chase vehicle


anonymous asked:

I also happen to be a huge fan of the Victor and Yuri idol HC's so could you please write some headcanons where our protaganists have to deal with some overly aggressive paparazzi on potentially a date night, or a vacation? It's really up to you! Also your hc's blog is my fave one out there!

Ah, yes, more of the international idol series! I’m so happy something I’ve written is so well-liked. This prompt is like 10/10 honestly. I hope you like :3 Thank you for the request, love! <3 ((other works from this series can be read here))

[Viktor Nikiforov]

  • After a long season of figure skating, Viktor decides to take you on a much-needed getaway to somewhere warm and not covered in snow
  • A two-week long vacation in the tropics of Saint Lucia seem like the perfect place to take his lover to unwind
  • he insists that he plans everything for the two of you; he wants to take care of everything so you can be surprised by the itinerary ugh typical Vitya
  • Viktor gets Yakov to agree to take care of your beloved Makkachin whilst you’re away, and all that’s left to do is of you to pack and get going
  • The flight is a bit long and you get a bit antsy early on, but Viktor gives you some Dramamine and you sleep peacefully on his shoulder the entire time
  • When you arrive at your destination, Viktor doesn’t allow you to lift a single finger while he checks you into the hotel
  • he carries all of the luggage to the front desk and takes care of e v e r y t h i n g what a gentleman jfc vik
  • Viktor decides he needs a power nap before you truly begin you vacation, since it’s been so long since he’s actually been able to just lay down and sleep without any consequences
  • You guys end up sleeping through the afternoon and into the evening, and you just end up ordering room service and going back to sleep
  • So far, the vacation goes just as Viktor planned; it’s romantic, private, and it’s just plain rejuvenating to see you on the beach in a swimsuit
  • Viktor buys you fruity alcoholic drinks to sip while you lounge by the pool and in the sun
  • trying to get you drunk? maybe wink wonk
  • You get couples massages and spa treatments together, while you stress over the thought of the massive expenses you must be racking up, but Viktor tells you to stop worrying about something as minuscule as money
  • You and Viktor go to the beach, go shopping, apply sunscreen on each other, eat at expensive restaurants
  • and have sex on the beach omg
  • But there is one particular day that doesn’t exactly go according to plan
  • You and Viktor are holding hands while you walk to the beach later in the afternoon, and the sun is starting to set on the horizon, creating a picturesque backdrop to take a selfie
  • After Viktor pulls out his phone, he takes note of the black vehicles driving past very slowly along the sidewalk, and it sets him off a bit
  • He drags you towards the beach at a brisker pace, wanting to put as much distance between the two of you and the road as possible
  • and you’re a bit drunk from the day’s activities, so you stumble along without hesitation lmao so cute
  • While you wade through the sandy beach and towards to ocean, Viktor rummages through your shared backpack with his free hand to locate your sunglasses
  • The glasses are not for the sunlight that is becoming a rosy pink in the sky, but as a shield that Viktor has a feeling will be needed very soon
  • Viktor hastily puts your sunglasses over your eyes, but he does it with grace; it is then you decide to question his sudden nervous behavior, despite your slight intoxication
  • “Vitya~ you’re walking so fast. What’s the matter? It’s not even sunny out and jfc you’re gonna leave bruises on me if you keep that death grip on me jesus fuck
  • “Babe, you’re drunk as fuck and there’s probably a swarm of paparazzi about to attack at any second. Please trust me because i love you and shit is about to get real
  • Viktor sets a steady pace before letting you go in favor of taking out his phone to call a cab, stealing glances behind him to see if you’re being followed
  • He tells the cabbie to wait for the both of you at the pier close to your hotel, and you’ll be there very soon
  • and the entire time he’s on the phone Viktor is just staring at you with doe eyes because walking you splash your feet around in the water as you walk is the cutest thing he’s ever seen
  • Viktor forgets about the paparazzi that caught sight of you earlier and is pulling up his phone’s camera to take a video of you on the beach when they first of many camera flashes are aimed your way
  • You and Viktor realize time has run out, grabbing each other’s hands and sprinting down the beach while the swarm of photographers chases you along the water’s edge
  • Viktor finds himself laughing at how ridiculous the situation is; a large group of people with their cameras flashing while they follow you running down the beach must be quite the sight
  • The paparazzi are gaining on you when you finally reach the pier, Viktor leading you towards the car awaiting at the sidewalk
  • Viktor practically throws you into the backseat and jumps in after you, crushing you a bit in the process, but he slams the door with his foot just in time
  • The driver speeds away without needing to be told, reading the context clues to the situation you’re in, leaving the crowd of photographers in the dust, some of them attempting to chase after the vehicle
  • Viktor keeps a protective arm around you the entire ride to the hotel, still somewhat shaken up at the thought of people coming after you like that; you just rest on his shoulder and watch the sunset out of the windows of the car
  • You spend the rest of the evening in the safety of the hotel room where Viktor draws a hot bath for you to share
  • and he pulls up the articles posted about your beach chase that are posted within an hour of the incident; it’s actually hilarious how amazing the photos turned out
  • A bottle of champagne is ordered from room service and you spend the night in the bath together, sharing stories of all the times paparazzi have created memories like these

[Yuri Plisetsky]

  • Yuri has a break from skating at last, and you just so happen to have no events scheduled for the weekend
  • It’s decided that a date night is in order for the two of you; a trip to the cinema and dinner afterwards is arranged, and you both cannot wait to just relax together
  • While you’re walking to the cinema, Yuri grabs your hand first and holds it, much to your surprise
  • tbh just based on that you know tonight is going to be lit as fuck; he never initiates touch and affection omg
  • You settle on a romantic action comedy, and Yuri buys a cotton candy and small popcorn to share
  • The top row is Yuri’s favorite spot to sit when you go to the cinema together, so of course you pick those seats
  • The theatre is nearly empty, save for a few people in the middle section
  • Yuri even puts his arm around you when the movie starts, and you rest on his shoulder happily
  • The peace is disrupted, however, when some snickering can be heard from below, and Yuri growls low in his throat in annoyance at the teenagers below you, who are turned around in their seats and looking up at you
  • He opens his mouth to make a smart remark at them, but you shake your head in disapproval; you weren’t going to let some kids ruin your date night
  • but too bad that may not work out for you lmao sorry babe that was only a taste of the shitstorm that’s coming for you
  • Somewhere near the end of the film, both of you become bored and decide to divert your attention from the movie to each other; Yuri lifts the arm rest between you so he can hold you while you quietly make out
  • You’re getting into a steady rhythm when flashes blind you through your closed eyelids
  • The kids below you begin taking flash photos of you and Yuri, and Yuri flips his shit; he stands and yanks you out of your seat to drag you out of the theater, flipping the kids off until you’re out of sight
  • “Can’t you shits leave us alone ?! I’m trying to enjoy a fucking date here! Jesus Christ, mind your own fucking business!”
  • you’re flustered at his outburst but he’s kind of hot when he’s mad and protective tho lmao
  • Yuri becomes unsettled at the disturbance at the cinema, but it’s finally time to head to the restaurant, which is packed
  • You’re waiting outside of the restaurant for a table to open up when you notice people stealing glances at you and Yuri; he becomes physically disturbed, fidgeting and turning both of you away from the people
  • He puts his hood up and tells you to lower your head, but you already hear the whispers
  • “That looks like (Y/N) (L/N). Don’t you think?”
  • “Yuri Plisetsky? That guy looks just like him-“
  • You’re both struggling to pull out your sunglasses to further disguise yourselves, but the damage is already done, and the events unfold faster than you can comprehend
  • Photographers seem to come out of nowhere, the flashing of cameras blinding both of you as they swarm the area
  • The paparazzi yell at you and the increase of volume hurts your ears and rattles your skull; Yuri even plugs his ears as he looks for an opening
  • He finally grabs your hand and pushes his way out, eventually breaking through and dragging you away from the crowd that is already following in your direction
  • You move your legs faster than you thought you were capable of as you run down the streets and through alleyways
  • Yuri is able to find shelter in a small store, and he pulls you in before he locks the door behind you as the crowd of paparazzi is abandoned outside
  • The store employees give you flustered stares before you offer an explanation, and they are more than happy to allow you to stay while the crowd clears out
  • You end up trying on all of the clothes and accessories in the store, having a small shopping trip of sorts
  • Yuri pays for the clothing you liked and you thank the store owners before stepping out onto the nearly deserted street
  • “Are you still up for dinner, Yuri?”
  • “Let’s just go home. I’ll cook a meal a million times better than any shitty restaurant can. And I’m sick of shitheads following us around!”
  • You laugh and allow him to escort you back home, just relieved that your wreck of a perfect date night can still be salvaged

