, it’s an added bonus that my team looks like this.

#pittsburgh penguins #let’s go pens #penguins #hockey #pens #pittsburgh #nhl #nhl hockey #sidney crosby #kris letang #bryan rust #kasperi kapanen #tanger #brian dumoulin #teddy blueger #tristan jarry #rickard rakell #if he isn’t re signed i’ll riot #jason zucker #john marino #added bonus

[stop-playing-guitar]

Firstly, some credit for this piece needs to go to @somuchbro for recommending I pull my thumb out and write a piece on this.

I’m breaking my lengthy radio silence to talk a heaping helping of contemptuous shit for Steel Panther and the abomination you see above.

I feel as though this issue has forced men in the guitar community to pick a side. Do I align myself with the spirit of inclusivity and progression so desperately needed in guitar music to welcome everyone and anyone who can possibly become it’s new and long-awaited saviour, OR do I continue to treat music like a locker room full of dudes comparing dicks and smacking each other’s asses with wet towels, all with a NO GIRLS ALLOWED sign hanging on the door?

Remember the 90s? Remember Riot Grrl and the influx of bands and zines that tried desperately to carve a little out of the rock and roll boys club? In a way that movement succeeded, and can be seen as one of the things that has influenced the heightened awareness of gender inequality in society today. Oddly enough, that success seems to have happened almost completely outside the music world that was its home. On that note, I want to make something clear: if you go to a show and assume that any girl you bump into there is someone’s girlfriend, if you’re in a band with someone who treats girls like shit and stand idly by them, if you think that Steel Panther’s response to this controversy is funny: you are part of the problem.

The story of the junior-high-dick-joke-made-flesh that you see above begins with TC Electronic, a Danish effects pedal company who narrowly missed being the country’s national shame behind its racist anti-refugee policy. TC released a line of pedals using their TonePrint technology, which treats pedals as upgradeable units that can be plugged into computers via USB and have various presets downloaded onto them post-sale. One of these presets was the “Pussy Melter,” a preset designed for one of their delay pedals by a man named Satchel, who plays guitar for Steel Panther.

For a bit of background, Steel Panther are the world’s pre-eminent joke band for people who think cultural references are the apex of comedy, along with Funniest Home Video shows and Dane Cook’s Superfinger. They are essentially a touring cosplay troupe glorifying the Aqua Netted slop that was post-Crüe, pre-Nevermind hair metal awfulness. In other words they’re a painfully perfect band to stoop to shameful lows to promote their product because whatever, it’s all just a joke, right? To that, I would say that unless people are paying Monopoly money to get into your shows this is super fucking real, as in you are real pieces of shit.

The description of the preset on TC Electronic’s website went as follows: “When we met up with Steel Panther’s oh-so-humble guitarist, he had only one condition: that the tone be as wet as the ladies on the front row. So if glam rock guitar solos and wet floor signs are your idea of a good time, then ‘Pussy Melter’ for Flashback Delay is definitely the TonePrint for you!”

If you need a minute to heave into a bin, I’ll wait.

After the existence of the TonePrint preset made it to the media and caused a shit-storm not seen since the last time John Mayer opened his dumb mouth, TC Electronic removed it from its online service. It was then re-uploaded with the new name “Repeat Offender,” which isn’t exactly the best name to come up with while non-consenting sexualisation is the hot topic of the day. It’s important to note that the band, Satchel, nor TC Electronic deemed fitting to apologise for the cheap and regressive boys-club joke that they had put out there. Instead, the announcement that the preset would be renamed was itself treated as a bit of a joke itself. Regardless many of us sighed with some relief, feeling as though calling people out on their commodified, phony machismo and tone deafness to the modern world actually got some results.

Then, in an act of free-speech-exercise-turned-shameless-profiteering, they put out their own pedal bearing the effect’s original name. Of course, because the world is fucked and we should burn it down and start again, it sold out in a very short amount of time. And, of course, this was seen as a victory by some. Having a sense of humour has prevailed over the evil forces of censorship! The slowflakes’ safe spaces have been burnt to the ground! The SJW non-binary feminazi battalions have been blitzkrieged by the power of rock and roll!

Except none of those things actually happened. Regardless of what you have in your signal chain, the world is still changing around you, and it’s changing for the better, and now you own the pedal equivalent of a BAZINGA! shirt that compels actual decent people to avoid you like the social plague carrier you are.

Here’s an idea - if you ever play on a bill with a band that has one of these things on their board, stiff the pricks. Don’t even offer them gas money. Key their van, wipe your ass with their merch, and maybe force them to talk to a real live girl for a few minutes without creating a puddle of flop sweat and having to hide their anxious boners.

#girls to the front #stop playing guitar

[jerrylevitch]

So there have been a few comments on facebook lately on my posts (in the past on tumblr) saying that Dean did not like/love Jerry at all. For anyone who think that Dean Martin did not love/like Jerry Lewis, here are a few facts for you.

1. Dean didn’t have to stay with Jerry at Jerry's home for 2 months, when he left Jeanne  for a short time in 1953, but he did.  

