#[I know it looks bad but in my defense I raw dogged this no reference no drafts in like 15 minutes OKAY]

[spiderman2-99]

Reminded me of you and your child

🌧️

[90sbokuto]

since october is nearing us, bakugo, deku, and todoroki but they got hit by a vampire quirk (i imagine they also have hypnosis as part of said vampire quirk) and their s/o lets them drink their blood when hungry??

— “ bnha boys with a vampire s/o ”

including: bakugo, deku and todoroki

genre: fluff, humor and implied smut-ish???

warnings: language, mention of blood and implied hickies

a/n: happy october everyone !! these are a lil longer since there’s only three!

— katsuki bakugo

-    he’s completely unaware,,,,

-    in fact, you didn’t realize this either .. you were babysitting a kid and they bit you, but you didn’t think anything of it cause sometimes kids just be biting

-    you only noticed it when the two of you were cuddling while you were hungry and impulsively bit into his neck

-     even you were taken off guard because you weren’t even TRYING to bite his neck, it was like your body just acted on it’s own and you couldn’t focus

-     he didn’t mind that you bit into it, it just kinda took him off guard that you drew blood

-     “ WOAH WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU-”

-     “ SORRY! SORRY OH MY GO- ”

-      he would never tell you but he kinda find it hot that you just randomly bit into his neck like that

-      he kinda wanted you to do it again chile (eyes)

-      and then you start realizing it’s a problem days later when you keep wanting to bite on every person you see ..

-       bakugo keeps seeing you ogle everyone in the room around lunch and as much as he knows somethings off, he can’t help but get a little jealous

-      so you buy yourself time and a whole box of gushers so you feel like you’re biting something with blood when you’re hungry

-      ngl watching you bite into those little gushers pisses him off cause he’d much rather you drink his blood if you were hungry

-      and as he watches you bite into one, he already has a hunch what’s going on

-      “ COME ON DAMMIT! ” he sighs, dragging you to Recovery Girl’s office

-      he yelled at you the whole way there about how it’s painfully obvious that there’s something wrong with you

-      and it really is, you had fangs and your pupils were HUGE

-      “ ohh young y/n, it looks like you got hit by a vampire’s quirk.. ” all might, who was also in the room, said.

-      and it also affected bakugo since you ingested some of his blood

-      since it has to go away on it’s own and you’d already ingested his blood, he just kinda let’s you keep sucking on his neck

-      he finds it cute that you can’t resist biting onto his neck and you can’t stop it or focus while doing it, but it does leave scars

-      “ woah y/n did a number on your neck! ”  kirishima laughed, while they were changing into their hero costumes

-       “ mind your business, shitty hair, they were hungry ” he snapped

-       it was such bad timing but the whole bakusquad heard too

-       “ THEY WHAT? ” kaminari asked, almost about to faint

-       he liked it but he’d never tell you

— izuku midoriya 

-      this is who you scare AGSASDJHAS-

-      for whatever reason, the quirk didn’t affect you until days later but it hit harder than the norm

-      light made your head ache, you wanted raw meat, and for some reason to do everything at night but sleep during the day

-      sero began referring to you as the “nocturnal” one

-      deku’s naturally inquisitive so as he’s researching it says that you either have cancer or you’re pregnant

-       he came to the conclusion that he’d ask Recovery Girl tomorrow and to just spend the night with you to make sure you don’t feel alone

-      so as he’s completely drifted off to sleep he feels you shuffle over to his side and then a sharp pain in the left side of his neck

-       you couldn’t help it, you were gonna try and fall asleep buried in the crook of his neck but suddenly your teeth were latched onto his neck

-      he slapped you thinking it were some sort of bug but it was just you

-       don’t attack this guy, he just wanted a good nights rest lmfaoodsjndsj

-       so now he’s up looking at you and you’re staring at him..

-       now he’s scared, irritated, honestly every emotion in the book, and honestly have you seen deku when he’s irritated?? that’s what i thought, me neither and it horrifies me

-        “ what are you doing y/n? ” his voice shook

-         “ drinking your blood ”

-           homie is about to SCREAM

-          " why? ” he asks, getting ready to pry you off of him

-          “ i don’t know, i was a little hungry.. ” you reply, looking back at him with wide puppy dog eyes

-            as much as it scared him, he felt a bit sorry for swatting you and it felt good so he let you do it for a few more minutes

-           and then a few more minutes turned into two hours while y’all slept

-           when he woke up, there were little marks where your teeth had been and you were still fast asleep

-           he lets you do it whenever you feel like you have the urge until it wears off

-           “ midoriya , that’s unprofessional! ” iida’s voice boomed, staring hard at your neck

-           “ it’s not that!! ” he began freaking out, “ y/n got hit with a vampire’s quirk and i just let them drink my blood when they’re hungry..”

-             iida looked so disgusted yet confused jsdfjsdfbs yall done broke this man

-           when the quirk wore off, he was sad that you wouldn’t suck on his neck but a lot more relieved since he had more energy

-             “ y/n, do you feel better? ” he asked, peeking into your room. he gave you a smile and as you nodded and he left, you could still see the marks on the back of his neck

— shoto todoroki

-       he’s confused but doesn’t want to know if you catch my drift

-       like he’s fine with helping you with whatever symptoms you may have but he doesn’t even wanna how you got it

-       homie is gonna get jealous/defensive

-       but best believe if he finds out who did it, he’s stealing endeavor’s credit card again and making sure you have anything you might need for the symptoms

-       the only thing he’s not liking is that you’re always up at night, you suddenly have energy when you shouldn’t,,

-        he begins wondering if it’s a symptom or if you’re just always like that because it’s so casual

-        “ y/n?? ” he called out sleepily

-        “ yes? ” you asked, while typing away, creating playlists on spotify

-        “ why are you awake? ” he asked, rolling back over

-        “ i’m not sure, i just couldn’t sleep but i wanted to listen to music. ”

-         he’s so tired that he just lets it happen, he is on rest mode

-        at first he  just kinda assumed you couldn’t go out during the day because y’know sunlight and loud noises

-       which he was fine dealing with, it meant he didn’t have to go out too much either and both of you got a break to hang out for at least a week

-       but when you bite into his neck he didn’t expect this to be what he’s helping you out with

-       y’all were chilling out watching a movie and suddenly you hear your stomach rumble

-        lmfaoo y’all just look at each other, since he brought you soba and you haven’t eaten any

-        “ do you mind if i try something? ” you asked, barely being able to hold back

-        “ maybe.. ” he said, slightly confused at what you would do

-         and you moved his hair slightly so it wouldn’t be in your face and bit down hard into his neck

-        you saw him squeeze the blanket a little harder and wince but after a moment, he was more relaxed

-         “ mm? ” you asked, wide eyed and muffled

-         “ it hurts.. ” he said

-          so you took your teeth out of his neck

-          “ what if we try it somewhere else? ”

-          he moved his collar to reveal the flesh around his collarbone

-          “ lower. ” he suggested

-           and then you bit there and he winced again but quickly followed it up by moving your hair and placing his arm around you

-          “ that feels much better, y/n.” he said.

-           surprisingly he was the most content out of the three

-           everyone was surprised when he just let you suck on his collarbone but he didn’t seem to be bothered or concerned, so why should they

-         he really said, free blood, take it, take it all

[xxisxxisxxis]

Preview: Gateway Drug | Eighty-One

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.

.

.

I lay down and just stare at the mirror ceiling looking back at me, an ugly crack causing my reflection to scatter in multiples. 

Nikki must've broken it at some point before leaving. 

I don't know what the point of getting a mirrored ceiling was...perversion or whatever, I suppose. But the money and time spent repairing the damn thing over the years…

I glance at Whisky, curled up on Nikki's side of the bed, talking in his sleep while his back legs twitch a little. 

Maybe he's actually reliving a good memory of Nikki. 

All I can think of is, 

"I got on it to help with my shoulder and finish my parts of the album so it would be ready in time." He tells me honestly.

"And your shoulder's healed now, Nikki. So why are you still bothering with it?" I ask, looking at him. 

"It's not like I'm injecting the shit, Vivian." He argues, getting defensive. "Go read your Bible or pray or something...anything."

And,

I throw the syringe at him, screaming out, "when did you start doing this?!" as tears reappear in my eyes. 

I expect him to come fight me, he instead ignores my outburst and leans down to grab the box of needles.

I get up and follow after him, my hands shoving at his back, nearly causing him to trip over himself. 

"Answer my fucking question!" I demand him, my voice shaking. I get the reaction I want, the plastic of syringes and metal of needles colliding loudly with the wall when he throws the box of them angrily and spins around.

"Vivian, it's just recreational. It's not serious. I got it under control." He tries to defend himself and I close my eyes, realizing I'll never win.

Then, 

Andy." I cry out, keeping my hands on Nikki's chest, but the Finnish rockstar keeps yelling back and forth with the dealer. "Andy." I repeat, louder, but he still doesn't hear me. "Andy!" I'm pleading in a holler, catching his attention. "I-I can't do this, I'm sick, just call an ambulance!" I beg and Andy heads to the phone hanging on the wall.

And,

"Vince, I'm scared." I say in a whisper.

"Viv, you guys are gonna be okay. I'm sure you'll find a way take fix things just to spite people saying you two won't last." He assures me, his hand rubbing comfortingly up and down my back. "Look at me." He says and I do, and he wipes at my tears. "It'll be fine, alright?" I nod. "Okay?"

"Okay." I reply, sniffling again.

Also,

I'm hitting the floor as fast as I can, screaming as my ears ache from the noise as he just starts shooting repeatedly, and the house shakes, my only chance of protection is getting under the bed and I rush to get there, covering my ears as my spine paralyzes with fear and more shots fire out. I hear things in our house breaking and shattering from  buckshot that flies through the open doorway as Nikki is shouting "GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY HOUSE!" with raw tears in his voice.