“A Woman’s Wrath”

SAMCRO x Reader / Tig x Reader

PROMPT: Y/N fucks someone’s shit up and the boys are mad. Tig is interested in her though. And after figuring out that she hadn’t meant to cause the mess the guys tease Tig about his interest in such a sweet girl.

“Fuck you Ben! You fucking BASTARD!” she yelled as she drove the bulldozer she stole from Elliot Oswald’s construction site down main street. She was scorned and she was pissed and she was not taking him cheating on her well. Her intentions had been to bulldoze his precious Range Rover outside of Floyd’s where he was currently getting a hot shave for his date with her ex best friend tonight. So far she had managed to successfully break into the construction site, find the key to the dozer, and figure out how to get it rolling.


Tig, Chibs, Happy, Juice, Bobby, and Jax were sitting at the bar of Scoops Ice Cream Shop, the storefront that doubled as their clubhouse, when they heard a loud crash outside. Jumping up, they all rushed to the window to see what was going on when when they saw it, a girl playing life-size Tonka Toys on main street.
“What the hell is that!?” Bobby exclaimed as their jaws all dropped.
“Fuck you Ben!!!” they heard the distant shouts coming from the inside of the heavy equipment.
“Sounds like a pissed off crazy lady…” Jax responded.
“Looks sexy as hell…..” Tig thought those words were only in his head, but he had actually spoken out loud. His brothers all looked at him, eyebrows raised, and a few of them scoffed.
“What?” he questioned, defensively, looking their way as his eyes got huge.
“Oh shit!” he yelled, backing away from the window as he watched the large vehicle begin to head straight towards them

Ben’s Rover was parked along the curb, luckily with no vehicles nearby so she had a clear shot. She steered towards his SUV, ramming it  and beginning to push it up the street while the tires screeched.
Ben looked up from his shave and saw the bright yellow vehicle crushing his prized possession to bits.
“What the hell!?” he jumped out of the shave chair and ran out of the shop, chasing the dozer down the street.
“You’re a fucking CHEATER!” she screamed out the window, “I will destroy you! You think you can fuck my BEST FRIEND and I won’t find out!? You tiny dicked piece of shit!!!” she finished as he stopped in the middle of the street, hands on his head, frozen and freaking out.
She looked forward again and gasped, the Rover had been pushed aside and now she was headed straight for the ice cream shop and had no idea what button or pedal engaged the brakes.
Panicking, she turned the wheel but it was just a little too late. She clipped one of the motorcycles out front, causing the bull dozer to pull it out into the street before sucking it underneath its large tires.
“Shit! Shit shit shit!” she yelled punching the steering wheel and stomping on all of the pedals until she finally found the brakes. Her heart was pounding and she couldn’t breathe, she tried to still her heartbeat and control her breathing, but within seconds she was interrupted from her current focus and her attention shifted to the gun pointed at her through the window.


“Nooooooo!! Not my bike!!” Juice yelled, running out of the shop and pulling his gun from his jeans, chasing after the vehicle that just swallowed up his motorcycle.
“Juice!” Jax yelled running after him with Happy in tow.
Bobby and Chibs looked behind them to their curly haired friend who was chuckling uncontrollably. As suddenly as he had started laughing, he stopped, gazing back to his brothers.
“That bitch is so bad ass. I am totally erect right now.” Tig smirked, “Damn. I would willingly let her teach me a lesson or two,” he clapped his brothers on the shoulder as he walked past their awestruck faces and out the door, striding towards the spot where the bulldozer came to rest, and where Juice currently had his future ex girlfriend at gunpoint.

“Why would you do that!?” Juice demanded, and she didn’t answer, but not because she didn’t want to.
She was terrified, staring into the young biker’s threatening brown eyes. She was scared shitless.
“Juice, get down and let her out so we can talk!” Jax demanded, turning to look at Happy who nodded, climbing up the bulldozer and dragging Juice down.
“Come on out darlin’, we just want to talk to you. No guns, I promise.” Jax spoke again as Tig, Chibs, and Bobby walked up.
“Watch yourselves guys,” Tig belted out, “I’ve seen broads like this, they’re insane, liable to snap at any second. She probably has a piece on her…..” Tig warned.

The door of the dozer cracked open and he laid eyes on the woman inside. She was beautiful, he thought… Beautiful and Dangerous…. Just his type.

Tig walked up to her and frisked her… Not because he actually needed to, but because he couldn’t keep his hands off.
“I’m Tig, doll…” he grinned at her.
“H-hey… I-I… My name is (Y/N)…” She struggled.
“Well, (Y/N), I’m Jax and this here is Juice. If you hadn’t already gathered, it was his bike you ran over back there. D'you mind telling us why?” he asked her.
“I, um… I’m so sorry,” she said turning to look Juice in the eye, pleading with him.
“I found out my boyfriend was cheating and….” she buried her face in her palms, beginning to cry, “I stole this bulldozer to annihilate the one thing he loved most. His car… I lost control and… Your bike was an accident… I’m so sorry. I will pay you back for it I swear,” she pleaded.
Juices glare softened and he nodded, looking down solemnly as if he might cry.
She stepped to him, and touched his shoulder, “I hope you can forgive me?” she sniffled, and he nodded, still looking down as if to hold back tears.
She looked over the group of men, red-faced and puffy eyed, “Ive gotta run,” she said, digging in her pocket and pulling out a business card and handing it to Jax, “You can reach me here, anytime, I swear I will make it right,” she pouted before looking over the group of men again and giving them a half smile, “Thanks,” she uttered before jogging away.

Chibs leaned to Tig, “Watch out she’s dangerous…. Or maybe not after all, yeah? She’s a soft one, this lass.” he nudged Tig in the ribs with his elbow and chuckled, while Bobby fought back a laugh.
Tig rolled his eyes, “Whatever…” he scoffed, “So what if she’s a softie, look at that ass. I’d still hit it……"  he looked at Jax, “Gimme that,” he snatched the card out of Jax’s hand.

Happy narrowed his eyes at him and shook his head as the other men all gave him an amused chuckle.

“What? I just want to make sure Juice doesn’t get screwed over.”


Joey raised an eyebrow at the two teenagers in front of him. 

“Your parents did not sign this.”

“You can’t prove that.” 

“Your parents can prove that.”

