#BUT THERE CERTAINLY WAS A LOT OF “RUSSIAN TAUNTING”

[charmac]

Frank vs. "Russia"

Frank being the general audience's rejection to all the gay shit that happens on Sunny vs. Dennis' obvious queerness

[taiblogcomics]

This is Not My Wonderful Life

Hey there, bald babies. Did you have a nice Christmas? I certainly hope so. Either way, I'm here to bring down the mood by reviewing another issue of Countdown. Coz comic book slop don't take off for the holidays!

Here's the cover:

Oh hey, we found Ray Palmer! There he is! Whew, that's that plotline over with. …Please? So this is probably like the Microverse or whatever Ray's diving into, but it looks like a blood vessel. Like, I grew up on "The Magic School Bus Inside the Human Body", but I don't see what Ray Palmer's InnerSpace remake has to do with his journey in this comic. (Incidentally, why haven't we had a modern big-budget remake of Fantastic Voyage yet?) Anyways, the Russian judge gives this dive a 4, Ray, very poor form.

Merry Christmas, I got you a recap: The Multiverse Crew have been asking for Ray Palmer, and I think they might find him under the tree. Jimmy Olsen got superpowers this year, and also got caught under the mistletoe with an alien bug woman. Mary Marvel also got superpowers, but she's looking to return them for store credit. Karate Kid and Una were hoping to get a cure, but they were sold out everywhere. Pied Piper also got an unwanted gift, Trickster's corpse, but he's found a donation bin in the desert. And while Holly Robinson and Harley Quinn didn't get any presents (Harley's Jewish, after all), they did go over an ocean and through a cave to Granny Goodness' house. And we were clearly naughty, so Santa punished us with another issue of Countdown.

All righty. Do you remember way back when I said you needed to read a bunch of previous DC series to understand this one? So let me summarise Identity Crisis a bit just to start out this issue. The long and short is that Sue Dibny is murdered in a "locked room" mystery, which threatens the rest of the superhuman community. It has a number of problems and a number of consequences. The important one here is that Jean Loring, ex-wife of Ray Palmer, used his tech to attack (and accidentally kill) Sue in a misguided attempt to try and drive Ray back to her out of fear.

So Ray committed her to Arkham Asylum. During this time, she comes into possession of the Black Diamond and turns into the new Eclipso. And meanwhile, Ray just continued to shrink out of grief, to escape this world and find another to disappear into. And that's where this comic starts! Ray Palmer has a nightmare of the previously stated events (not including Eclipso, since he doesn't know that part), and wakes up screaming. Notably, he wakes up screaming in bed… next to his wife, Jean Loring. And if the comic wanted this to be a shock, it probably shouldn't have then also informed us immediately this is on Earth-51.

To underscore this point, it then immediately cuts to the main universe Jean Loring, who is Eclipso. If you remember, she beat up her belligerent pupil Mary Marvel and then warped out. She's now… warped back in, to taunt her some more, I guess. Yeah, another one of those moments. Anyways, Eclipso starts gloating over how pathetic and beaten Mary is and how ripe her powers are for stealing, only for Mary to spring out of the wreckage. Yep, all her suspicions are confirmed: Eclipso was just yet another asshole intent on stealing her powers. Well, no shit, Mary, nice of you to catch up.

Hey, I didn't realise this issue would be seasonally thematic. It just scheduled out this way! But it's Christmas Eve on Earth-51. Ray's gone to his psychologist about his dreams (which are actually his memories). Also, his psychologist is Zatanna, who is retired and also heavyset in this universe. They exchange some exposition: the lot of them, this world's Justice League, all suited up to save the world …and then the world just stayed saved. No recurring, escalating threats or terrible deaths and resurrections every few years. They won, and got to retire and live happily ever after.

Just to emphasise this point, Zatanna-51 works at Arkham, which isn't an asylum but a modern health facility. Harley Quinn also works there, as a proper doctor, and she's pregnant. Zatanna-51 prefers non-magical solutions when it comes to the human brain (another jab at Idenity Crisis, which introduced the retcon that Zatanna would mindwipe some of their villains so they wouldn't find out their secret identities), and writes Ray a prescription for some sedatives. Ah, medication for Christmas. I hope they were on his list~

So Ray next attends a holiday get-together with some of his other pals, including Barry "the Flash" Allen and wife Iris, Ralph "Elongated Man" Dibny and wife Sue, and Ray's own wife Jean. They watch Superman and Wonder Woman on TV, still doing heroic acts in the form of humanitarian aid for the season. Ray goes out to get some more firewood, and that's when it all falls apart. He spots the outline of the Monitor over the fence, and knows what's coming next. And when he re-enters, indeed, our Multiverse Pals are all there waiting for him, to the shock of the rest of the guests.

So, yeah. The truth come out. This isn't Ray Palmer-51. This is our Ray Palmer, and the "nightmares" are just his memories, as I stated. Traumatised by Jean turning into an insane murderer, he shrank until he escaped reality itself and ended up spiraling through the multiverse. And at the end of it all, he ended up here. The Ray Palmer of Earth-51 hadn't become the Atom yet, but he did discover the multiverse. And as these experiments tend to go, Ray-51 is annihilated instantly when he opens the portal. Oh dear.

So what does our Ray, New-Earth Ray, do? He just… steps into Ray-51's life. This Ray hadn't even met Jean Loring yet, but a blind date with her was scheduled. Now Ray had a perfect second chance to be with his ex-wife and not have her turn out to be an insane murderer. And in his off-time, he joined the Justice League. Which, as noted, didn't last. They beat all the bad guys, saved the world, and retired within five years. (Except Batman, because of course Batman would never retire.) Which brings them to today.

So technically, Ray is still the same man Jean-51 fell in love with. He's just from another reality. He's been trying to figure out what the exact difference is between this Earth and the one he's from by continuing Ray-51's portal research. This will let him prevent the Great Disaster. Donna Troy inquires what he means, what exactly is the Great Disaster? And the comic ends with Bob the Monitor noting that they can finally complete his mission. They've found Ray Palmer. And now, to protect the multiverse, Ray Palmer must be eliminated…

Honestly? Kind of an interesting issue! Maybe it's because they devote almost all of the story to a single viewpoint instead of jumping through six perspectives constantly. You get a brief bit of Mary Marvel's plot, but that's only for the connecting thread of Jean Loring and what she's been up to after being committed to Arkham. Anyways, the best gift Countdown could possibly have given us (other than its own combustion and removal from the timeline) is an issue that was actually decent. It truly is a Christmas miracle! Look forward to it all going downhill from here~!

[crabbycola]

Hi its me and im gonna talk about sergei being a pokemon

i wanna do this with all tekken characters as a little creativity exercise so no fighting type AT ALL unless is like a must or dont have any idea and all will be dual type because is funnier like that

оооооооо

So for this little exercise i will start with the one i thinked the most because favorite character alert, i will be drawing this ideas later maybe...maybe.

To start i wanna think first on who is Dragunov, a spetnaz that is cold, mysterious, silent and looks emotionless but have some slight mischief with those smirks or little taunts or even the talks he had with Raven on Tekken 6. So the best first type would be the Dark Type since it fits with the creepy silent attitude that other dark types like Umbreon or Absol could have and are like my base.

I know this will sound cliche and all that but i think is obligatory that he have to be a Ice Type. Not really because hes Russian as the nationality but more for the ambience. We alredy saw with regional versions how the habitat can change a pokemon type and appearance to survive so im going on with that mostly, plus, hes often described as cold and with icy eyes which i think is obvious to this point for appearance and personality.

What we have now is a Dark-Ice, kinda Sneazel and Weavile thing which we can work with. What we know is that Dragunov usually works alone but is not solitary and we can asume he works with other militars too. We could see hes also a good leader, leading the others to end the jobs.

I thinked for him is a mixed nature in social activities with others. Can work really good alone but better in "herd" and is natural leader among the herd. Interacting with others outside his circle is difficult since hes also not trustful and is hard for him to get used to stranger presences and always have the guard up, but if you gain his trust he will defend you certainly.

I wanna now think about like in-battle natures, like a dark type he usually attacks that would generate surprice but brutal to the other, usually using the opponent body to his advantage. Also attacking with grabs to then make a final devasting one with punches, bites and maybe a funny claw to scratch.

Inspired by his in-game moves "Feint & Catch" and "Chernobog Sweep" (maybe also "Spetnaz Assault"), traducing it to the move "Foul Play".

For punches he would use his ice abilities more, his knuckles and nails would get covered in solid ice that with make the attack so much heavy, inspired by his move "Sub-zero" traducing it to "Ice punch"

For the grabs like in general because theres a lot, searching i finded the move "Submission" a fighting type move that well, fits to well to not mention it and would work exactly as how it do in the games.

He have great teeth also, doesnt bite often since his hands are more effective but he knows "Crunch" if is necessary to use those great teeth, other option could also be "Ice Fang" since his teeths are made of the same material as his nails.

(Look i think it would be hilarious if he had "Sing" tho, like just saying)

For the ability he would have "Intimidate" or "Unnerve" his look, body and just overall attitude and personality would really just make the opponent nervous.

Mostly a physical attacker with decent defense but lack of special defence and a unusuable special attack but a really great speed and reflects, good for a silent killer.

Now is time for complicated parts, Biology, he isnt just gonna be him, all this characteristics arent gonna be just to a human looking person.

I thinked he would be inspired in a wolf, specially the siberian wolf using the term lone wolf and the fact that wolves also works in herds as a concept and that they live i cold places usually. maybe put these concept with a military trained dog.

Will be bipedal with great arms and thighs but thinner legs with a contracted torso. Also some thick fur on the neck and back that connect to the tail that will help to survive the cold. Tail is medium lenght with a puffy end but a slick start amd make a C shape usually that gets flowy and wavy when running. Nails are short since he doesnt use them as much but are made of thick ice that can scratch good. Have great teeths like the canine he is, made of thick ice material like his nails. Ears are pointy but fluffy, wolf like and shows his emotions a lot of the time.

The constant touch of his extremities with the snow made his hand and feet have other propperties such as being much harder, colder even in normal weather and the hair of those parts getting replaced with little ice shards.

My brain is fried thinking in all this lol.

[dramaticviolincrescendo]

The thing is, Ian was right. Mickey doesn't know any better, the writers on the show made sure of that, because for them the only important thing about Mickey is his devotion to Ian. But we're a bit more realistic about it and can analyze Ian's actions without being limited by someone's poor imagination.

There’s a lot to address here, so please forgive me for the lengthy response, anon! 🙂 I’ll preface all of it by saying this: my general opinion is that if Mickey has what makes him happy, we should support that regardless of how we feel about the other party (with obvious exceptions like physical abuse, etc.). If Byron was what made him happy, I would support him even if I couldn’t stand the guy. The same goes for any other character in any other franchise, at least for me. Now, onto your points:

I’m not sure which scene you mean when you mention Ian saying he doesn’t know any better, but I’m definitely with you on our ability to analyze Ian’s actions. The problem here is that analyzing will always be colored by perspective and implicit bias. If your fave is Mickey, anything that hurts him will look a whole lot worse than what he does that hurts Ian and perhaps lead to conducting a less than thorough analysis or rejecting sensible arguments about Ian’s character. Based on the number of posts I see about how Mickey is the only good thing on the show, I’d argue that that is a very real danger in many of the takes on Ian as well as everyone else. I’ve seen some pretty heavy demonizing of characters who hurt Mickey’s feelings or aren’t actively sweet to him, which is a bit unrealistic since that’s life and Mickey certainly never seems to mind or let it keep him down for long.

As far as him not knowing better, on the whole, I don’t think that gives Mickey much credit at all. Actually, it doesn’t really give him any credit, which is sort of surprising given how vehemently people defend his IQ, academically and emotionally, against what amounted to a joke. Mickey knows that Ian messes up and does things that are questionable at best and hurtful at worst. He’s not an innocent, pure character who endures heartache after heartache to throw himself at the brick wall of earning Ian’s attention. He gives as good as he gets and has hurt Ian too. They’re human and written very realistically in that regard. Their love for one another allows them to forgive transgressions and move on, not hold grudges or “not know any better” with regards to what they deserve. Love isn’t about what we deserve, and I think it’s important to remember that a relationship won’t last if it’s based on an arbitrary numerical score of who has done more harm than the other. Things happen. Poor decisions are made. They can allow that to break them or work through it. Mickey has actively chosen to work through it because at the end of the day, he loves Ian more than he is interested in finding something else. In earlier seasons, Ian similarly chose to work through it with someone who might never be in a position to come out and begin the full relationship that he so desperately wanted. That’s beautiful to me, not contemptible.

As far as the only important thing about Mickey being his devotion to Ian, we’ll also have to agree to disagree. 🙂 In the early seasons, while Ian was certainly the catalyst for it, Mickey’s story was about coming out more than his devotion to Ian. That’s why we have the scenes where he taunted Kash (focus: keeping his secret), purposely got sent back to juvie (focus: hiding from Terry if he found out), and got married (focus: self-preservation). We do absolutely see a rising devotion for Ian during this period, of course, and there’s no argument that his character was written expressly to be Ian’s love interest. The writers still made him a well-developed one with his own motives, fears, and desires outside of Ian in a way that later love interests didn’t get. (My own belief is that they didn’t intend for the later relationships to last like they did Mickey, but regardless of the validity there, Mickey was written as a character with more depth from the very beginning and existed before anything with Ian ever happened.)

The first half of s4 shows Mickey on his own merits. He’s handling his new position as a patriarch of the family, running the business while Terry is fairly hands-off and watches. He decides to help the Russian girls and ends up going into business with Kev. We learn a lot about Mickey’s character outside of Ian during that time. In fact, there are only a couple of scenes that really focus on him missing Ian until finding him becomes Mickey’s task: asking Kev if anyone has heard from him, the bathroom scene, and the later Alibi scene. Otherwise, the early s4 writers showed us a Mickey who was compassionate, ambitious, utilitarian, entrepreneurial, and collaborative—all without tying it back to Ian. Kev and V are renowned friends of the Gallaghers, but Mickey doesn’t grow closer to Kev in an attempt to learn more about what happened to Ian. He doesn’t help the girls because he thinks Ian would want him to. In fact, with the exception of those scenes I mentioned, we have no reason to believe that Ian is on Mickey’s mind at all while he’s doing these other things. He has a life outside of Ian just like the opposite is true, and s4 went to great lengths to show us that.

The second half of s4 is, once again, about keeping his secret until he decides to come out. (Read: decides to, is not forced to. More on that in a moment.) Yes, his devotion to Ian is once again the catalyst for some of his decisions, but there’s much more to it than that. Once again, we still see scenes with Mickey operating on his own for his own purposes. He doesn’t leave home entirely because he wants to be with Ian—he also wants to escape from his wife and pretend that things are the way they used to be. He doesn’t scam money from the rich guy or take more than his cut from the register at the Alibi to protect Ian—he does it for self-preservation so that Svetlana won’t get him killed. He doesn’t go to the baptism to keep up appearances and protect Ian—he does it to keep up appearances for himself and because...well, like it or not, that’s his son. The lattermost is something Ian specifically does not want him to do, and if he does, he wants to be there. Mickey goes against his wishes because it’s about protecting himself (and perhaps, by extension, their relationship), and rightfully so. Coming out at the Alibi does once again tie to Ian as a catalyst for change in Mickey’s life, but it didn’t have to happen. Mickey could have grabbed his coat, told everyone goodnight, and left with Ian. At no time did Ian tell him that he would leave if Mickey didn’t come out to everyone or admit they’re a couple, even if he did make reference to the fact that Mickey was hiding and not free. All Ian wanted was for Mickey not to treat him like a mistress or expect him to stick around if he did. Instead, it was a logical culmination of Mickey’s written development to come out. He’s stronger and more independent than he used to be. He’s capable of taking care of himself and surviving in the world without relying on Terry. He’s in a position where yes, he’s still justifiably terrified of coming out and what it’ll mean where Terry is concerned, but he’s able to do it. Ian is a catalyst for it, but being devoted to him isn’t Mickey’s only reason.

In s5, a lot of Mickey’s story does revolve around his devotion to Ian, but not any more than Ian’s revolves around devotion to him in the second half of s3. We still see Mickey doing business and running the family, but having Ian be his more central concern makes sense because Ian is sick and the writers have already told us that his health is a ticking time bomb waiting to explode. In denial or not, Mickey knows this. And so we see his story center around Ian because, to an extent, it has to. Ian is mentally and physically sick. He’s adjusting not only to meds, but to a label that makes him feel ashamed and afraid. Mickey is devoted to him, and so Mickey does everything he can to take care of him. But here’s the thing: that scares Ian too. He’s seen what happens to the people who try to take care of Monica. He knows how it felt to try only to be ignored or betrayed or abandoned. The breakup isn’t about anger at being coddled or, by my interpretation and Ian’s own words, him being selfish. It’s about him seeing that Mickey’s devotion is going to keep him from living his life and ultimately (in his opinion) hurt him beyond repair, and so he sets Mickey free. It hurts him, yes, but it does work.

Because even though we don’t see it happen on-screen, s6 through s9 can’t possibly be Mickey sitting in a prison cell pining over Ian. If that was going to happen, we’d have seen it in s4. By this point, we know who Mickey is outside of Ian and can assume that he’s operating in much the same way on the inside until he figures out what he wants to do. We know he and Svetlana had a business arrangement where they took out contracts for work he could do in prison. We know that he makes a business acquaintanceship with Damon, which means he was probably involved in dealing or smuggling while there. Neither of these things can possibly revolve around devotion to Ian because they could conceivably keep him from Ian longer. His sentence is fifteen years, and if he’s counting on being out in eight to be with Ian, he needs to be on his best behavior. He’s not. He’s unapologetically not when he sees Ian again and talks about what Damon is. Ian looks less than comfortable with it, but that’s not why they ditch him—it’s because he might get Mickey caught with his behavior. Even breaking out happened once he was able to solidify an opportunity working for a cartel, so while Ian may have been another catalyst (besides the obvious desire to get out of prison), the decision wasn’t about devotion to him. The only decision that was about that was the one he made at the border to let Ian go without making him feel worse about it. He’s devoted to Ian, so he knows that dragging him along on the run into the unknown won’t be good for him. He needs stability and a support system and medication, none of which Mickey can provide if they cross that border together. So, out of his devotion, he lets Ian go. They have a heartfelt goodbye and separate for what they think is the last time.

Does Mickey’s devotion lead him to turning himself in? Absolutely. But not before spending another long stint living his own life. The writers make sure we know that he had a life without Ian playing a role in it, once again conducting business and operating successfully on his own merits. They’re limited in what they can show because Noel wasn’t available, which made logistics important, but they didn’t leave him high and dry or insinuate that he was waiting around in Mexico for an excuse to return to Ian. He was once again a successful businessman in the illicit economy. When he returns in s10, his storyline does then appear to revolve around devotion to Ian more—but it doesn’t. Mickey has people he hangs out with in prison separate from Ian and with no ties to him. With the Byron situation, it wasn’t about proving devotion for Ian when he thought Ian questioned it—it was about hurting Ian because of what happened at the courthouse, even after he found out what Ian was really afraid of. If the writers were only interested in showing his devotion to Ian, he would have ditched Byron the second Ian told him that he was scared of his disorder and ruining them. He doesn’t. He sticks it out because Mickey is so much more than his relationship with Ian: he’s independent, vengeful, hot-headed, impulsive, and stubborn. These are traits that have been set up by the writers throughout the series both with and without ties to their relationship, and he very adamantly adheres to his revenge-plot-turned-catalyst-for-Ian-pulling-his-head-out-of-his-ass because he isn’t all about devotion to Ian.