2. Dean didn’t have to be in Jerry’s home movie parodies, but he did. 

3. Dean didn’t have to stay with Jerry in Carmel at a place together, on yet another occasion where he left Jeanne, but he did. Jerry left his own wife at home, to be with Dean when he left Jeanne! 

4. They took vacations together that had nothing to do with touring! 

5. No matter what, whenever Dean or Jerry referred to each other after the split up they still called each other “my partner.”

6: There were instances of people saying derogatory remarks about Jerry, where Dean punched them in the face or shot back at them with sarcastic remarks at them depending on the situation. Dean always defended Jerry.

7. When Dean signed with Capitol records, he specified that they sign Jerry too, or they wouldn't have him. (I have an article confirming this)

8. When Jerry had an accident and fell off the stage hurting his spine in 1952. Dean rushed to his side and wouldn't let anyone touch Jerry. He carried him off the stage and into the ambulance. Dean actually cried and couldn't go back on to complete the show. When the theatre manager demanded that Dean complete the show because of their contract, he told him off.

What does this all mean??? Dean loved Jerry, and was his friend! That is why he stuck with him. Also why would Dean in 1966 at the height of his solo career, even entertain the idea of getting back together with Jerry after they reunited at Sy Devore’s funeral. They literally discussed getting back together. Obviously Dean didn’t need the money at that point, so why would he want to get back with the person “who caused him so much aggravation.” Could it be that maybe he missed Jerry???? Here are some quotes that make my point.

“In the beginning of our relationship, Jerry was just wonderful, and I was doing all the funny things that I had always wanted to do. I love to hear laughter, but I couldn’t get laughter just singing. Hearing a whole audience laugh is like getting drunk.“ - Dean Martin

“Oh, God, we had such fun, it was ridiculous. He’s (Dean) doing a number one night and he calls me up. He said, I hope I didn’t interrupt you when you’re busy.” I said “No, I was just standing around listening to you.’ He said, ‘In the middle of the song I thought to myself, I miss him.’ I said ‘That’s why you called me up, because you missed me?’ He said ‘Yeah–now we’re together–isn’t that wonderful?” - Jerry Lewis, Dean and Me

"One of their stage bits calls for Dean to catch Jerry. In Minneapolis on their last tour, Jerry missed a small movement, landed on his back with a sickening crunch and passed out. They rushed him to the hospital, with Dean beside him in the ambulance, racked by the dread that his boy’s back was broken. The doctor couldn’t say until they made a series of tests and had taken some X-rays.Meantime the audience waited. ‘What’ll I do? asked the manager. ‘Refund their money?’ ‘I’ll go back ,’ said Dean. ‘At least I can sing a few songs.’ He stepped out to a tremendous ovation. Halfway through his song, emotion strangled him. He couldn’t choke out so much as a word of apology. He could only turn on his heel and get out of there fast. The manager apologized for him, while he fled back to the hospital and Jerry. Not til dawn did the doctors bring re-assurance. ‘It’s alright. The back isn’t broken. Just some badly torn ligaments that will heal.’ Dean’s face started to crumple, but he controlled it. The tears that misted his vision, he couldn’t control."— “Behind That Riot Act” by Ida Zeitlin Photoplay Magazine, September, 1952

"Our partnership in many ways is a marriage…. I dare say we’ve spent more time together than most married couples do.” - Dean Martin

“I don’t know where he is, but wherever he is, he must be doing just fine, because he has bundles of talent and he’s a wonderful guy.” Dean Martin’s comeback to a heckler saying ‘Where’s Jerry?’

“I’ve said we’ve been together almost a decade. Sometimes as a gag I say it seems more like 15 years. Actually it’s more like five. I trust him implicitly” - Dean Martin

“On the road for six years, while we were mainly doing nightclubs, we roomed together much of the time. We never had a difference of opinion we couldn’t resolve by ourselves and quickly. Indeed, until a bunch of outsiders got into the act, we never had an argument which wasn’t settled by sundown.” - Dean Martin

"When we shook hands on our partnership, I said in my heart, this is forever, ‘til death do us part. It still goes! Sometimes he makes mistakes. Sometimes I make mistakes. But as long as people let us alone, the team of Martin & Lewis will go on.” - Dean Martin

“It was Dean’s 72nd birthday and Jerry surprised him with a cake. It was a touching moment. Jerry walked out singing ‘Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you. It’s me, the old Jew, happy birthday to you.’ The crowd went wild and Dean was clearly surprised and didn’t know what to say. In a turnabout from their 1976 reunion, he looked at Jerry and said ‘You’re all dressed up. You working?’ Jerry looked at the cake ‘We would have had 72 candles but with your breath, we’d have had another frickin’ fire.’

Dean said ‘You’re still the best in the whole world.“ Before the curtain closed, they embraced and Dean said "I love you, and I mean it."’