“Fine. A court of law can’t prove that you knew that.”

“I can’t afford a lawsuit.”

A lump of money landed on his table. “And now you can.”

He thumbed through the bills. “I feel morally obligated to inform you that this won’t work.”

“We just think it looks pretty.” The girl answered, a little too brightly, and he could tell she was lying.

“There will be no refunds when it doesn’t work.”

“It’ll work.” The boy mumbled under his breath.

Joey rolled his eyes. “Fine. Two matching summoning circles coming up.” He led the two teenagers to the back of the tattoo parlor.

This Danny Phantom obsession was going to make him rich.

Keep reading


Marichat May Day 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 1718 1920 21222324 25 26 27 28 29 30 31


I know you like this stuff, so here you go!

It comes as a bit of a shock when Marinette answers the door only to have a large, burly man with a moustache like a bristling caterpillar shove her aside hard enough to bounce her into a wall.  She stares in shock as he stomps in, calling for Manon.

Well, crap.  Can’t transform into Ladybug with witnesses around, can’t physically fight him with any real hope of victory—jeez, he’s almost as big as her Papa—and not enough time to text Adrien.

She is very glad that she’d taken a cue from Adrien and sewn that extra pocket into her jacket.

“Tikki,” she hisses as she wrenches open the broom closet and picks up the vacuum cleaner.  “Get in my jacket, text Adrien.  We need Chat Noir and the police.”

“Yes, Marinette,” the kwami says, and zips from her purse into the kwami-sized inside pocket, lugging her cell along.  There are some quiet vibrations a few moments later as the kwami taps out the message.

Marinette hauls the vacuum cleaner up onto her shoulder as the screams, high-pitched and desperate with panic, start.  As the man walks around the corner with a kicking and struggling Manon under his arm, she brings it down with all her strength, aiming at his head.  He raises an arm and blocks the makeshift club instead, grunting with pain as the vacuum cleaner shatters, gouging shallow cuts in his arm as plastic shards sail in every direction.  His grip loosens for a moment, and Manon takes the opportunity to wriggle free.  Marinette picks her up and runs for it.

She only gets a few steps away before a hand like a hair-covered vise claps down on her shoulder and slams her into the doorframe.  There’s a loud crak of impact; Marinette doesn’t know whether it’s from the frame or her arm. Manon screams louder as the man reaches around Marinette and tries to tear the little girl loose from Marinette’s unrelenting grip.

Doors up and down the hall are beginning to open at the commotion, though, and the man curses and grabs Marinette by the arm, dragging her along as he pulls a short-barreled, matte black handgun from his waistband.

“Try to run and you’re dead, girl,” he growls, before he spots one of the apartment complex’s janitorial staff, frozen behind his cart.  He aims and squeezes off a shot.

Light and thunder in a deafening wave fill the hall.  Manon’s screams grow louder and interspersed with desperate sobs, though Marinette can only just hear it over the sudden ringing in her ears.

She fights to keep her breathing under control as the man drags both her and Manon down the hall, past the cowering janitor, and to a van parked in a skew across three parking spaces.  The man hauls open one of the side doors and hurls the both of them inside.

“Buckle the fuck up,” he bellows at them, gesturing with his pistol before he slams the door shut.  Marinette checks the handles as he hurries over to the driver’s seat.  No dice. He must’ve turned on the child safety locks.

Marinette picks Manon up and settles her in one of the seats, wiping the tears from the little girl’s face as she does.

“It’s going to be all right, Manon,” she says as she clicks the belt buckle home. “It’s going to be all right.”

“I-I don’t want to go with him,” Manon whimpers as Marinette gets seated and buckles up herself, just as the engine rumbles and turns over.

“It’s going to be all right,” Marinette repeats.  “Chat Noir will save us.”

The van moves off, and she starts whispering descriptions to Tikki.

Adrien’s phone goes off as he’s finishing a late lunch.

He scowls a little at the first text, a simple “HELP” in all caps.  Well, that isn’t cryptic or anything—

His heart stops, then restarts, hammering away like hailstones on a metal roof as a stream of short messages comes in.  White van, black stripe, lengthwise.  Didn’t get license.  Large man kidnapped Manon and Marinette.  Wait, her and Marinette?

“Tikki?” he types quickly.

The ellipses stop for a moment, then restart.  “Yes,” Tikki replies.

“Witnesses?” he types.


Damn. So that precludes busting out Ladybug before busting some heads.

“Where are you?” Adrien types as he rises.

There’s a brief, terrible, yawning pause.  Logically, he reminds himself, Tikki is just asking Marinette. Logically, Tikki is hiding somewhere on Marinette’s person, in her purse or in a pocket, out of sight, and is therefore in no position to look outside to check the street signs.  Marinette is probably whispering to Tikki whenever she gets the chance, which is going to prevent a quick answer depending on how distracted her their abductor is.

Finally, after the longest minute of his life, a reply.  A street name, and a direction.

“Nathalie,” he says, after punching in her number.  “Can you please cancel my appointments for the rest of today?  I’ve got a terrible headache, I’ll just lie down for a nap.”

Adrien shuts his bedroom door and locks it.

“Plagg,” he calls.  “Plagg! Marinette and Tikki are in trouble!”

“Oh, what is it now?” Plagg groans.

“Kidnapping,” he says.  “Not an akuma.”

Plagg, for once, gets serious.

“Right,” Adrien says.  “Plagg, claws out!”

He reaches back for his staff and snaps it open as he leaps through his window.  He dials the police as he reaches the rooftops and starts running.

“This is Chat Noir,” he snaps before the person on the other line can answer. “I’m in pursuit.  White Honda van with a black stripe running along the side, three occupants.  One is a girl, nine years old, about eighty centimeters, tan skin, brown hair, golden-brown eyes, buck teeth, name is Manon Chamack.  Second one is a girl, seventeen years old, about a hundred sixty-five centimeters, pale skin, black hair in two ponytails, sky-blue eyes, name is Marinette Dupain-Cheng.  Third is a man, over a hundred eighty centimeters, about as wide, big, burly, hairy, tan skin with brown eyes, close-cut brown hair.  He’s the kidnapper, and he’s armed.”

He feeds them the rest of the details as he closes on the van’s last known location.

He will see her safe.

“Why are you doing this?” Marinette asks the man as she holds Manon’s hand.  The little girl sniffles; she’s well past the point where she’s capable of vocalizing her terror.

The man grunts as he makes another turn.  For a moment Marinette thinks that he isn’t going to answer.

“That bitch isn’t going to take my daughter from me,” he finally growls.

Oh.  Crap.

Marinette is vaguely aware of Nadja’s ex-husband; she’d started babysitting Manon while the divorce papers were just being finalized, after all.  From what she can remember, though, he’d been a nasty piece of work, more often drunk and violent than not.  It was hardly a surprise that he hadn’t even been granted visitation.

And now, apparently, he’s here for his daughter.

She whispers a quick update to Tikki in her jacket when he’s distracted by a momentary lane change.  Beside her, Manon whimpers, and clutches tighter at Marinette’s hand.

Chat moves as swiftly as he can, shattering roofing tiles beneath his feet with every powerful step, eyes scanning the traffic below.  His staff vibrates briefly in his hand, and he skids to a stop and glances down.

“They’re heading onto A1,” he shouts into the mouthpiece a few seconds later as he turns and bounds off in another direction.

The police dispatcher on the other end tries to say something but gets cut off. “I need you to block off all of the onramps,” Chat commands.