I completely respect your opinion on the matter and appreciate the opportunity to discuss it at length! Ultimately, it boils down to this for me: the writers get a lot off flack for some of the narrative decisions and, of course, they won’t always be to our liking. Opinions and preferences assure us of that. I don’t think it’s about us being more realistic or more capable of analyzing a character, though. Everything above was written. It wasn’t spelled out and handed to us, no, but the writers put it there so that we could then analyze it. There’s no analyzing a blank slate or someone whose only narrative is devotion to Ian. The writers have given us a wealth of things to consider when it comes to all the characters, Mickey included, and we wouldn’t be able to have this conversation if they didn’t. Mickey is intelligent, thoughtful, insightful, and more than capable of standing on his own two feet as both a fictional person and a character. If he chose Ian, then it’s because he has weighed all these things and found them to be nothing in the grand scheme of their love for one another. Again, though, we can agree to disagree. Thank you for this ask—I find myself writing more about Ian, so I had a lot of fun thinking back over the series to answer it! 😃🧡

[a-solitary-marshmallow]

Rewind Chapter 3

Awareness came in pieces, like waves lapping over the shore, slowly bringing back each sense. Ford yawned and rolled his neck to ease out a crick. He really should stop sleeping sitting up.

The warm form cuddled against him stirred and he placed a soothing hand on their head of soft curls until they stilled, burying their face in his shirt. Ford hummed happily and let his head rest back against the headboard, content to just stay here forever…

…wait a second.

Ford’s eyes flung open with a jolt.

What had he been thinking, falling asleep? Sleep was the one thing he couldn’t afford! He looked around quickly, heart pounding. He was still sitting against the headboard of his bed, pillows propped behind his back and a child-sized Stanley curled up in his lap, the way they had been when he must have fallen asleep part way through telling stories of his previous discoveries. His journal lay open at his feet. To his relief it was bereft of cryptic code and taunts. Bill must have been busy, or perhaps had not noticed Ford’s slip-up. He hadn’t been possessed.

Ford cursed himself. How could he have made himself vulnerable like that? The portal was wide-open for the taking! And there was no telling what Bill Cipher would do to his brother – his child brother, who was currently helpless and foolishly, trustingly snuggled against the front of Ford’s turtleneck.

He forced himself to take a deep breath. He couldn’t change the past, only the future. Now he had other things to concentrate on – namely, building a Bill-proof barrier, since his investigation on how to cure Stanley had hit a snag – he had none of the components he would need to start reverse-engineering a cure. The sun peeking through his window told that he must have been sleeping for at least an hour. Morning was already slipping away from him.

“Mmmph.” Stanley mumbled. Ford’s hand was still in his curls. Ford couldn’t resist ruffling those curls as Stan pulled his head up, yawning and blinking sleepily. “F’rd?”

“Good morning, Stanley.”

Stan rubbed at his eyes. “Whaza time?”

“Time to start working. Come on, up you go.” Ford lifted his brother from his lap. Stan whined at being put down on the covers.

“Nooooo, ‘s cold!”

“Then hurry up and get moving.” Ford swung his legs over the bed and stood. “I have a lot to do today.”

Stan grumbled the whole time. He was still wearing that old shirt. Perhaps Ford should get him something that fit better? No, it would be useless in a day or so anyway.

Ford spoke to himself as he walked.

“Now, I’ll have to go as soon as possible to get that hair – what’ll I do with you? Oh, children need to receive their daily nutrients, don’t they? Hmm, when was the last time I ate?” He couldn’t recall. “Never mind, it doesn’t matter, I’m an adult, I can stand to skip a few – hmm. Weeks? No, that can’t be right. I should eat too. I have coffee? Is it safe to give a child coffee?” He opened the fridge and stared in dismay at the rows of empty shelves. “Oh. That’s why I haven’t eaten. Guess I’ll just have to – buy some supplies. Yes. Come along Stanley, we’re driving into town.”

“Who’stha whatnow?” Stan stumbled into the kitchen after him. That was right, his brother was certainly not a morning person. Ford wondered again how ethical it was to give a child coffee. Probably shouldn’t risk it.

“Town, Stanley. I have to do some shopping. And come to think of it, you’ll need someone to watch you…” Unless he could just leave the child locked in a room? Ford wasn’t exactly familiar with babysitting protocol. Maybe it was better to just bring him along for now.

He dropped one of his old coats around Stanley’s shoulders and ushered him outside. The coat was a good call ­– it was still freezing. Ford was climbing into the car when he hit another snag.

“…ah.” He didn’t have a booster seat. Stanley would be riding in the back seat, it seemed.

 Luckily the town was still waking up, so it was quite simple to walk in, grab some supplies, pay and leave without having to deal with the hustle of crowds. Ford pulled up in his driveway with a relieved sigh. He thanked his lucky stars that Gravity Falls was slow to wake on a Sunday… wait, no, what day was it?

Didn’t matter.                            

With his arms full of groceries, Ford nudged the door open with his foot. He could hear Stan grunting under the weight of his own load as he placed the bags on the kitchen bench.

Maybe he had gone a little over the deep end, Ford admitted to himself as he went about sorting groceries. He hadn’t realized until this morning that his fridge was empty. That did explain the hollow feeling in his stomach though. Come to think of it, when was the last time he ate? Not counting the copious amounts of coffee and energy drinks he ordered weekly.

It also explained Stan’s rumbling stomach. Honestly, Stan should have said something if he was hungry!

Said child wobbled his way into the kitchen with a shopping bag in his arms. Ford took it and started unloading it as well. Marshmallows – he didn’t remember buying those. Maybe Stanley snuck them into the cart. Ford could remember the gleeful giggles he and Stan would break into when they’d managed to sneak a treat into their mother’s shopping cart. Stan was always better at it than Ford.

Ford shook his head to clear it. He had no time for nostalgic thoughts anymore. He snagged two frozen single-serve pies plates and started searching for clean plates to put them on. Finally he found two with only a few crumbs on them – he brushed one off and placed it in the microwave, trying to remember if he’d paid his electricity bill recently.

He must have, because the microwave was heating and glowing when he pressed the right buttons. Ford sighed and leaned against the bench to wait.

Stanley was in the process of pushing a chair towards the table. He paused to let out a gigantic yawn, rubbing his eyes with his too-big sleeve.

“Tired?” Ford found himself asking. Stan nodded and yawned again.

“Mm hmm.”

“Did you have trouble getting to sleep?” The uncomfortable position must not have helped.

Stan finished pushing the chair and now he crawled up into it and rested his elbows on the table. On closer inspection he did look tired, dark bags collecting under his eyes.

“Nah.” Stan rested his cheek on one hand, squishing his round face slightly. “Just had weird dreams.”

A shiver ran down Ford’s spine.

He hadn’t even considered if – what would happen if Stan made a deal with Bill Cipher? Had already made a deal? It would explain why Bill wasn’t in Ford’s dreams. Ford hadn’t warned his brother about the demon, he’d been so sure that Bill would focus on him and him alone, but Stanley was vulnerable here and Ford hadn’t even thought about it-

“Did you make a deal?” He demanded. Stan blinked at him blearily.

“What?”

“A deal. In your dream. Did you shake anyone’s hand? Talk to anyone?”

Stan shook his head with another yawn. “Don’ think so.”

He was a child, Ford reminded himself sharply, a child that didn’t grasp the significance of what was happening. He needed to have patience. Or else Stan might clam up and refuse to talk to him further.

“Stanley.” Ford forced his tone to stay even and slow. Stan send him a curious look. “I need you to tell me everything that happened in your dream. It might be important. Okay?”

Stan frowned. “Uh – okay. Are you gonna interpret my dream, like Ma does?”

“…something like that. But it’s very important you don’t leave out any details.”

“Okay.” Stan hummed for a minute, in thought, before he brightened. “Oh, yeah! So I was in my car – I mean, I don’t have a car, but it was a dream and you just know stuff in dreams so even though I don’t have a car I knew it was my car – and it was all snowy outside. I think I was stuck in a snow bank or something. Hey Ford, where do snowmen keep their money?”

The microwave beeped. Ford placed the hot pie in front of Stanley and searched for a fork. “A snow bank. Continue.”

Stan pouted. “You ruined my joke!”

Ford handed him a fork. Stan sighed and poked at his pie while Ford started heating up his own. After a moment the child continued, his voice uncharacteristically somber.

“It was really cold. Like, really cold. I could see my breath and it wasn’t even cool. Haha – cool. I… didn’t know cold hurt so much. It was like my bones were made of ice, all cracking and popping.”

“Was anyone in the car with you?”

Stan screwed up his face in thought. “Um, no. Just me.”

“Then what happened?”

“Well, I had some matches and I was lighting them for warmth, but then they ran out.” Stan paused for a moment with a frown, comedic on his childish features. “I, um, was looking for some more in the glove box and a gun fell out. An’ I don’t know where I got it but I know it’s mine. S’ gotta be, if it’s in my car, right? But I don’t remember where I got it and I don’t know if it’s got any bullets in it.”

Ford nodded along. If Stanley could recall the dream so vividly, it probably wasn’t a normal dream, the likes of which tended to fade as quickly as they had appeared. But so far it didn’t seem like Bill’s style.

“What happened then?”

Stan bit his lip, wincing. “Um, you remember how we used to play Russian Roulette with soda cans? How we’d shake one up and take turns opening ‘em and try not to get the fizzy one?”

Ford got a bad feeling in his gut. “Of course.”

“I, um, I can’t remember why, but I wanted to find out if it had bullets in it. So I put it to my head and pulled the trigger.” Stan pulled a face like he’d tasted something sour. “There was this click and I guess it was empty because nothing happened. So I put it back and curled up all small, because it was still super cold, and I think I went back to sleep.” Stan shrugged with one shoulder. “Then it ended.”

Well, there was a lot to unpack there, and Ford could unpack it later. The microwave beeped to signify his breakfast was sufficiently warmed. He took it and slid into the seat opposite Stan.

“Is that everything? No one talked to you? How clearly do you remember it?”

“S’weird.” Stan admitted, pulling off the top of the pie to get at its insides. “So normally dreams kinda fade, all fuzzy-like, right? But the ones I had last night aren’t fading. It feels real but not-real.”

“Vivid?”

“Yeah, maybe.” Stan shrugged. Ford took a bite of his pie and was chewing before he registered what had just been said. He spluttered a little.

“Ones? Plural?”

“Uh, yeah.” Stan shrugged again. “The other one was weirder. Do you wanna know about that one too?”

“Do I – why wouldn’t I? Why didn’t you mention that?”

“Well, it was shorter and way more blurry. I couldn’t even see anything so I don’t think it really counts as a dream.”

“Tell me.”

Stan scrunched up his face. “You sure? It’s kinda silly.”

Ford sent him a look and Stan sighed.

“Fine. In the second one it was all dark, I couldn’t see anything. Well, not at first. There was this… man.” Stan shuddered. “This, uh, really creepy guy. And he put me in a coffin? No, um, a car trunk I think. It was all dark and then I couldn’t see anything. Then there was just lots of noises, and rumbling, and it got all wet.”

“Wet?” Ford echoed. Stan shrugged.

“Yeah, all wet. And cold. Like I’d been dumped in a lake or somethin’! Cause the whole trunk started flooding, which was really scary. An’ I don’t remember how I got out but at some point I was swimmin’ up feeling like my lungs were gonna explode.” Stan shivered, hugging himself. “An’ my mouth hurt and the water tasted like metal an’ it was so dark. Then, um… I dunno, I woke up or something?” He frowned. “Wait, no, there was something else – about a llama that knew too much? It all kinda gets smudgy.”

Unsettling, certainly, and something to ask questions about later – but for now it sounded like Bill had missed his chance to mess with the Pines twins. Ford let himself relax slightly.

“Thank you, Stanley, for telling me.”

“So are you gonna read my future or something?”

“No.”

Stan poked out his tongue. Ford sighed. The matter aside, he still had to find someone to look after Stanley while he got the unicorn hair! But there was only one person in Gravity Falls he trusted, and…

Well, that person might not pick up the phone.

But desperate times called for desperate measures. Surely, surely Fiddleford would at least hear him out? And if that failed Ford could always lock the child in a room for a couple hours.

Mind made up, Ford excused himself to go make a call.

His palms were oddly sweaty as he dialed the number he knew off by heart and pressed enter. The phone rang once, twice, thrice in his hand. Surely a hopeless endeavor. Ford was sure he wasn’t going to pick up, when there was a click and a crackly voice sounded tiredly down the line.

“Hello?”

His old assistant’s voice sent his heart leaping in his chest. Ford hurriedly cleared his throat. “Fiddleford? It’s me, Stanford.”

In the half-second of frigid silence that followed, Ford began to realize he might have made a mistake by introducing himself.

“Wait!” He gasped out. “Please don’t hang up.”

“What do ya want?” Fiddleford growled out. He sounded so unlike himself that it made Ford pause. But – no. This was Fiddleford. His research assistant. His friend. The one person he could trust.

“I – I need your help.” Ford admitted. He plunged on before Fiddleford could interrupt, “I was an idiot. You were right – about the portal, about Bi- the demon.”

There was a crackly silence. Ford took a deep breath.

“I know that what I did is unforgiveable. I abandoned you and refused to heed your warnings. I understand if you can never forgive me. But please, I need your help to fix what I’ve done.”

“I aint goin’ near that portal!” Fiddleford’s voice lifted in both volume and pitch. Ford hurried to reassure him.

“No, no, of course not. That’s not what I need your help with. And it’s not for me, it’s for my twin brother.”

“You have a twin?” Fiddleford demanded, a lilt of curiosity sneaking into his tone. He sounded a little more like the man Ford knew. “Why didn’t ya tell me that?”

“Stan and I haven’t on the best of terms recently.” Ford explained. “Fiddleford, you’re a father, you know how to take care of children. I need you to take care of my brother – just for a little while.”

“Whoa, hold up.” There was shuffling on the other end of the line. “I’m gonna need ya to go back to the beginning. What did ya get yourself into this time?”

Ford chuckled humorlessly. “An experiment gone wrong. Stanley – my twin brother – has been reverted back into a child.”

A pause.

“Fiddleford?”

His friend let out a sigh. “Yeah, sure, course this is happening. Weird stuff always happens around you, Stanford.”

Ford chose to take that as a compliment. “I currently have my hands full. There is a spell – a magical barrier, in fact – that can protect us against the demon you warned me about, allowing me to disassemble the portal without risk. But to do this I have so obtain several rare ingredients. I can’t take Stanley with me, and I can’t leave him alone. I was hoping you would be able to watch him. Just for a little while!” He added nervously. “I know Stanley can be a handful but I’ll be back as quickly as I can and-”

“Ford, shut yer yap.”

Ford shut up.

“I’ll not leave a child alone, no matter what I think of his brother. When d’ya need him taken care of?”

Ford let out a breath and thanked any and all deities that may have lent a helping hand. “I was hoping, today? As soon as possible?”

Fiddleford groaned. “Fine, fine – but only for the kid!” He added. “And in the name of keepin’ that demon away. Not for you.”

“I understand completely.”

“Ya still at yer cabin?”

“Yes.”

“’Course ya are. Now, how old’s yer brother?”

“Ah…” Hmm. Ford had never been good at ages. He’d passed through them himself and never looked back. “He’s old enough to talk. And complain about not having clothes that fit. Maybe about as old as Tate was when I last saw him…?”

Another long-suffering sigh. “A’right, a’right. I’ll bring some old clothes of Tate’s, see if they fit, and I’ll watch the little tyke for ya. But I’m not goin near that portal. Or any of your hinky experiments, ya hear?”

“Certainly. Thank you, Fiddleford.”

“Yeah, yeah. I’ll be there in an hour, maybe two.”

“Thank you.” Ford said again. Fiddleford hung up.

[overheardatthecontinental]

Kinktober Day 19: Vampire

If Helen was being truthful, which she often tried to be, her new neighbor was… odd. 

For starters, she had never seen him move in. One night, she went to bed and she swore the house was empty but when she woke up and opened her curtains, she could see furniture inside.

He was a night owl in the truest sense of the word. She couldn't remember ever seeing him before the moon rose but he was nowhere to be seen in the morning before work. Even on the weekends, there was no evidence that anyone was in the house save his parked car in the driveway.

After two days, the house was under construction. Every single window was replaced with tinted windows and soon she cannot see into his house. Not that she was spying. Not at all. She was just curious.

Another thing was that damn car. She looked it up and it cost as much as her little house.

That, factored in with the cost of installing tinted windows, he had to have money. Plenty of it. So why was he living in a small cottage in the suburbs?

It takes a week before she actually catches sight of him.

He is tall and dark and handsome and familiar. She knows him, vaguely.

Often, she sees him at the bar she tends in the evening. He’s a bourbon drinker and a fantastic tipper. Quiet though. Most people who drink at the bar come to have someone to talk to. They crave the ear of anyone who will listen, otherwise they’d drink at home.

Not John, though. 

He didn’t even talk to order his drink anymore. She’d see him and pour him the bourbon and he’d murmur a quiet thanks. Often, she didn’t even see him leave. He stayed till just before closing and then he’d disappear into the night.

A few times, she’s seen him standing out near the alley. Always alone.

She waves from her porch and John walks over. 

"Helen." He greets, "how are you?"

"Im well, John. I guess we’re neighbors now."

He lips quirked up in a smile, "Couldn't stand living in the city any longer.”

But knowing who her neighbor was did not make him any less strange.

Yes, John was always polite but it didn’t take away from the strange feeling she always got when she was near. Even at the bar, she got the feeling that she should be wary around the handsome man. The hairs on her neck would stand on end almost in warning.

But it seemed so silly to be nervous. 

She blamed it on the attraction. 

John was a gorgeous guy and she couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt another’s lips on hers, let alone anywhere else.

Soon, she started seeing him out and around in the neighborhood. It wasn’t all that strange. Of course he would habit the same grocery stores and pharmacies that she did. But she noticed that the grocery cart was nearly always empty. He’d buy a pack of beer or paper plates and the like, but never once did she see him buying food.

He had to eat, she told herself. No man with a physique like that got away without eating.

She saw him at the park, as she walked home from the subway. Again, standing by a tree, not doing anything. He didn’t even have his phone out. He would just stand there, staring into the darkness.

Weird, but not wrong. Certainly not illegal.

He offered her a ride home, one night when it was raining. The subway wasn’t terribly far but the walk from the station to her house was long enough to get her soaked. She accepted, ignoring the hair on her neck and the feeling in her stomach and every other warning her body gave her.

"How long have you worked here?" John asks as they climb into the car.

"Eight years or so? I teach second grade during the day but teaching pays shit and I needed extra money to pay for supplies for my class. And I found I enjoyed tending bar." She buckles and looks over at him, "it's a bit of a hole in the wall. How did you find it?"

His lips twitch, "I used to spend some time there back in the day."

It's Helen's turn to smirk, "you make it sound like you're so old."

"I'm older than I look."

She looks him over, not that she hasn't a hundred times before, whenever he is looking away. He's fucking gorgeous. If she had to guess, she'd place him in his late thirties. Maybe early forties, but only because he had the look in his eyes of someone who had been through a lot. 

In truth, she knows nothing about him but his address and his favored drink.

“You know,” she says as they pull out of the parking lot, “I don't think I have ever asked,  what do you do for a living?”

“Not sure I'd call it a living.” John says and that smirk just grows, “I’m a bit… nomadic. I tend not to stay in one place for too long so I do a lot of independent contracting. A lot of investing.”

It doesn’t feel like a real answer, Helen notes. He’s said a bit but he hasn’t really told her anything and that throws her for a loop. What is he hiding?

But that isn’t the right question to ask aloud so she settles on, “Where else have you lived?”

“I was born in Belarus.”

And again, she is thrown.

He has no distinguishing accent. Nothing that indicates he is from anywhere but the United States. It’s not that uncommon in New York to find people from all over but still…

“I’ve lived in Italy. Mexico. China. Spain. Russia. Canada. France. Most recently, I was in Reykjavik but I always end up coming back to New York.”

Again, her mind is blown. Utterly and completely. And he’s tossing out this information like it’s nothing and it’s completely overwhelming.

She glances out her window, watching the streets go by. She watches a raindrop race down the window as she tries to process all that. She sees herself in the reflection and is utterly underwhelmed.

She’s boring. A school teacher by day, a bartender by night.

She isn’t unattractive but she’s a dime a dozen.

She’s never left the country, not even to go up to Canada.

And she’s sitting next to this quiet man who has seen the fucking world.