Then, 

"I'm getting married, look." Vanity states, taking her left hand out of Arsenio's hold and flashes a shining ring on her ring finger and my ears perk up, apparently Tansy's pulled from her drugged stupor, because her heavy eye lids pop open and her face pales when I look at her as I hear Arsenio comment, "okay, um, here's something for Jett magazine," going with the sudden turn of events presented by the starlet.

"Did you know she was engaged?" I ask Tansy and she's at a loss of words. "I didn't even know she was dating anybody." 

"Vivian." Tansy's tone is dreadful and I wait for her to tell me about it, Arsenio cracking jokes in the background, causing Vanity's enthusiastic laughter to infiltrate the room.

"This is a beautiful ring." He states, grabbing my attention once more. 

"Isn't it pretty?" Vanity agrees as he examines the rock on her finger. 

"You, didn't you--"

"--Nikki Sixx." She interrupts him, and my brows furrow even more, confusion taking over me.

And,

"How could you do this to me?!" I cry out as he starts trying to walk to me, trying to keep his anger low, but I get away from him, throwing a hotel lamp at him, only for it to shatter on the wall behind him. "What did I do to make you hate me so fucking much, Nikki?! To make you pursue another girl--one of my friends--so fucking hard that you propose to her?! Am I just that fucking forgettable?!" I'm throwing dirty dishes Tommy's used tonight, all of them breaking when they miss Nikki by merely centimeters, hitting the wall. 

"Vivian, fuck it off!" He barks and I grab Tommy's switchblade off the nightstand, throwing it next, and it barely misses Nikki's face. 

"I hate you!" I say back. "I fucking hate you!"

Finally,

“What's new…" He says with a small smirk, thinking about something before the corners of his mouth fall slowly. "...I've done a lot of shit." He starts and I look at him. "Shit I'm not proud of. I don't fucking know when to just do something a little bit. I can't have a bump, I've gotta go through an eight ball as fast as possible. I can't have a drink, I gotta drink the place dry. I can't have a serious girlfriend, I've gotta marry her." He says, and I glance at him and he shakes his head. "I can't just have a one-night stand, I gotta have a fucking affair." He finishes and I lick my lips, keeping my tears back. "This might be fucked up, but I've realized I don't feel like I shouldn't have had anything with her." He says in reference to Vanity and I furrow my brows. "I just feel like we shouldn't have gotten married to begin with."

I decide to have mercy on myself, refusing to relive anymore of our memories--good or bad--because they don't matter anymore.

Careful not to wake the dog, I get out of bed, hearing Duff's car pull into the driveway, and glance at the clock. 

How is it already 4:00a.m.?

I can't help but feel butterflies in my stomach, excited to see him because I've missed him.

When he gets in, he braces himself against the doorway of the foyer, cursing under his breath when his feet dare to slip from underneath him. 

"Did you have fun?" I ask him softly, smiling at him and he slowly lifts his head to look at me. 

"Y-You're still up?" He asks me, rubbing his face and I chuckle, taking a step to him. 

"Yeah?" I reply, wrapping my arms around his waist…

...Noticing he's keeping his hand on his eyes as if he's rubbing them, and his lids are squeezed together. 

"Are you okay?" I ask next, reaching up to pull his hand away from his eyes but he stops me. 

"Yeah, baby, I'm fine, just go to bed and I'll be there in a second." He tells me calmly, slurring a little. 

"Duff, what's wrong?" I don't listen, not buying it for a second. 

"Viv…" he sounds disappointed.

"Just look at me," I giggle and move his hand again and he hesitates for a second, before sighing, looking me in the eyes. 

I can't speak as pin-pointed pupils look down at me, the sudden smell of smack fumes on his clothes invades me, faint but still there.

I go to open my mouth to speak but I can't…

He's floating on heroin and my hopes of normality are drowned.

[boog-shitposting-edition]

So I been playing a ton of Kenshi and watched all of the Mandalorian in a single day shortly before and it’s got me thinking about what makes what I consider a good action hero, because there was definitely a time where I thought the phrase “good action hero” was an oxymoron.

I grew up around some angry, unstable dudes who had that bad habit of watching horror movies and opining that in the same situation they would simply shoot the monster with the gun the character was holding. I got some views on the model of masculinity that sees the male ideal as functionally a tool for performing violence, condescension and occasional reddit-approved banter with all other emotional responses pared away or suppressed. This seems like a good way to manufacture a product for performing labor rather than developing a whole functional human being. So I generally veer away from that sort of thing pretty hard.

So I’m resistant to the Mandalorian at first, right? All the ads are basically star wars apocryphica and a power armored fighty gun boy. The last star wars thing I’d seen was The Rise Of Skywalker and my faith in the franchise is low. But it’s been a hot minute, the hype dies down, and my girlfriend is a better and more patient fan than I’ll ever be so we give it a go. And the first thing that really nails it for me is what a DORK the mando is. I’m delighted, his life is violence interdispersed with being an absolute buttfumble disaster. He slips and falls over things he could never have predicted, he burns his life down for a baby he finds in the desert. Pedro Pascal references Boba Fetts stiff menace and plays it off as someone who has no social skills other than stiff menace and it’s FASCINATING. Him explaining to the village woman who is obviously into him that he hasn’t taken the armor off since he was thirteen isn’t a badass declaration of martial devotion, it is the single saddest and most awkward interaction I have ever seen filmed and it hits all the harder for the fact that this is a character I’ve mostly ever seen as an action figure with a spring loaded missile backpack. Instead of being a faceless emotionless action-cudgel, Pedro amps up the body language in his acting to really sell you this heavily psychologically damaged, desperate, viking-space-catholic mess with no life skills other than violence and a devotion to his people’s creed that borders on obsession. Rather than paring himself down making him a psychological fortress, the Mando is an incredibly obvious walking raw nerve (”I’m not sad-” “Yes you are.”) So, Kenshi.

I’ve heard about this game on and off a few years and finally got it a few days ago. It’s been in early access since 2012, appears to be mostly getting finished by its modding community, and glitches like absolute woah. There’s no core storyline, just a post-apocalyptic setting with some surprisingly detailed autogenerated NPC interactions with some options for starting conditions and the sole goal of surviving. It’s essentially a rapid sequence of story prompts hidden underneath a closely interlocked system of XP grinding, survival mechanics and dismemberment algorithms, and is appallingly my shit.

My first run at the game got pretty far, went from a lone confused desert wanderer to a 13 man village running a tidy copper-mining operation to trade with the ant people. In the early game, fight mechanics are basically a death sentence; my first character immediately got her leg torn off by a goat and I had to restart. All skills grow only by excersizing them; you have to fight to get better at fighting, you have to LOSE fights to gain toughness, and when you lose a fight the consequences can range from “these bandits are stealing all your food” to “this monster is eating your leg/heart/head” to “these slavers are taking your character away and your game experience is Different now.” And while I was proud of myself for finding a way to survive, grow and thrive with a low-combat squad, once I tried the basebuilding mechanics that basically just meant my town was a source of free food and money for local bandits while my squad starved to death, unable to abandon our locale. So I got fed up and restarted.

As mentioned the game gives you different start positions; wanderer gives you 1 character, some money and pants. Guy and his dog gives you a dog, which is fun. Exiled officer starts you with good skills and the hatred of your former commander, which complicates things. Cannibal Hunters starts you already in a fistfight with 30 cannibals. It’s exciting times. But I figure this time I’d like to start my squad a LITTLE more capable of defending themselves, so I look at the Holy Sword start; you’re a bandit who starts with a stolen holy weapon, minuses in most skills, no money and a 20,000 bounty on your head from both major factions.

So I proceed to character creation and notice I can pick whatever I want for player species/subspecies with this start. There’s robot people and warriors made of stone and baseline humans and all sorts of fun options, but you remember those ant people I mentioned before? In game they’re called the Hivers, you find ‘em in 3 recruitable varieties (prince, worker drone and soldier) and they have an interesting in-universe quirk; ones that grow up in the hive are pheramone-addicted, chemically wired into the needs and wants of all of their fellows, but if you’re away from your kin for over a fortnight this addiction dries out incredibly fast and cannot be reinstated. Hivers who ever spend any time away from the hive are declared “lost ones,” and are often taken advantage of in the outside world as they long for a new community.

In survival sims I dont often play dedicated fighters, I always feel like being a brutal fight-beast isn’t really in the spirit of finding a niche to exploit and growing from a fumbling plebian to a major power. But I was already starting this game with my ONLY advantage being a nice sword. And the soldier hivers gain a buff to experience gained for melee attack and toughness, and a debuff to literally all else.

Manual labor. Science. Engineering. Farming. Cooking. First aide. In a setting that heavily prioritized your ability to survive using multiple vital skill sets, my character would start with negatives in his skills for putting on band-aids and FEEDING himself. So I gave it a go.

Getting more wild here, it turns out the Holy Sword opening also takes place in a time in the setting with more recent warfare, so a bunch of the starting villages are destroyed and it appears that more of the nearby cities are controlled by the factions that have a bounty on me. So my character CAN’T rely on other people or meet anyone to recruit at first. He can run, he can scrounge and scavenge, and as mentioned above starting characters can take lethal damage from GOATS so he can’t even hunt for food; the only way I was getting a meal was if I robbed someone or ran into merchants on the road I could hawk my salvage to for a scrap of bread.

He eventually finds someone willing to join him on his travels in spite of being flat broke, a shek named Ruka running from a dishonerable loss on the battlefield, and comparing their skills he’s so useless for everything besides combat that I assign him to bodyguard her. And again, this game’s appeal is that the survival mechanics make good story prompts, so imagine that in character.

“Fine, I need a change. I’ll join you.” “Thank god. Lead the way boss.” “What?”