“Sir, that’s—“

“He has hostages,” Chat hisses.  “And he’s moving at speed.  If you try to stop him you might hurt them.  I can intercept them safely but I need the road as clear as possible. Get those onramps shut.  Down.

He cuts the connection before the dispatcher can respond, changes his heading slightly, and moves faster.

Marinette tries to keep calm as Manon’s father turns onto A1 and starts accelerating. Chat can keep up, she reminds herself, he’s just as resourceful as her—more, in some specialized ways—and it isn’t as though they haven’t chased down speeding vehicles before.  Or something similar at least.

She becomes aware of a distant buzzing noise.

Still, it’s an inconspicuous vehicle in a—well, a thinning crowd of vehicles. And if he didn’t see the message, or if he got onto A1 at the wrong place, then they might be a few dozen kilometers away with the separation growing.

The buzzing resolves itself into a distinct, warbling tone.

Okay, so maybe she’s just a little worried.  It’s been maybe half an hour since Tikki first contacted him, after all. She touches the slight bulge in her jacket for reassurance.  Maybe he was sidetracked.  Maybe there’s an akuma wreaking havoc that he needs to deal with first.  Maybe he’s gotten lost.

The tone becomes a dopplering, wordless scream of a battle cry, punctuated by a heavy whumph on the roof that shakes the entire vehicle and draws a startled curse from Manon’s father.  A second later, a set of loud spangs ring out that sound like rivets being driven through sheet steel.

Her heart leaps, and a wide grin spreads across her face.

He’s here.

Chat drives his claws through the roof, tests his grip, and then swings down and over, planting his feet on the wheel well.  He considers his options as he looks through the windows at Marinette and Manon.

Climbing over to the front of the car and punching the driver out, while satisfying, would probably not end well.  Pulling a Bucky and pulling the steering wheel out, suboptimal results, again.  Clawing out the tires is a definite option, but would probably cause the driver to lose control.  So again, damn it, no.

He refocuses on the two passengers.  Get them out first, vengeance later.

He rears back and jabs stiff fingers at the door; his preternaturally sharp claws puncture the metal easily, and a second surge of strength drives his fingers through up to the second knuckle.

And then the son of a bitch swerves.

Before Chat can tear the door from its bearings, the van swerves right sharply, nearly causing him to lose his grip on the roof.  That becomes a secondary concern when he slams into the side of a truck, hard enough to drive the breath from his lungs.  A second sideswipe against the truck knocks his head into something metal and unyielding.  A third makes the world go fuzzy, and he loses his grip.

Things get confusing.  He hits the asphalt and rolls to a chorus of honking and the sound of a few dozen sets of tires screeching to a halt, painful in its intensity.  Car doors slam a few seconds later; as the wind shifts, it brings with it shouts and running footsteps, and the smell of burnt rubber.

He comes back to the world.  Around him are a dozen confused and concerned faces.  Behind him, the breadth of the highway is filled with stopped cars.  Ahead of him, the van is shrinking away into the distance.

Right then.  Plan B.

He brushes off offers of assistance and stands, unclipping his staff from the small of his back.

“Stay back,” he snarls.  “I’m going to do something stupid.”

He uses the staff to launch himself into the air with practiced ease, but he doesn’t aim for the van this time.  He lands and launches, lands, and launches, and finally lands in a crouch about a kilometer ahead of the speeding van.  He clips his staff to his back again; he’ll need both hands if this goes wrong.


He’d figured out a while back exactly what Cataclysm was.  It was more a lot more than simple bad luck, or a directed, corrupting rot.  It was the power of entropy itself, a weaponized second law of thermodynamics.  Anything made, it could destroy.  Anything ordered, it could reduce to chaos.

And the purest physical expression of that chaos is hopefully going to enable what he’s planning.

He stares the van down as it accelerates towards him, right palm facing outwards in the universal gesture of denial.  He focuses Cataclysm with his will, forcing the magic into compliance.

The van speeds towards him, and Chat Noir stands firm, unyielding.

The van hits him.

At the instant of impact, Cataclysm takes hold.  The three occupants of the van feel a momentary surge of terrible heat flash through their bodies as ravening black motes take organized kinetic energy and reduce it to randomized heat, bringing them to a sudden—more importantly, a non-whiplashy and non-fatal—halt.  Chat grits his teeth and hammers his will through the magic, ripping the deadly heat from them, crushing it into a condensed star, powerful enough to blow off an arm.

He releases the tiny explosive packet of pure heat inside the engine block. Something detonates inside the stationary vehicle with a firecracker pop.

Excellent. Now to the punching.

Manon’s father frantically turns the key in the ignition, and Marinette allows herself to breathe a sigh of relief at the lack of any response.  It’s over, she thinks as Chat hops up onto the hood and prepares to punch through the windscreen.  Finally, it’s over.

Manon’s father pulls the handgun and shoots Chat in the face.  Chat’s head snaps back as the thunderclap report of the pistol fills the van, twice, three times more.  He topples backwards off of the hood.

Before she quite realizes what she’s doing, Marinette moves.  There’s no screaming involved, just a sudden, terrible purpose involving violence and that son-of-a-bitch’s head.

She unbuckles her seatbelt and kicks herself forwards in one smooth motion, aiming a punch at the base of his skull, the soft spot where spine merges into skull. It connects, and in the stunned moment that it buys her, she yanks him back by the collar of his shirt.  His head slams into the seat rest, and she drags him further back, enough so that she can wrap her seatbelt once around his throat.

Right, she thinks as she drives a short punch into his nose.  Now for the gun.

She rakes her nails across his eyes.  He screams and flinches instinctively, but the hand that comes up to cover his eyes isn’t holding the gun.  That hand is still held at full extension, pointed at the windscreen where Chat had been. Oh well, nothing for it.

She reaches forwards, seizes his wrist in both hands, and hauls.  The gun goes up, pointing at the roof, and he squeezes off another shot in sheer reaction. Manon screams as the sound slaps against them like a physical blow.  Marinette finds new reserves of strength, and pulls his hand back just the last bit she needs—

Quick as thought, she digs her thumbs in and twists, and his grip pops open, the handgun tumbling to the floor.  Marinette kicks it beneath his seat.  Right, now she can focus on the second bit.

She grabs onto her seatbelt and pulls, tightening the makeshift noose around Manon’s father’s neck.  He gags and flails wildly; several of his ham-handed, clumsy blows buffet her, but she hangs on as his face turns a bright red, shading towards purple.

And then he manages to turn just enough to grab one of her arms.  Before she can react, he’s torn one of her hands free from the seatbelt, loosening the noose just enough to allow him to take a breath. The next second, just as she’s reaching forwards to gouge at his eyes again, he slams her into the door.  Her head knocks against the window hard enough to send spiderweb cracks radiating across the glass, and the world goes fuzzy.

Bitch,” Manon’s father growls, and spits on her. Manon sends up a new tone of wail at the sight of Marinette slumped against the door, half out of her seat, and her father lands a heavy, backhanded blow across her cheek.  Manon settles into desperate, terrified whimpers as he leans down and starts fishing around for the pistol.

Marinette watches with very little understanding of present events as a black-clad fist smashes through the driver’s-side window.  Manon’s father comes up with the pistol, cursing, but the fist uncurls into five claw-tipped fingers that dig into the meat of his neck and pull him through the window.  Marinette tries to sit up and peer through the window next to her.  The sudden wave of vertigo puts a stop to that.

Chat is through playing superhero.