She looks past herself in the reflection and her heart skips a beat. She looks for John but cannot see him. She can see herself. In the back, she can see the reflection of the steering wheel, seemingly turning of its own accord. She can see the street behind them but she cannot see John.

She looks over, sharply, and sure enough, he is there. Driving.

Helen settles back into her seat, wondering anew if he can hear her heart racing.

Or if she’s being crazy.

Because she can see the other window. She can see the reflection of herself and of the lights passing by but she sees herself almost as if John isn’t there.

She looks at him and he glances over, almost to unassuming.

Helen swallows and sits back in her seat. “It must be hard.” She says, “Moving to countries where you don’t speak the language.”

“I speak them,” John says.

“Which?”

“All of them. I make it a point to learn the language of everywhere I’ve ever lived.”

“So you speak Russian and Chinese and French and Spanish?”

“Among others.” His words sound like a taunt. They feel like a taunt, although they’re not belittling. Like he’s challenging her. 

Helen can barely breathe.

No. 

She was being crazy. She’d had far too little sleep.

John had a reflection, she just couldn’t see it because she was exhausted.

And there was a perfectly reasonable explanation as to why his house and car had tinted windows and why she had never once seen him during the day.

She had to be exhausted to even be considering…

They pull into John’s driveway and Helen quickly thanks him for the ride before she rushes, nearly running, to her house. She closes the door behind her. And locks it. And the windows. Even the ones she normally leaves open on the second floor, she locks.

And maybe she’s being paranoid but she can’t help it when she sits at her computer and types “vampire” into Google.

She’s being paranoid.

At least, that’s what she keeps telling herself.

.

She stays up half the night researching a mythological creature.

And when she passes out at her computer, she dreams of John in old-fashioned garb. In old cities with cobblestones lining each street.

She dreams of John kissing her, intimately, in an empty hall. His head is buried under layers of fabric, between her thighs driving her utterly wild before she quakes around him. Only then does he move, and only inches, to where his teeth sink into her thigh.

She wakes up in her bed, alone, and gasping for air. 

It felt so real, she checks her thigh for marks and finds none.

In the fresh light of day, she shakes it off. She acknowledges that she was being ridiculous to even consider the possibility that John was a vampire.

Its utterly ridiculous.

But he's not coming out of his house.

She tells herself she's making the cookies as a thank you and not to try to get John out of his house during the daylight. In reality, its both.

They're chocolate chip, because who doesn't like chocolate chip?

She waits for them to cool before stacking them neatly on a plate and covering it with wrap.

He’s home. His car is in the driveway. It’s parked where he let her out last night so she’s fairly certain he hasn’t left since they arrived.

This is ridiculous she thinks again. She’s analyzing his every fucking move and John, for all his weirdness, has never been anything but kind to her. And here she is, acting like he has something to hide just because he’s eccentric.

Another part of her argues that this is just a thank you for said kindness. For saving her getting soaked on her commute. For that unending kindness.

She knocks on the door and waits.

Nothing.

She knocks again and listens intently. It doesn’t sound like anyone is coming.

Because the sun is out.

Or because he’s sleeping.

She tries one last time before she gives up and leaves the cookies on the porch, walking away feeling a bit defeated.

If he had come to the door, she could have assured herself she was being crazy.

But he hadn’t, so now she was feeling paranoid.

She took out a legal pad in her kitchen and sat down.

Side by side she wrote the most ridiculous list she’s ever even considered in her life.

Proof John’s a Vampire:

He’s from fucking Belarus

He spoke way too many languages for any person who lived a human lifespan to pick up. (Or he’s just wicked smart… Or lying?)

Hot as fuck

He doesn’t live in one place for too long (cuz people will notice he doesn’t age!!!!)

He says he’s older than he looks

Says he used to hang out at the bar but I’ve never seen the owner or any of the other bartenders talk to him

I’ve never seen him during the day

TINTED FUCKING WINDOWS. No normal person needs fucking tinted windows

Wealthy but won’t say what he does for a job?

Never seen him eat

Helen banged her head into the table.

Fucking ridiculous.

She was definitely losing her mind. And figuring out whether or not her neighbor was a vampire was not how she wanted to spend her day off, so she left the pad in the kitchen and went to read on the couch. 

Helen relaxed, reveling in the freedom of actually having a day to herself. She did her best to enjoy the time and not think about her attractive, weirdo neighbor.

She made dinner for herself and ate watching the news. When she was finished, she poured a glass of wine and relaxed back to some rerun of a cooking show she hadn’t seen before.

And then there was a knock on the door.

She checks her watch. It’s nearly eight and she certainly doesn’t have friends who would come over this late without sending a text.

Helen climbs to her feet, heart already racing because, of course, it’s after sunset.

Maybe he’s just doing this to fuck with her.

Maybe he’s just been lying and teasing and trying to get into her head like some sort of psycho. That had to be more realistic than the truth, she thinks as she goes over to the door.

She peers out of the look-see and sure enough, John is on her porch.

Does he just wake up and throw on a three-piece? She wonders, opening the door. Granted, he’s technically missing his suit jacket but who wears a dress shirt and a suit vest on a Sunday night? 

“John.”

“I wanted to say thank you for the cookies.”

“You’re very welcome. I hope you enjoyed them.”

The corner of his mouth twists, “Absolutely delicious.” John pauses, “May I come in?”

She feels her eyes widen and hopes that he doesn’t notice but he just fucking asked permission to come inside? That was a thing, right? That vampires need permission to enter houses?

He blinks innocently but it doesn’t feel at all innocent.

“Is everything alright?” John asks, “You look a little… flushed.”

She’s being ridiculous.

Helen shakes her head because John is not a vampire but she might be losing her mind. Maybe she needs to check herself in somewhere... “Of course. Come in.”

John steps through the door and the paranoid part of her wonders if she’s just made a terrible mistake.

John looks around and Helen wonders how she never realized how big John is. He’s tall and, without the jacket, she can see proof muscles on his arms that she had never noticed before.

“You have a lovely home.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. I truly appreciate the cookies and you thinking of me. You’re very kind.”

“No, thank you. I’ve made that walk in the rain before and it sucks.”

“I was happy to do it. In fact, I’m at the bar most nights. I’m more than happy to stay and give you a ride home on a regular basis.”

“I couldn’t impose.” And you kind of scare the hell out of me, “Can I offer you a drink? I have water, juice, and wine?”

“Wine, if you don’t mind. And it’s no imposition. Like I said, I’m there anyway. And we are neighbors, after all.”

Helen offers a small smile as she turns towards the kitchen.

His words seem nearly laced with honey and it both excites her and kind of disturbs her.

Everything about John, vampire aside, screams dangerous.

And she’s invited him into her home and he’s almost a bit too kind. She doesn’t know what to do with that and it feels like her brain is fighting itself about John.

The logical part of her is telling her to calm the fuck down because John has been nothing but kind. The paranoid part of her is screaming VAMPIRE VAMPIRE VAMPIRE. The primal part of her seems torn between telling her to run as far and as fast as she can because John is dangerous and tearing that stupid suit off of him and jumping him then and there.

Instead, she manages to ask, “What kind of wine do you like?”

“I prefer red.” And it’s such a simple statement but his words tumble out like a taunt that just sets her on edge even more.

Helen goes to the cabinet and pulls down a glass of wine, hands shaking ever so slightly.

She has an open bottle of pinot noir in the fridge and she pours the wine as carefully as she can. It sloshes a bit over the edge and she wipes it with a dishtowel, feeling her cheeks burn even more at the small spillage.

She turns to hand John the glass and nearly drops it at the full-on smirk that graces his stupidly attractive face. She left out the list and John is reading it.

“Hot as fuck, huh?”

And it seems impossible, but her face feels worse than when she has a fever. She’s certain she must be red all over and she has absolutely nothing to stay to it because what can she say? 

I know it’s ridiculous but I thought you were a vampire?

John steps closer, leaving the legal pad behind and he takes the glass from her hand and sets it on the counter behind her. With his other hand, he reaches for her chin and tilts her head up just a bit, forcing her to look into his eyes. 

He whispers, “You really are fucking clever.”

Her eyes widen at the implication because no. No. She was definitely wrong and John was definitely messing with her but he smiles. He really smiles, not just a smirk. He bares his teeth and Helen swallows at the sight of long incisors. 

Fuck.

“You should have trusted your instincts.”

He steps closer and Helen, as a result, steps back and finds herself completely enclosed. She is pressed against the counter, completely enclosed in one of his arms while the other trails down her neck.

She can’t run. She sure as hell doesn’t stand a chance if she tries to fight him. 

“Are you going to kill me?”

John tilts her head upward, “And why,” He bends his own head down, brushing his lips against hers but not kissing her, “would I even think to destroy such a jewel?”

His arm around her tightens and she is hoisted off the ground and into the air. Instinctively, she throws her arms around her neck to keep balanced and John smirks at her, almost victoriously.

Before she can say anything, he is moving impossibly fast. She closes her eyes at the rush of dizziness that fills her at the speed and opens them only as she feels herself falling. Her back hits the bed and she bounces, sucking in a gasp as she does.

And John is on top of her before she can even acknowledge what is happening, the quick turn in events that had her from scared to terrified to, fuck, John is sucking on her neck and she is horny.

A vampire is sucking on her neck.

She hears a wanton moan and, Christ, that must have come from her.

She presses her thighs together as an ache spreads down her body, warming her tummy and sending the blood rushing south.

John’s hands tear the fabric of her cotton shirt into pieces as he rips it clean of her body before doing the same to her bra. She doesn’t even complain as John lowers his head and sucks a nipple into his mouth. He rolls it with his tongue and teases it with his teeth. The fang toys with it, dragging down her breast and the sharpness makes her whine with a sick mix of pain and pleasure. 

And then it sinks into one of her veins and his teasing is suddenly a thing of the past as he sucks and swallows around her tender flesh.

Her hand jumps to his hair and Helen realizes, idly, that she’s encouraging this. Forcing his face against her, not letting him move even as her head feels dizzy.

A large hand slides down her body and into her sunday sweatpants. A finger swipes up her slit, teasing her clit and checking her arousal.

John releases her and quickly slides down her body, ripping her sweats and underwear off with the same vigor that he had done to her shirt. She’s certain they’re destroyed but she doesn’t give a flying fuck.

Not when John is plunging two fingers inside her and curling them just right so that she thrashes and writhes on the bed. John holds down her leg with his spare hand and continues his minstruations as he sinks his teeth into her thigh.

Helen shrieks, but not with pain, as John sucks on her thigh while his fingers dance inside of her. Helen isn’t sure which is more pleasurable, his mouth at her thigh or his fingers inside of her but she knows she has never felt like this. Lightheaded and pleasured and desperate and needy all at once. 

He sucks and swallows while his thumb rubs at her clit and Helen wonders if she’s actually crying because there are tears spilling down her cheeks at the wanton desperation of it all. 

Nothing has ever felt so good. So raw.

He could drain her of all her blood right now and she would probably say thank you so long as he didn’t stop toying with her clit or moving his fingers around inside her. She could definitely die like this and be happy. 

All of the sudden, he pushes up slightly off her thigh. Just as quickly, he descends upon her other, sinking his teeth into the femoral artery. John sucks at her flesh and Helen feels her head spinning all the more. 

Why does dizzy feel so good?

His thumb speeds up along her clit and his fingers roll against the spot inside her that makes her mind melt like cotton candy. Helen comes, crying out in surprise at how quickly John had been able to completely undo her.

She feels him swallowing against her thigh as she writhes beneath him.

He’s brought her pleasure to new heights and he hasn’t even begun undressing.

Helen reaches down and grabs his hair, tugging up.

It’s laughable, really, her attempt at strength in the midst of an orgasm but John acquiesces and releases her thigh from his mouth. Blood dribbles down his chin and she has the sick urge to lick it.

John climbs back up her body. He unfastens his belt, his pants as quickly as he can before pulling himself out.

Helen finds herself licking her lips at the sight of him but it’s quickly taken from her vision as John lays down on top of her body, angling the head of his cock towards her core. With a single roll of hips, he impales her onto his length and Helen finds herself arching her back, keening at the contact.

John bends his head down to her neck and she feels his tongue tease her pulse point before she feels the quick sharp of fangs digging into her throat.

His hips move against her, driving him in and out of her slick heat while he frantically swallows against her neck again and again.

She sees stars and she still isn’t certain what it’s from.

She’s lightheaded and it shows when she tries to lift her leg to wrap around John and she finds she can’t lift it. It barely registers, however, because his hand is between them again. He keeps thrusting, keeps sucking, but now his fingers are teasing and rubbing her clit and a scream escapes her. He feels so fucking good, everywhere, and his expert fingers are bringing her back to that height of pleasure.

John drives into her as deep as he can and Helen, again, feels herself falling further and further, through the stars and into the dark.

She can’t open her eyes but she really can’t bring herself to care.

She can still feel John, pistoning in and out of her and a small rip that sounds like something tearing open. Her head is tilted up and something forces her mouth open and places something against it.

“Good girl,” she can idly hear John whisper to her, “Swallow it down.”

And as he says it, she feels something pouring into her mouth. Salty and rich and warm. It fills her mouth and again, John urges her to swallow.

She does and she hears John’s quiet praises. “Good girl. Keep going. You’re going to be mine forever.”

Helen feels consciousness slip away.

And everything is black.

[drspencerweed]

IM SO EXCITED FOR THAT SNIPPET ! request 4 is an all caps level of excitement

thank you! just for you and because im a slut for praise here’s another snippet! 

this one is from a little further into the story, and tw for mentions of kidnapping

He chuckled as he looked at the book in his hand. “It’s a classic. And I can’t only read books you like.” 

I rolled my eyes and smiled. “I’m sorry I can’t read the books you like.” 

He just smirked. “I mean if you ever wanted to learn Russian...” 

“I’m crap at languages, you know this. But maybe someday I’ll read it in English.” I turned to go back to my reading, but he put his book down on the bed and turned to face me more fully. Letting my eyes meet his, I put my book down to give him my attention again. “What?” 

He sighed and looked down at the duvet, picking at a thread. “I just- well, I was thinking a lot today about what you said last night. About the last time you were caught by an UnSub.” My breath caught in my chest, mind racing with ideas of where he could be going with this. “And I guess, I just wanted to ask how you’re doing. And apologize for not asking sooner.” 

I looked in his eyes, and saw how concerned and sincere he was. Something in my walls cracked. The way he looked at me was so similar to how he looked at me outside this room, when we were pretending to be in love. The lines were so blurred, I had to stop myself from leaning in and kissing him in response. My eyes filled with tears before I could stop it, and I quickly looked away but I knew he had already seen. 

“I-I’m fine.” I choked out. Spencer reached a hand and grasped my own. 

“It’s okay if you’re not.” 

My eyes were glued to where our hands were linked together, tears filling them again as his thumb stroked the back of my hand. The fears about getting kidnapped had certainly been lingering in my mind, even if I had distracted myself with being heartbroken. “Sometimes I think about what it was like, being there. I used to think I understood the victims. Now I- Now I know what it was like. And I wasn’t even- it wasn’t even that long.” I confessed, laughing a little at the end. Spencer squeezed my hand, and I looked up to him. A tear or two escaped as I blinked. 

“Please don’t discredit what you went through like that. Any second being kidnapped is too long,” he stated seriously. I clenched my teeth in an effort not to cry. His other hand reached up and swiped away a tear with his thumb. “If you need to abort this mission, we can.” 

I shook my head immediately. “He’s listening to us already. If we abort, he’ll go into hiding. And I won’t let him get away.” 

Spencer sighed as he dropped his hand from my cheek, bringing it to hold my own in both of his. “Hotch should never have asked you to do this so soon. I could’ve done this with Emily, or JJ-“ 

“No!” I exclaimed, the thought of him spending a week kissing and loving someone else struck me to my core. But my quick and visceral reaction did not go unnoticed by Spencer. He quirked an eyebrow at me. Shaking my head, I pressed on with a fake excuse. “I don’t want anyone thinking I’m incapable. If Hotch thinks I’m the best person for the job then I’m the best person for the job.” 

Spencer nodded. I blinked back more tears, trying not to break down farther than I had already. I rarely let myself cry in front of other people, and especially not Spencer. Now I had cried in front of two different people within a week. What was happening to me? 

The tears started falling faster, my brain racing as I imagined being back in that cold basement. Not thinking about it only ever lasted for so long. In an instant I was back there; the cold metal of a gun pressed into the back of my neck, the harsh feeling of the wooden chair underneath me, the mildewy scent, the sound of water dripping every few seconds. If I closed my eyes I was under the harsh red light, penning my letter. “Sometimes I just wish I could forget.” I whispered, letting the tears take over me and ripping my hand away from Spencer’s grip to cover my face. 

My knees came up against my chest as I wracked with sobs. Memories flashed through my mind, the moments before I was attacked from behind, the moment I woke up. The worst memories were of his voice. He had taunted me, poked me with the gun while I scratched out my last words. I could still hear him whisper “Spence? Is that your boyfriend? Bet he’s missing you real bad right now.” He would sing the last line, taunting me. “He’s never gonna find you.”

I began shaking my head back and forth, trying to get his voice out of my ears. Before the panic could fully set in, Spencer’s arms wrapped around my body, pulling me closer to him. “Hey, hey. You’re alright. You’re safe. Take a deep breath, count with me. In two three four, out two three four.” He whispered in my ear, his voice replacing the horrible one running through my head. 

The feeling of his arms wrapped around me reminded me of the best moment that day, the moment I was saved. He had been the first one in the room. When I heard them break into the house, I folded my letter quickly and stuffed it down my shirt while the UnSub panicked. Spencer burst through the door a few seconds later, and I wept at the sight of him. After a confrontation, Morgan shot the UnSub and Spencer rushed to me, quickly untying me and gathering me into his arms. He had whispered those same words to me, “You’re alright, you’re safe.”

[wheelersdealer]

All of You

Summary: You and Steve went from being the troublesome Queen and King of Hawkins High to the mother and father of the party. With a similar fate of working at poorly uniformed stores in Starcourt, and even poorer relationships with Jonathan and Nancy, you escape the Russians early and make an awkward meet up with the group at Hop’s cabin….where the mind flayer grabs onto your leg instead of El’s. 

Pairing: Steve Harrington x Reader, Jonathan Byers x Reader Warnings: STRANGER THINGS SEASON 3 SPOILERS, Profanity, Gore. A/n: This is a "Little Devil” prequel requested by @ponyboy-sunsets. I’m digging the Jonathan elements and contemplating more of this love-triangle. Let me know if you’d be interested!

Starcourt decided that with the mall being the new revolutionary, it was only right to pay homage to the revolutionary hot-spot within its own property.

And you work there in the mock 50s diner with enough space to fit ten to twenty smelly, cramped families. You hate it. 

You’ve avoided having to haul around a beehive or mod wig and took up a ponytail alternative. Big hair or high hair has always been a requirement, even if by crappy wig or extensions.

The top half of your dress was crisp white with a red chiffon neck scarf. You’ve been sputtering and spitting the thing out of your mouth every time the wind has blown it right in there all night. And the bottom half was a deep red with a black felt poodle.

Kicking open Jim Hopper’s cabin with your bare foot and coming face to face with your children in the care of your ex, everyone can see that everything is red.

All of you. 

You drive an intoxicated Steve and Robin, and an eager Dustin and Erica the hell away from Starcourt as soon as those elevator doors open. Well, more like as soon as you spot the front doors of the mall after having to take a detour on account of the guard waiting near the elevator.

Both hands on the wheel yet you’re barely stable, your limbs aching and shaking and burning with how hard you clench your muscles in an attempt to steady your movements. 

You adjust Steve’s mirror and look back where Dustin’s squished between the two dummies who are giggling wildly and flailing, unable to get comfortable like a couple of tired toddlers. Your only choice is to endure the kicking at your back seat, Steve’s strange cooing at all the pretty street lights you pass by, and put all your weight on the gas. 

Erica senses the oncoming doom with the two before you do, and she lets out a strained “Uhhhhhh,” for longer than you like before finally spitting out “Y/n?”