Things regarding my characters bounty are starting to heat up in town, so we head north into hiver territory. We get attacked by bandits and heavily injured, my soldier gets knocked out, so Ruka picks him up and carries him until we find a hive town. I saw these guys all the time in my last playthrough, I survived by selling to them, they’re super friendly, should be fine. Ruka walks into the local shop and before I can have her ask for directions and a medikit the shopkeeper is already shouting- “SKREEE! LOST ONE! GET OUT! LOST ONES BRING MADNESS”

Apparently, my protagonist being a hiveless hiver means there’s a THIRD faction that’s hostile to him; his own goddamn people. Ruka has to leave him under a tree not just outside but like 50 feet from the edge of town, and just has  to hope none of the local wild megafauna eats him while she rushes back in to buy things from the now abruptly friendlier shopkeep.

I’m finally sitting there, having Ruka watch my soldier hiver sleep while she cooks scavanged meat and waits for him to finish healing, that I realize what the story being generated here is and it’s a good one; a Hive soldier whose only skills are violence, frantically scavenging and stealing to survive until he can find the one circumstance where he’s comfortable, sacrificing himself to protect others. He steals a sword that’s obviously important to two major governments, just because he knows it’s powerful and thinks that power will justify his continued existence as a hiveless soldier drone, essentially buying his way back into his people’s good graces by performing his function. Literally wandering the world until he found a single person who was willing to boss him around again and devoting himself to their defense to a state of pathological damage just to feel like he has a hive again. It’s sad. It’s badass. It’s deeply, unsettlingly pathetic.

But I also think it’s what makes a really really good gruff action hero!

Hypercompetence in violence is really interesting when you acknowledge the damage it can do to your humanity in the storytelling! The Mandalorian is unsuccessful in repressing his empathy response so he just tries to tough through the pain it causes him as best he can, until he meets The Child and it snaps. The Hiver is essentially playing pretend at being still valued as a product for committing violence, even in the face of being openly rejected for his previously esteemed role. This stuff is INTERESTING.

TL;DR version, a lot of these “supersoldier raised by the military/fight wizards/karate” characters are super boring and obnoxious when they’re put forward as power fantasies, and really interesting when you realize that being raised by Fight Wizards is why they’ve never had a girlfriend and called their handgun “mom” once.

[elletromil]

elle’s self rec list

So I did one of those about two years ago and I decided why not do another one! Some fics from the old one will probably be repeated here, but who cares, it’s my list, I get to make the rules :D

There's Something About Us - T, Hartwin, Merlin/Roxy, Percilot, AU,  Words: 49,369

Roxy had her eyes closed, twirling her drum sticks expertly but unnecessarily between beats, unbothered by the strands of brown hair that had gotten loose from her ponytail. Merlin had shuffled closer to her drumset, as he often did, his feet keeping her rhythm, eyes closed as if in concentration. Percival was half hunched over his keyboard, looking at the crowd without seeing it, his voice having taken that far-away edge that only added to the ethereal of their song.

Without shame, he started swaying to their music, letting it wash over everything else so that only their harmony stayed.

In which Eggsy, Roxy, Merlin and Percival are a famous alien music band, Harry is a hero of the Galactic Patrol and Valentine and Gazelle are evil humans.

This one is my longest fic to date and quite frankly, I am insanely proud of it. It’s heavily based on the Interstella 5555 movie Daft Punk did for their Discovery album, but you don’t need to be familiar with it to read this. It took me four years to finish this and probably closer to five years to write it all since I started writing a while before I started posted it. But oh man, am I proud of this story.

Of Flowers, Thunderstorm and Tranquility - M, Hartwin, AU,  Words: 9,702

The fresh snow crinkles satisfyingly under his feet as Harry slowly makes his rounds of his part of the Forest. He is seconds away from humming when a whimpering sound from a bush nearby gives him pause.

Harry carefully makes his way towards the sound, on his guard. He gasps in surprise when he parts the foliage. He doesn’t know what he expected, but one thing is certain, it wasn’t the unconscious Summer Child curled up around himself.

This one is quite probably the one I will forever think as my masterpiece. The idea pounced on me and wouldn’t let me go until I had written it all. It is also on of the very few stories I ever wrote that goes higher than a T rating.

of flowers and fireflies - cowritten by @insanereddragon - M, Merwin, AU,  Words: 43,882

“You're trying to tell me that you're my dog?”

“Well, yes. Though I’d rather you say familiar if you don’t mind.”

“That’s… That’s impossible. The spell didn’t work.”

--

Eggsy is a familiar. For many human lifetimes, familiars live waiting for a call from one of the populations magic users. During their time of waiting, they seek out magical sanctuaries for their kind. Eggsy and Lee are on their way to one such place when tragedy strikes, and only Eggsy makes it to his new home at the Hart estate sanctuary.

Merlin is a magic user. After the death of his family, Merlin is taken in by the Hart family on their estate. It’s there, growing up beside Harry, that he first learns of his magical abilities and struggles with growing up without the support of a magical family.

Even though their paths cross while growing up on the estate, it isn’t until many years later when Merlin performs a summoning for a familiar that they connect. A friendship grows to something more while the two learn to navigate their newly formed bond.

So there are two reasons why I absolutely love this story/verse. The first one is that I got to write it with Red. Back then when we decided that ‘hey, we only need 10k for a mini bang, let’s do this, 5k each will be a walk in the park’ we were just starting our friendship. Fastforward a few years later and I can’t envision my life with Red in it. Also we were very dumb and both have no chill because the easy 10k mini-bang we thought this story would be ended up being  a 43k proper big bang

Only love can hurt like this - T, Eggsy/Tilde, Hartwin, Eggsy/Harry/Tilde,  Words: 8,001

He’s not stupid, his life isn’t a fairy tale, he’s not going to marry the princess now that he’s saved the world. Heck, if his life was a fairy tale, he would rather be the princess marrying the Knight.

Harry is dead, Eggsy has picked up his mantle as a spy and Tilde doing her job as a princess and helping to lead her country in the trying times after V-Day. But even busy as they are, Tilde and Eggsy both kept in contact and what develops between them is more than simple friendship.

All in all, life isn't that bad.

Except Harry isn't as dead as they all thought he was.

I started writing this before the sequel was out and my only regret is that the movie treated Tilde’s character do terribly. There are so many different ways they could have handled it so that Tilde would still end up being Eggsy’s motivation for really wanting the antidote and well... They really didn’t go that way, did they? Anyone, concerning Tilde, I am mostly in fanon-land where it concerns her or whatever @solrosan ​ comes up with because Rosa is an amazing writer and one of the very few I will accept angst from. But I digress. Consider this as a fix-it that instead of ignoring Tilde completely, goes the route I prefer when I see love triangle and transforms the situation into a healthy triad. Because I can.

I Get a Little Bit… - G, Merlahad, Ghenghis Khan video AU, Words: 6,062

Merlin is putting his two children to bed when his phone starts ringing with a too familiar alert. He curses under his breath, thankful that Roxy is already fast asleep and won’t reprimand him on his language.

Or the Genghis Khan Merlahad au everyone wanted but nobody was writing.

The summary is pretty self-explanatory here I think.

Nous n’avons rien à faire, rien que d’être heureux  - T, Merlahad, Merhartwin, AU,  Words: 5,982

“Harry, Merlin, I present you the first gift of my courtship. It is my intent, if you accept, to show you that I can not only provide for you a home and protection, but cherish you.”

Harry and Merlin have been in a relationship for decades. Many a siren have proposed them over the years, but Eggsy is the first one they're willing to give a chance.

And Eggsy isn't about to let it go to waste.

So I was insanely lucky during the last reverse-bang and managed to lay claim on a couple of @paxdracona ​ artwork (I love Pax and all of her art too, it’s so inspiring and wonderful and gorgeous and yeah, go stare at it you won’t regret it). This story is what I came up with for it and I must say I am quite proud of it. Who doesn’t love a good courting fic after all?

Don’t be scared of what you don’t already know - G, Hartwin, AU,  Words: 14,601

“I wouldn’t mind the company for one more day.” Harry smiles sheepishly and Eggsy spies a glimmer of something raw in his warm brown eye.

It’s all he needed to be convinced. It’s not really selfish if he suspects Harry is just lonely as he is, right?

“Okay, yeah. I can totally wait another day.”

After he's been chased out of his commune by his dick stepfather, a surprisingly kind dragon invites Eggsy to stay at his place for the night. Or well, it's supposed to be just for one night, but Harry doesn't seem to mind when Eggsy's stay keeps getting longer and longer.

That’s one of the other reverse-bang I wrote and the other artwork I got to claim from @paxdracona​ which made me insanely happy at the time because well, I had already written a few ficlets about her dragon!Harry and magpie!Eggsy and I really wanted to write a longer one.

Room for Three (Not Only You and Me) - G, Merhartwin, Words: 6,797

The first time it happens Merlin honestly doesn’t know.

Though, in Merlin’s defense there is nothing indicating that this is any different than usual.

Wherein Merlin date-crashes Harry and Eggsy’s dates without realising it at first. Except, when Merlin tries to give them some space, they don’t seem to be happy about it.

Writing oblivious characters is always fun especially when you wouldn’t expect this character to be so clueless most of the time. Also, well this is the fic that made me meet Red so of course Imma forever recs this.

Stay - T, Hartwin,  Words: 2,765

They nearly walk by without seeing the other, the only reason they do in the end is because Eggsy has to suddenly sidestep a wandering child and would have tripped on his own feet if it wasn’t for the hand shooting out and righting him at the last moment.

He turns around to thank the stranger only to realise that a stranger the man is not, even if he’s barely recognizable from the last memory he has of him.

After Poppygeddon, Eggsy stayed a Kingsman agent but Harry decided it was time for him to retire. Which also meant going halfway across the world and cutting all ties with his previous life. They never thought they would meet again.

Of course they do.