The white-hot pain in his face and in his eardrums translates easily to white-hot rage as he rises.  He swipes away a trickle of blood from one of the scratches across his forehead as it seals shut and stalks over to the driver’s side window.  He cocks his fist back as the man ducks forwards, scrabbling at the floor of the car.

Then he punches through the window, grabs the man by the throat, and drags him through, flinging him away from the van.  The man hits the ground in a wobbly roll and comes up with the pistol aimed in Chat’s direction.  Chat darts to the side, the gun’s barrel tracking him as he moves, and ducks as the man squeezes off another pair of shots, the bullets humming past his head like very fast, very lethal bumblebees.

This prick is mince.

He lunges as the man aims for center mass and squeezes off another shot and the bullet smacks into him just over the heart.  It drops to the ground a moment later, a sad little flattened disc of lead. The fourth shot misses as Chat seizes the barrel of the gun and forces it down, the bullet embedding itself harmlessly in the asphalt.

Chat squeezes as he stares the man down with all the lethality his gaze can muster. Metal bends and polymer cracks in his grip; the man lets the pistol go and takes several stumbling steps backwards as Chat holds the ruined pistol up, then casually drops it to the ground.

“Yuh—Yuh,” the man stutters in his sudden fear.  “You aren’t taking her from me.”

As Chat steps forwards, the man swings a clumsy haymaker at Chat’s head.  Chat blocks it with an upraised arm and gives the man a flat look.  Then, moving in a blur, he drops low and drives a pair of quick jabs into the man’s sternum and gut; something cracks audibly.  As the man doubles over Chat grabs him by an arm and hurls him several meters away, sending him rolling down the abandoned highway.

Chat walks forwards, steps deliberate, as the man stands again, clutching at his chest. As Chat approaches he stumbles back a step, then swings again.  Chat leans away from the first couple of attempted blows, then catches the man’s fist on the third.  Beads of blood well up from the man’s skin as Chat squeezes down, and the man sinks to his knees as bone grinds on bone.

Chat positions himself and brings his free fist back, aiming at the man’s face.

“Chat,” Marinette says, words slurred.  “Stop. Chat.”

Chat glances back over his shoulder.  Marinette is half hanging out of the driver’s side window, eyes glassy and barely focused.

“S’over,” she says.  “Stop it.”

Chat’s ears flick.  He can hear Manon’s sobbing faintly emanating from the mostly glassless window.

“Stay put,” he finally growls at the man.  The man whimpers; he takes it as a yes.

He releases the man and pulls his staff free as a news helicopter starts to circle overhead.

He dials 15.

“Someone’s got a hero complex,” Marinette says a few nights later, her head in Chat’s lap as he sits crosslegged on her bed.  “You’ve made the news again, kitty.”

“Really?” Chat says, braiding her hair absent-mindedly.

Marinette rolls her eyes and rests her hand gently on his.  He stills.

“I’m fine,” Marinette says.  “You saved us.”

“I might not have,” Chat says to a responding groan from Marinette.

“No, you wouldn’t have,” Marinette says.  “Come here.”

Chat leans down and kisses Marinette briefly on the lips.

“Oh, before I forget,” Marinette says brightly.  “Mama and Papa want you to come over for dinner on Friday.  As thanks.”

Ready? Okay! (Jerome Valeska x Reader)

Originally posted by smooshywrites

REQUEST: write one where y/n was bullied by the cheerleaders from the bus scene and now she’s part of the Maniax and her boyfriend Jerome tries to kills them

FANDOM: Jerome Valeska [Gotham]

AUTHOR: MK (purityimagines)

TAGS: swearing, fluff, bullying, smoking, attempted murder

Arnold Dobkins pops his head through the window of the truck. “Y/N!” He called, taking a cigarette pack out of his back pocket. “You want?”

I smile. “Got a lighter with you?” I remove Jerome’s hands wrapped around my waist and I head outside with him, Dobkins holding his lighter out for me.

Taking a cigarette from the pack, I place it in my mouth and Arnold lights the butt until it began to turn into a flame inside the tobacco. 

Arnold was the first person I made friends with ever since I landed my ass in Arkham Asylum, wearing a striped jumpsuit dress and being locked behind bars just because I committed murder. I thought it wasn’t a big deal, but GCPD thought it was. 

There was also Aaron Helzinger that killed his family with his bare hands and Robert Greenwood that killed and ate women. They risked themselves to beat the crap out of a guard after attempting to seduce me. The guard was unconscious but he wasn’t dead. He earned himself more time and punishment afterwards. But that was when I could trust him. And who knew I could find myself sitting beside a cannibal at lunch without being frightened. 

Barbara Kean is like a sister to me and I plan to help her terrorize Jim’s relationship with Lee one day when we take over Gotham. As promised, she said I would be her maid of honour at her wedding with Jim and she would do the same and make my wedding theme something that would keep children awake and terrified at night when I become Queen.

Then came Jerome Valeska, the handsome, childish but clever eighteen-year-old ginger that murdered his mommy because she shagged too many men next door. He’s also my boyfriend that wanted our relationship to be inspired by Bonnie and Clyde. And who knew I could end up developing a relationship with him involving killing, laughing and way too much affection towards another.

I finish my cigarette and I look over at Jerome who used his hands as pretend binoculars and searching for something to assault. “I spy with my little eye something that is …” He trails off by looking at a yellow bus filled with bubbly cheerleader and jocks cheering and laughing while driving past us. Oh shit, I thought. “… yellow!”

Keep reading

Heyyyyy this is a little ficlet I’ve been working on, some kinda dark au that came to me while I was taking a bath one night. No pairings in this, just found family. Happy Friday!

It’s dark in the woods, and Stiles is scared. Lights bounce off the trees and kiss at his heels, and there are voices echoing through the trees, calling for him, but he doesn’t dare stop running. He trips over branches and crashes through bushes, and it’s getting harder and harder to catch his breath, his heart hammering in his chest.

“Come on, son!” someone yells, too close. “We’re not going to hurt you!”

Stiles whimpers when a branch slaps his face; he ducks under it and skids down an embankment, mud oozing up over his sneakers. It’s cold out, and dark, and he’s shaking; Dad wouldn’t stop to let him change, barely let him grab a hoodie - he’s still wearing shorts from soccer practice, and now his shins are prickling with goosebumps and red with scratches from the underbrush.

Stiles trips over a rotten stump when he comes up the other side of the embankment and goes careening face first into a tree; it sends stars bursting in his vision, tears burning in his eyes. Don’t cry, Dad had said. Don’t cry.

Stiles slides back against the tree, tugging his hood over his head as he sinks down into the leaves, the voices and crashing footsteps drawing near. He squeezes his eyes shut, tears spilling down his cheeks, and thinks I’m not here. You can’t see me. Go away.

He feels it when the spell takes; everything around him goes dull and echoey and far away, like he’s underwater. The lights in the trees around him blur as if smothered by a sudden heavy fog, and the hunters, when they draw near, waver and shift like ghosts. Stiles buries his face against his knees and thinks go away go away go away. One of the hunters leans against the tree next to him, says, “Where’d the little fucker go?” and for a moment, Stiles forgets to breathe.

Keep reading

anonymous asked:

"1 yes it is wrong to fallow someone to the bathroom at the point of taking a pic of him using the urinal and chasing him to vehicles just for pics there has to be a limit." -- I get what you're saying, and I'm with you, but you are aware that Renee's been seen running through parking lots to get to Dean, right? Like, she's arrived separately and RUN to his car just to be seen walking in with him. She can be put in the same class as a psycho fan.