“Maria Lauren Alberici-Riccio (Golddigger, 1973 – 1991): Before the telethon reunion, Dean let us in on the private messages and jokes written with our lipstick that he had been leaving for Jerry Lewis via his dressing room mirror. Jerry played the MGM Grand and had left Dean some razzing but good humored remarks on the mirror prior to our engagement. Dean was like a little boy bragging about it to us, ‘Look at what I wrote to Jerry; look what ‘Crazy’ wrote to me. I answered him real good…’ He was so cute!”

#Dean Martin #Jerry Lewis #Martin and Lewis #dominicsherwoof #fangirl72 #xhaberdashery #kalei78 #bluehairedspidey #withlove-dino

[myselfinserts]

“You’re stone cold brilliant. You really are.”

In hindsight, they both agree that her papa could have been a little more gentle in regards to the news. But then again, no one was handling it well. Odette nearly faltered, tugging so hard on her sleeves that they ripped. Les and Eira were practically frozen in fear. Nini trying so very hard to remain composed. 

No one was as enraged about it as Étienne Allard was.

“Can he still do tech?”

“What the hell is wrong with-”

“Can he still. Do. Tech?”

“...No. Not in his current condition. He’ll need to seriously consider retirement.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

“We did the best we could! What more could we do?”

The news of Renegade possibly retiring was not received well.

The ride up the elevator was awkward to say the least. Odette and Sorley had been grounded, and the only reason she was even there was because of the work she put in to help make what was in the cases. As she adjusted the strap on her messenger bag, she looked up at her papa, impressed with the cold determination in his gaze. 

“Do you think he’ll see us?” she asked. 

“If he doesn’t,” he hissed, “he’s no longer allowed to see you or Sorley.”

“Harsh. But I respect that.”

“Hm.”

She turned back to look at the doors, gripping the handle on the case tightly. “I hope he takes it. It’d be a pity if he doesn’t, given how hard we worked on it.”

Nothing more was said after that. They waited until the lift stopped on the correct floor, and with a quick step, made their way towards Regi’s room. Nini wasn’t sitting by the door taking in the shadows anymore. Urgent business had called them back to Estmund with the kids, and no matter how hard they tried, Luci couldn’t get out of it. From what she’d heard, it was one of the few times Regi responded to anything since waking up. And he’d told them it was alright to leave him in Japan for a little while. No doubt he’d been planning on thinking over his options after recovering. 

Hopefully, she thought, we manage to narrow down the choices. 

With a quick knock to alert they were coming in, the two Allards stepped inside. 

The effect was almost instant. Instead of seeing a perky hero and fellow designer, in the bed sat a tired man who had the life drained out of him. His hair was in a lower ponytail compared to his usual style. His cheeks looked hollow, and his eyes were glassy and fogged, resembling damaged amethyst crystals. What took her aback was the stump that was left of his left arm. She had known to expect it, but it was still something else entirely to see in person. With an encouraging nod from her papa, Odette took a seat at one of the nearby chairs while Étienne took the case from her. 

“Hello, Reginald,” he greeted warmly. “How’re you feeling?”

Regi barely made eye contact. “...I...I dunno...”

He finally speaks. This has to be a good sign. 

Étienne shrugged. “You must have some idea. You’re an idiot, but you’re not stupid, Gladstone. How are you feeling?”

“...Terrible.” He leaned back slightly. “I can’t exactly do tech work anymore...life’s...gonna get rather grey.”

“Ever the drama queen, aren’t we? You really think this is the end of things?”

Regi said nothing. 

“Come on,” Odette said softly. “You aren’t planning to give up, are you Uncle Regi?”

Again, he remained quiet. Odette watched quietly from her seat as Étienne set the cases down on the table and began to open them. Regi remained silent, the glassy look to his eyes seeming more unfocused than before. The only indication that he was aware they were still present was the hand playing with his ponytail.

"Beta Test. Alpha Launch. Analog. Digital. Techno." Étienne lifted the lid to the first case. "From your Apprenticeship days to now, you've had a varied and vibrant career, Reginald. And like hell we're letting it end here."

A light seemed to shine in his violet gaze. "But…once the EHA learns about this-"

"Not to worry," Étienne interjected, opening the second case. "I've convinced Marianne to hold off on sending the medical report until we were done here."

"…You both look like hell," Regi grumbled. "Have you been sleeping? Please tell me you're eating."

Odette couldn't help but laugh. Almost a week of silence, and now he was talking up a storm. Or at least, what counted for one. And he was chastising them for neglecting their health?

There's still a chance, she thought.

"You promised me you wouldn't retire until I did," Étienne chided coldly. "Now, if you intend to keep that promise, I suggest you put these on." He turned the cases around. "If not, then this will be where we part ways. I can’t waste time on you if this is going to be the end, and I have a lot of other important work to get to.” His eyes softened. “You have at least one more age in you, Renegade. Make your choice."

A fire seemed to light in Regi's eyes as he gazed into the cases in awe. Slowly, he sat up, moving so he could properly crawl across the bed to the table to get a better look. His hand trembled slightly, hesitant to touch. For a moment, Odette was scared he'd pull away.

But he didn't.