You try your hardest not to snap at her. You can���t not snap at her so you keep your lips shut tight and give her a glance. 

“They’re quiet back there.” 

You look at them through the mirror. Indeed, they’re quiet, Steve’s face halfway out the window, his hand around the ceil, and Robin slumped over Dustin as she tries to get a taste of what Steve’s seeing. 

Your breath hitches and you almost scream, “Dustin, turn Robin’s head away!” 

He scrunches up his nose, ready to ask why. And that’s when Steve begins to hurl. It’s out the window but you can hear it and you close your eyes for just a second as your body shivers. Dustin’s jaw drops and he goes “OooHH—“ just barely getting the gist and pushing on Robin’s shoulder so she can direct her projectile outside of the car.

You wince at it, seeing she perhaps got some slobber on his shoulder and lap. 

But with what they’ve started, you might as well finish it. You hit the gas and Steve and Robin both whimper. The speed certainly does nothing to help their tummy in comfort but you’d like to believe it helps them get all of that gunk out faster. Dustin winces too and pulls his knees up and his hands to his head, preparing for the increased mass of projectile if either Robin or Steve chose to turn their heads to him.

Erica looks away, doing a few double takes but mostly pretending like all that…isn’t what she’s seeing.

“Where are we goING?!” Dustin yells. 

You scrunch your nose, back pressed deep into your seat. And then you fling yourself (and poor, poor, tiny little Erica…and Robin and Dustin and Steve but whatever) forward with the harshest stop you think you’ve ever made in your history of driving….The Byer’s household is lightless, empty. You groan and slap the wheel gently. But for the sake of the possibilities, you hand Erica the keys (hey, you never know when you’ll need another child to drive) and hop out of the car. 

You’re an absolute mess, first of all. And walking in this breeze is the first time you’ve really felt it. The skirt portion of your dress is still quite thick and poofy, but let’s say thicker with how much blood its soaked up from a mix of Russians, yourself, and Steve. 

You knock violently but within seconds deem that useless. And with two hands on the knob you push, prepared to meet a barricade. But there is none. You almost trip inside and as much of a bummer as it is to not be met with the faces of Dustin’s friends and yours (debatable), you’re comforted thinking they might not have come across trouble themselves yet…

So you skip back to the car and halfway down the Byer’s dirt and dead-grass lawn, you stop to pull your stupid work heels from your feet and chuck them off.

You get back in the car and get driving. 

The only other place available is the lab and Hopper’s cabin, but looking back to the last two years of having to deal with this shit you put your bets on the idea that if the others have found themselves in as much trouble as you’ve been in, that they’re going to be secluded. 

“Uck…what the fu—“ You press the gas again and the newly clear-headed Steve grunts as he’s thrown forward into the back of your seat.

“Oh great, glad to have you two back! Did you enjoy your trip?” You mock.

Steve’s curled up in his seat and gripping his head. “Are you mad at me? Or-or something?”

That ‘mocking voice’ is the one you put on for your diner gig, all cutesy and girly and 50s-esk (according to your boss and his pestering). You always use it to taunt customers you’ve found yourself particularly annoyed with throughout the day.

He groans is reminded of the pain, realizes that he really did go through a trip, and decides to put it to rest. 

“Where are we going?”

“Are…?” Robin squints, “Are we driving?” She tries leaning over Dustin to look at the windshield but gravity flings her back against her seat with your speed.

“Yup!” You say through strained teeth. You take a sharp right and drive yourselves straight into the woods.

They all hold onto the sides of the car (as for Dustin, he curls up and tries his best to hold onto Robin and Steve) when your car goes ‘out of control’ and you do a few donuts. But you’re determined, as Erica can see amidst her screaming. You don’t flinch for a second.

After it’s all over and done with, the car rumbling to a stop on dirt and gravel, a mere strand of hair has been flung out of place and lands itself on your forehead. You blow it away, finally get the will to unclench your hands from the steering wheel, then kick your door open. 

You slam it shut and look up the hill and past some trees. There it is — Hopper’s cabin, faint lights seen through the window. 

Never-mind all the sticks and rocks digging into your bare (or perhaps nylon-covered) feet. You stomp forth and Dustin shouts “Y/n, wait!” 

You don’t wait. You keep straight ahead with your teeth dug into your lip. You’d say it hurts and that you’re sad that it’s bleeding after everything,  but frankly the way the red tints your lips fixes up your absolutely battered lipstick and you feel more presentable. 

You run your hand down your dress, grip the doorknob, and give the others a lot. 

To give you some leverage in case this door is barricaded, you put your foot against the door and push, turning the knob and slamming the door into the drywall it lands against.

There’s a collective “AH!” and a cacophony of furniture squeaking and scuffing, but it’s just you.

It’s you facing whaddya know — Jonathan, Nancy, Mike, Lucas, Will, Max, and Eleven. Your eyes jump from one person to the next, and each of their faces is as terrified as the next.

“Y—“ Jonathan carefully gets up. “Y/N?” He stands with Nancy who holds onto his shoulder. “What the hell happened?”

Back to your uniform…

The top half of your dress was crisp white with a red chiffon neck scarf, and the bottom half was a deep red ��� no, more like scarlet — with a black felt poodle stitched somewhere near the bottom rim. But now, everything is red. Even though the amount of blood wasn’t all that substantial when you really think about it, the sheer amount of sweat collected from this little ‘experience’ has the colors spread. The top half has dried a deep, dark red in some parts, with swirls of white and pink in others. Almost looks like tie-dye, but the clear crunchy texture shows them otherwise. The red of your lips is wholly unnatural, the absolute mess your hair is is just plain out of character…and you don’t have any shoes?

When the wind tries to will the front door shut again, you put your palm against the wood and slam it open.

You spit, “Russians.” 

And in that moment Steve, Robin, Erica, and Dustin pop up behind you. You sway a bit when Steve puts his weight on your back, taking a moment to rest from all of that running.

And then the boys yell “DUSTIN!” 

And the pained look on your face, the one that embodies absolute badassery…it fades as you crack a smile. You let yourself be bumped against the door a bit as Dustin and Erica push past you, Robin, and Steve to reunite with his friends and her brother. 

“I’m sorry did you just…?” Nancy crosses her arms and steps forward. “Say Russians?” She chuckles a little. 

You and Steve become a little more lighthearted, saying “Yeah,” simultaneously.

Dustin jumps and breaks up the group-hug with his party. “Where?” He asks, neck popping up like a groundhog. 

Even Robin and Erica look around, nerve-wracked. 

You squint at the image of Eleven approaching Dustin, wetness and discoloration under her eyes. She taps him gently and when he whips back around and he damn-near tackles her to the ground. You step forward, the care-free look on your face on account of this reunion clearly gone to Nancy and Jonathan. 

You raise your chin and speak to Jonathan specifically without looking.

“What’s going on?” Mike and Will come over and hug you, Will laughing and Mike being more calm about it. With him, it’s more of a side hug. You ruffle his and Will’s a bit before Steve steps in and looks at them incredulously. He beckons, wondering where’s his hug and they bother to give him a weak one. 

Jonathan’s jaw drops and he looks to El then Nancy for answers as he runs his sweaty hands down his jeans. When he’s silent for too long your look at him. Poor, poor…adorable boy jumps a bit. 

He sputters, “We uh-El…Eleven she—“

“It’s the Mind Flayer.” Nancy says over his shoulder. You nod at Steve and Robin, and they both come around to join the conversation. Nancy purses her lips at Robin. You beat her to her question—

“This is Robin, works at Scoop’s Ahoy with Steve. She was also trapped by the Russians.” You point over your shoulder, and she waves faintly. “Go on.” You cross your arms and with your poise, Nancy suddenly feels that intimidation she’s way too familiar with. She deflates, reminded of you and you in high-school…never mean to her, never bothered, but there was this air of sophistication her and peers learned to be fearful of as compared to all the other jocks and cheerleaders (not to say you were one, but the majority of the ‘popular kids’ were. You got clumped in the genre). 

Still, Jonathan and Nancy are quiet. 

She squeezes Jonathan’s shoulder a little tighter. And for the love of wanting to keep the world existing, you roll your eyes and make your way over the kids where Mike and Will have caught up. 

“Hey! Hate to ruin this cute little reunion and your fun time but we need to swap information, now.” You soften up for El. “What’s this I hear about the Mind Flayer?”

She sniffles a bit. “It’s back.”

You nod with a strange smile conjured from your attempt to not spit out ‘no shit’. You run your hand over your jaw and just mutter, “Alright, alright…What do you have on it?” You look at Mike. “Do you know where it’s at?”

Mike sucks his lip in. He sighs before stepping forward to explain. “El said it said that it was building something.”

You lean back. “It spoke?”

Max pipes up, “Through Billy.” 

You click your jaw. “Huh.” Strangely, you don’t need all that much convincing.

Mike continues again. “Since it doesn’t have Will, it went to Billy for a vessel.”

“So Billy’s possessed?” Steve asks. You scoff and push against his head, guiding him toward the couch. Dustin helps with that, grabbing Steve’s arm and (much to Steve’s confusion and sputtering) pulling him to a cushion. Robin leans on you a bit, and to Jonathan and Nancy’s surprise, you don’t do anything about it. 

“He went all cuckoo!” Lucas rolls his finger in a circle near his temple. You’re taken back by that phrasing but okay. 

Mike gets back to expository mode. “The Mind Flayer possessed Billy, and Eleven just went into his memories to find the source—”

“Source of what?” Steve slurs.

“Jesus!” You throw your head back, arms still crossed. “Can you let the boy talk for one second, he’ll explain the answers to all of your questions if you just let him!” Steve slinks back into the couch. Dustin’s jaw is dropped, and he pokes at Steve with a sly smile before Steve slaps his hand away and holds his hand to his throbbing cheek. “Continue, please.” 

Mike blinks, surprised. “O…kay.” He shakes his hair out, and just when he thinks to stop you wave on for him to continue as you head into the kitchen and come back out to stand behind Steve and press a bag of frozen peas to his cheek. He puts his hand over yours but you still don’t move. The kids all go quiet at this strange, strange display of affection.

You urge, “Go on!”

“Uh, right! Sorry!” Mike sits down on the coffee table and looks up at you. “The Mind Flayer has been collecting an army. We call them the Flayed. We think Billy’s its main guy, and basically the big guns is the Mind Flayer made up of the melted flayed.” You and Steve wince together. Mike winces. He doesn’t think it’s cute…but it kinda is — anyways. “El just said how Billy and the Flayed are going to come here. They’re trying to stop her.”

Lucas chimes in. “Cause El closed the gate on him last year and royally pissed him off.” 

And so does Will, who sits on the arm rest. “So it’s not to spread. It’s just for her.” 

Mike nods. “Exactly.” 

You hum. “Okay…okay…Well uh, boy so we got news for you.” You chuckle nervously. You catch Jonathan’s eyes and you both look away on cue. For once tonight you sputter, caught up in your own nerves. But you shake them off and look at Mike. “There are Russians in Hawkins, and they have a lab under the mall…” you look to each person in the room. “They’re opening the gate.” 

Will scoffs. He’s much more offended than doubtful. “What?”

“They’re opening…the gate. We saw it. It’s this weird machine that’s shooting a laser at this wall — it’s exactly where the gate was and it looks like it did back then. They’ve just been working and working cause I figure if the energy stops for a second,” you snap, “it starts to shut again but clearly it’s large enough for the Mind Flayer to have gotten through.”

“We think the Mind Flayer might have been here all along.” You look up and Jonathan’s stepping forward. He has an arm around his waist and his other hand picking at his lips. You smile softly at his cracking voice…but you smile even wider (begrudgingly) at Steve.

“Oh great.” He presses the peas deeper into his face. “Is this ever gonna end?”

You shrug. “Space race dude. Doesn’t matter if they destroy the entire world while they’re at it. Gotta show off.” You two chuckle together.

When you look up, the whole group is wide-eyes at you.

You deflate. “What?”

Nancy chuckles, smirking. “Well, what is this?”

You and Steve look at each other. You speak in unison, “What is what?” Everybody goes a little crazy. Laughing, covering their mouths, letting their jaws drop. Jonathan’s enthusiasm is much less…but he’s still soft about it, smiling at you two in a proud way.

Nancy tilts her head. “The King and Queen are actually getting along? I wouldn’t have bet you two like each other in 50 years even if high school me saw this for herself…what happened to you?”

Robin shrugs. “Eh, having the shared trauma or horrible customers and horrible costumes.” You nod. “And like, the mediocre experience of being captured and tortured by Russians underground I’d figure does that to you.” 

You nod again, smiling at her. 

The laughing stops when there’s a faint screeching in the distance…it’s not high-pitched or squeaky. It’s low and followed by rumbling.

Everybody else seems to let it go somewhat, but you, Jonathan, Steve, and Nancy snap your heads toward the window.

The trees are rustling. 

You instinctively look at Jonathan, and in that moment you take your hand from Steve. You and Jonathan stand together behind Nancy.

“Do you guys hear that?” She whispers. 

You hum but Jonathan tries to convince himself that “It’s just the fireworks.” You look at him closely, and frown at the red bruise and subsequent cut on the left side of his forehead. You pad at it gently, and he jumps but accepts it, furrowing his brows at your similar cuts And then like that you look back to the window when another rustle is seen and heard.

Nancy turns to the kids. “Billy.” She nods at El. “When he told you this, it was here, in this room?” El nods. Nancy looks at Jonathan and you, even Steve when he jumps from the couch and looks around for that distant thudding.

Will (with a shaky hand) reaches for his neck. He chokes on his own breath. “He knows we’re here.”

You ‘adults’ look at each other again, and rush to the door. Jonathan opens it first and when you think to go ahead of him he holds you back. And when you think to go ahead of Steve, he grabs your hand and keeps you near him.

It’s nothing. 

Really. 

You stand together on the dirt road. Just a short distance back is Steve’s car. But just a short distance for the Mind Flayer in its new form is what’s between it and you, it’s spider-like features and its length, width is enough to make the thin trees around it snap and tumble. Despite not needing to, it purposely pushes itself side to side to knock down the thicker trees. 

Steve puts a hand to the small of your back, and likewise, Jonathan puts his hand on Nancy’s shoulders. Both boys usher you two inside with Jonathan staying back to hurry up the kids he’s spent most of his time with, and with Steve staying back to hurry up the kids (and Robin) he’s spent most of his time with. 

Before you get inside completely, you quickly reach for the side of the stairs where you find an axe. You force it out of the stump it’s in and as soon as you get it free, Steve tugs you inside. 

But despite the effort, you shove the axe (the handle) into Jonathan’s chest. He grunts with the weight, you shout a “Sorry!” and continue on while the others begin their routine — barricading.

Your palms are against the table as you try to think when you hear the back door open and see Nancy walking out. You hold a hand to Steve’s chest so he won’t come after you, saying “Stay!” As well as twirling your finger around to gesture the great need of the current room. 

You jog outside and watch her take a shotgun off a wall in Hopper’s shed.

“Hey!” You raise a hand when you’re not too far, and without thinking, she tosses you one. You fumble to catch it and manage (barely), but when she sees you looking at the tool completely bewildered, she hands you hers, already set up with bullets and everything.

“You know how to use that thing?”

“Uh,” you sputter, “N-no?” 

She cracks a smile and walks past you, quipping “Aim and pull the trigger.”

You wince and suddenly hold it with one hand, aiming it away from you. After a moment when you realize the stakes, you say ‘screw it’ to yourself and hold it closer, hold it proper. 

You kick the door shut behind you. Everything’s barricaded.

You stand by her, Jonathan, Robin (with a bat she found in the closet) and Steve, your backs shielding the kiddos stood in the middle of you. You mimic her, holding up your gun like she does and squinting to try and get an idea of aim. She nods, mutters “Good,” and admittedly boosts your ego a bit. 

You roll your shoulders, fwip your hanging pony over your shoulder with a flick of your neck…and wait.

It’s silent.

An eerie, uncomfortable silence.

Jonathan is letting the axe hop in his hands, switching their exact position to avoid his sweaty hands letting the wood become all slippery. 

Then the lamps begin to shiver, and the electricity in the room begins to crackle. 

Steve’s done his best and found himself a frying pan as well as the other children with makeshift weapons.

“It’s close,” Will says in the silence.

And then dust falls on you from the roof. 

You squint at it, hearing branches snap, seeing the trees rustle, feeling even the small mass of the falling teacups send waves of rumbling through the floor.

Max looks over her shoulder. “Where’d it go?”

She’s right…too silent.

Nancy inhales sharp, and you do too. 

In that moment one of the creature’s freakish arms tears through the cabin’s corner, and despite the little shield you guys made for the others, the group disperses as it shoots forward and straight toward Eleven. You did your best to be close to her, Max, and Will, shielding them against the wall but still the creature gets in her face and your arm throw out past her stomach isn’t stopping it from doing anything.

But Jonathan grunts and swings down his axe, splitting the creature’s top surface and splattering himself with the flayer’s mucus-like goo. He raises it up again and chops it. The flayer reels back, shrieking and trying to go for Eleven again, only to be hit and with another shriek it enacts vengeance, whipping itself against Jonathan and sending him crashing into the wall and the ground. He drops his axe and just as he starts to get up again, the creature still goes for him. Jonathan tries getting up but can only back into the wall. And your heart hurts like a son of a bitch at the picture.

Hurray for Nancy who steps in and shoots the thing, blood splattering on the carpet as it rounds to attack her.

She’s out of bullets.

“Shit!” She shouts, still trying to pull the trigger.

You feel like you’re just standing there, useless and hopping between your feet. With an annoyed grunt, you shout “Nancy!” And dare to throw her your gun. She catches it just as the creature is feet from getting right in her face. She shoots it in the mouth and it actually reels back this time and for a long time. You look frantically between it, Jonathan, and Nancy. 

The axe.

You run and slide (much to the pain of splinters and rug-burn in your bare feet), ducking under the creature and grabbing Jonathan’s axe. He’s still dealing with the incredible pain in his back, and he can only watch you bring the axe down on it some more. It’s so, so close to just about snapping in half and you can see the last bits of its tearing, gooey membrane. 

But when your arms are in the air it snaps its neck to look, and rushes for you. 

Jonathan feels just as you did moments ago. But with such close proximity, he wills himself to get on his feet just well enough to wrap his arms around your waist and pull you onto the floor in the corner with him. He holds you tight, arms finding their way to your chest as you slide down together. Your eyes are wide at the creature. 

Another shot is heard.

Nancy’s shot it. And when it does that same thing (whipping to look at her with his mouth of horrid teeth), Steve steps in pulls her from her corner just as the creature smashes itself into the wall. But when it gets back its energy and reels away from the two ready to attack again, Nancy’s gun again won’t shoot. 

You clap your hand over Jonathan’s wrist, and he can feel you squeeze. 

Nancy and Steve flinch. They’re ready.

They pop their eyes open, carnage evidently not taking place yet despite the creature’s intent and it’s screeching. You slap Jonathan’s arm, and together you gasp with joy seeing Eleven standing in the middle of the room, her arm stretched out and fingers tensing as she wills the creature away from Nancy. Her calm expression vanishes as she twists her wrist and pulls her elbow into herself, the creature snapping right where its ‘head’ would begin and El screaming when she gets the job done. Part of it flops onto the floor in a puddle of its own blood and mucus-like texture, and the other half shrieks before haphazardly pulling itself out of the cabin through the hole it came in. 

Max yelps as it flies out right beside her. 

You close your eyes and breath a sigh, Jonathan hugging you a little softer now and putting his forehead to your shoulder as you relish in the relief. 

But, reminded of the situations at hand, you both get up, helping one another. You go and grab Max, dragging her away from the window and you’re met by Steve, who in turn shields both of you and guides you away. Jonathan tries going for the others but that bit of energy he spent on you is gone now and he can’t ignore his fatigue or pain. He grips onto the wall but falls to his knees.

Through the wall where Steve was just about to guide you two, in comes another one of the Mind Flayer’s arm-creatures. You all yell and flinch, Steve pulling you two back and making sure to keep his head down when he’s reminded of the giant hole in the wall where the creature just came through that last time.

You make your way to Jonathan, sprinting while knelt. 