On a hot summer’s day in 1985, the man who had been terrorizing LA with his nightmarish murders was finally captured. The murders of Richard Ramirez were finally brought to an abrupt end when locals witnessed him attempting to steal a woman’s vehicle. They chased, spat at, and beat him into submission after he managed to slip past seven patrol cars. When the police finally arrived to make a formal arrest, they found him covered in blood, cowardly begging for his life in Spanish: “Dejeme en paz! Dejeme en paz!” — (Spanish for “Leave me in peace!”) echoed through the East LA neighbourhood that afternoon, and this signified an end to the infamous Night Stalker’s reign of terror.



On Saturday evening, the community of Boyle Heights came together to give a simple and direct message to the art galleries, their owners, and their patrons who are currently invading the community with their hideous bourgeois art: GET THE FUCK OUT. You are not welcome here.

This confrontation has been a long-time coming and will be only the first in a long line of such confrontations if these galleries do not heed the demands being made by the community. Members of Red Guards- Los Angeles have been active participants in the Defend Boyle Heights coalition that was formed earlier this year in order to confront the rapidly approaching gentrification of the community of Boyle Heights. Our time organizing among the residents of this community has been humbling for us. We have been inspired by this community’s willingness to stand together in the face of bourgeois developers, speculators, and gallery owners with far greater access to capital and the repressive machinery of the State than this working class, largely immigrant community will ever have while this land remains the dominion of capitalists and their pig footsoldiers. And despite the glaring imbalance of power, this community remains defiant and steadfast in its goals.

The anti-gentrification struggle in Boyle Heights makes abundantly clear to us the Maoist principle that has been instrumental in guiding our work: the masses of people, and the masses of people alone, are the motive force in the making of world history. The unified resistance of this community is powerful enough to move mountains, and will prove itself powerful enough to push back the forces of gentrification that have begun to show their faces as art galleries and other businesses which cater to the wealthy, with callous disregard for the destruction of community and culture which they leave in their wake.

The recent tactics of direct and hostile confrontation with these forces of gentrification demonstrate that the community itself—the palateras and palateros, the immigrant families, the senoras who overcame the scourge of gang violence within their communities, the muralists who have enriched their community with the colorful paintings and street art that adorn every wall and building in the neighborhood, the youth, the punks with their backyard-show scene—this community understands very well that the only reliable factor in this struggle is themselves and their ability, when unified, to resist even the most well funded galleriests, landlords, and investors seeking to rip the community apart.

This Saturday’s action was not a pleasant experience for those on the receiving end of it. There was no pretense of openness to dialogue or conversation with the gallery owners and their patrons. There was no coddling of the white liberal sentiment of “support” for the “message” but “disapproval” of the “tactics”. There was no willingness to dilute or defuse the righteous anger that was directed at the galleries like a shotgun blast. Standing side-by-side were older senoras who boldly denounced the presence of the galleries and detailed the material effect these galleries have on rent prices, with young, masked militants who made abundantly clear just how unwelcome the community at large feels the presence of high-priced art galleries, funded by west-siders and outsiders, to be.

Gallery attendees were harassed and harangued, pelted with water and bottles and an endless barrage of verbal assault. They were stopped in their tracks, surrounded, chased back to their vehicles and out of the around Anderson Street and Mission Road where the majority of these galleries have begun opening up. The galleries themselves were surrounded while members of the community banged on their windows, entered their galleries to smash bottles, and continued the barrage of verbal assault. The initial expressions of smug amusement turned into palpable fear from the gallery attendees as the confrontation continued to escalate with no signs of winding down. The gallery owners rushed to their doors to lock them and pull down the metal barricades over their windows. The community succeeded in shutting down several openings that night, ran many dozens of yuppies and rich hipsters out of the neighborhood, and undeniably birthed in many more an unwillingness to ever step foot in Boyle Heights for a gallery opening again.

So what does this confrontation teach us? We have learned that this community recognizes the importance of taking matter into its own hands. This community knows instinctively and through experience that politicians, city councils, and electoral politics will do nothing to come to its aid, and will in fact stand behind the very forces of gentrification that want to break the community up and sell each piece of it to the highest bidder. There is an awareness, sometimes spoken and sometimes unspoken, of the shared class interests among these politicians and the investors, speculators, and gallery owners currently driving much of the gentrification in Boyle Heights.

There is the knowledge, firsthand, that the police forces they are told to rely on to “protect” and “serve” them will likewise stand in defense of the forces of the bourgeoisie and will do nothing to protect the livelihoods of the working class residents that characterize the community—they will enter with guns drawn and chains ready to shoot them dead and drag the ones that remain to prison under pretenses of gang-injuctions, or, in the case of 14 year-old boys like the recently murdered Jesse Romero, petty vandalism. They know the pigs stand ready to do the brutal grunt work that the delicate hands and sensibilities of the bourgeois galleriests are unwilling to do themselves.

With this near complete inaccessibility to institutional power, our community is recognizing the importance of building its own power, outside of the system, as the only effective method for serving its people and protecting its livelihood and culture. While we wholeheartedly support and endorse the actions taken by the community on Saturday evening, we know that the only long-term solution to the problem of gentrification is the formation of working class institutions of power that are dedicated to serving the interests of the people. Concessions from city and state government, deals and collusion with galleries and landlords, temporary acquiescence to the demands of the community—these things are not enough. They amount to bones tossed to us by the representatives of the ruling class for the express purpose of derailing our anger and stunting our ability to build organizations that will claim all political power for ourselves and our community. They are carrots dangled before our heads which  these ruling class elites hope will distract us long enough to forget that they still retain the power to dictate the terms of our engagement with them.

These confrontations teach us the truth that all correct ideas emerge from the masses of people, and it is only through the process of engaging with our community, learning from their history of struggle and standing shoulder to shoulder with them in their current struggle, that necessary revolutionary leadership can be developed to guide them into confrontation not only with the forces of gentrification but all the forces of capitalism that exploit and oppress our people. The history of struggle within our community, the experience of struggle in the communities surrounding us which have fallen to gentrification, and our daily struggles to survive, are a breeding ground for the revolutionary ideas that are currently taking root in Boyle Heights and finding their outlet in these direct confrontations.

Just as we understand that the history of struggle within our community is the basis for their correct ideas, we must also recognize that capitalism, patriarchy, white supremacy, and the ideological divisions they create along class, gender, and racial lines also foster the creation of incorrect and backwards ideas within our community. Revolutionary leadership entails that we encourage and develop the correct ideas within our community and that we use our understanding of revolutionary theory to combat the manifestations of the backwards ideas that likewise exist.

We must be wary of those who continue to advocate for dialogue with the forces of gentrification. We must be wary of those who continue to push the idealistic line that if we simply convince the gentrifiers of our humanity and essential goodness as human beings perhaps they will abandon their plans to seize our community—that being “too confrontational” somehow reaffirms the gentrifiers conception of us as thugs and hoodlums who don’t deserve the space to live.

These positions fundamentally misunderstand the mechanics of capitalism and its auxiliary force of white supremacy that are at play in the urban removal currently being experienced in our community. Let us be clear: the gentrification of our community is and will continue to be driven by the opportunity to profit that exists in purchasing the relatively cheap land in our neighborhood, repurposing it in a way desirable as a playground for the wealthy, and then selling it back at much higher prices to the community of wealthy people who would now desire to live here. This process is independent of ethics and morality, for the only “morality” under capitalism is profit. The racialized justifications for this process are  nothing more than ideological rationalizations for the profit-driven conquest of our communities. If we were somehow able to combat the racist caricatures of our community that are utilized by those who advocate for its gentrification, the opportunity to profit from low-priced real estate would still exist and thus the motivation for gentrifying it would still exist.