"And what age would you call this masterpiece?"

Étienne smirked, rolling up his sleeves with a flick of the wrist as he reached in to take out a pair of earrings from his pocket. "That, my friend, is up to you. Now let us show you how this works."

Odette smiled and jumped out of her seat, pulling out her laptop. “There’s a lot of ground to cover if we’re going to get your re-debut ready in time. Let’s make some dreams into realities.”

It hadn’t taken long for peace to be upended. While the other heroes were busy in different areas as well as escorting Einion to prison, what few were able had their hands full that evening. The sun was setting, the ground was shaking, and the civilians were all running in terror. 

At least, that was what Odette and the others saw on the TV. What had started as a simple study session to get caught up on two weeks of homework ended up becoming the entire gang watching as Red Riot, Suneater, Lemillion, and Nejire-chan combated a giant mechanical menace in downtown. 

“Where’s Deku and the others?” Atsuko asked worriedly. 

“Everyone else is busy,” Clem said. “They’re doing what they can.”

Ena narrowed her eyes. “Something isn’t right. Look at how those four are maneuvering. It’s almost as though they’re just...distracting it. Lemillion could take it out easy.”

“Or Suneater could,” Kasumi added. 

Kumamaru and Karane, who’d made it a habit of stopping by more often, nodded in agreement. “At least they’re getting the civilians out though, right?”

“I suppose.” Atsuko didn’t sound convinced. “I think they’re...waiting for something.”

“Why not ask Miss Allard,” Kumamaru asked. “She’s been smiling the whole time.”

Odette’s smile melted more into a smirk. “Simple. Something I had a hand in creating is about to appear.”

Before anyone could ask her what she meant, the report zoomed in on the scene. None of the civilians were left. The four heroes on the scene were backing up. A single person standing in the middle of the street in a black hoodie let out a whistle, catching the metal menace’s attention. 

The villain turned around to face the person in the hoodie. 

And the music began. 

The entire group’s eyes went wide. 

“Is that-” Ena started.

“Renegade?!” Kasumi finished. 

The person in the hoodie pulled something out of his pocket and started running toward the metal menace. He pressed a button, causing a hard light blade to appear from the object in his hand, which looked to be some kind of hilt. The menace swung an arm down, smashing the man in the hoodie, only to discover he was nothing but pixels. 

He reappeared behind it, this time in a pixelated blur that seemed to be morphing and taking shape. The hoodie vanished, and the face was plain as day to be Reginald Gladstone’s. The pixels continued to change and fade, slowly revealing that his hair was down, with two braids from the sides pulling around and meeting at the back. His trousers went into his boots, which were up to his knees with fitted pads. He wore a long coat similar to that of Amaryllis, with a half-cape over his left shoulder. There was a matching coronet on his head that seemed to connect to a clear mask in a similar style to that of Lady Lazarus. The ensemble was white, lined with silver, and seemed to be shimmering with an opalescent sheen. 

Atsuko’s mouth when agape. “Did...did Uncle Regi seriously do a magical girl transformation in the middle of a fight?”

Ena nodded. “He always had a soft spot for those kinds of stories.”

Sparks started to fly around. Renegade’s hair and cape flew about in the wind, revealing a strong, robotic arm on the left side. As Renegade charged forward again, this time easily dancing and gliding between the menace’s attempts to hit him and to throw things at him. Parts from demolished buildings and broken vehicles, pieces of abandoned electronics. All started to float and spin around. Some took the hit from the acid oozing from the metal, while others came together to form smoke bombs, tasers, canons, and all manor of contraptions that attempted to slow his adversary down. 

Renegade did his best to keep pace, holding the hard light sword in his right hand and slicing into the metal as many times as he could. The menace managed to swing an arm around and nearly knocked him back. A second attempt at the same move resulted in Renegade catching it in his left hand, the metalic fingers leaving sizable dents into the attacker. 

“Hm, that’s unusual,” Odette mused. “I’ll need to tell papa the strength needs recalibrating. We might have overdone it.”

“You helped make that arm?” Karane asked. 

“It was papa’s design, but I helped a lot with the coding of some of the more complicated functions. One of the few areas I excel in compared to papa.”

Clem couldn’t stop beaming. “You’re stone cold brilliant, you are.” 

Odette rolled her eyes. “Of course. You expect anything less from me?” 

Everyone turned their attention back to the news story. Renegade used the chance he had and pulled hard, dislocating the arm of the menace before jumping away to avoid the acidic blood pouring from it. The metal menace screeched, the sound so loud and high pitched that glass from surrounding buildings started to crack and shatter. As the glass around them began to fall, Renegade moved to avoid them. Every time he missed, his body seemed to pixilate and vanish into a new location. 

“How is he doing that?!” Kumamaru gasped. “This is so cool! The class has to see this.” He pulled out his phone and began to text quickly. “I wonder if his quirk evolved or something.”

Kasumi gave him a look. “Quirks don’t just change from one thing to something completely different like that. Not in the way you’re thinking, at least. It has to be a support item.” She looked to Odette. “What exactly did you and your papa do to Renegade?”