I wrote this as a gift to @honey-bee-britt and while the series is still not completed, it can still be read as a stand-alone. I am so proud of this one fic too. It’s some of my best work I think.

If I only could make a deal with God -  T, Hartwin,  Words: 5,089

He's not even sure he wants to be a part of Kingsman anymore. The Knights might accept him now that he's saved the world from Valentine's madness, but there's only one position to fill. And he doesn't know how to feel about taking up Galahad’s mantle. Not sure how he feels about replacing Harry.

The night after Harry has been killed by Valentine and Eggsy has saved the world from the madman, a familiar fox appears to him and leads him to the Underworld.

If luck is on his side, Eggsy might just sway the God of Death into returning Harry's soul to the living.

Who wants a Hartwin retelling of the Orpheus and Eurydice legend? Because this is what it is. Because this is me and of course I will write as many mythology au or fics with mythology references that I possibly can.

[tothedarkdarkseas]

Is murdoc capable of doing genuinely kind, good things? Do you think he ever has in his life, or ever will?

I think that’s a great question, and I think you’re trying to get me in trouble!

I should probably preface that of course I like Murdoc. I find Murdoc to be a very compelling guy. I think there can be an understandable defensiveness around our favorite characters, and there can be a fear, maybe, that if you sympathize with or relate to Murdoc in some way, it has to mean he’s a good person, otherwise you’re not a good person, and that isn’t acceptable. I don’t agree with that, but I understand it’s a feeling that can be hard to distance yourself from. I’m not here to insist everyone has to be as hard on the characters as I am, but I don’t want discussing them in terms like this to be seen as “bashing” and not just, y’know, one fan’s thoughts on a messy complicated dealio.

Disclaimers all accounted for… I lean toward a “no.” Not on those terms, at least. I don’t mean to discount Murdoc being capable of good, as anyone is capable of doing better and improving in some abstract way; I also don’t mean to discount that Murdoc has ever, in the entirety of canon, said nice things to fans in webcasts, or tried to do something to help the band, or had sincere emotions of regret or gratitude. But I do think if we’re defining “being good” as “doing good things” (and I do think that’s a fair enough statement) then seeing that with consistency would be a major difference. And this isn’t meant to disparage any redemption or color me as someone with no faith in Murdoc to change, but I do admittedly like to keep an unpretty reality to the characters– and realistically, I don’t know if at nearly 60, Murdoc’s in a very likely position to turn his entire personality around and become altruistic. Not saying it’s impossible, but I don’t find it likely. And I don’t personally need it to happen, either.

Here’s the bigger issue (at least in my characterization of him, I don’t necessarily think I can or should argue for anything else here): when Murdoc shows kindness it is not always genuine, and what about Murdoc is genuine is not always kind. It is difficult for Murdoc to be a “sincerely giving” person, because being kind, patient, generous, or humble are not emotions that I think Murdoc feels sincerely. Not unprompted, not non-performatively, not alone in the dark. I think Murdoc feels slighted. I think Murdoc feels owed. I think, in his most “humane” moments, Murdoc feels guilt and regret and self-loathing, but I do not think those things then become roots for behavior I’d call kind. At worst, it makes him mean, it makes him avoidant/in denial of his wrongdoing (toward Stu especially) or it makes him cruel, belittling, and aggressive. At best, it makes him manic-depressive. It makes him do a big stupid thing to prove himself, or do nothing at all.

I realize it’s kind of tacky to just quote things and point to other media, but there have been some excellent lines in Bojack that really helped me when I was conceptualizing Murdoc a little more. In the (infamous) episode Free Churro, Bojack gives a line about how he always thought big gestures were how you showed love, but it just isn’t enough; what the people in your life need isn’t a spectacle, it’s you being better, it’s you being consistent, every day. And that’s hard. I can definitely see Murdoc as a grand gesture kind of guy. This, in combination with his “sincere feelings” like regret or fear, makes him do those stupid things I mentioned. It makes him buy a giant abandoned studio for a band he’s desperately formed with a guy he nearly killed, riding high on speed and the wild-eyed belief that he really made a fortuitous mistake that night. It makes him run away to Mexico with bad cheques and keep no contact as the band comes apart. It makes him buy an island made of garbage, and trap his singer there. It makes him decide to turn a mental breakdown into an album, recording every frantic thought along the way, not allowing grief to be something he experiences alone. It has to be a spectacle. Even the more generous fans were skeptical about elements of Phase 5��s wrapping-up, and while I didn’t find it to be great writing, I do find that much believable for Murdoc: that he is performative by nature. I don’t doubt he’d feed us bullshit about being reformed, no matter what he felt inside.

See, it isn’t that I don’t think Murdoc feels sorry for anything he’s done, especially in his relationship to Stu, but what is “real” to him and what is reality don’t feel equal. I think Murdoc’s regret is sincere; I don’t think Murdoc’s apologies are sincere. That doesn’t mean I’m throwing Murdoc to the wolves, but when you’re looking outside of just him, trying to give some shared priority to the people his actions affect, it’s fair to ask what those feelings are worth compared to how he behaves. And yeah, I do think the end result is that making a flashy gesture of goodwill is not worth as much as not fucking up would’ve been. (Hate to bring up Bojack again, but it’s just conveyed so well in the “Do you think I’m a good person, deep down?” “I don’t know if I believe in deep down. I kind of think who you are is just… the things you do.”)

It makes me seem like a real tool to reference my own stupid fics, but if we’re just talking about my “version” of the characters and I’m not presuming to speak for canon… in Oysters, Stu says to Murdoc that “this (Plastic Beach) is what you are now.” I can imagine some would dislike that sentiment and think it’s unfair to hold Murdoc to one action as something defining to his entire person, and I don’t actually disagree with that; but more than that, I don’t disagree with Stu saying it. I think being so ready to distance Murdoc from his own actions is being a little too dismissive toward Stu’s experience, an experience he never asked for and has had ripple effects for them both. To him, for a very long time, Murdoc is the things he’s done. He’s allowed to say that. He’s the one Murdoc did them to.

That taps into a tougher question with an even less likable answer though– can Murdoc sincerely “make up” for anything? Can Murdoc be Stu’s dog for the next 30 years and “make up” for the first 15? (Focusing only on Stu here as I don’t feel qualified to talk about anything else.) That answer just isn’t going to be what Murdoc wants to hear. There’s no undoing it, there is no forgiving it, and Murdoc’s punishment– the only punishment he’s really had to suffer for it– is living with not getting that. That isn’t fair, he’d think, and he’d be a little right. Stu assigning blame to Murdoc forever isn’t fair, but he’s got every right to do it. It isn’t a healthy or mature mindset for Stu either, but unfortunately for Murdoc, his actions have given Stu a very earned grudge. I think they just eventually reach a point where Stu has to decide that… they’re not going to dwell on it anymore. It isn’t forgiveness. It isn’t making things right. But it is a man who was denied some major autonomy in his own life making his own decision. I also think Murdoc is smart enough to know that sorry doesn’t mean anything to Stu; in a raw, quiet, sincere moment between them, I don’t think Murdoc would disrespect Stu by asking him to say he’s forgiven. I think he’d take what he gets.

Sorry, I guess I’m getting off track and I’m not sure how to get back on. I hope it doesn’t make me seem like too much of a ball-buster for Murdoc, but I personally feel more sympathy for his relationship to Stu if he’s self-aware enough not to ask for it. I think Murdoc has only dug himself deeper with his habits and gestures up until this point. I think the best thing Murdoc can do is accept what he’s done and what he is, and in doing so… I don’t really think he’ll tap into some secret stowed away bleeding heart, gushing with “kindness” and “goodness.” And I don’t think that’s what Stu’s looking for.

I don’t think Murdoc is a very strong candidate for being “sincerely good.” I think eventually he can at least be what he needs to be, for Stu’s benefit, to get on with their lives though. I think he’s capable of seeing what that would mean, and having enough respect for Stu to put himself and his wants second.

[whumptasticwednesday]

The Mind Of A Mutt (Hunger Games - Mockingjay)

Alright guys, As promised, Whumptastic Wednesday has returned. 

Just some background, this fanfic takes place during Mocking Jay Part One. I do reference some stuff from the books that weren't in the movie, so if you haven't read the books and you are confused, then read the damn books because they are incredible (AND VERY WHUMPY!!!) That’s all for now. Please enjoy, and don’t forget to give me some feedback. I would love to know what you guys think. 

-Jimmy

Word Count- 2,299

Warings- violence 

The cold floor of the cell sends goosebumps crawling up my arms. My hairs stand on edge, and every couple seconds my whole body twitches. The tracker jacker venom runs thick through my veins from the last "session." That's what they call them: President Snow and his team of doctors and nurses. Their only objective is to keep me alive long enough to torture me, to damage my brain and fill my head with artificial memories meant to brake me. Day in and day out, they show me pictures of Katniss, her voice rings through my head as they beat me. I have violent hallucinations of her doing unspeakable things to me. I feel every second of it. Why can't they kill me? Send my conscious mind into a desolate never-ending state of nothingness, because that's too easy. Nothing in the capital is easy. That's why twenty-four kids are sent to the Hunger Games every year. Because somewhere in Snow's sick distorted perception of reality, watching kids slaughter each other and celebrating the victors whos lives will be forever plagued with nightmares and flashbacks, is the only way to keep the districts in line. The only way to hold off the rebellion. Well, not anymore.

Katniss is the rebellion, the Mockingjay, and President Coin has got her. She's the reason I'm tortured in a cell in the capital. Katniss is the rebellions weapon, and I'm the capitals weapon. The only difference is never-ending suffering experienced by those saved by the capital. They are turning me into a Mutt, wearing me down little by little till I snap. Until my mind reaches depths of madness incomprehensible by a sain human. This issue is, it's working. Every day I feel my self becoming angrier and angrier. With every injection, every beating, every drop of my blood spilt, my anger grows. I can feel it festering in the back of my mind.