We cannot fall into a trap of respectability politics or give weight to the idea that only opposing urban removal in “legitimate” and “respectable” ways will be successful: not only does this argument replicate the racist narrative of the white supremacists, but it is also entirely unsuccessful. Silverlake, Echo Park, Highland Park, and countless other communities did not succumb to gentrification because their residents failed to protest in a respectable enough manner. These communities made spectacular pleas to city and state government officials for affordable housing measures and rent control measures. They protested and lobbied city council officials, put out calls to vote for or against city council representatives based on their stance re: gentrification. They made cultural and artistic displays the demonstrated the vibrancy and artistic spirit of the community in hopes that the investors, speculators and landlords would be so moved they would be unwilling to displace the community: this did not work. These communities are currently crawling with the same yuppies and hipsters that are thankfully, mostly confined to the area around “Gallery Row” in Boyle Heights.

We must also be wary of and combat the notions that gentrification makes the community “safer”, more “beautiful”, or that “gente-fication” (the gentrification of the community by petty-bourgeois, brown gentrifiers) is an acceptable alternative to “gentrification”.

1. There is nothing “safe” about the forced, often violent removal of families from their homes and businesses. There is nothing “safe” about the threat of homelessness. Eviction is not “safe”. Increased police patrols and the violence and criminalization that accompany them are not “safe” for a community preyed upon by the pigs daily. This illusion of “safety” can only be enjoyed and its benefits touted by those with the economic resources to remain in the community after rents have doubled or tripled and the original community, with all of its contradictions and socially rooted problems, are displaced violently.

2. The “beautification” of the community is not for the working class residents who currently live there. Developers and the city only make efforts to “beautify” when they are preparing the area to be sold to a new class of bourgeois and petty-bourgeois residents, so we hardly care whether or not the neighborhood is going to be made more “beautiful” when that beautification necessarily comes at the expense of the community currently living there.

3. “Gente-fication” is no different from “gentrification” and results in the exact same large-scale displacement of working class communities. The fact that some number of brown and black oppressed nationalities have been able to gain access to wealth and capital, and can thus afford to live in a “redeveloped” neighborhood, is no excuse for the fact that the majority of our people have been systematically denied this access to wealth and capital due to the collusion of capitalism and white supremacy, and will therefore experience the process of “gente-fication” exactly the same as they would experience the process of “gentrification”–evicted, displaced, removed, uprooted and erased from the community.

Lastly, we must be wary of the sell-outs and opportunists, the “radicals” of yesteryear who have long since abandoned whatever genuine revolutionary spirit may have at one time flowed through their bones. These people come to us with a facade radicalism, but when the community finds an outlet for their outrage these will be the first people to hold them back, selling out the trust they have established in the community to carve out a niche of power for themselves on neighborhood councils, city councils, or non-profit organizations.

We see this clearly in figures like Carlos Montes, neighborhood council member and leader of Freedom Road Socialist Organization (FRSO) and their community front group Centro-CSO, who uses every instance of community outrage to position himself in front of news cameras, squeeze himself between grieving mothers after their children are murdered by the police, to give another tired and bland speech recycling rhetoric that hasn’t inspired anyone in 40 years. He uses his space at these events to sell the community watered-down, reformist solutions to problems that require genuine revolutionary analysis under the pretense that the community is not ready to hear the truth about the need for armed struggle and revolution, that they are not ready to rebel and engage in direct confrontation with the forces of capitalism that threaten their existence. When the storm of revolution arrives these vendidxs will be washed away in the tide, their newspapers and badges of honor from the “glory days” washed away with them.

Members of the Party for Socialism and Liberation (PSL) present themselves to our community in a similar manner, wagging their fingers and critiquing our actions from afar. When our community accurately identifies the influx of galleries and their wealthy patrons as a gear turning the wheels in the process of gentrification, they come to us with condescending declarations that we are too stupid to understand these galleries are just a “symptom”, our anger is misguided and misdirected, and we should be directing our activities towards the “real culprits” who, in their class-reductionists analysis, are always banks which they provide no indication of how to meaningfully target at our current level of organization. Maybe if we subscribe to their newspaper they will teach the community how to achieve this. Regardless, the positions taken by these so-called radicals serve only to defuse the anger of the community, condescendingly “correct” their mistaken ideas from a position that is removed from their concrete struggle, and offer go-nowhere alternatives to a community that is achieving far more by engaging in direct confrontation, occasionally making mistakes, learning from and correcting those mistakes as the struggle advances.

Revolutionary leadership does not come from afar, in the form of condescension and finger wagging, and it does not lord itself over the community in the form of paternalistic advice from washed up old radicals who sell the community short at every turn. Revolutionary leadership emerges from within the concrete struggles of our community, by combining the community’s most forward and progressive ideas with revolutionary theory that encourages them in their rebellion rather than holds them back or leads them into the dead-ends of reformism and electoral politics.

Because gentrification, in the final analysis, is intimately tied to the mechanics of capitalism, we understand that only an end to capitalism will do away with the process of gentrification entirely. Only a recognition of the necessity for a revolutionary Party, institutions controlled by and in service of the working class and oppressed nations as a whole, and a revolution in the heart of the imperialist beast of America, will be sufficient to defend the livelihoods of working class people.

Our only hope in these conditions is to unite the various struggles of all working class and oppressed nationalities people under the banner of a revolutionary Party that will be capable of providing leadership and structure in a fight with the highly organized forces of capitalism, the bourgeoisie, and gentrification. Only the unity of these working class institutions, under the banner of a revolutionary Party, defended and reinforced by a People’s Army, will be capable of waging the struggle for national liberation for the oppressed Chicanx nation (and all other oppressed nations) and revolution that will deal the death blow to the forces of capitalism that destroy our families and our communities. We understand that all political power grows from the barrel of a gun, the traitors who say otherwise—be damned! Only a willingness to struggle on these same terms will lead us to victory.

In Boyle Heights we must stand in solidarity with the vigorous efforts being made to combat gentrification and to wrest control over our communities and our lives from the vulture capitalists who currently dictate where, how, and whether or not we live. The direct actions undertaken by this community on Saturday represent the initial steps towards creating that political power that in the long term will be necessary to establish control over our own communities and our own lives. We support and stand beside them in their rebellion. We respect and are humbled by their spirit of resistance. We know that it is right to rebel.

Down with the art galleries!

Down with landlords, speculators, and investors!

Down with vedidxs and false radicals!

Up with the rebellion! Up with revolution!

Defend Boyle Heights!


The story of how my friends and I ended up on Lady Gaga’s instagram for most of us starts back a few shows before Tahoe. Specifically starting at both shows in LA and the one in Vegas, we spent our time doing everything we could to try to find her and get some quick time with her whether it was following paths to hotels till the sun was coming up or waiting down the streets outside the arena for hours on end with the result usually being a quick drive by wave from the car or nothing at all as the crowds around us at those shows gave her no room to stop by jumping in front of or actually on top of her vehicle or chasing her down. After being so close so many times and having her drive by us 4 times at this tour, we packed up our stuff and made our way to Tahoe just hoping that it would be a more calm setting in which people respected her space so she could have time with us. Most of us didn’t even have tickets but we got together after hours and hours of driving and stayed outside the arena, waiting patiently for hours for her to leave to the venue after finding a promising spot where she’d come through. As 7 o clock came around and a few of our group had to leave and go into the show, there was 4 of us remaining patiently on a rock wall of the sidewalk as venue security became tighter and tighter. She finally walked out and entered her car in the most perfect setting for a quick chat with us. Her guard Kevin waved at us and my friend’s father whom he had gotten close with, and gave us a signal to stay where we are. We calmed our nerves and put on our game faces as the four of us remaining stood on the curb patiently knowing that any wrong/rude move would send her speeding away as she looked and waved at us from the vehicle. It was perfect and we thought we had it down as we watched her sit and talk to her driver for a minute…. Something seemed off as she wasn’t smiling and put her feed up on the hood and looked back at us as we waved and made heart signs. The car started and she rolled up past us, stopping for a minute right next to us, but she neither nor rolled down her window or looked at us and drove off to the arena.