“I’m sorry,” Odette stated promptly, “but Atelier Allard does not disclose the secrets of clients’ gear to outside parties. You’ll simply need to observe and attempt to figure it out.”

A large blast coming from above, and Nejire-chan was back in the fight. Suneater jumped from the roof of one of the buildings, flying as his arm turned to metal, making it the perfect launch pad for Red Riot. Lemillion started appearing randomly, jumping in and out of the metal menace as Renegade continued to dance and slice, catching the arms with his left hand every time the villain aimed for him. 

Then things changed. Nejire-chan and Suneater worked together to throw the menace high into the air. Renegade and Red Riot continued to wear down the outside, while Lemillion handled it from within. Between the five, the menace remained ascended, denting and bending until it finally started to fall apart. 

The first thing to fall was an arm, which slowly started to melt and corrode until a form that appeared to be a person started to appear. 

“Holy shit,” Karane gasped. 

A large spiraling crystal started to grow from the ground, catching the person who slid down safely to the pavement completely unharmed. 

“That’s gotta be Tarren!” Ena giggled excitedly. “Backup’s finally arrived.”

The rest of the battle followed the same pattern. The villains were slowly torn away, maneuvered to the spiral, and once they reached the ground, they were apprehended by the heroes below. By the end of the song, the metal menace was revealed to be ten people joining their quirks together in perfect synchronicity.

Well, Odette thought, almost perfect. 

They continued to watch the broadcast until it came time for the media to get into the heroes faces. Renegade tried to avoid them, but it was no use. 

“Renegade! What’s with the upgrade? Rumors were flying that you were planning on retiring! What made you change your mind?”

Renegade smiled. “I was reminded of an important promise from a dear friend, that’s all. I still have one age left in me after all. Too many dreams to make into realities, as a bright up and comer said to me. And these upgrades are a reflection of that promise.” He lifted up the hard light sword in his robotic hand. “Renegade’s continuing into the Synchro Age, thanks to the brilliant minds of Atelier Allard.”

Clem smirked. “You hear that, Odette? You’re a ‘bright up and comer’. You did well.”

“He’s only speaking the truth,” she said. “Now, let’s get back to homework-”

The entire group let out a groan and turned back to their assignments. Odette pulled out her lap top and immediately began drafting an email to her papa, with links to any news reports she could find, and her observations of the upgrades. They still had a long way to go.

But she did love a challenge. 

#myselfinserts #mybnhaocs #friends ocs #the au of class #Days of Future Class #finally got this one done and I had fun with it #now onto softer things

[riotatthemovies]

So welcome back to another QUESTIONS WITH RIOT! 

So here is a nice big post for you to read, see it on my tumblr page and the facebook group and maybe in a new book someday.

I will be reaching out to B movie directors and actors in the next week or so with a handful of (often similar questions) .

They are not real time interveiws , I just sent them the questions and they msgd me back. Because they are awesome people. 

Todays guest that I suckered in to using their precious time to answer my questions for b movie film makers is Richard Mogg a fim maker from Vancouver. Richard chilled us with the Massage Parlour of Death! As well as hit us right in the Easter time nightmare of EASTER BUNNY BLOODBATH which just recently released a sequel. Riot at the Movies folks will remember BIGFOOT ATE MY BOYFRIEND that played on the first ever Terrible Two Day best a few years ago. On top of all that he is a writer of a few of the most detailed go to books on the genre of shot on video and low budget underground film makers.

Lets get to the questions

ADAM RIOT : SO RICHARD, IF YOU WERE GIVEN A MULTIMILLION DOLLAR BUDGET WHAT WOULD YOU DO?  GO CRAZY? 

Mogg: To be honest, I'd split it - but only half of what you're thinking.  I'd take half and make THE ULTIMATE sci-fi Extravaganza!  Then I'd make a whole bunch of small independent features.  So yes, I'd make my GALAXINA but with a bunch of cheese to go with it. 

Adam Riot: HOW OFTEN HAVE YOU WRITTEN SOMETHING AND SAID "OH THAT'S SO BAD, BUT I'M KEEPING IT IN"? 

Mogg:  Actually never... unless it overwhelmingly sucks.  I've been writing scripts long enough to know you can write unlimited, but it's smarter to write what you can actually do.  So write ambitiously but never against your vision.  One time I thought to not include something, but after we shot the film, I was able to edit back in my original idea... so first impulses are usually the right impulses.

 Adam Riot: WE DO TEND TO DOUBT OUTSELVES TOO MUCH. OF ALL THE MOVIES YOU HAVE MADE WHAT WAS YOUR FAVORITE?  FROM EXPERIENCE OR FINISHED PROJECT, WHAT MADE IT YOUR FAVORITE? 

Mogg: My favorite film that I've done is BIGFOOT ATE MY BOYFRIEND, which isn't gory at all but heavy in the awkward comedy I enjoy.  But the real reason it's my favorite is that everything seemed to come together.  It was the first time my vision matched execution, and the final product was as good/better than I had hoped.  BIGFOOT was my 5th feature film, so it took that many tries to get things right - plus I had my all-star cast.