You grab his hand and try to help him up, Steve coming to the other side of him. 

Thanks to El, they’re stopped mid air, both of her arms occupied with keeping hold of the creatures. With heavy breathes and panting, and with a triumphant yell, she pulls her arms to her stomach and again splits them in half. 

While everything is silent and steady for a second, your stomach is still aching and you get up. 

Steve and Jonathan reach for you (Max too), with Jonathan better suited for your waist and Steve better suited for your shoulder. But you break from their grasp. They can’t shout their disapproval on account of how selfish that would seem with El being in the middle of the room doing all of the fighting. They can only huff to themselves and give a similar look of worry, though one also filled with contempt and jealousy for the other.

Jonathan has no romantic feelings. Not anymore at least. Steve wouldn’t admit he does, but he does. Still, their conflict at your varying degrees of closeness is what catches up to them. With you finding Jonathan and his outcast persona so fascinating from a young age, and being able to bond with Steve over the high school hierarchy and sharing a pack of kids. 

You start off knelt but come to stand fully, grabbing El by the shoulders and pushing her out of the way.

They don’t know why…by you looked up at the ceiling and saw more specks of dust. This creature is smart and wouldn’t make the same mistake of going through the walls or windows four times. 

You try to guide her forward, go with her.

But you scream = as the ceiling breaks open and the Mind Flayer wraps around your ankle. Your poor, bare ankle. Its flesh burns against yours and while being caught you slam your chin slams against the hardwood floor.

It roars and shrieks and so does everybody else, Jonathan keeping himself stable on a hopping foot and Mike and El jumping forward together to grab your arms and try desperately to pull you.

Mike’s completely out of his head about now, wanting to help you but (like you) wanting to get El out of the monster’s reach. He closes his eyes while mustering all his strength, and you can’t help but look up (in a disorienting manner) at the thing trying to eat you. 

Jonathan and Steve jump in next — Steve sharing an arm with El, Jonathan staring an arm with Mike. And then comes Max and Will — Max with Steve and El, Will with Jonathan and Mike. 

Mike and Will both open their eyes at the same time and look straight at the creature. Mike whimpers and forces his eyes shut again, muttering himself a mantra so he can get his damn strength and not have to watch his pseudo-older sister get eaten by this fucking monster.

His grip weakens for just a moment to readjust, and he yells “PULL!” the group collectively putting together strength they didn’t even know they could muster.

Nancy loads up her gun again, Jonathan shouting “NANCY! SHOOT IT!”

She manages and it snarls in pain.

“COME ON LUCAS!” Max yells for him.

He doesn’t know where to go or what to do. Robin points him toward the axe, and she runs and picks it up for him while she does. She hands it over and grabs the other gun, struggling to load it but managing well enough. Her aim isn’t the best but she lowers the gun with a wide, goofy smile on her face when she swears she hears it groan in response to her. Then she goes at it again. 

Lucas hops up onto the ottoman and screams as he hacks at the limb. Dustin, with not much more room available to hold onto your arm, keeps watch of Erica while running around the room screaming trying to find something to chuck into the creature’s jaws. He manages to chuck a few things he’s sure Hopper won’t miss (an ashtray, notably) but it doesn’t do all that much.

You’re still struggling and flailing, your breath after a point being so lost you can only breathe and ‘scream’ via deep exhales. 

Lucas starts to get frustrated, seeing progress but not as much as he would like. He hypes himself up, hopping between his feet on the ottoman, and gives the final blow his best shot.

He raises the axe behind his head, stumbles a bit before gaining his balance, then hacks the creature straight in half.

It screams and flails, the mouth inhaling part of itself before the sight of it through the ceiling flees and you fall forward. 

Steve catches you in his arms as everybody’s feet are pulled under themselves and they fall to the floor. Steve rolls on his side, holding you close and trying to coo you to comfort while wiping the sweat, mucus, and blood from your forehead. You would be so lovey-dovey, hugging him tight and chuckling madly in relief but still, the best you can do is laugh silently and even smiling is a chore. 

You collapse into his chest, your hand limp on his cheek and eyes bobbing to the back of your head before coming back around with every rumble of the house as the Mind Flayer does what it does.

The kids are all kneeling around you and Jonathan gently pushes Will and Mike apart so he can too. He puts his hands on the floor by your stomach. The slightest snap of a twig has him looking over his shoulder, and the slight ruffle of Lucas’ jeans on the carpet has him looking at him.

You can feel Steve press quick pecks to your face. He really doesn’t put much thought into them, but when he realizes, he can only be thankful he has the opportunity. 

Mike’s eyes go to your leg, where the other half of the creature is still stuck tight, nearly embedded.

He hypes himself up, bouncing on his feet before hopping up and running over. He gets a strong grip around it (as best as he can considering its slippery skin), and though Jonathan and Steve both spit out slurred “Wait Don’t!”s, Mike pulls it off and your let spurts blood.

You will yourself up off the floor just a tiny bit as you scream, neck craning back and eyes sticking shut with the pain. 

Mike winces at the sound, and after chucking the creature behind him (where it slithers out of the cabin) he hurries to your side, hovering his hands over your stomach and hoping for you to see his face so you can see just how sorry he is but how necessary that was.

Then the Mind Flayer, and Eleven hurriedly gestures Mike, Jonathan, and Steve to drag you off. Will stays behind Jonathan and Max and Lucas stay behind Mike, with Nancy, Dustin, Robin, and Erica assisting in hyping up El as she stands strong below the creature that burst through with the intent to kill her.

She raises her chin this time, not shying away, and she plants her feet. 

Jonathan holds onto Mike’s shoulder and pulls him back, the both of them looking between you and El with worry. 

The creature roars, its saliva splattering against all of you.

But even with this (Jonathan now shielding Mike, you, and Will while Steve cradles your head in his lap), she doesn’t flinch. She raises both arms close together and screams at the top of her lungs, her powers already proving themselves faster than they ever have before as the creature’s head starts to close in on itself.

The display is enough to jolt you awake and you’re trying to scoot even further from it. Steve holds you tighter and coos. 

You can imagine her now and you smile all loopy at the thought of her with all her strength and blood pouring out of both nostrils. 

You’re satisfied seeing the creature already begin to let free a pink liquid.

And you cackle despite being breathless when El rips it in two at the end with a blood-curdling scream.

She falls back into Max, and by now with Steve and Nancy helping you to your feet, you can reach just enough to hug El somewhat tight before you’re pulled apart and everybody starts to rush out of the cabin.

“Go go go!” Nancy yells. She takes your arm from around her shoulder and gives Robin the job. Jonathan holds the door open, doing copious double takes to make sure everybody is out of the cabin. 

Most of the group run to the Jeep.

But already knowing trying to get everybody to fit will be a hell of a hassle, Steve shouts for Robin, Dustin, and Erica to follow him “This way!” Back to his car. 

Jonathan stomps his foot against the dirt and screams “WHERE ARE YOU GOING?!” 

Dustin yells back while hurrying backwards, “WE CAN’T FIT! WE’LL MEET YOU THERE!”

Jonathan looks so pained. He sees Steve pick you up while Robin grabs Erica’s hand. “WHERE?!”

“STARCOURT!” Dustin screams. Then runs. 

“JONATHAN, COME ON!” Nancy’s poking her head out the driver’s seat of the car. 

Jonathan mutters to himself. Even to him, it’s incoherent. He walks backward to the car, and only when he sees the Mind Flayer descend upon the cabin and tear it to pieces does he hurry into the car, Nancy hitting the gas before he even gets the chance to buckle. 

(Message me if you would like to be tagged whenever I post a Steve imagine!)

@stevieharrrr @songforhema @broadwayandnetflix @billyhargrovescigarette @bckysloki @christinawxxx @timeladygallifrey

[suzie-shooter]

So, Alex Rider, final recap rambling (eps 7 & 8) ...

(Ep 1) - (Eps 2-4) - (Eps 5-6)

Episode 7 Weirdly convenient view into the operating theatre/resus room there. They don’t normally have a handy spectator window onto public areas...

“Do you want the good news, the bad news, or the weird news?”

“Wolf. That’s Fox – Snake – Eagle.” “Your parents all lose a bet?”

I’ve been so obsessed with Yassen I’ve barely spared space to flail about Howard Charles being in this, but he does make an excellent Wolf.

The only annoying thing about this series is that half the time it’s so darkly shot I can barely make out what’s happening.

Yes, why not, let’s give everyone white snow camouflage suits but make sure Alex’s doesn’t quite cover his BRIGHT YELLOW coat.

It’s a bad day for anyone who picked “henchman” as a career path.

Why is Eva fucking about with lethal injections, wouldn’t it be quicker to shoot them at this stage?

Alex should have twigged there, fake!Kyra used a different door code.

I’m not saying deleting your computer files one by one is the *least* efficient method of destroying your records, but...

“Then we can do a full forensic search.” If that’s as rigorous as your forensic sweep of the warehouse, I’m not holding out much hope here.

Wolf wrapping Alex in bacofoil there. Baked potato, it’s a good look.

Send in the CLONE.

Wait, I’ve just noticed they’re spelling Gregorovich as Gregorovitch in the titles, wtf? Could nobody be arsed to check the books? (Or just one more instance of Horowitz failing to fully remember his own character’s names?)

Episode 8 The number of lights they’ve left on in this facility, someone’s going to get a huge electricity bill.

As predicted, forensic sweep of the place not all that forensic. Whoever was responsible for searching the place and didn’t bother with Greif’s desk drawers should proooobably be fired. Just saying.

“They preferred the clone.” LMAO

Kyra - did she just – yes she did! That’s my light-fingered problem teen. (I kind’ve wondered if they were going to recruit her at first. Maybe Scorpia would like to have a crack.)

Yassen certainly has range when it comes to methods of killing people. I do love a competent assassin.

“He looked at me strangely.” (there may have been a LOT of squealing at this point)

Mrs Jones has a very handily available picture of baby!Yassen on her device, considering she had no idea what Alex was going to say. Why do people on the telly never have to spend ten minutes clicking through a filing tree of folders while muttering “bear with me” every few seconds until they find the one they want?

I see you Yassen, sitting in your shadowy room looking at pictures of Alex.

Darth Vader voice: Alex – I banged your father. 

You do wonder, given the Department knows the nature of the project by now, why nobody questioned what had happened to the duplicate for Alex Friend before.

That’s it Alex, taunt the murderous clone.

If Tom wants everyone out why doesn’t he just set off the fire alarm?

Yassen! I’m not gonna lie, I’d have liked a bit (who am I kidding, a lot) more interaction between the two of them (preferably involving helicopters) but I’ll take this. Please God we get a second series.

In summary: that was fantastic. I’ve already watched it all twice. Alex – perfect combination of that vulnerable smartarse who could also fuck you up. And Yassen – I’m in love all over again. He stole the show for me, despite probably having the fewest lines, possibly because he was the only competent person for miles. ALSO Thomas Levin says he loves the character and read Russian Roulette for background, so – he’s perfect. And may have prompted me to change my phone background for the first time in six months. (Having said that, still not convinced by the huge facial scar thing, they could’ve put it on his neck and still had Alex identify him by it. Oh well. Still not as distracting as Alex’s ears…)

[punmasterkentparson]

vampire weekend

ao3

Vampires are rare. The bite doesn’t always take; about one in three people die. Most of the vampires running around are at least a decade old. Many of them are over fifty, and still more can count their age in centuries, although a common theme is that the older the vampire, the more reclusive they tend to be. Modern life is...a little hard to keep up with.

Making a new vampire in the modern world involves a lot of paperwork; namely, documentation proving that the human candidate volunteered for the bite of their own free will, and thereby absolves the siring vampire of responsibility if they die. The application fees aren’t expensive, but the application process is a pain in the ass.

Biting for feeding purposes only, on the other hand, is as easy as walking up to a guy and asking, “You ever been bitten?”

When Kent walks up to Alexei at the NHL Awards afterparty and opens with that, Alexei fumbles his champagne glass and says stupidly, “Beaten?”

“Bitten,” Kent repeats in Russian. “Have you ever been bitten by a vampire?”

“No?” Alexei replies, his befuddlement increasing. He’d known Kent was a vampire and that he spoke Russian from playing in the Russian Superleague and then a couple years in the re-branded KHL before moving back to America in 2012, but it still throws Alexei for a hell of a loop to be confronted by it all at once. “No, I’ve never been bitten.”

“Do you wanna be?”

Considering the stereotypes surrounding vampires and the guilty pleasure of their bite, Alexei feels a lot like he’s being asked, “Have you ever thought about being tied up and spanked?”

“By you?” Alexei manages.

“Do you have any other vampires asking?”

Alexei shakes his head. “I’m confused why you’re asking.”

Kent shrugs. “I’m hungry. One of my usual donors is sick, the other is out of town, my own teammates are off limits for personal and contractual reasons, and I hate picking up strangers.”

The reasoning is surprisingly logical. “So you decided to ask me?” They aren’t strangers, having played at least one All Star weekend together, but they’re barely more than what Alexei would call acquaintances. He’d have been surprised if Kent asked him out to breakfast. But Kent is asking Alexei to be breakfast. Or dinner, whichever.

Kent shrugs again. “You’re the first guy I’ve run into tonight whom I thought probably wouldn’t be a dick about it.” He fiddles with the hem of his jacket. “I’m not gonna be mad or offended if you turn me down, you know. I’ve always got a few bags of A positive in the fridge. You’re not my only option, just...the one I’d prefer.”

“Because fresh tastes better?” Alexei guesses.

“Would you rather a well-seasoned, medium-rare steak at a steakhouse, or a plain, re-heated hamburger patty at McDonald’s?”

Alexei takes his point. “How much blood would you need?”

“Not quite a pint. It’s less than you’d give at a blood drive. You’ll probably wanna sit for twenty minutes after, just to make sure you’re fine, but you’d have no problems getting back to your hotel on your own. Although it’ll take about two weeks for your body to replace it all, so, if you’re planning on any training or heavy conditioning soon, you should turn me down.”

Alexei nods slowly, surprised to find himself considering it. He’d always been curious, but in a very abstract kind of way; he’d never thought the opportunity would ever present itself. He’s surprised at how intrigued he is. “Can we do it here?”

“There are a couple VIP lounges, we could confiscate one. Are you really up for this?” Even though Kent is the one who asked, he still looks surprised.

Alexei drains his champagne and sets the glass on a nearby table. “What happens in Vegas, right?”

So they find an empty VIP lounge with a door that locks, and settle on the sofa. At Kent’s instruction, Alexei removes his jacket and rolls up his shirt sleeve.

“Isn’t the carotid artery better?” Alexei asks.

“Sure, if you wanna end your night with a ride in an ambulance. It gushes if you bite it wrong, and I’m not an amateur, but I don’t take chances. Only noobs and sires go for the neck.” Kent pulls off his jacket and tie, tossing both over the back of the sofa with a carelessness that guarantees wrinkles. Then he undoes the top two buttons of his shirt and un-cuffs both his sleeves to roll them out of the way. Distantly, Alexei thinks that dishevelment is a good look for him.

“Do I need to do anything?” Alexei asks as Kent takes his arm in both hands and positions it belly-up, the inner elbow facing him.

“Just don’t punch me when it stings. It always does at first, I can’t do anything about that.”

Alexei snorts a laugh before saying, “Okay.”

And with that, Kent leans over Alexei’s arm and bites him. Alexei flinches immediately, a full-body shudder, because shit, Kent hadn’t been kidding, his fangs really sting. Whatever numbing agent stored in them works quickly, though, and soon all Alexei can feel is the solid grip of Kent’s fingers and the bizarre sensation of his blood being sucked—not drawn out with a syringe at a hospital, but sucked—out of his veins.

Kent drinks in comically dainty swallows. He closes his eyes and his brow wrinkles in concentration, or maybe annoyance at the shallow bloodflow. Alexei certainly doesn’t felt like he’s losing too much blood. After the initial bite and then the numbing, the minutes start to drag and Alexei discovers that letting a vampire bite him is...actually kinda boring.

He leans back against the sofa to wait it out. Quickly, he starts feeling sleepy. There’s still some alcohol in his system and it has been a really long day. 

He doesn’t even notice when the tingling starts.

He does notice, however, when Kent replaces sucking with licking to close the wound. And then Alexei notices that he, Alexei, is starting to tent his pants.

“Oh, that’s normal,” Kent tells him offhandedly, which is embarrassing as hell but at least saves Alexei the trouble of trying and failing to hide it. “Venom side effect, sorry.”

“That’s real?” Alexei had always assumed that books and movies were making that kind of kinky shit up. “Vampire venom causes erections?”

“As a side effect, and only sometimes,” Kent emphasizes. He gives Alexei’s inner elbow one last lick and squints at the spot for a moment, checking that it’s healing up. The sensation of that lick is weird, because Alexei can see the intimate slide of Kent’s wet tongue on his skin, but he can’t quite feel it. Kent sets Alexei’s arm on the sofa and adds, “I don’t know the chemical components, just that it’s something to keep the donor pliant and happy while the vampire drinks. Some people get happier than others.”

If Alexei wasn’t feeling like a sack of blissed-out Jell-O, he’d roll his eyes.

Kent nods at Alexei’s arm. “How do you feel? Lightheaded, dizzy? Pain anywhere?”

Alexei sags his entire weight into the soft grip of the sofa, letting his head lull over the back while he shakes it in a negative. “Just feel tired. Like I got a mild dose of morphine.”

“How’s your arm?”

A flex of his hand proves stiff fingers, but otherwise the limb is mobile. “A little numb.”

“That’ll wear off.” Kent slides off the sofa and stretches, a full-body affair with his arms high over his head. His cheeks are pink and his mouth is pinker, fangs peeking out between his lips. There’s a sweaty sheen to his neck and hairline that wasn’t there before. Alexei is hit again, more intensely this time, by the palpable magnetism of him, how every sliver of exposed skin begs for touch.

Kent walks over to a far table and fills a glass with water. He brings it back to Alexei and waits for him to take it with his good hand. “Drink all of that, and I’ll get you another.”

Alexei obeys. Kent leaves, refills the glass, and returns. Alexei takes longer to drink the second. He watches Kent over the rim. Kent is sprawled sideways on the sofa, one arm flung over the back and one leg pulled up and bent on the cushion. The twist of his body pulls his shirt tight enough to strain the buttons, and it leaves his collar flayed open like a lily in full bloom. The peek of his flushed collarbone taunts Alexei.

Alexei gulps the last mouthful of water. Kent takes the glass from him, sets it aside. His gaze is placid, like he can see the gears turning in Alexei’s head and is waiting to see where they go, not dreading or anticipating Alexei’s thought processes, just... curious.

Thanks to vampire venom and a partially numb arm, Alexei can’t lean in gracefully. The best he can do is awkwardly shuffle his bulk closer. Kent’s mouth  pinches on an aborted grin of amusement at Alexei’s expense, but his gaze is clear, while Alexei knows his own is hazy with champagne and excess dopamine. There’s nothing suave about a loose-limbed drunk making a pass. But Kent waits for him anyway, lets him haul himself close until they’re breathing the same air.

Alexei cups Kent’s cheek in his good hand and brushes his thumb over flushed skin. There’s still an erection in Alexei’s pants. He very much doubts he’s the first person who’s come onto Kent post-bite. Whatever he’s doing, he knows it’s not original. So it’s gratifying, the way Kent’s eyelashes flutter and his lips part abruptly on an anticipatory breath at Alexei’s touch.

Alexei kisses him. Kent sighs, relaxing, and lets him.

Alexei kisses him softly and messily and drunkenly for a long time. Kent leans into the hand on his cheek and kisses back. He tastes like blood, and his fangs are a hazard. It’s different. But his lips are plush and his tongue is generous, and it’s been a long time since Alexei kissed anyone with a mouth this nice.

When they part, Alexei’s head is swimming. Kent’s face is redder from Alexei’s kisses than it was from Alexei’s blood. That’s immensely satisfying. Alexei grins.

Kent takes one look at him and snickers. “You’re really high,” he declares.

“Yeah,” Alexei agrees with relish.