I try to sit up, but my arms feel week and numb. My vision begins to look fuzzy, and my eyelids feel heavy. The black polished shoes of President Snow standing in front of me is the last thing I can remember before I finally let my eye's close. In seconds I'm overtaken by sleep.

I inhale sharply as my eye's shoot open. Where am I? How long was I out? My breathing quickens as I try to move. My arms and legs are strapped into a chair. My heart begins to rase in my chest as I thrash violently, trying to escape.

"Don't struggle," I shoot my head up. President Snow is standing in front of me, two doctors wearing all white at his side. "You will only make it worse."

I grit my teeth. I've been here before. I know what's going to happen. I'm so tired, so fucking tired.

"Please." I plea, hot tears well up in my eyes. "Please, not again. I can't take this anymore." My voice cracks as I look up at President Snow. His cold face is unnerving. His dead stare sends a shiver down my spine. He nods, signaling to the doctors that its time. The doctors in their clean white coats approach me. I close my eye's, hoping that maybe if I think hard enough, this might all have just been a bad dream. I could wake up in a cold sweat, next to Katniss in our house in the victor's village. We could spend the morning talking about my nightmare like we always do when one of us has a distressing dream.

The prick of the IV being inserted into my arms knocks me back to reality. Reminds me that I'm not in my bed, I'm strapped to a chair in the capital, and I'm definitely not dreaming. I hold my breath as a cold liquid fills my veins. Suddenly my head feels like it's a thousand pounds. I let gravity do the work as my head goes limp against my chest. All at once, my ears begin to ring, louder, and louder, and louder. I squeeze my eyes shut. I think my eardrums might burst. I bring my knees to my chest and my hands to my ears, my throat letting out a blood-curdling scream. As abruptly as it began, it was over. Replaced with a silence that's equally as uncomfortable. I open my eyes, my arms and legs are free, I'm not in the capital anymore, I'm in the cave, from the first games. I prop my self up on my elbows; I look down, my wound is as bad as ever. Blood and pus seep out of the jagged cut — my whole body aches. Sweat drips down my face, and I have to bite my lip to stop from screaming.

"K-Katness," I pant, the pain is worse than the first time I experienced it. "Katn-ness, p-p-please!" I call out, where is she? Why isn't she here with me? Abruptly she appears beside me.

"I've brought you a treat. I found a patch of berries a little farther downstream" she says, brushing the hair from out of my face. Not again, I am not falling for this trick again. Katniss brings a spoonful of the mashed berries up to my mouth. This time they look different. Not red, and they don't smell like the sleeping syrup my mom used to give me. The mash is jet black. NightLock. Katniss is trying to kill me. I back away, dragging the lower half of my body with my arms. A malignant smile creeps onto Katness' face as she traps my neck under her arm. I choke and scream, trying to kick her off of me.

"Shhhhhhh, it will be over before you know it," She whispers, prying my jaw open like its nothing. I cringe as the sour taste of the nightlock berries hit my tongue. I heave as Katniss lifts her arm from off my throat. My relief is short-lived as she instantaneously clamps her hand over my mouth and plugs my nose. "This doesn't have to be difficult. One swallow. One swallow and all this pain will be over."

Nightlock, dead before it even hits your stomach, I remember. I fight underneath her. My lungs burn; they are screaming at me for oxygen. Black spots start the cloud my vision. I'm going to die. Whether that's from asphyxiation, or nightlock was my choice. I finally give in. My throat burns as I swallow. Katniss releases her hands from over my mouse and nose, and I gag and choke. My limbs start to feel heavy; the world around me begins to spin. I can see Katniss mouthing words to me. Why can't I hear her? I can feel her brush my hair out of my face. The pain I once felt begins to splinter away into a raw numbness. Soon the only thing I can discern is my heartbeat. Slow and unnatural. Like the heartbeat of a mutt.

Catching me off guard, the pounding in my ears begins to quicken. As I come back to my senses, I can hear my self gasping for breath. My vision returns soon after my hearing. I see the world speeding past me. More specifically, I see trees speeding past as I sprint through the forest. I feel like I'm not in control of my body. My lungs are on fire, and my muscles feel like they are threatening to snap. But I keep running. Suddenly my head shoots backward, and I know all too well what I'm running from. Mutts. A huge wolf-like creature is sprinting close behind me. But there is something different. I remember the mutts who chased after me in the first games. How could I forget? But this wolf was different, but at the same time... familiar. The smooth brown coat and piercing stern green eyes were all I had to see. This mutt was Katniss. Similar to the wolfs the capital made from the dead tributes in the first games. Katniss was hunting me. And I bet anything, that one stumble, and she wouldn't hesitate to rip me limb from limb. The forest floor becomes a minefield of sticks, rocks, and other things I can't identify given my current situation, but would undoubtedly lead to my inevitable demise if I were unable to avoid them. I feel in control of my body again. The first thing I notice is that the adrenaline that kept me running fast enough to stay ahead of the mutt has warn off. I'm starting to fall behind. Humans weren't built for this kind of physical exertion — my whole body cramps with every wheeze of my exasperated lungs. I feel my eyes begin to roll back into my head. My brain feels like static. Any minute my body is going betray me. I'm knocked back to reality as my foot gets caught on a rock, sending me tumbling down the steep hill. A scream tears through me as the mutt's teeth sink into my leg, dragging me down the hill. Blood smears the dirt behind me as the wolf finally slows down, stopping in the middle of the forest. Pained sobs erupt from deep within my chest. I scream through clenched teeth as the mutt's jaw opens, releasing teeth that were buried deep within my leg. Without warning, it lunges at me, teeth showing, ropes of drool cascading down its chin. I hear a sickening crunch as it jumps on me with all its weight. Hot tears spill down my cheeks as blood bubbles up my throat, leaking out my mouth. I kick and thrash, trying to release my self from under its weight, but I'm too weak. It snarls and snaps at me. I put up my arms in defense, trying to cover my face. Within minutes, my arms are a blood bath. Full of bite marks and cuts. I wail as the rabid dog rips me to pieces. I begin to lose feeling in my limbs, and my vision starts wavering in and out. I'm too weak to defend my self. Deep lacerations scatter my body. It's Tearing into me like I'm nothing but it's next meal. All the while, I stare into its eyes. Katniss' eyes. I feel my mind begin to deteriorate. Please end this. Please end me. I can't take this anymore. My body slowly slips into an empty numbness; this feeling isn't new. This is how most of my hallucinations end, with a numb body and a broken mind. My vision abandoned me a long while ago. Leaving me alone with my thoughts. It's hard to describe how I feel in these moments. When my body is numb and my brain has shut off anyway for me to identify where I am or what's going to happen next. My mind is in such a drug-induced haze; it's forgotten how to perceive the world around me. My eye suddenly shift as sporadic visions of Katniss and Gale flash into my brain. No, please, no. Like my own private movie under my eyelids, I watch Katniss and Gale laughing and smiling as they touch each other in a lust-filled haze. Please make it stop. Every touch, every kiss, fuels a fire buried deep within me. I can feel jealousy brewing in the pit of my stomach. This isn't real. I try to distract my mind, but the hallucinations win every time. I can't stop them. They start to get faster, flashing in and out of my mind like strobe lights. I see visions of my mom, of my family. Of the bombing of District Twelve. I watch as bombs rip them apart — peacekeepers making sure to put a bullet in the heads of anyone who survived the initial explosion. I feel sick to my stomach. My brain is moving at a mile a minute. This isn't real. I repeat it over and over in my mind. Start simple; start with what you know is true. My name is Peeta Malark. My home is District Twelve. I was in the Hunger Games. Katniss was saved. I was left behind.

My eye's open. Fluorescent lights blind me. Where am I. My arms and legs aren't strapped down? I look down; I'm wearing a clean white hospital gown. I look up. A group of people wearing gray jumpsuits are conversing around a clipboard. District thirteen is written on the back. I'm not in the capital anymore. They saved me.

"Should we bring her in?"

Their voices are muffled; I can almost make out what they're saying.

"Are you sure he's ready?"

My head begins to pound, and I lay back down on the bed. Coving my eye's with my hands, taking deep breaths. I'm processing a lot right now. I feel adrift of cool air as the door to the room opens. Looking up, suddenly im staring into those familiar green eye's. I feel my chest begin to swell with anger. My mind flashes back to everything that happened to me in the capital. All the pain I endured. All that emotion, all that damage, it's all because of Katniss. I looked into her eye's as she stabbed me, kicked me, mauled me, drugged me, burned me, killed me. I let my anger control me as I lurch forward, grabbing her by the neck and slamming her down onto the porcelain floor. The look of shock and horror spreading across her face only makes my desire to watch the life drain from her powerless body grow. Hot tears stream down my face. I don't want to kill her. But the resentment I feel needs an outlet. I don't know how to stop it. The need to strangle her feels compulsive. Just a side-effect of a damaged mind. The mind of the capitals weapon. The mind of a Mutt.

[oscopelabs]

Elvis, Truelove and the Stolen Boy: The Tragic Machismo of Nick Cassavetes’ ‘Alpha Dog’ by Amy Nicholson

[Last year, Musings paid homage to Produced and Abandoned: The Best Films You’ve Never Seen, a review anthology from the National Society of Film Critics that championed studio orphans from the ‘70s and ‘80s. In the days before the Internet, young cinephiles like myself relied on reference books and anthologies to lead us to films we might not have discovered otherwise. Released in 1990, Produced and Abandoned was a foundational piece of work, introducing me to such wonders as Cutter’s Way, Lost in America, High Tide, Choose Me, Housekeeping, and Fat City. (You can find the full list of entries here.) Our first round of Produced and Abandoned essays included Angelica Jade Bastién on By the Sea, Mike D’Angelo on The Counselor, Judy Berman on Velvet Goldmine, and Keith Phipps on O.C. and Stiggs. Today, Musings concludes our month-long round of essays about tarnished gems, in the hope they’ll get a second look. Or, more likely, a first. —Scott Tobias, editor.]