Adam Riot: WE ALL LOVED IT HERE. 

HAVE YOU MADE FILMS THAT YOU HAVE NOT SHOWN TO THE WORLD THAT YOU JUST DIDN'T LIKE SO YOU HID IT AWAY? 

Mogg:  There are films I've done that haven't been released yet, but that doesn't have anything to do with hiding them.  Sometimes it seems that opportunities come up and you have to be ready to jump in... my 3rd feature film was shot just as 2013 rang in, but that was the year I found out we were having our first baby.  So after quickly moving and getting our lives set straight, I had an empty bedroom while we anticipated the baby's arrival.  But did I waste the opportunity of an empty bedroom?  Heck no, so I quickly shot MASSAGE PARLOR OF DEATH using the bedroom as a massage parlor.  So MASSAGE took the place of that 3rd film I shot (which hasn't been released), but that's the way life happens sometimes.  One day I'll release everything but timing and momentum occasionally get in the way.  I still have 3 films in the can yet to be released: HOT CHICKS BLAST URANUS, DEATH RIDES OF DEATH (formerly ROLLERCOASTER KICKBACK) and my "exotic" picture JOHNNY GLOBBER.

Adam Riot: I AM ALMOST SCARED BY THOSE TITLES BUT CURIOUS AS WELL. AND LAUGHING THE MASSAGE PARLOR BECAME A BABY ROOM.

 WHAT MOVIES IN A MICRO BUDGET GENRE HAVE IMPRESSED YOU RECENTLY? 

Mogg: You know, I'm so obsessed with watching older films to see their overall genre evolutions that I don't get to see many "newer" films.  Drew Marvick's POOL PARTY MASSACRE was a favorite, as was 2019's MORBID STORIES.  I recently caught Dave Castiglione's rerelease of DEEP UNDEAD and it's a knockout with some amazing underwater photography - stuff you just don't see in a lot of micro budget flicks.  And that's the great thing about lower budgeted stuff... it's made from the heart using igneous techniques rather than boatloads of money.

Adam Riot: WHAT MAKES YOU LOSE YOUR LOVE FOR INDEPENDENT FILMS, THE PEOPLE?  THE MONEY?  THE RESPONSE FROM FRIENDS OR BUYERS?  HOW DO YOU OVERCOME IT? 

Mogg: Wow, LOSE my love?  That's a tricky question.  I think there are personal turn-offs that might not let me get into a film, but the filmmaking spirit never leaves.  Yeah sometimes the people involved are only out to "get rich quick" can be trying, or rip off artists who turn out flicks every week with no investment in their content... that's a turn off.  I don't personally enjoy mean-spiritedness in movies, which is why all RickMoe titles are lighthearted and silly.  But as a pure business, I think basic indifference and self-righteousness in people infront and behind the camera can really effect the product.  But that's true of any business really...  

Adam Riot: WE ALL KNOW THERE NEEDS TO BE SOMETHING MORE THAN MONEY. YOU HAVE BEEN MAKING WITH A LOT OF DIFFERENT PEOPLE, HOW DO YOU FEEL FRIENDSHIP IN THE INDEPENDENT FILM WORLD IS IMPORTANT AND HOW HARD WOULD IT BE WITHOUT CLOSE FRIENDS? 

Mogg: Great question.  Close relationships and treating people with respect is everything.  Acknowledging that everyone counts and their efforts are never taken for granted is key to longevity and happiness in this business.  It's true, in independent filmmaking many (perhaps all!) people involved in making films don't get paid financially... maybe they do it for a credit or recognition or even just to have fun, and we as the audience need to know that people really do put their blood, sweat and tears into these movies.  Sure there are straight up jerks running around with a camera, but when you start seeing the same people out there having fun and KEEP TRYING, you really get to feel that they're being honest with the audience.  Making movies IS fun - even when you're against problems - but a positive, uplifting leader can make the world of difference.  And I think that positivity can draw others together.  So making close friendships is really the sign that you're doing things right.

Adam Riot: WHAT'S YOUR THOUGHTS ON THE STREAMING SERVICES, DIRECT DOWNLOAD, TUBITV THAT KIND OF THING?  

Mogg: ANY OPINION? Well I'm trying it now for the first time with EASTER BUNNY BLOODBATH 2: NO MORE TEARS.  I went thing route (direct streaming through Vimeo) because I needed to have quick access for viewers before Easter.  But also because of this damn coronavirus pandemic.  So being able to have audiences access something instantly without waiting for physical mail was very important.  But in general, I'm a physical media type of person.  I WANT a VHS/DVD/BLU copy on the shelf to look at, admire, hold.  I don't think I'll ever get away from that need to hold a film... because when everything is digital, it almost feels like it doesn't exist.  Delete and it's gone forever!

Adam Riot: FOR THOSE READING RICHARD MOGGS EARLY WORK IS ON SRS IS AVAILABLE ON TUBITV NOW.