Kent giggles and pats Alexei’s knee. “I’ll get you another glass of water. We’ll give it ten minutes and see how you feel, huh?”

Alexei groans, dramatically put upon, but he accepts the fresh glass of water when it’s handed to him. This time, Kent puts a little more distance between them so Alexei can’t just fall into him for another kiss. Alexei wants to, but he sees the sense in sobering up. 

Ten minutes pass and Alexei feels much more clear-headed. He realizes he may have over-stepped. “Sorry, about—”

Kent waves him off and winks. “I didn’t mind. Sorry I didn’t warn you about potential side effects.”

“I didn’t mind.”

Kent glances at Alexei’s hands, his mouth, then his eyes. “Yeah?” He licks his lips. “How long are you in Vegas?”

“I fly out on Tuesday.”

Kent nods. “When you’re sober, and after you’ve thought about it... If you wanna do this again, call me.”

Alexei hates to ask, but he needs to clarify. “Do you mean ‘this’ as in biting me, or ‘this’ as in kissing?”

“I mean ‘this’ as in kissing. It won’t be safe for you to lose any more blood for at least three weeks,” Kent warns. “Those are standard blood donation rules. If anyone ever tries to tell you otherwise, they’re either an idiot or an asshole.”

Alexei chuckles at the protective vehemence in Kent’s tone. Kent is still within arm’s reach, clothes and hair ruffled and his skin so pink and supple-looking that it makes Alexei want to suck bruises on him. Time to think will definitely be necessary. He knows better than to follow his gut instinct to blurt out an impulsive ‘yes.’ “Okay. I’ll think about it. Give me your number?”

Numb fingers don’t handle smartphone keypads very well, so Alexei hands over his phone to let Kent input his contact information himself. When he gives the phone back, Kent says, “It’s okay if you don’t call.”

Alexei is ninety-nine percent sure he’ll call. “It’s okay if you change your mind.”

There’s a slight fang-exposing curl of Kent’s lips that puts fire in Alexei’s belly. Alexei is ninety-nine percent sure Kent won’t change his mind.

Twenty-four hours later, from the comfort of his hotel room, Alexei calls.

Kent, half a city away in his apartment, answers. He hasn’t changed his mind.

They spend the remainder of Alexei’s time in Vegas in bed. Kent doesn’t bite him again, but Alexei leaves hickeys on Kent’s skin like they’re party favors. He gorges himself on Kent’s body, every hard-soft inch of it, finds out every sound he can wring from him. He nicks his tongue on Kent’s fangs with how hard he kisses him and learns that Kent is a little bit weak, when it comes to blood; but Alexei also learns that he doesn’t mind that.

On their last night, Kent rolls into the curve of Alexei’s side and molds himself against Alexei’s ribs and hip like he belongs there. “If you don’t want anything after this, it’s cool,” he says. “What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas, right? It was a good weekend.”

Alexei slips his arm around Kent’s shoulders and musses his already thoroughly mussed-up hair. “Yeah. It was a good weekend.” He takes a breath and lets his next words out carefully. “It could be an even better summer, though.”

Kent tucks his face into Alexei’s neck. Alexei can hear him smile. “Yeah, it could be.”

[sh1p1nab0ttle]

Hey @espriexo I'm your secret santa! I want to apologize beforehand as I am still practicing my writing as it is my weakest subject which is why I included a drawing along with the story to make up for it. Anyways, I went with your third wish which was the writing prompt of Russia and America collaborating for space exploration to mars set in the future late 21st century.

Summary: Finally turning their attentions back onto space exploration, Russia and America are able to meet to discuss their trip to Mars. However, unexpected feelings overwhelm America and causes the nation to have other plans. 

Pairing: RusAme 

Ratings: K 

Words: 2493

@rusame-secret-santa-2017

Footsteps echoed through the halls as America got nearer to the doorway. The narrow space he was traveling through felt suffocating, or maybe that was just his anxiousness. The blond had no clue as to why he felt so nervous. It was just a meeting with another nation, no big deal. He could hear his heart thumping louder than his footstep and soon trying to reassure himself wasn't an option anymore. As he reached the opening, his eyes met those of shining purple staring back at him.

“Always late aren't you? I know we are not the best of ‘friends’ but could you still try to show up on time?”

America huffed at the comment he was greeted by. “Well I can’t help that flights in America are busier than flights in Russia!” he boasted proudly to mask how nervous he really was.

The older nation just rolled his eyes at the response he received. Had this been before 2050 then he would've most certainly started a physical fight with the younger nation. Though, ever since better leaders, well better in their people’s eyes, had taken both offices, their relations had been steadily rising. And now that there had been successful completed missions in sending people to Mars, it was their turn, his and America’s; the original Space Exploration Duo as they called it. Russia found this title to be quite ridiculous, but it seemed whenever America had heard it, he had a triumphant look. The Russian would never understand the American.

“So are you ready to do some space exploring once more? I haven't been able to just think about space in years! It’s always been about politics blah blah blah! I think the last time I really truly focused on space was back in the Cold War with you. Man I would never have admit it then but you getting to space first both scared me but also made me gain a lot more motivation and admiration for you. Of course, I thought you were going to use your access to space to destroy me and my people which was why I was so dedicated to getting to the moon! In some aspects though, had we not been so competitive, space would still be left unexplored and we wouldn’t be here planning for an exploration to Mars-,” America rambled on.

Russia sat quietly and listened to the other nation’s voice. Contrary to what most believe, he doesn't mind America’s outbursts of words. Russia loves the sounds of voices in meetings despite the chaos they usually bring. He would always prefer to be with others in a room full of noise than alone in a place of silence. The Russian ordered his papers while he waited for America to finish. The older nation always found it amazing how America could kill an eternal silence by filling it with sound just by himself. Suddenly the room went silent again and Russia looked up from sorting his papers.

America sat still in his seat across the table and fidgeted. He looked as though he were thinking about something. Russia peered at him curiously and wondered what made America stop his one-sided conversation. Finally the American looked up and gave a bashful smile which seemed unusual and out of place to the Russian. Russia could never have imagined seeing America shy or embarrassed in any circumstance. He seemed too outgoing and laid-back. Still, there America was, looking as though he was done talking.

“Ahem. Hey, Russia,” America began. He played with the corner of one of his papers subconsciously. “Are you nervous?”

Russia was slightly caught off guard by the question and tilted his head. “Why would I be nervous?” he inquired as a response.

America was silent for a moment regretting having brought the subject up. “Well, uh, I mean the last time we went to space was decades ago, because of everything that's happened and it's just unnerving to think about you know?” He paused and then added, “What if there are, like aliens on Mars!?”

The Russian just stared at America. “You know Tony is an alien...right?” he questioned.

The younger nation shook his head and looked dumbfounded. “No way! Tony’s my friend and plus he’s not from Mars,” America argued.

Sighing, Russia responded with a hand on his forehead, “America there are no aliens on Mars so you have nothing to be frightened of.”

“What about robots? Or a parasite that could kill us? Or-or-” America continued.

Standing up with papers in one hand and walking over to the blond, Russia put his other hand on America’s shoulder. “Alfred, relax. We need to focus on this mission. Our people have already gone to Mars and checked for all those...things. Plus, we are nations remember? We’ll be fine,” the Russian reassured the overexcited nation.

America felt his heartbeat quicken and face reddening at Russia’s touch as he looked back down as his papers. “Y-yeah,” the American murmured. He had needed Russia of all people to calm his squabble down. Wait- had Russia called him ‘Alfred’? America quickly glanced up quizzically at Russia before looking back down at his papers. It must've been a slip of the tongue, as nations never called each other by their human names unless they were close and were outside of business, neither of which the situation was.

Russia sat down in the empty seat next to America instead of returning to his seat. He hadn't realized he had used America’s human name when speaking to him. Looking back to America he asked, “What will you bring on this trip?”

America reluctantly raised his head and hoped that his blush had ceased or that the Russian wouldn’t notice. He was wrong with both. “Uh, just the necessities and what my bosses and space program suggested I bring.”

Now Russia was confused as to why America looked slightly red. Nervousness and worrying about dangers weren't usually like America, and on top of that America was now blushing? The Russian shrugged it off and responded, “I did too. You have finished packing everything, да?”

America nodded, “Yeah I did, since we'll be leaving soon and all.”

Russia checked the time upon hearing America’s response. “We still have a some time left before we have to leave,” he stated. It had turned from evening to night but there was still much for the two to discuss business wise. Before Russia could say anything, though, America interjected.

“Hey Russia, wanna go stargazing?” the American inquired.

This confused the other nation as he looked down at their papers and then looked back up at the American for an explanation. He didn’t know what compelled America to ask him, of all people, to go look at the stars together, but there was no denying that the Russian nation enjoyed watching the stars at night just as much as he enjoyed being around others. Still, would his boss really be okay with him disobeying orders? Before he could give a response, however, America grabbed his hand and began dragging him out if the meeting room and building. The cool air hit his face upon their exit out of the space centre. He looked up at the darkened sky and was about to say something, but the American had let go of his hand and disappeared to somewhere else. Russia looked around him and saw the other nation speaking with someone in a vehicle. The blond looked away from who he was conversing with and beckoned Russia over. The Russian sighed and began to jog over.

“He said he’d take us to the top of the mountain nearby,” America explained to the older nation. “It has a great view of the stars.”

Russia glanced back at the space centre and sighed. There was no changing America’s mind now. Instead of saying anything, Russia just silently nodded. The two nations were driven over to their destination and it had been a fairly quiet trip. As they got out and started to walk the rest of the way towards the top of the low mountain, America finally broke the silence again.

“Hey Russia?” the younger nation began.

Russia turned his attention from walking to listening to the American. He waited for the other to continue, wondering why he had lost his optimistic and outgoing tone. The Russian didn’t understand why America was behaving weirdly ever since almost the start of the meeting when Russia first saw him again.

“Do you...actually wanna be around me?” America continued quietly and nervously. He wished he could make the nagging feeling in him go away but he couldn’t and so he felt obligated to ask.

The Russian stopped walking and turned to look at America. “Ufufuuf~ Why do you ask the most silly questions America?” he giggled. Russia looked up towards the sky speckled with stars. “I want to be around you. I think you are what keeps me going. You are loud and noisy but that is what I need in my life sometimes,” he explained softly. The lighter blond looked back down and gently patted the other’s head. “Let us go now to the top of the mountain.”

America pouted as he felt Russia’s hand pat his head and reverted back to his defensive competitive attitude towards the Russian. “Ack-Don’t pet me like I’m a little kid! I bet I could beat you up the mountain with no problem!” he taunted.

“Oh?” Russia asked with amusement. “The last time we had a race with Space involved, I won, no?” He smiled as he saw the American get flustered again.

“That was a tie! This is just a foot race anyways,” America argued. “And I’ll totally win this ti-” Before he could finish what he was going to say however, Russia had already began the race and had gotten a head start against the other nation. For Russia’s size, he sure was fast. “Hey, that’s not fair!” America cried.

Russia just continued to run up the mountain but when he looked back, he saw that the younger nation was catching up. Their destination was in view and with a final burst of speed, Russia exited the path up with trees and entered an open space perfect for stargazing. America stopped behind him shortly after and was out of breath, they both were. “Looks like I win, little American,” Russia teased.

America frowned at the defeat. “That’s because you started before I even finished talking,” he argued.

Russia smiled and faintly replied with, “All is fair in love and war.”

Confused, the younger nation was about to ask what he had meant but Russia had already turned to find a spot for watching stars. He watched the Russian sit down and joined him silently. Love and war, they weren’t at war directly or indirectly and hadn’t been since before 2050. But love, there was no way there was any love between them. It was always tension, right?

“America, look,” Russia commented breaking America from his thoughts. The other nation followed to where the Russian was pointing and saw the red speck in the sky. “It is where we will be going soon,” Russia added.

The blond nodded and thought about what it would be like on mars. It was slightly unnerving to the nation but he remembered that he wouldn’t be going alone. Russia would be with him and they’d be the first two nations on Mars, together. He looked at the other stars and tried to find any constellation he could. His favourite would have to be Aquila the Eagle Constellation. “Hey Ivan-I mean Russia, what’s your favourite constellation?” the American asked.

The taller nation blinked in surprise when he heard America use his human name, but it also made him smile. “Canis Major and Canis Minor,” he answered.

“Dogs? I didn’t know you liked dogs,” America responded curiously and wondered if the Russian had a reasoning for liking the two dog constellations.

Russia was quiet for a moment until he said, “Laika.”

America understood and didn’t need to ask anymore. He recognized the name of the Space Dog and felt slightly saddened upon remembering that day. He knew Russia also felt remorse. The American decided to go back to watching the stars. The night was growing colder and he felt the need to instinctively move closer towards the Russian.

They sat quietly throughout the night making small remarks and pointing at stars, planets, or constellations every so often. Russia looked to his side when he felt a weight on his shoulder and saw that the American had fallen asleep. Feeling tired himself, the Russian wrapped his scarf around the other nation and laid his head on the other’s before drifting into a sound sleep under the star-filled night sky.

xxx

America felt a warm light as he opened his eyes. He was met with the sight of a rising sun at dawn. He felt something around his neck and saw it was Russia’s scarf. The larger nation was still asleep but woke up when he felt America stir and move away from him. The blond quickly unwrapped the scarf and stood up avoiding any eye contact with the Russian. Instead, he opted to look at the sun on the horizon. “We should go before our bosses send out a patrol to search for us,” he pointed out.

Russia was still a little dazed but nodded and stood up as well and adjusted his scarf. He followed America’s gaze towards the ball of light. A new day was beginning, and it was the day they would begin their flight to Mars. America grabbed his hand and began leading him back down the path towards where they had been dropped off the night before.

America felt as if his heart would leap out of him and wished it would calm down. It seemed he lost any control of it, ever since he woke up and found himself leaning against the taller nation. He pulled out his phone and saw all the missed calls he received from his boss. He ignored all of them and called the driver from before, who met them at the bottom of the path and drove the two nations back to the space center.

Upon entering the building, the two were bombarded with people scolding them and shoving them to different rooms to get them ready for the Mars trip. Having gotten into their space suits and everything in their capsule, Russia and America found themselves preparing for take off with a few other astronauts and cosmonauts. America looked over at Russia and took the other’s hand as he mouthed the words “You ready?” Russia nodded and held onto the American’s hand as the take off began. Something inside told him that something was going to go wrong, but the Russian didn’t care. He wouldn’t be alone this time; he’d have America with him, right?

[madamspeaker]

Hillary Clinton on where it all went wrong | The Sunday Times Magazine

The woman who lost to Donald Trump reflects on the failure of her presidential campaign and coping with crushing disappointment. Interview by Christina Lamb

First comes a man to switch the chairs. Then a young press officer to arrange their position. Two men in grey suits with tell-tale earpieces, the Secret Service, hover at the doorway. Stylists flit in, pleased the weather is overcast as it is “kind for photos”. It feels like the entourage of an ageing movie star or the forward party of an absolute monarch. “She’s just coming,” I am repeatedly told, followed by: “She’s held up.” I keep getting my notebook and tape recorder ready, to no avail. And then, when Hillary Clinton finally walks in, I am helping the photographer prepare his shot, crouching down pretending to be her and making angry and devastated faces; she did, after all, lose the election to a womaniser whose candidacy she considered a joke. Fortunately, she appears not to notice and immediately moves the chairs closer. “I feel like we’ve met,” she says, warmly. This is odd, as she is the one who is familiar, if a bit softer, blonder and bluer-eyed in person. At 69, she has been on the world stage my entire adult life. First lady, wronged wife, senator, secretary of state, first woman to run for president for a main party. Even her pantsuits are familiar; today she wears black trousers and a blue top as shiny as a Quality Street wrapper.

“I’ll bet you know more about my private life than you do about some of your closest friends,” she says in her new book. “You’ve read my emails, for heaven’s sake. What more do you need? What could I do to be ‘more real?’ Dance on a table? Swear a blue streak? Break down sobbing?”

That, of course, is exactly what I want as I wait in the hotel in Chappaqua, the small, leafy town north of New York that she and Bill call home. At the end of a nearby cul-de-sac stands their large white clapboard house, where she has been doing yoga (favourite position: Warrior II), praying and downing chardonnay to drown her sorrows. Today, it’s strictly iced tea (it’s not even midday) and she is so much nicer than that brittle woman on TV that it feels mean to ask her to relive her pain. Instead of cursing or sobbing, she is keen to discuss why child refugees are going missing in Europe, and the implications of last month’s Kurdish referendum.

We establish that we met in the bar of a hotel on a trip to South Korea in 2010 that included a visit to the demilitarised zone, where she was literally eyeball to eyeball with a soldier from the communist North standing outside the window. I was surprised then by how funny she was over gin and tonics.

Korea, of course, is very much in the news. The day before, the president had prompted gasps in his first speech to the annual UN general assembly in New York by threatening to “totally destroy North Korea” and taunting its leader, Kim Jong-un, as “Rocket Man”.

You must feel you should have been the one standing there, I say. Her smile is part-grimace. “Put aside what I would have said, how I would have conducted myself, I just found it hard to believe he was standing there as president and saying what he was saying,” she says. “It was a distressing speech — dark, dangerous, selfish, incoherent — and left as much room for misinterpretation and confusion as I ever heard in a speech by a president of the United States.”

She was particularly worried about Trump’s suggestion he would undo Barack Obama’s hard-won nuclear deal with Iran, which Trump derided as “an embarrassment to the United States”.

“They want to blow up the Iran nuclear deal just because we did it,” she says. “I think the Iran nuclear agreement was a stellar example of multinational co-operation, but more than that, it certainly put a lid on its nuclear programme. So when I hear President Trump talk in such a bellicose manner, threatening not just North Korea but Iran, it raises the potential you will have two extremely dangerous nuclear challenges in two regions of the world with unforeseen consequences, which will be horrible for people in those regions.”

Trump’s repeated use of the word “sovereignty” (21 times) in the speech and insistence that he would “always put America first” seemed intent on undoing all the effort she put in as secretary of state in the Obama administration to — as she sees it — restore the international reputation of the US after the damage caused by George W Bush’s War on Terror and the invasion of Iraq. “It’s not about me,” Clinton insists. “It’s about the message that sends to the world and what his priorities are, what he values and doesn’t.”

Of course, it is also about her. Rather than accept defeat and go quietly into the night, as many believed she should, she has written a 494-page angst-ridden book, titled What Happened. Though she laughs a lot in our interview, her bitterness resonates in every mention of the T-word — and there are many. A close female friend of hers tells me that “Hillary is utterly devastated”. “I have developed the hide of a rhinoceros,” Clinton insists to me, but I can’t imagine what it is like actually Being Hillary.

In the 1990s, she had to endure the whole world knowing about her president husband’s affair with the intern. Who can forget Monica Lewinsky’s semen-stained Gap dress? Then, when she contested the Democratic nomination in 2008, she had to watch the job go to the cool younger guy with far less experience. After that, she had to swallow her pride to work for him, which she did with great aplomb. Then, to run again and lose to a reality-TV host who boasted of sexual abuse, and tweets insults to everyone from the mayor of London to the Pope.

Clinton clearly can’t get her head round the fact that her fellow Americans voted for Trump rather than her own supremely qualified self. “I thought I’d be a damn good president,” she says. “I did not think I was going to lose.”

She admits she had prepared for her first 100 days with binders full of policies, and had written her victory speech, which she planned to give dressed in white, the colour of the suffragettes. Indeed, so confident was she that, as the results started coming in on election night, she went for a nap in her suite at New York’s Peninsula hotel. She woke before midnight to find husband Bill and her team ordering in whisky and ice cream for the shock, as the key states of Florida, North Carolina, Ohio and Iowa all fell to Trump. By 1.35am it was all over. The victory party was cancelled, the white suit packed away, and the specially built platform in the shape of the United States under a symbolic glass ceiling a terrible embarrassment.

Instead, she and Bill lay in bed staring at the ceiling. Does she still wake up every morning, wondering how it happened? “Yeah,” she replies. “I’m not living it every minute of every day, but every day I live it.”