A decade before the presidency that elevated insults like “betacuck” and “soyboy” into political discourse, Nick Cassavetes made Alpha Dog, a cautionary tragedy about masculinity that audiences ignored. Time for a reappraisal. Alpha Dog is about a real murder. Over a three-day weekend in August of 2000, 15-year-old Zach Mazursky—in reality, named Nicholas Markowitz—is kidnapped and killed by the posse of 20-year-old San Fernando Valley drug dealer Johnny Truelove (Emile Hirsch) with a grudge against Zach’s older brother. No one thought the boy would die, not his main babysitter Frankie (Justin Timberlake), not the girls invited to party with “Stolen Boy,” and not even the boy himself, played with naive perfection by Anton Yelchin, who played video games and pounded beers assuming that his new captor-friends would eventually take him home.

Cassavetes’ daughter went to the same high school as Nicholas Markowitz. The murderers were neighborhood kids and he wanted to understand how fortunate sons with their whole lives ahead of them wound up in prison. The trigger man, Ryan Hoyt—“Elvis” in the film—had never even gotten a speeding ticket. Prosecutor Ron Zonen hoped the publicity around Alpha Dog would help the public spot the real-life Johnny, named Jesse James Hollywood, who was still on the lam despite being one of America’s Most Wanted. So the lawyers gave Cassavetes access to everything: crime scene photos, trial transcripts, psychological profiles, police reports, and their permission to contact the criminals and their parents. Cassavetes even took his actors to meet their counterparts, driving Justin Timberlake to a maximum security prison to get the vibe of the actual Frankie, and introducing Sharon Stone to Nicholas Markowitz’s mother, a broken woman who attempted suicide a dozen times in the years after her son's death.

Alpha Dog, pronounced Cassavetes, was “95 percent accurate.” Which was part of why it got buried, thanks to Jesse James Hollywood’s arrest just weeks after the film wrapped. Cassavetes hastily wrote a new ending to the movie, but his problems were just beginning. Hollywood’s lawyers insisted Alpha Dog would prevent their client from getting a fair trial, and used the threat of a mistrial to force Zonen off the case. “I don't know what Zonen was thinking, handing over the files,” gloated Hollywood’s defense team. “It was stupid.”

The publicity, and the delays, dragged out the pain for Markowitz’s family, especially when they heard Cassavetes had paid Hollywood’s father an, er, consulting fee. “Where is the justice in that?” asked the victim's brother. “This just goes on and on, and I’m spending my whole life in a courtroom.”

The film, too, was pushed back a year from its Sundance premiere. Despite casting a visionary young ensemble—Alpha Dog was my own introduction to Yelchin, Ben Foster, Olivia Wilde, Amanda Seyfried, Amber Heard, and the realization that Timberlake, that kid from N*SYNC, could actually act—no one noticed when it slid into theaters in January of 2007. It wasn’t just the bad press. It was that audiences couldn’t get past that Cassavetes’ last film was The Notebook. No way could the guy behind the biggest romantic weepy of a generation make something raw and cool.

But he had. Alpha Dog is a stunning movie about machismo and fate, two tag-team traits that destroy lives. Think Oedipus convincing himself he can outwit the oracle of Delphi. But Sophocles’ Oedipus telegraphs its intentions, elbowing the audience to see the end at the beginning. Greeks sitting down in 405 BC knew they were watching a tale that came full circle. Every step Oedipus takes away from his patricidal destiny just moves him closer to it.

If you map Alpha Dog’s script, instead of a loop, it looks like a horizontal line that plummets off a cliff. For most of its running time, Alpha Dog could pass for a coming-of-age flick where a sheltered kid with an over-protective mom (Sharon Stone) taps into his own self-confidence, right up until the scene where he tumbles into his own grave. Audiences who’d missed the news articles about the case weren’t clued into the climax. Cassavetes doesn’t offer any hints or flash-forwards, not even an ominous “based-on-a-true-story.” (The film might have been more successful if he had.) Instead, he lulls you into joining the kegger, watching Zach crack open beer after beer as though he expects to live forever. “There’s a movie sensibility that the film doesn’t conform to,” said Cassavetes. “You don’t watch this film. You endure it.”

As Zach, his eyes red-rimmed from bong rips, not tears, is shuttled between party dens and wealthy homes, he’s given several chances to escape. He’s even revealed to be a Tae Kwan Do blackbelt who can jokingly flip his captor-buddy Frankie (Justin Timberlake) into a bathtub. But Zach stays put—he doesn’t want to get his big brother Jake (Ben Foster) in more trouble, not realizing that Johnny is too busy making nervous phone calls to his lawyer and his aggro father Sonny (Bruce Willis) to get around to asking Jake for the $1200 in ransom money.

Zach’s death is disorienting, almost as if Psycho's Marion Crane got murdered in the second-to-last reel. In a minivan en route to his execution, he innocently tells Frankie he wants learn to play guitar. “It bugs me that I don’t know how to do anything,” he sighs. Meanwhile Johnny assures his dad that there’s no need to call off the killing. “These guys are such fuck-ups, nothing's gonna happen,” he shrugs, a rare example of cross-cutting that defuses tension in order to make the shock of the gunfire even worse. Up until the last second—even after Frankie binds him with duct tape—a sobbing Zach still can’t believe Frankie would hurt him, and honestly, Frankie can’t believe it himself. And Yelchin’s own early death makes you ache for him to get a happy ending, which Cassavetes dangles just out of reach.

This is how evil happens, says Cassavetes. Masterminds are rare. Instead, people like Frankie can be basically good, but can also be panicky and passive and selfish. Shoving Zach in Johnny’s van was an idiotic impulse by upper middle-class kids, who flipped out when they realized the snatching could get them a lifetime sentence. There’s no honor or glory in the violence. Johnny, the cowardly ringleader, talks tough, but orders his most craven friend, Elvis (Shawn Hatosy), to pull the trigger while he and his girlfriend Angela (Olivia Wilde) get drunk on margaritas. And after the murder, one side effect is that Johnny can’t get an erection. When Angela tries to get Johnny in the mood in their hideout motel, the walls close in on him, suffocating the mood.  

Away from his boys, Johnny is weak. Surrounded by them, he's the king. Alpha Dog sets up a culture of animalistic dominance. Johnny’s rental house is basically a primate cage at the zoo, only decorated with weight benches and Scarface posters. All of Johnny’s boys jockey to be his favorite and tear each other down in order to bump up their own rank. Kindness is weakness. When a fellow dealer with the ridiculous nickname Bobby 911 cruises by to negotiate a sale, he snarls at a guy who vouches for him: “You don’t need to tell him I’m good for it, man!”

Elvis, the future shooter, is the lowest member of the pack. He can’t ease into the group without Johnny ordering him to go pick up his pit-bull's poop in the backyard. Why do they pick on Elvis? He owes Johnny a bit of money, but the source of the scorn is simply group think. No one wants to be nice to the outcast, and Elvis is just too sincere to be taken seriously. When Elvis offers to get Johnny a beer, the guys tease him for being in love with Johnny. When he says sure, he does care about Johnny, they twist words into a gay panic joke. Elvis can’t win—they won’t let him—so he literally kills to prove his worth, and winds up sentenced to death row, where the real boy, just 21 at the time of the shooting, remains today. Another life wasted.

Cassavetes humanizes the killers because he wants us to understand how their micro decisions add up to murder. Not just the gunmen. Everyone’s a little to blame. The kids who got drunk with “Stolen Boy” and didn’t call the police. The girls who told Zach that being kidnapped made him sexy. Even Zach’s older step-brother Jake, an addict with a twitchy temper who escalates his war with Johnny to a fatal breaking point. Neither boy will back down over a $1200 debt, and there’s an awful split screen call when Johnny dials Jake intending to bring Zach home, but Jake is so boiling over with anger, his Bugs Bunny voice shrieking with outrage, that Johnny just hangs up the phone.

The opening credits, a montage of the cast’s own old home videos, underline that these were young and happy children—the kind of kids people point to as examples of the suburban American ideal. Over a treacly cover of “Somewhere Over the Rainbow,” we watch these real life boys being cultured to be brave: riding bikes, falling off dive-boards, running around with toy guns, going through the rituals of young manhood, from bar mitzvahs to karate lessons. Yelchin—recognizably dark-eyed and solemn even as a toddler—grins wearing plastic vampire teeth.

It takes another ten minutes for Yelchin’s character to sneak into the film sideways in a profile shot eating dinner with his parents, played by Sharon Stone and David Thornton. His Zach is barely even visible as brash Jake barges into the scene to beg for money. They say no, Jake stomps out, and Zach finally makes himself seen when he runs after his brother, begging to go anywhere less suffocating. Zach’s mom loves him so much that she watches him sleep. “I’m not fucking eight!” he yelps. He’s 15—practically a man, in his own imagination—and desperate to get away, even if it means mimicking Jake, a Jewish kid who’s so scrambled that he has a Hebrew tattoo on his clavicle and a swastika inked on his back. Jake starts to say that he wishes his own mom cared about him that much, but as soon as he gets vulnerable, he spins the moment into a joke. “Boo for me,” Jake grins, and takes another swig of beer.

“You could say it’s about drugs or guns or disaffected youth, but this whole thing is about parenting,” grunts Bruce Willis’ Sonny Truelove. “It’s about taking care of your children. You take care of yours, I take care of mine.” He’s half-right—his parenting is half to blame. Sonny and his best friend Cosmo (Harry Dean Stanton) taught Johnny to bully his friends. Cosmo, looking haggard and hollow, mocks Johnny for having one girlfriend. “You gotta plow some fucking fields,” he bellows. “Men are not supposed to be monopolous!” Not that “monopolous” is a real word, and not that Cosmo fends off women himself, except in his own big talk.