 IS THERE A CHARACTER YOU SHOWED THE WORLD THAT IS ON THE TOP OF YOUR WANT LIST TO BRING BACK?

Mogg: 100% our Federal Bigfoot Investigator John Saurius (played by the incredible Kirk Munaweera) is a character I'd bring back for EVERY film.  He's so applicable to any story, and he carries a comical vengeance (his dick was torn off by Bigfoot).  But I'd like to see him lead a film completely too... he sorta does with EASTER BUNNY BLOODBATH 2: NO MORE TEARS, but I'd like to bring him in in a bigger way for our upcoming Noir picture. 

Adam Riot :I do hope to see the son of the kung fu kid or something (smirk)

 YOU HAVE WRITTEN SEVERAL BOOKS ON THE SHOT ON VIDEO GENRE, ONE THAT'S NOW BASICALLY THE GO TO ENCYCLOPEDIA FOR THE GENRE AND ON THE TWISTED HORROR LOVE FOR CHRISTMAS.  IS THERE SOMETHING ELSE ON THE DRAWING BOARD/TYPING BOARD? 

Mogg: YES!  And thank you for asking!  I learned a lot writing "ANALOG NIGHTMARES" and even more with "GIFTWRAPPED & GUTTED" and the door is always open for another... maybe even a revisit.  But the next writing project excitedly being discussed is turning some of my own films into novels.  And not just the movies written as stories... but actual novels based on the ORIGINAL SCRIPTS of the films we've made, including much more graphic ideas.  For example, sex scenes were originally written in our early films that (of course) our actors weren't too interested in performing for no money... but NOW!  Now we can really write in detail the spicy hot sex always intended!  And same goes for the gore! 

Adam Riot: EASTER BUNNY BLOODBATH 2: NO MORE TEARS IS ONLINE NOW AND ITS A VERSUS TITLE.  TELL US A LITTLE ABOUT THE MOVIE AND TELL ME WHAT VERSUS TYPE MOVIES IMPRESSED YOU IN THE PAST. 

Mogg: YES!  EBB2 is a "BIGFOOT VS BUNNY" sequel!  So there's an amazing climax where the two beasts meet for a showdown to the death!  After shooting BIGFOOT ATE MY BOYFRIEND, I knew that the only way to bring Bigfoot back would be to pair him against and equal of physical strength... and the Bunny hit me like a ton of bricks.  Plus it was great fun revisiting 2010's EASTER BUNNY BLOODBATH which isn't the best film around but was my first feature length film (which I lovingly say "taught me all the mistakes I wanted to teach myself").  So in making this sequel (after making tons of other films), I was able to re-examine my early approaches and redo things from a new standpoint.  It was also fun to reuse some of the old musical cues and try to match the style of the first film.  But I think the biggest difference was in the editing, because I have become a much more experienced video editor since then... learning how to better time things for a greater payoff.  But as a versus film, I felt it was important to focus clearly on the Bunny storyline first, then bring in Bigfoot almost unexpectedly at the end - surprising the audience.  And that's sort of the way I cut films, leaving the end to play out in a zany over the top fashion (anyone who made it through TEENAGE SLUMBER PARTY NIGHTMARE can see this).  But I do love THE TOXIC AVENGER III's pair off with TOXIE and the DEVIL...

Adam Riot: Thanks so much Richard, now every get his books and get your Easter and rent or buy Easter Bunny Bloodbath 2. Stay Safe and Stay Awesome

Rent or download Easter Bunny Bloodbath 2 here https://vimeo.com/ondemand/bunny2/

Ps I will post a review of Easter Bunny Bloodbath 2 tomorrow on my social medias as well as the Riot at the movies instagram. Regardless you know I think you should see it too.   

#rickmoe #richard mogg #easter bunny bloodbath #bmovies #thank you #riot at the movies

[igot7trashy7]

Stop Stop it~

(☞ﾟヮﾟ)☞ Chapter 1 ☜(ﾟヮﾟ☜)

Pairing~ Mark x Jackson (Markson)

Genres~  Fluff, Angst, my awful Humor, and the slight mention of sexual activity

Summary: Mark just needed a roommate to help pay the rent and Jaebum being the greatest friend out there pulled a few strings to help. What Mark didn’t expect was a loud, hot, Chinese man to be the choice.  

——————————————–

Stop it stop stop stop stop it

Whenever you do that it drives me crazy

When you look into my eyes with that smile

I want to go hug you with all my guts

Stop it stop stop stop stop it

——————————————–

Sleep. Coffee. Books. Study. Coffee. Sleep. Coffee. Books. Study. Coffee. Sleep. It’s engraved into the mind by now. Day after day, nothing ever changes. Even if the next day is a day off the process still gets replayed over and over. It doesn’t bother Mark. He loves it, having a system is the only thing he understands. Since forever he has always had a schedule for how certain days play out. He isn’t a control freak just has a firm grip on his life. This skill was never natural, he worked for it by making many mistakes before. No one is born perfect. You have to work for it. Work is the only thing Mark has done for his entire lifetime. Physically and mentally sometimes emotionally. His first ‘paycheck’ was at the age of ten years old when he use to throw newspapers at people’s doorsteps. He discovered a system: Sleep, work, study, sleep. Sleep, work, study, sleep. That was only the start of his systems since having a job turned into a hobby for him. Working ate away at his life and the idea of independence was a way of survival in his family. Money was and is very hard for Mark to obtain. He had to be independent even in diapers.