Does she sometimes want to kick something? She laughs. “A friend gave me a little sign that says, ‘I do yoga, I meditate and I still want to kick somebody.’ I know that feeling.” It wasn’t just losing, she adds, but to whom. “It’s deeply troubling, because if I had lost to what I’d call a ‘normal Republican’, I would have disagreed with them — I had deep disagreements with George W Bush, but came to understand his worldview. I knew his father, I knew Reagan, I would have a lot of political differences, but I wouldn’t have felt the same sense of real loss for our country, that we elected someone who knows so little, cares even less and is just seeking the applause of the masses. I feel a terrible sense of responsibility for not having figured out how to defeat this person. There must have been a way and I didn’t find it.”

Instead, in the early hours of November 9, she made a concession telephone call that she describes as “one of the strangest moments of my life — weirdly ordinary, like calling a neighbour to say you can’t make his barbecue”.

After addressing shocked and tearful supporters the next day, she and Bill drove home in silence. Desperate for distraction, she decluttered all her wardrobes, arranged photographs in albums and remodelled the adjoining house they bought last year. In between, she went for walks with Bill and their dogs, read all the Elena Ferrante novels and went to weepy Broadway musicals such as Les Misérables.

But it was impossible to escape. Even the wallpaper in their bedroom, yellow with pastel flowers, was a copy of that in their old bedroom in the White House.

Then there was the inauguration that she and Bill were expected to attend as former president and first lady. Knowing the eyes of the world were on her, she steeled herself to “breathe out, scream later”, and tried to imagine she was in Bali.

Over and over, she asked herself “Why?”. Astonishingly it came down to just 77,744 votes out of 136m cast. “If just 40,000 people across Wisconsin, Michigan and Pennsylvania had changed their minds, I would have won,” she wrote.

“I thought, ‘I have to understand what happened,’ ” she tells me. “That’s why I wrote the book.”

Yet the writing process was so painful, she admits, that “at times I had to go and lie down”.

Shouldn’t she just accept defeat and shut up? She gives the very idea short shrift. “I am perfectly willing to take responsibility for all the shortcomings I can identify about myself and my campaign,” she says. “But that wasn’t the whole story. I’ve been in campaigns for decades, nobody runs a perfect campaign. People make gaffes, missteps ... This was of a different order in terms of forces at work and I think that’s one of the biggest threats to democracy.”

The “forces” blamed in the book include misogyny whipped up by Trump, the American electoral college system (which meant she got 3m more votes than Trump, yet still lost), the spreading of fake news through social media as well as other interference by the Russian president, Vladimir Putin, that she describes as “more serious than Watergate”. This includes Putin’s alleged involvement in the dumping of her emails by Julian Assange, the WikiLeaks founder.

Most of all, she blames the FBI director James Comey for firing off a letter to Congress just before the election — in which he revealed that the bureau had uncovered emails “pertinent” to a previously closed investigation into Clinton’s use of a private email address for classified information during her time as secretary of state. “What happened was almost a perfect storm,” she says. “I think I would have won without the Comey letter. I think the combination of the letter 11 days before the election, and what the Russians did weaponising WikiLeaks, raised enough doubts right at the end among a couple of tens of thousands of people in three states to vote differently.”

I point out that the former vice-president Joe Biden criticised her campaign for its lack of economic message, while Tony Blair said the anger that buoyed Trump “is not unjustified. You can’t just sit there and essentially blame the people.” They are not the only ones who accuse her of being elitist and out of touch.

“I knew that [anger] was out there,” she replies. “But I believed — and the popular vote proved it — more Americans agreed with the direction we were heading than not, and I believed Trump was temperamentally unprepared and unqualified to be president.

“I think there was lots of justified anger and distress over the financial collapse of 2007-2009,” she adds. “People’s savings were wiped out, they lost jobs and homes. But Barack Obama stabilised the markets and navigated us through it to the point that now incomes are beginning to rise and jobs are being created again.I don’t think Trump’s principal appeal is based on economic insecurity. It was a combination of playing on the fears of people who are worried about losing out in the future by fuelling sexism, racism and anti-immigrant feelings.

“The whole campaign he ran, from the very first day, was aimed at scapegoating. So if you are not in the place where you think you should be in society, that’s because someone else has taken it.”

In his campaign, Trump talked about how a victory for him would be “Brexit plus plus plus”. Did the British vote, less than five months earlier, not make her think that a similar populist earthquake was possible in the US? “Brexit should have been a bigger alarm than it was,” she admits. “It was some of the same people working for Trump, advocating for him. They thought, ‘Hey, we’ve got this figured out, just tell a really horrible lie over and over again, keep people off balance and make them think that this will, if not make their lives better, make them feel better.’ They voted against modern Britain and the EU, believing that somehow this would be good for their small village. It made no sense. The same thing played out in my race, but I didn’t think we were so vulnerable. But it turned out we were wrong — in part because the Russians played a much bigger role.”

By the “same people”, she particularly means Nigel Farage, the former Ukip leader, who was an enthusiastic advocate of Trump. Indeed, he was the first foreign politician to be received by Trump after his election. She speaks of Farage with disgust. “He came to the US to campaign for Trump and spent half of his remarks insulting me in a very personal way and talking about Trump as the alpha male, the silver-backed gorilla. Think of those images and what that says about what’s acceptable and what’s not.”

The real Bond villain in her book, however, is Putin, who she believes wants revenge for the collapse of the Soviet Union and the expansion of Nato. She also insists he has a personal grudge against her, describing him as “manspreading” in their meetings.

“US policy of the 1990s, to help democratise and protect former Soviet states, was something Russians didn’t like,” she says. “Putin said the collapse of the Soviet Union was the worst catastrophe in human history. But he never personally attacked my husband.

“There was that famous encounter Bush had with Putin when he said, ‘I can do business with him, I looked into his soul.’ I said, ‘He’s a KGB agent — by definition he doesn’t have a soul.’ So I sparred with him from a distance and as secretary of state. It was a personal grudge.”

To try to improve the situation, she says she would always go to meetings with Putin trying to find something they could actually engage on, but “as President Obama once said, [Putin] is like the bored guy in the back of the room”. She finally got his attention by asking him about wildlife conservation. “He came alive!” she recounts. “He takes me down the stairs — all of his security guys are jumping up, because we weren’t expected — into this inner sanctum with a huge desk and the biggest map of Russia and he started telling me he’s ‘going here to tag polar bears’. And then he says, ‘Would your husband like to come?’ I said, ‘Well, I’ll ask him, but if he’s busy, I’ll go!’ ”

The invitation never came. Instead, last October, the US government formally accused the Russian government of hacking the Democratic Party’s computer network, and said that Moscow was trying to “interfere” with the US election. Russia also used its own state-run media, such as RT and Sputnik, to generate anti-Clinton stories, as well as internet trolls to post fake stories on Facebook and other social media.

Last month, Facebook admitted that Russians had spent at least $100,000 on some 3,000 ads on US issues, posted on the site in the past two years. If people clicked, they received a stream of provocative news stories.

“No country has attacked the US with so few consequences,” Clinton writes. Should the Obama administration have done more, I ask. “Aagh,” she sighs, “that needs a whole other session.” She continues with a plea for the British authorities to investigate Cambridge Analytica, a behaviour-profiling company run by an old Etonian that reportedly received £5m from the Trump campaign to help swing voters.

“I hope the UK are investigating,” she says. “You know they were involved in the Kenya elections and Brexit, and are the subject of congressional and special counsel inquiries. The question to be asked is: how did they, the Russians and the Trump campaign converge?”

Grudges aside, what did Putin hope to achieve by supporting Trump? “I think it has exceeded his expectations — except for the unpredictability of it,” she replies. “He thought he was backing somebody who would immediately lift sanctions, be quiescent about Syria and Ukraine, and he’s got a lot of it.”

The Russians may have spread fake news, but why did so many Americans believe it? This, it seems, is the question that haunts her. One particularly improbable story that gained traction involved Clinton and her campaign chair, John Podesta, running a child-trafficking network from a pizzeria in Washington.

“Why would people believe that? Do they despise me and my politics so much that they are willing to believe the most horrible lie? How, in democracies like ours [can] people believe nonsense and lies on the side of buses about how much money the UK government paid to the EU? How did we let this happen?”

Clinton not only feels she inflicted Trump on the world, but that she let down women who had thought they were going to see America’s first female president.

Whatever you may think about Hillary, it was unedifying, to say the least, to see election rallies in the world’s most powerful nation chanting, “Kill the bitch!” How did that make her feel? “Sexism and misogyny are endemic in our society, so of course they are present in our politics,” she replies. “What I found so despicable was that it was stimulated by the candidate himself. In that campaign we had someone who advocated violence, who said all kinds of terrible things, who smirked at other terrible things. It was hard to believe it was happening.

“I got an honorary degree a few years ago from St Andrews in Scotland,” she continues, “and one of the other honourees was Mary Beard [the Cambridge classics professor]. She pointed out that some of the really horrible things people said about me harked back to ancient Greeks.” For example, the campaign mugs depicting Trump holding up Clinton’s severed head recalling Perseus holding up the head of Medusa.

“And Margaret Atwood, the author of The Handmaid’s Tale, told me it reminded her of puritan witch-hunts of the 17th century.”

In the book, she describes how it felt as Trump followed her around the stage in the second TV debate, two days after the release of a tape in which he bragged about groping women. “He was literally breathing down my neck,” she writes. “My skin crawled.”

“Trump was running a reality-TV campaign filled with personal attacks, giving people a great show,” she says. Yet people didn’t just watch it — they voted for him, women too. While Clinton won the vote of black, Latina and Asian women by large margins, 53% of white females preferred Trump. Was she surprised? “No, because these forces have been around my entire life. But both through legislation and broad consensus, starting in the 1960s, it became less and less acceptable in our politics to run on race or be overtly sexist. But that didn’t mean everyone agreed and all of a sudden became feminist and opened the circle of opportunity.”

This, she says, presents a huge challenge for any traditional politician. “When people come along and say we just have to figure out how to get along with voters who voted for Trump, I say, ‘At what cost? At the cost of turning our backs on refugees and immigrants? At the cost of permitting discrimination against blacks and women?’ No, that’s not an acceptable cost. How do we do a better job of conveying, instead, that we are going to grow opportunity in society, so more people can realise dreams? That has to be the message.”

She made that pitch, though, and it didn’t work. Has America now had enough of the Clintons? “I am not going anywhere, but will be active in politics, which I care deeply about.”

She is setting up an organisation to recruit and train young people — particularly women — to go into politics. “I will do not-for-profit work, working with universities and writing and speaking out [against] what I see as a global backlash against women’s progress.”

Nicola Sturgeon, first minister of Scotland, recently said: “Things that are seen as strengths in a man are seen as weaknesses in a woman.” Does Clinton agree? “I met Nicola this spring in New York and we had a great conversation,” she says. “There’s a commonality that exists among women who reach a certain level in politics.”

Has she met Theresa May? “No,” she simply says.

Do women lead in a different way? “I think I do. I am very comfortable in a more collegial way. I like to listen, I don’t like to brag or lie about what I can do, which I think put me at a disadvantage this time!”

After all she has endured, would she encourage her own daughter, Chelsea, to enter politics?

“I don’t ever think like that, because she is an independent, incredibly accomplished person. She has written a couple of very good books, I don’t think she’s at all interested in office.”

In the meantime, spending time with Chelsea and her two young children is one of the bonuses of losing. “Grandchildren are the best!” she exclaims.

Bill, she says, is a wonderful hands-on grandfather to Charlotte and Aidan. It’s an unexpected image — almost as unexpected as the affection with which she repeatedly refers to her husband throughout the interview. When I was a Washington correspondent in the Obama years, everyone told me the Clintons’ was a marriage on paper and the couple had struck a deal that she would stay with him in return for him helping her become president. She vehemently denies this, saying she is “fed up with people speculating on the state of my marriage”. In the book, she admits there were times she doubted its future, but she decided to stay with him because “I love him with my whole heart”.

Family aside, there’s always the chardonnay and a strange relaxation technique she describes as alternate nostril breathing.

It’s time for her photos, and what Clinton calls her “glam squad” appears to touch up her hair and make-up. She worked out she spent 600 hours — or 25 days — getting ready on the campaign trail. It’s not over. Next week she comes to the UK, where she will go to Swansea for the naming of a law school in her honour. “I am blessed with a strong constitution and am resilient,” she insists. “I am not going to spend the rest of my life looking backwards.”

The smile breaks and for a moment she looks as crestfallen as the 13-year-old Hillary who wrote to Nasa saying she wanted to be an astronaut. “Sorry, little girl,” came the response. “We don’t accept women into the space program.”

What Happened by Hillary Rodham Clinton (Simon & Schuster £20) is out now

Hillary Rodham Clinton makes exclusive UK appearances at both The Times and The Sunday Times Cheltenham Literature Festival and Southbank Centre’s London Literature Festival on Sunday 15 October

[go-redgirl]

Media Melts Down Over Iran’s Pathetic Strike Rush Limbaugh.com ^ | January 8, 2020 | Rush Limbaugh 

RUSH: I want to get some of the audio sound bites here of the some of the Drive-By Media that happened last night and this morning after Iran launched its impotent little salvo at a couple of bases in Iraq where Americans were stationed. We have a montage here — this is audio sound bite number 3. This is literally the Drive-By Media praising Iran for intentionally causing no casualties and saving the world from the madman, Donald Trump.

Now, let me give you the timeline of this. Last night when Iran launches its missiles, which we all saw in cheap, standard definition video, we saw two launches and they were looping ’em, made to look like a constant barrage of launches, but it was just two, a cheap fireworks show. And so everybody in the media is in a state of panic. “Oh, my God. Oh, this is what we feared. The awesomely powerful, omnipotent Iranians are gonna wipe out America. Oh, my God. It’s all Trump’s fault. Oh, my God. Oh, my God.”

Then we learn that the Iranians didn’t hit anything, by design, that they were engaged in a face-saving maneuver designed appease their own out of control wackos in their country, but they knew full well they didn’t want any part of Donald Trump. They tipped us off that these missiles were aimed at nothing.

So the Drive-Bys, when they learned that — there’s that video right now, Snerdley. There it is. Well, that launch they didn’t have last night. CNN’s running the video that I’m talking about. Cheap SD quality video that Iranian TV provided. At any rate, so now the Drive-Bys — yeah, our little montage here — go out of their way to praise Iran for restraint in purposely avoiding American targets so as to not provoke our madman president.

RICHARD ENGEL: This was a calibrated response. We’re still waiting to hear from President Trump. Is he going to come out and taunt the Iranians?

ERIN BURNETT: Was that intentional? By Iran, to not have there be American casualties? To provide an off-ramp?

BRIAN WILLIAMS: Off ramp. Zero casualties. Does that afford the president of the United States an off ramp?

ANDREA MITCHELL: Iran deliberately missed. They have such highly precise missiles. We know that they can do this if they really want to.

RUSH: (laughing)

JAMES CLAPPER: The administration, skated by another one. We may have dodged a bullet here.

BRETT MCGURK: We kind of dodged a bullet.

DEXTER FILKINS: If in fact they didn’t kill any Americans, then we all got lucky.

CHRIS CUOMO: Who’s going to give that message to the president? If he’s listening tonight, God bless him, I hope you’re trying to be your best self.

MAX BOOT: I would hope that President Trump would take this opportunity.

RUSH: It just never ends. The bad guys are the good guys. The bad guys have all the talent. The bad guys have all the precision. The bad guys hold all the cards. The bad guys are making a fool of our president. The bad guys, boy, I hope our president, oh, I hope he doesn’t revert to his real self, says Fredo Cuomo.

Let me give you some of the identities here. It was Andrea Mitchell, NBC News, Washington, who said Iran deliberately missed, they have such highly precise missiles, you know. We know they can do this if they really want to. Oh, yeah, see? The Iranians are unstoppable. We can’t stop ’em. We can’t beat ’em. The Iranians, man, we’re lucky they were being so nice. We’re lucky that the Iranians purposely missed, otherwise, oh, we don’t even want to think about it.

These people cannot even conceive of the fact that we’re the good guys and that we have the precision and that we have the ability to project power that the Iranians can only dream of. No, it’s all from the standpoint that Iran holds the cards, Iran’s running the show. James Clapper of the Trump-Russia coup effort, “Well, the administration skated by –” See, Trump is just an idiot, wandering around in the White House, doesn’t know what’s going on and he dodged a bullet because the goodness and the good graciousness of the Iranians.

Chris Cuomo. “Who’s gonna give that message to the president?” Meaning the Iranians have launched missiles, like Trump doesn’t know. Fredo’s telling the world the Iranians launched. Trump doesn’t know. Fredo’s worried who’s gonna tell Trump. God bless Trump. I hope he’s trying to be his best self-tonight. Here’s more Andrea Mitchell, NBC News, Washington. Sound bites 20 and 21. This was today, NBC.

MITCHELL: By saying that, again, as he has said for years, that in the Iran nuclear deal, that he provided — that the Obama administration provided $150 billion, that’s just not factually correct, that was unfreezing the frozen Iranian assets that have been frozen since 1979 when they took the hostages, the 52 hostages and took over our U.S. embassy. So the Iran nuclear deal did allow Iran to get back its own assets, and that’s a lot of the money that he is describing.

RUSH: Okay. Is this not a difference without a distinction? We had put sanctions on Iran since 1979. They took 52 hostages. And what’s Obama do? Obama comes along and pretty much apologizes and unfreezes the assets and then delivers the cash to the Tehran International airport on a pallet. We saw it. It was Obama who delivered the cash. They want to split hairs over whether or not it was our money or the Iranians’ money.

But regardless, they cannot permit any criticism of Obama. And so that’s what Trump did today. Trump blamed all of this — he said these missiles, these missiles launched on our targets last night were paid for with money from our previous administration. And that’s Obama. And it’s true.

In what sane world does a president of the United States deliver $1.8 billion in cash? That’s what Obama did all throughout his effort to appease — and then sign the stupid nuclear deal with Iran, which today Trump urged the ChiComs and the Russians to also get out of. And what do you bet they will? Chuck Todd, NBC, also distressed that Trump blamed Obama in his speech today, claiming that Obama made it possible financially for Iran to launch the missiles last night.

TODD: They did, and he took it. Ummm, but he didn’t want to look like he took it. You know, we’re glossing over that. The sitting president of the United States (snickering) accusing essentially the previous president of helping to finance, uh, Iranian weapons is — is — is quite remarkable that he’s willing to push the envelope like that with the office — with this office. I mean, I guess at this point we shouldn’t be surprised that he does these things anymore. It’s still (snickers) a remarkable thing that he actually did it.

RUSH: Yeah? What is remarkable, Chuck? Is it remarkable that Obama did it and that Trump is pointing it out? Should Trump just not mention these kinds of things? Is that the way it works, that current presidents do not say critical things of their predecessors? These guys still can’t figure out that they’re dealing with somebody entirely outside their sphere. They’re dealing with somebody, Donald Trump, outside their bubble — and they don’t even now know how to process it. They live in a constant state of disbelief, being offended.

“How dare he say that about Obama!”

But it all happened. It all happened. I don’t care whether it was Iranian money that had been frozen and unfrozen. I don’t care if it was our money. Obama delivered it, and why did Obama deliver it? Why was Obama trying to appease Iran? Because of a failed philosophy about how to deal with enemies, and that philosophy — through many previous administrations, not just Obama’s — was rooted in the belief that it’s all the United States’ fault. And if it’s not our fault, it’s certainly within our power to control.

“We’re so big and so powerful, and that alone frightens and intimidates and provokes.” So we’ve had a succession of administrations and a constant civil service corps — State Department ambassadorial corps — who have believed that the United States, by virtue of our achievements and existence, is a destabilizing force in the rest of the world. And we’ve got a president who doesn’t think that, thinks the exact opposite — and this is what that looks like.

BREAK TRANSCRIPT

RUSH: I just watched this loon Clapper on CNN (imitating Clapper), “Well, we don’t know the possibility that Iran might want proxies on terror attacks. Could be tomorrow. Could be next week. Could be later this year. I think it’s a mistake to assume that anything Trump’s done made us safer.”