Cosmo and Sonny’s own posturing gradually emerges as being more dangerous than Johnny’s because it's more integrated into society. They’re the type of creeps who rewrite the rulebook to suit them, and attack journalists who try to tell the truth. When a fictitious documentarian asks Sonny about his son's drug connections, the father shrugs, “Did he sell a little weed? Sure.” But when the interviewer presses him further, Sonny snaps, “I’m a taxpayer and I’m a citizen and you are a jerk-off.”

Cassavetes, of course, understands growing up with a father who left a giant footprint to fill. His father, John Cassavetes, the writer-director of Shadows and Faces and A Woman Under the Influence, was one of the major pioneers of independent cinema. He died when Nick was 30, before his son attempted to take up his legacy. “We never really talked film theory,” said Cassavetes. “My experience with my dad was more along the lines of how to be a man, how to be yourself, how to free yourself from what society tells you to do, how to release yourself as an artist.”

It makes sense that Cassavetes would make his own ambitious, and maddeningly singular film. And perhaps it even makes sense to him that fate has yet to give him the reward he’s earned. Alpha Dog deserves to be acknowledged as one of the most incisive examinations of machismo and the banality of evil. But like his fumbling criminals, he knows he’s not really in charge of his life. Admitted Cassavetes, “I'm not smart enough to really have a master plan for my career.”

[radramblog]

Yet another Pokemon meme team

I’ve spent too much time on this team to not turn it into content. Even though it hasn’t actually been proven in the field of battle yet. And because it’s not finished. But when has that ever stopped me before?

The local VGC meta has a meme tournament every other month, and in this case, the rule is as follows: your Pokemon’s species all have to start with the same letter. Now, with Dexit as it is, this means a lot of letters are very far from viable- X has two usable species (and Species Clause is, in fact, a thing) and while a decent number of mons start with Z most of them are either Uber legendaries or mythical and therefore are banned. Some letters are obviously very good, such as C (Celesteela, Cinderace, and pretty much an entire sun team) or R and T (getting all the Regis or all the Tapus).

I went with A, because three of my favourite Pokemon start with the letter. Ampharos, Aromatisse, and Audino. Now, one of those isn’t in Gen 8 and one of them is tragically really bad so I’m only actually running one of them, but despite that, I am here to present:

…the reference came second, I swear to god.

As I suggested earlier, the team was built around the idea of using Aromatisse, because I care it. Aromatisse is a fairly bulky species with decent enough offenses and abysmal speed, but its support moveset is excellent and the Aroma Veil ability means it can’t get taunted out of that role. With its (lack of) speed and this unique setup, I decided that the team should be Trick Room themed.

I mean, the only other theme I could really go for was Hail, and I didn’t want to try that quite yet.

Items and movesets aren’t really finalised yet. The A-Tisse is here to set up Trick Room for free (assuming flinching isn’t involved, but Fake Out isn’t too hard to see coming) and then help keep the threat going with Heal Pulse and hitting hard with Helping Hand. Moonblast is around just in case, and a base 99 Special Attack means it’s just worth having the option of finishing something off around. The bulk is largely Def invested because the way EVs work means that that makes the mon overall tankier than putting them in Sp.Def would. HP is just a freebie. Aromatisse’s speed is low enough that it just doesn’t need a -Spe nature, and I figure the -Atk corner case of getting confused is more likely to be relevant. Someone might bring G-Max Hatterene, I dunno.

Insert AMOGUS joke here. There was a giveaway last year I believe of a competitively trained Amoonguss, literally just the one the World Champ had on his team, and because of that, I basically get this for free. That’s why the EVs are like that, by the by, because it came like that. It’s a good defensive spread, not complaining. The only changes I made are to the item (and I might change it back) and to the moveset- I switched Clear Smog for Pollen Puff, since the ability to heal felt more useful to me than shutting down setup monsters, especially since Spore can kind of already do that. But I’m not the world champion, so what do I know?

My TR Threat number 1 is Armaldo, chosen because…I just like him, ok? He’s got a thick Attack stat and functional bulk, and wears a Choice Band nicely with STAB Slide. I don’t think it’s going to win any best in show awards, but I have high hopes regardless. Not to mention the generally solid other moves it gets, particularly Knock Off and Aqua Jet, though it’s Bug STAB is sorely lacking. It seriously doesn’t get Leech Life, or Skitter Smack, or First Impression, or Lunge, or Megahorn, or U-Turn. X-Scissor, Bug Bite, or Fury Cutter, those are your choices Mr. Anomalocaris. Justice for Armaldo, it’s what they deserve.

My options for TR threats in this system are somewhat limited, so we’re going double Physical, double Aqua Jet with everyone’s favourite rabbit Azumarill. This bnuuy looks fucking fantastic sat next to Amoonguss with it drawing all the hate, safely drumming up enough to demolish pretty much anything. Effective 448 attack is not bad, is it. The last move slot, currently held by Ice Punch, is up for debate, though I definitely want coverage- whether that’s Ice Punch, or Brick Break, or even Steel Roller is up for debate. It’s probably dynamaxing a lot, so…?

Next up is the Big Dog Arcanine, definitely a legendary btw. Arcanine is fun because it gets to effectively be offensive and supportive at the same time, raw power like Heat Wave backed up by offense dropping Intimidate, Snarl, and burns. It’s kind of interesting running a Special Arcanine, since it’s Physical attack is technically better, but that movepool is kind of hard to pass up. Unfortunately, I don’t get to do any Justified nonsense, because there are 0 Pokemon within A that even get Beat Up, but Intimidate more than makes up for it. Arcanine is here for spread damage and steadily neutering things, and I’m happy to let it do exactly that.

Finally, we have the Bird of Judgment itself, G-Articuno. Mr. Lazereyes here is for when I don’t think Trick Room is a great idea, and is here to just fuckin Kill Things. It’s got the stats to back that up. The coverage is a bit middling, but it doesn’t matter that much when you can just, hmm, kill em dead. Get em with your Freezing Glare. Very angry bird kill poison mans that make my fairies sad. Mmm good.

And that’s the team. Since I was sticking with A, my other options (outside of potential Hail stuff) were pretty limited- I considered Appletun but the moveset sucks ass. Aggron is probably good but I wanted to run Armaldo, and Alakazam is probably just worse than Articuno, as is Azelf, and I don’t have a massive enough cock to run Archeops. So this is what I landed on. I’m hoping I don’t rock up and everyone is running super tuned super strong letters like S or something, but we will have to see.

At least I probably won’t come last?

[theclaravoyant]

AN ~ for @florchis who requested May & Fitz hurt/comfort post-Maveth (3x10). Thanks for the request! I’m always up for more of these two, and I’m in a super defensive mood about my boy at the moment, so here we are. I hope you like it!

TW: torture references.

Read on AO3 (~1400wd)

Sticks and Stones

Fitz paced in the hallway, but rather than the stabilising effect that regular moment usually gave him, with every change of direction he felt himself winding tighter and tighter. He twisted his fingers, searching for some way of distracting himself, or of easing the tension before his lungs twisted into a knot too, and choked him.

“Fitz?”

He stumbled at the interruption, and turned to see May standing in the doorway of the med bay, a soft frown on her face.

“I’m fine,” Fitz insisted. “It’s Jemma, they won’t – they won’t let me see her. They won’t tell me if she’s okay. God. This is all my fault.”

“No, it’s not,” May insisted calmly. She stepped toward him, but stopped when his instinct told him to pull away.

“Of course it is,” he insisted, a whine of panic shaking his voice. “They ss- they stopped when I told them to, I should have told them earlier.”

“It’s okay,” May assured him. “You’re both safe now. You made a good choice. You were standing up to them. There’s nothing wrong with that.”

“Nothing wrong?” Fitz gestured incredulously at the doorway, through which was another doorway, through which was Simmons, getting who-knew-what medical attention. “She was screaming. Jemma. Was screaming. Blue bloody murder. It’s like – it’d be like – it’d be like you screaming. Or Bobbi. She doesn’t scream, okay? She just – she doesn’t. What they must have been doing, it must have been…”

“Torture?” May supplied, as calm and solemn as ever.

Fitz felt the tears prick his eyes again, and wiped them away under the guise of pinching his nose, as if trying to think. May – of course, as always – saw right through it, but didn’t take this moment to attack. Instead, she beckoned him through her doorway, into what was essentially the viewing room. It took a little coaxing, but he began to feel a knot unwind, and eventually followed her in.

“I can’t look at her,” he rasped, keeping his eyes away from the viewing window. “I don’t want to see what they did, I – I don’t have a strong stomach.”

“That’s okay. I just want you to know that she’s in there,” May pointed out. “She’s safe and she’s getting the help she needs, okay?”

He nodded, feeling the tension begin to peel away. It wouldn’t truly leave him until Jemma was well again, he knew, but May’s even, steady presence was such a blessing he almost wanted to weep at the relief of it. Everyone had been shoving him out of the way, and he’d been so focused on forcing his way back to Jemma’s side that he’d forgotten to take a moment to breathe.

Shuddering, he felt the air leave his chest and be sucked back in. He relished the feeling of it, and put his hands over his mouth to make it more tactile. Breathing.

He sighed, a long and aching sigh, and it suddenly struck him how much he wanted to sit down.

May pulled a chair over, and let him sink into it, and he leaned forward and buried his head in his hands, letting the day – the days? – crash over him. May waited a few seconds, and then gently put a hand on his shoulder. Fitz stiffened a little and looked up.