“I paid for that bill already. Trust me I wrote it down.”

“How come they called me about paying it.”

“When was that?”

“Last week.”

“I paid for it a couple days ago, don’t worry.”

“It’s your father that’s worry.” Mark moved out when he was only fifteen years old for a reason that he calls stupid now. He never went back, no visiting or even driving by for the memory. He hated it there and sticks to only phone calls for money related conversations only.

“How is life treating you?”

“Better than back then.” He wouldn’t say that he hates his parents for giving him the burden of debt at the beginning of his life, not to their faces.

“Make sure you pay it.” The call ended and Mark rolled his eyes heavily. You would think that he would call off his day since his annoyance is rising. He continues to work even harder knowing that his bank account is crying.

———————��——————–

The 'Open’ sign fades from a red into darkness. Keys jingle and locks turn. Mark waves goodbye to his fellow employees and walks in the darkness. He doesn’t skip a beat on the walk to his small two bedroom apartment. Jingle of keys echo through the empty hallway as Mark flings his door open and takes a load off once inside. Exhausted from the late shift and early classes, he decides to just skip dinner and go to bed. That was until a stack of envelopes stopped his way of walking. Mark sighed heavily and picked up the, what he could only assume, bills that aren’t all his. Electric, gas, credit cards, car insurance, and last but not least medical. More money to waste that makes his bank account shake. He throws them on the kitchen counter and takes a second look when he does see one addressed to him.

“Here we fucking go.” Mark opens the letter thinking that maybe it’s a stupid ad for a scam but it’s far worst than that.

Dear person(s) of residency

This is to inform you that the next payment of rent will increase in price by 500 or more (depending on your establishment) due to the new owner ship of the building.

“Just perfect. Fucking amazing! This is the last thing I need right now.” He didn’t bother reading the rest of the letter since the important part was said already. Instead he ripped it up and opened up the rest of the mail to see how much harder he needs to work. A couple weeks ago he paid off his father’s medical bill and another one isn’t really something he wants to see especially since it’s higher than the other. He took his phone out and dialed up a number for his bubbling up question.

“Whoa surprise surprise. Another call from you Mark, this just be important.”

“Why is there another medical bill for dad?”

“You know your father. Such a clumsy fool he is.” Mark’s mother giggled through the phone.

“Yeah…..can you do me a favor and pay for this one. My re-”

“Mark, you know me and your father’s paychecks aren’t close to even paying our monthly expenses.”

“You think mine is?”

“Well you’ve done it before without any complaints. Why is now so different?”

“Cause my rent got raised and will take a very big chunk out of my money. I can’t pay it if I’m paying for something that has nothing to do with me.”

“It’s for your father. It has everything to do with you.” Her tone turned very sour and Mark knew that the conversation will get literally nowhere.

“Forget I even said anything.” Mark gave her an even harsher tone and hung up. The worry that came to his mind is how rent will get paid.

——————————————–

“I’m not saying that we should gather a bunch of people in one place and cause a scene. I’m saying that we start a riot.” Youngjae spoke truthfully, gaining Jinyoung’s attention and making Mark laugh.

“And we go homeless? No thanks, Youngjae.”

“We’ll go homeless regardless! We’re the half of people in the building that go to college and have shit jobs.”

“You live in the cheapest of parts in the building. Your rent went up to literally nothing, feel bad for Mark over here.” Jinyoung and Youngjae bought their attention to Mark. He sat across from them with his feet up on the empty chair as he scrolled through craigslist.

“It isn’t my fault he got a two bedroom apartment for literally no reason at all.” Youngjae muttered.

“Hey! There was a reason I just never stuck with it.”

“What was it suppose to be anyway?” Mark shrugged at the question. He honestly couldn’t recall the reason. He remembered it being a very good reason and idea in fact but completely forgot now. He continued his search a craigslist to find anything for cash. The only thing that seems to pop up are for rent places and….

“A roommate. I’ll just get one now and they can help with my rent problem.”

“You are the last person to ever have a roommate.” Youngjae protested. “You get bothered by people just coming over to your house.

"No I get bothered when you come over to my house.”

“Fuck…..you can’t do it and you won’t be able to find one because you’re such a picky person.”

“He’s got a point.” Jinyoung spilled his drink with a smirk and Mark huffed in frustration.

“I’m gonna prove you two wrong.”

#got7 #got7 jb #got7 mark #got7 jackson #got7 bambam #got7 yugyeom #got7 youngjae #got7 markson #got7 mark x jackson #got7 jinyoung #markson #markson fic