And then the infobabe anchor. “Yes. That’s not been said enough. That’s right on, Mr. Clapper.”

“Thank you. Thank you. I talk to Brennan constantly about how we hate Trump, posing great, great threats, Steele dossier and all that.”

TOPICS: Culture/Society; Editorial; Foreign Affairs; News/Current Events KEYWORDS: drivebymedia; iran; iraq; media; rush; transcript

[heymichaelbuckley]

I stopped drinking alcohol

8 weeks ago, I stopped drinking. It was one of the easiest and best things I have ever done.  You know how much I loved my Vodka and Prosecco so let me explain. I wasn't going to post about is but I do see the value in sharing it so here we go. Also, if I had read this post in 2015 I would have rolled my eyes and said “QUITTER”! Ha! I am fine with any and all reactions to this post.

Looking back, I was never a drinker. I drank very little in college. Maybe a wine cooler here and there. I certainly was never drunk.  Maybe tipsy at a cast party once? Godspell was intense yo! I was not a drinker much in my twenties. I would go out and have a few beers or White Russians but never was alcohol something I thought about or pursued.  I really didn't become a drinker until 36/37years old.

Around 2012 I started drinking heavily and often. We had a house on Cape Cod.  I loved entertaining. I loved drinking.  I had been doing YouTube for a few years and working from home and pretty isolated and suddenly had lots of real life friends and the drinking was a big part of it. I had the time and money and lack of direction that made it easy to fall into.

By 2014, my marriage was ending and my career was boring so I was drinking a lot to numb, to ignore my feelings, to avoid communicating properly with my ex husband. I knew what I was doing. This is not like I woke up this year and realized this - hyper self-aware as always, even while drunk.

2015 the party continued. I was "celebrating" single life and my new independence.  I also was deep in YouTube funk so would much rather have a friend over and day drink vs. make another stupid video about a Kardashian. The online persona I had created taunted and tortured me.

This was the time alcohol really tricked my brain to think it was helping.  Oops! Sneaky alcohol! In my defense, I was on Cape Cod, I could have easily turned to Heroin! Jokes!

By the spring of 2016 I wanted to stop. Maybe? Not really. Or at least drink less. I did. For a week. Maybe two.  All through the rest of 2016, I was mindful of how much I was drinking. Trying to count drinks on my calendar. It was tedious. I hated it. I cried about it. Prayed about it. Journaled about it. Obsessed about it. Took online quizzes to see if I had a drinking problem. Pretty much everyone does if you take that quiz!! HA!!

I really gave so much power to alcohol. Posted on Facebook about it. And when 1 or 2 people expressed they were glad I had stopped drinking so much it totally annoyed me and made me want to drink more. Haha!!!!  Of course I wrote back "thank you for your concern" but I wanted to write back "Go fuck yourself."  HaHa!!!

I was never a drink 1-3 drinks drinker so cutting back was not enjoyable. I didn't want a glass of Prosecco. I wanted a bottle. Or three. I have always been a very fast drinker. Alcohol, soda, water, I am always chugging something.  We would go out to breakfast and the waitress would bring me 2 diet cokes right away knowing I would down them and want more.

And my tolerance for booze was nuts (especially for someone so tiny!......I'm being funny). I could drink so much and was certainly proud at YouTube events when others were hurting and looking at me like "How is Buck not hungover "? Thanks for all the free drink tickets. Love you! Haha!

I started being very aware of people on Facebook who had stopped drinking and quietly took inventory how great their life had improved. Thank you. Many of you know who you are as I have reached out privately. I love Facebook!

By January of this year, life was going very well.  I launched my coaching business. I was making the money and having the success I had not experienced in 3 to 4 years. I was happy, fulfilled and had purpose, yet I was still drinking a lot.

I was behaving like 2015 me but living a very different life so it seemed silly 2017 me was still getting hammered. A drunk YouTuber seemed fine to me. A drunk Life Coach did not.

Alcohol no longer served me or suited me and yet I continued to drink lots.

I knew I was drinking more than I needed or wanted to but my lower brain had full control.

Quitting sounded boring. I loved Bloody Mary's at the airport didn't I?

I would watch Real Housewives and see Kim or Eden talk about being sober woman and I thought ewwww. LOL. That won't be me. Mind you I think alcohol is the least of their problems. ROFLMAO!!!!!!

I was life coaching my clients and all the work I did with them certainly rubbed off on me.  I wanted to show up to each call as my best self and as a role model to them. That person is not a drunk.

I had a client tell me about a book he read called Stop Drinking Now, the Alan Carr EasyWay.  He said he had no desire to ever drink alcohol again.

Two days later I read the book and became a " Happy non-drinker"!  I love that term. I have given up nothing. Nothing.

It has been effortless. I haven't stopped smiling since. If you asked why I stopped I could tell you 20 reasons. I couldn't think of one reason to continue to drink.

Not one.

I continue to go out. I love being the designated driver. I have people over. I make the, drinks. I go to happy hour. I am still the life of the party. Lord knows I never needed alcohol to make me less inhibited. I continue to take my shirt off for no reason and talk about sex with strangers. Haha!!!!

We drove a stranger home the other day who was puking in the parking lot. I was not annoyed. I was grateful i had no interest in alcohol and could be helpful to someone the way others had been helpful to me.  

My skin looks better.  I'm sleeping better.  My weight had gotten up to 170 (I like to weigh 150 to 155 - so yes there was some vanity here!) The quality of my relationships and interactions is better. My self-respect and confidence are at an all time high. Everything is so clear now. My focus, my creativity, my general mood, everything is heightened and joy filled.  

I will save I would guess 10k a year in all the drinks I used to buy. 10k!!!! At least. I am showing up for my life everyday. Drinking was my buffering and truly delayed me beginning my life's great work.

So that's my update.  I have zero regrets. I had a great run! I was mostly fun/totally affectionate drunk. Right? Haha! It suited me to drink for a few years. This was the perfect time to stop. It all lined up just right.

I miss nothing about drinking. Nothing. I'll drink seltzer in a champagne flute to be festive. I liked the festive glass all along more than what was in it.

2017 me has grown and evolved so much. Being a "happy non-drinker" is the cherry on top! I love the semantics of that. It hits my brain in the right spot. I have quit nothing.

I also had given up diet soda so easily my brain had done lots of the work to prepare for this. The pre-frontal cortex is powerful once you get it working! Now I am rambling.....

I would love to write more about the book because it was magical. Truly one of the easiest things I have ever done in my life is stop drinking because of it. But I don't want to be preachy about that stuff but pick it up if you are interested. It's amazing. Feel free to private message me if you want to chat more in depth about it. Happy to answer any questions in the comments too.  I simply trained my brain to be a non -drinker just as easily as I trained it to be a drinker. Easy? Yes. I always tell my clients it is just as easy to think lovely thoughts about yourself as it is to think shitty thoughts about yourself. Okay that is enough.

This is a wonderful time in my life. I am so excited for what is next. I am so excited for you to meet this version of myself- totally authentic and totally not buffering. Thank you for reading. Love, MB

[imaginetonyandbucky]

Imagine Tony having language kink - namely he gets turned on when Bucky speaks different languages and think he doesn't know. But Bucky is very aware and so he purposely speaks different languages (he knows many of them) and adds weird accents to english to woo Tony. May get smutty

Je Ne Sais Quoi

Bucky couldn’t draw his eyes away from thefrenetic genius. Tony was dancing around the workshop, running three differentscenarios in the 3D light projections, the music cranked up so loud that Buckycould feel the bass in his metal arm, throbbing like a second heartbeat. Tonyalso had a grape popsicle in his mouth that he was doing unintentionallyobscene things with as he talked nonsense with Friday and occasionally directedcommentary at his bots.

Bucky had come down to the ‘shop to have Tony dosome scans of the arm, but they’d been waiting almost an hour for Tony tonotice them. Friday had cautioned the Winter Soldier a few times not tointerrupt sir when he was working… At least Tash had come with him. Bucky had ahard time with coherency whenever Tony Stark was around and Tash helpedtranslate his gibberish into actual English.

It wasn’t, as most of the team thought, that theWinter Soldier was coming out whenever Tony was around, but that Bucky had areal problem with a massive -- and annoying -- crush. He was pretty sure Tashknew that.

“” Somehow, Bucky managed to talk just as the music died down and Tonystared at him for a long moment. Bucky squirmed, but Natasha’s dossier on thegenius had been very clear about what languages Tony spoke, and Russian wasn’ton the list.

“”Tash said. “”

“

“

Bucky said. “”

[mobile users, ‘ware the read more]

Tony rolled his eyes. “Keep talking about melike I’m not here, I’ll just wait.”

“No, that’s okay,” Tash said, hopping down fromthe counter where she’d been sitting. “You asked to see Yasha about his arm,so, let’s get to it.” She dragged Bucky over to Tony’s workstation. “Oh, andTony?”

“Hmmm?” Tony was already setting up thehard-light spectral analyser.

“You have something, on your mouth, just, there.”And Tash poked her finger in the direction of Tony’s lower lip. Tony’s tongueflicked out to taste the smut of grape popsicle and something in Bucky’sstomach turned over and clenched. Great. Now he was going to spend the wholetime Tony was poking at his arm watching the genius’s mouth.

“” Tash said, patting Bucky’sshoulder.

“”

“What are you to talking about?” Tony asked,prodding the wire-frame into place, making a schematic copy.

“Cheeseburgers,” Bucky said.

“My favorite,” Tony said, easily, exploding theschematic to look at all the little pieces and servos and wires.

“Boss, you should stop there,” Friday said, justbefore Tony walked into the common room.

“What?” Tony stared at the room. “What the hellhappened? Did I suddenly invest in a bicycle company?”

The entire common area was covered in… cardhouses. The furniture had been pushed to the far sides of the room and anenormous castle dominated the room. Diamonds and squares, layer upon layer ofthem, nearly eight feet high.

“” Clintsaid in perfectly fluent French. The archer was perched on Barnes’s shoulder,like the Winter Soldier was a goddamn shooting perch. Barnes handed Clint twocards from the pack in his hand and spread his feet just a little, to giveClint a better angle.

“” Barnes’s deep,rumbling voice was even worse, when he was speaking French, all dark seductivetones and soft, provocative sounds. Tony leaned in the doorframe, casuallytucking his hands in his pockets to conceal the fact that his knees had gone alittle weak.

“ Clint said. He set the next layer of the house up, taking cards asfast as Barnes could hand them to him. Barnes stepped, moving as if Clintweighed nothing at all, so they could keep building.

“” Tony asked. HisFrench was a little rusty, but perfectly understandable, even if his accent wasa little tainted from Peggy Carter having been his tutor, so he spoke French asif he was from England.

“” Barnes answered andthe sound, God. Tony slumped harder against the door. He wasn’t sure what itwas, Barnes spoke English, and when he did, it was with a sweet, Brooklyn drawlthat could get a man hard with a few well-chosen words, but he didn’t seem towant to.

“” Clint added, like this meant anything to Tony.

Tony shook his head. He could watch this allday; the soft, easy way Barnes moved without stirring the air around him,Clint’s graceful, sure fingers, listening to the lilt of French on both sets oflips. They looked so damn good together. After a while, Tony felt he waswatching something private, like he was an intruder. He faded back into thehall and hit the button for the elevator.

“Penthouse, Friday.”

Playing chess with Steve was hilarious underideal conditions. The walking American Flag treated each game like a battle(and also like the pawns were actual people who’d be hurt and leave widowsbehind, which Bucky was not above taking advantage of) and concentrated with adeep furrow in his brow.

It was even better when Bucky was taunting himin German.

“” Bucky rumbled as Steve picked up his knight and promptly forkedBucky’s bishop and rook in the same move. It was a fucking good move, but Buckywasn’t about to admit it.

“Nice try, Fritz,” Steve said, not botheringwith German, even though he spoke it fluently. “You gonna move or what?”

Tony, who was watching the game, brightenedsuddenly. He gave Bucky a very deliberate look, then said in fucking Romanian-- that certainly wasn’t on the dossier! -- “”

Bucky blinked. God damn, he was fucking blind.  

“Hey, no hinting, Tony,” Steve said, throwing apillow off the couch at the chair where Tony was sitting. The pillow took Tonyin head with a dull whump and knocked his blue sunglasses right off his face.

“That’s not what I said,” Tony said, reachingfor his glasses at the same time Bucky recovered them. Their fingertips brushedlightly as Bucky dropped the shades in his palm. It was like getting anelectric jolt as their skin touched.

Bucky drew his hand back, almost reluctantly.

“So what did you say?”

Bucky made the move that Tony suggested, thenglanced at Tony over Steve’s shoulder. “” Bucky answered in German.

Steve swore, colored a deep, brilliant pink, andchoked on air. Tony only looked puzzled, which was good.

“Stark!”

“What? I admit everything, I regret nothing,”Tony responded, spreading his hands.

It wasn’t hard to get Steve into checkmate afterthat. Three moves, just as Tony predicted.

The Winter Soldier was… not good for delicateoperations. Tony knew that. Captain America knew it (although Steve made verysure that everyone knew exactly how disappointed Cap was with people for theirjudging-books-by-their-covers attitudes.) But that was okay, because Tonydidn’t really want Barnes along for this one.

After the huge travel ban, too many foreignnationals had ended up stuck in airports, families separated. And then therewas the bombing; too many people afraid and no one thinking straight. Theentire customs area of the airport had been hit, the injuries were horrific.Tony brought the Avengers out in force, for the face-time. To visit the injuredkids in the hospital, to start the repairs, to generally scowl disapprovinglyat presidential politics.

The usual. Barnes was good at scowling. Tony puthim on talk-to-Fox-news duty, while Tony went to the hospital to visit, chat,make people happy, pay their hospital bills.

And it was good that Barnes wasn’t there,because there were four families there who didn’t speak English, and findingout that Tony spoke Russian and German (and Italian and Chinese, too, butBarnes hadn’t used those yet) was probably going to cost him a lot of fun. Alittle heartbreak, but mostly fun. He still hadn’t figured out if Barnes wasserious, or just being an asshole. Could be both. Steve was often an asshole,and they were best friends, so, anything was possible.

No sense showing his hand, though, if Tony andBarnes were still bluffing each other in lingo-poker.

So Tony went, hobnobbed, signed photos, did theschtick. He was good at it, and a lot of times, even enjoyed it. Talking toreal people was a lot better than talking to socialites at high end parties. Itwas one of the better parts about being an Avenger, and he’d come to expect it.

What he didn’t expect -- although in hindsight,he probably should have -- was that someone was filming him. Cell phone cameraswere popular, everyone was doing it for the Vine (or whatever had replacedVine, because that was so 2016) and posting to their liveblogs.

Which meant when Tony got back to the Tower,Barnes was scowling. At him.

“What? Do I have something on my face?”

“You speak Russian,” Barnes said, glaring. Hischeeks were flushed red, but Tony couldn’t tell if he was embarrassed or angry.

“Aaaand, you speak English,” Tony pointed out,backing up a little and finding himself suddenly up against a wall, which…well, okay, so it was hot, and he might have liked the way Barnes’s body wasnudging up against his, but at the same time, he wasn’t entirely certain thathe wasn’t about to get strangled. So, little bit nerve-wracking.

“You knew what I was saying.”

“” Tony said, in German,because he might as well be hanged for a chicken as an egg.

“You didn’t say anything,” Barnes said. “Whynot?”

“Kinda waiting for you to say it to me.”

Bucky licked his lips, leaned in, and verysoftly whispered, “Wo xiang zho ai.”

Oh. Well, in that case.

Tony tilted his head just before Barnes’s mouthcame down on his. Nice what a polyglot could do with their lips.

Note: wo xiang zho ai - chinese for “wanna havesex?”

as always, @tisfan and check me out on A03

[alarajrogers]

Except no. Words clearly dont work anymore because words are what fucking allowed them to elect trump and rally. And every time they continue to have us use "words" they win. They win because in their eyes they are right and their rhetoric and narrative is the only right. The genuinely do not care. Words dont work on people who have no willingness to learn. Tell me that you honestly believe youre going to talk the hate out of a nazi? No. Youre not.

No, of course I don’t think you can talk the hate out of a Nazi. What I think is that our nation is full of people who are racist enough and ignorant enough that they’ll give power to people who spout racist dogwhistles, but who would draw the line at giving power to a Nazi... if they actually knew these assholes are Nazis. But the media doesn’t make that easy. Remember the recent case where white supremacist terrorists were arrested for waving guns and making death threats at a black child’s birthday party? The media reported it as if all they did was drive past with Confederate flags on their truck tooting their horn. 

That’s why words matter. We didn’t lose because we used our words against Nazis. We lost, in part, because we didn’t realize we were up against Nazis. They were emboldened by Trump’s win and they came out of the woodwork. If we’d known then about Trump being totally in Steve Bannon’s pocket, and Russian hacking, and Mike Pence’s email, we could have won. Certainly now that Trump is costing the taxpayers millions to have his wife and son live somewhere that isn’t the White House, and to go golfing every weekend after he gave Obama so much shit for occasional golf, and he’s put people in the government who want to take free lunch away from starving kids and helpless housebound elderly, we have access to a lot of powerful information that has the potential to turn all but about 20% of the country against Trump... and it’s Trump and the Republican party that allow the Nazis to come forward and exert power. They wouldn’t be dangerous if they were still a fringe group that everyone despises; they’ve come out and started committing hate crimes and publicly making their hateful ideology known because they think Trump’s win means most of the country agrees with them. The purpose of using words, and other means of protest, is to convince the rest of the country that no, most people don’t agree with the Nazis.

And... you do know that most protest movements have within them agents who try to get the protest movement to turn violent, so that the State has a good excuse to turn the full apparatus of police power against them, right? We have a movement where the majority are marginalized people, and even the white male cishets are marginalized in the sense that they’re openly seen to be aligning with the interests of women and black people and gays, and I’m sure you know by now that in a fight between well-dressed, educated white men who are evil white supremacists and Nazis, and a ragtag group of poor people, black people, Latinx people, Muslims, Jews, and gay people... which side are the police going to take? Which side are the police going to exert violence against even if we are peaceful? Which side is the police going to gleefully murder if we give them any justification whatsoever, and quite possibly if we don’t?

For the safety of our people, we cannot resort to violence except in immediate self defense, and when we do, we need to flood the area and the media with the self-defense justification for it. The police will happily shoot an antifa for punching a Nazi, and will gun down a crowd of protesters if just one of them throws a bottle at the cops, and claim it was because they were “rioting and looting”. We live in a racist society that claims to hate Nazis, but when they actually appear among us, if they are well-dressed white men, they get the benefit of the doubt and we still don’t. They want our protests to turn violent. They want the excuse to declare martial law and take away our freedom to protest... at which point violence will be our only recourse, but the State has so much more power to commit violence than we do, that we will probably have already lost by that time.

Violence is the last refuge. We have to do everything we can to prevent it from getting to the point where we really do need it, because when we do... the Nazis have the cops on their side, and the cops are nowadays essentially the military. It will be very, very hard for us to win a war of violence. But a war of ideas? Of words? A war expressed in peaceful protests, in boycotts, in letter-writing campaigns, in posting flyers? That, we can win, because our ideas are better and the majority of Americans mostly agree with us. They elected Trump in part because they were scared of Muslims and Mexicans, and in part because they were misogynistic enough to fall for the right-wing attacks on Hillary, but they don’t really want to see people rounded up and sent to camps. They don’t really want the water and air to be polluted and children to starve and old people to lose health care. They were just dumb enough not to realize that Trump stood for those things. 

And the Nazis, in particular, would love a violent fight. Because they know they can win that. But they didn’t come out of the woodwork until they thought there was enough public support for their ideas that they wouldn’t be laughed at and shamed and taunted in public. They were afraid of the court of public opinion -- and they still are. Humans are vulnerable to being named and shamed. Can you make a Nazi stop hating? No, of course not, but they didn’t just all start hating this year and last. They felt emboldened to admit to their hate only recently. Make them scared that everyone in the US disagrees with them and despises them, and they’ll shut up about their hate again, like they were doing up until 2016 or so.