“I need you to know that this is not your fault,” she insisted. “They designed all of that to get to you. That’s how psychological torture works. They knew that hurting Jemma would hurt you. More than physically hurting you would. They intended it to be that way. You don’t have to feel bad about your own pain, or guilt – that was how they tortured you.”

Fitz shook his head.

“They barely touched me.”

“They tied you to a chair and made you listen to someone you love in hysterical terror. That’s not nothing.” May’s eyes were, for a second, unsteady on his, but she continued. “They were the ones who stopped you from helping her. You didn’t let Jemma get hurt. They trapped you. Just like they trapped her. On purpose. To hurt you. Just because they didn’t actually cut your skin, it doesn’t mean they didn’t hurt you.”

“But –“

He looked up, toward the observation window, but May called his attention back.

“No. Fitz. Look at me,” she insisted. Which, of course, he did.

“If it had been you, in that room, screaming,” she suggested, “would you expect that Jemma would come out of it unscathed? If she had been forced to listen to you being hurt?”

He blinked, startled by the gaping hole in logic that May had discovered.

“When Ward threw the two of you in the ocean and you came out with brain damage, did you expect Jemma to be okay? Not to be affected? Not to feel betrayed? Not to feel lost, without her best friend? Or helpless, because she didn’t know what to do?”

“Well…no…” Thinking back on it, Fitz had been short-tempered and at times downright nasty to her, but he had never truthfully believed that she had come out of it all that much better than he had. Only in his darkest, most angry thoughts in the middle of the months when she had left, did he blame her for getting out and getting away, and he still felt bad about that. She must have been suffering. It was ridiculous to expect otherwise.

And yet, here he was, demanding of himself that he ignore his own pain. Why? The fight was over, for now at least. And the pain was so, so real.

A sob hitched his shoulders as he dwelled on what he had been clamping down for so long. He slapped his hands over his mouth, but not before more sobs came. He buried his face in his hands again, gasping for breath as he tried to stabilize himself. Blinking through tears, he tried to focus on May.

“I can still hear it,” he confessed. “I can still ss-see Ward’s face. Before he went. I felt so – s-so pathetic!”

May squeezed his shoulder, glad that the angle between them was too awkward for a hug. For all her efforts at offering advice, she didn’t deal well with such raw emotions, and the taste of tears was one she would do well to avoid for as long as possible. Still, she knew well the dangers of trying to downplay such profound pain. If Fitz could let it out in her presence, she wasn’t about to stop him, even though it felt like a lance to her chest to think about the bright-eyed boy she’d recruited not so long ago, and the vicious crucible through which he’d been put to reach this point.

You are not pathetic, she wanted to tell him, even as he shook and wept. You are so strong.

Her tongue refused to form the words, as if it feared breaking the bubble of vulnerability that embraced them in this moment. It felt just as wrong to say it as to keep it to herself. Then, after a while, shaking ceased and the weeping subsided, and she had missed her chance.

Fitz wiped his eyes and took a deep breath.

“Sorry,” he joked. “I know you hate feelings.”

May smiled a little, to let him know that no harm had been done. Deflection was a problem she was definitely not qualified to cure, but hopefully seeing and feeling Jemma alive and well would take care of the rest of whatever he was feeling, insofar as anything could after such an experience. Satisfied with their progress, May let herself slip back into the role he pushed her toward, and gave his shoulder one last squeeze before letting her hand drop and stepping away.

“Get yourself cleaned up, Fitz,” she ordered, moving back toward the window with her arms crossed. “Jemma doesn’t need the both of you looking like a dog’s breakfast when she sees you next.”

Fitz smiled. It sounded, he thought, very much like something Jemma would say. Checking his cheeks one more time, to make sure nothing too embarrassing or exposing was left behind, Fitz stood out of his chair and, with a surprising amount of ease, headed down the hallway to the showers.

He let the warmth run over his face and the raw skin of his wrists for a long time before he came out again.

[gibsongirlselections]

MAFA: Make America Fun Again

Nothing is fun anymore.

And this isn’t nostalgia, some 1500 words which amount to get off my lawn. Lawns used to be fun. You’d sit on them, play lawn games on them. Now they’re part of the defensive perimeter around your home to help protect your family. But having a family is no fun; America ranked second to last among industrialized nations, behind even Bulgaria and Chile, as a place to raise children.

Maybe it’s more fun where you are. I don’t know because like in the Middle Ages, travel is no fun. America is the world’s largest leper colony. What’s open? Is the local custom masked or unmasked? Can a stranger find a place to eat inside if it’s raining? States restrict travel with quarantines which must violate the boring commerce clause parts of the Constitution somehow. We rely on the odd sojourner to bring us information from the outside. Is the Middle East still around? Check the news.

The news hasn’t been fun for a long time. Now even the old standards like The Washington Post just grind out tattle fodder for social media outrage. Op-Eds were fun before they all flopped into undergrad quality work announcing it’s Wiemar, or Rome, or Hitler, or 1984, when at worst it’s closer to a bad Fellini movie. We’re treated to tales of what Trump says on the phone, inside the Oval Office, in private to his wife, as if the reporters are fused to the man’s back (what Trump says seated in the bathroom is on Twitter.) Nobody seems to ask “how could they possibly know that?” No one seems to ask “what is journalism?” anymore.

Journalism is no longer fun because the Joker’s on us, the same people who sell us the panic sell the pill. “Journos” see their job as manufacturing reasons for Trump to resign, to fail, or to quit, or to persuade slack-jawed yokel voters they otherwise hold in contempt that they don’t know what’s good for them.

After four years of the sky not falling on either the yokels or the reporters, it is exhausting to still have to wade through articles headlined with words like bonkers, meltdown, owned, trolled, canceled, boycotted, destroyed, shames, and sociopath which bark about defeats and collapses and failures. Everything is about fixing the blame on someone (Trump, usually) and little about fixing the problem. Apocalypse Now articles such as “We Do Not Have a Real Democracy,” which warns “Trump and his regime are engaged in a white supremacist counter revolution against the civil rights movement,” are repetitive resistance porn. There are only so many positions, so many scenarios, and they no longer impress, never mind shock.

Where it was once shocking the NYT senior staff had to remind reporters they were “not part of the f*cking resistance,” NYT editor Bari Weiss’ resignation letter confirms the Times is now indeed part of the resistance. “Truth isn’t a process of collective discovery, but an orthodoxy already known to an enlightened few whose job is to inform everyone else,” she writes of her former colleagues. On the slightly hopeful but not fun side, the editors of the Wall Street Journal announced to their staff, “We are not the NYT… our opinion pages offer an alternative to the uniform progressive views that dominate nearly all of today’s media,” including social media.

Social media isn’t fun anymore. We used to complain it was too much of someone’s aunt posting cat pictures. Now it’s work for many; someone has to be staying up photoshopping Jeffrey Epstein into shots of politicians they don’t like. That’s what bots do, make all the bad stuff for other bots to forward around until it bumps into a real person and makes that person into a unfun Russkie zombie who must vote Trump. “You suck” is now an allowable thesis defense and end to any argument.

Arguing used to be fun. We once enjoyed staying up late arguing politics with other actual living people (our ancestors referred to them as friends. Friends used to be fun, people even, not a scrolling list of unknown followers). Once you could talk about ideas without having to swipe the smudge off your face of being called a fascist by a complete stranger. So we clam up. Some 62 percent of Americans say the political climate prevents them from saying what they believe. It’s especially true for conservatives, 34 percent of whom are worried their political views could get them fired. Which is why political polls aren’t fun anymore.

Government and elections used to be a lot of fun. You had rituals like rich Elderly Caucasian candidates being forced to eat corn dogs at the Iowa State Fair and talk about hogs before spiking Purell right into their veins. Now elections are just a referendum on which candidate is less in cognitive decline. They used to at least try to distinguish themselves; now Biden’s entire campaign is based on him being one of several billion people who are Not Trump. No Morning in America, no Hope and Change, just Not Something, all the appeal of the smell of dead insects.

Election Night itself also used to be fun, years of campaigning coming down to one big tally. It was fun to stay up late. Now we know we won’t have results for days or weeks because we cling to an 18th century balloting system because in the 21st century we don’t trust computers. We’ve also been acclimated to one or both sides insisting the results are unfair because the Post Office is part of a vast conspiracy, so that actual voting is only overture, raw material for the propaganda fight that proceeds the court fight that ends with half of the country insisting the popular vote counts for something because they all failed 8th grade civics. The kids who didn’t pay attention in 8th grade civics weren’t any fun, even back those years ago.

Years ago it was fun when my wife said she wished I looked like Billy Joel and, fat and bald, now I do. Robert De Niro and Johnny Depp used to be fun. Working from home used to be fun, like a snow day from school. Human Resources used to be fun, calculating your vacation days, before they became the Diversity Daleks waiting to get you fired for mispronouning. Thanksgiving used to be fun, a holiday without expectations that devolved into a yearly political Thunderdome. Groundhog Day used to be fun before it became real, summerbating away months. Everything was more fun before community organizer, activist, social influencer, and YouTuber became actual jobs. Sports was fun when it was about sports. America was more fun when the national pastime was not “raising awareness.” Tequila used to be fun before it became an obligation.

I accept America has suffered from a four year episode of PTSD and we all need to weather out another couple of months. But we’re the only nation who wrote pursuing happiness right into our foundational documents. You don’t see that from, meh, Canada or Sweden, so how come they’re happy and we’re not? If Biden wins in November, can we agree to just forget this whole ugly era like a drunken makeout session? Or if Trump wins, will it be another four years of being told democracy is dying, every day day-to-day in Code Red until you just give up and have to laugh at it all. And that would be no fun at all.

  Peter Van Buren, a 24-year State Department veteran, is the author of We Meant Well: How I Helped Lose the Battle for the Hearts and Minds of the Iraqi People, Hooper’s War: A Novel of WWII Japan, and Ghosts of Tom Joad: A Story of the 99 Percent.

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