We shook it off knowing that she had a valid reason to do so and knowing that we displayed to her that we weren’t going to mob her or cause any safety issues as all we did was stay on the sidewalk and wave calmly, waiting for her to initiate if she wanted since as at every other show before, she had bad time attempting to do anything with mobs of frantic kids. We did a bit of stalking and found her bus and watched her enter the back of the stage, got food, and then hung around again. Time passed along and we watched the show from the curb (I ended up getting a free ticket and talked my way through some problems for my final Artrave) and when the show ended, the 6 of us again waited for the place to clear out and made our way to where we were before. After it was basically empty, we waited for another hour or so until we saw some one her guards come check out the area which immediately told us we were on to something good. Some time passed before she snuck past us in one SUV and hotel security went crazy on us saying we couldn’t be on that sidewalk, even physically pushing my friend off, and we just calmly told them that we weren’t any danger and we respect her and we were not leaving until her either Peter or Kevin told us too. The car pulled about 20 ft away from us and she got out as we started to lightly call for her. With my piggy hand puppet on, I yelled that I had a present for her and we all just tried depserately to get her to come over while showing that we were as collected and respectful as possible. She turned, wearing all black leather, stopped for a moment and waved before entering the door and the rent a cop that assaulted us stupidly ran after her like he knew what he was doing. Not giving up, we saw that her car was not leaving from the area and her driver that watched us all day in the same area was looking back at us again through the window as we returned calmly to the sidewalk we were pushed off to sit on the wall again.  We did our best to look as casual as possible and played with our phones or just sat down to prove ourselves that we were safe and trustworthy when all the sudden a little black dog came walking around the corner. Gaga’s dog Asia was on her leash coming towards the car after making her way back from a walk and we all internally freaked the hell out and reminded ourselves that if anyone stepped off that damn curb to go see her, it would ruin everything for all of us. Asia sat on the drivers lap waiting for Gaga restlessly to the point that the driver had to bring her out of the car and walk her around as she searched and sniffed for her mom. After watching her for a few moments, taking pics, and lightly calling to her and seeing her check us out from a distance, part of the group who were in street clothes walked casually around the place and came down to go look at Asia as if they were just random tourists, even being allowed to touch her. They chatted with her driver and reminded them that we are all good kids and we only just want a quick hi from Gaga if possible. 

As soon as they left the driver, we watched him on his phone talk for a few minutes and we knew that it was time to prepare again. Peter then walked out the door and took Asia, putting her in the backseat of the car. As my heart was pounding I knew that this was the last chance I had of this year for something to happen and we all waited anxiously for another minute until the door opened again and Gaga walked out in her less leather and italian curls. We waved and called to her as she opened the car door, hoping that she’d pull up to us and roll down the window for a quick chat, but what happened next shocked all of us.

Gaga put her bag on the seat and shut the door and her and her security started to walk over to us. I turned around in disbelief, tried to find my phone, and then thought “FUCK IT, JUST GO” as we all made a unanimous whimper/omg/FUCK noise and stared tearing up. We all walked off the curb over to her a little frantically and Peter told us to calm down. We all just said “OKAY!’ and I didn’t think it was possible to stop crying in the length of a mili-second while being in a state of such emotional instability but turns out it is. We all took a deep breath and she walked over to us with a smile. She said hi and we all greeted her and she shoved her leather pants in our face that she’d had taken off while being inside. She was, as usual, the sweetest and most kind persona and said something along the lines of "So do you all want to take one on one pictures” and none of us said YAAAAAAS but we were thinking it as I tried to open my mouth and make a human noise of agreement. She asked if we had a camera and my friend had is professional ready to go.

I was standing behind her security over to the side, not wanting to crowd her, and she walked around him and came up to me first saying “ok, we will start over here” pointing to me with a familiar smirk. The only words that could come out of my mouth were “Gaga, do you remember me?” and she replied “Of course I do!” and threw her arm over my shoulder in a hug. I then gave her my piggy toy that I had bought before the LA show and had thrown on stage 3 times up until that point only to luckily get it back each time by some miracle and asked her “can I give you this? its a piggy hand puppet for you and Asia and I’ve tried to get it to you for three shows” and she grabbed it out of my hand with excitement and it put it on, waving it up into my face and making random Lady Gaga noises that only made sense to her. I stood back and simultaneously thought “is this really happening omg don’t start crying too hard” and “Oh Gaga that’s not the noise a pig makes but you cute.” After the fact, part of me is certain that my soul passed on at that moment to another place as that was the most adorable thing I had ever seen in my life as she just waved its little arms and played with it making an “eek eek eeek!” sound in her baby voice she uses on Asia. We then walked out to the street a little more and she put her arm around me again and by some miracle I asked what I was too afraid to ask when we first met in San Jose. Not even thinking about it, I said “Gaga, can I kiss you? on the cheek? If not I totally unders-.”  and she pulled me in closer and said “Of course you can.” and leaned her face towards mine as I had a heart attack and finally found my lord and savior while my mouth was on the back of her jawline. Her italian curl wig got in my mouth and I was far too into that than I should have been as I just lived in that moment knowing my entire existence had built up to that exact moment.

I pulled away in complete shock but to make my life even more unreal, my friend didn’t turn the flash on the picture so it turned out blurry so Gaga totally let us another one. She leaned herself back in with her arm still around me and moved some hair out of her face so I had a better spot and her cheek was on my mouth before I even was ready cause I was too busy metaphorically peeing myself. The picture was shot and her security rushed us on and I thanked her and immediately started hugging my friends. We didn’t get much time to talk to her one on one but instead just enjoyed her presence, taking pictures for each other and hugging, Each person got a photo and we thought that was the end of the amazing moment until Gaga asked “Can we take a group shot?” and pulled out her phone. Now collectively we metaphorically peed ourselves as a group and all huddled in as slight drunky Gaga could not figure out how to work her own phone or take a selfie. She cutely asked Peter to take it and I got close to her, looking down at her huge wig and we put our paws up. We posed, I grasped my hand down on her shoulder instinctively, holding on for dear life, and there were probably around 5 pictures taken before we stopped and she got up, giving us a sweet smile. She said had to leave then but thanked us and we all said goodbye and that we loved her so much as she walked back to her car.

As soon as she turned around, we all cried and hugged everyone in the area and I fell to the cement in pure happiness that we finally pulled it off after all the missteps and knowing that we had just experienced something too crazy to imagine. The most we were hoping for was the window to be rolled down but instead she herself approached us and asked us for solo pictures and asked us for a group shot. We knew that we had showed her that we respected her and gave her a moment of mutual love and the ability to interact with her fans without them throwing her around like a rag doll or acting like she wasn’t even a person.

She watched us from her car as we all jumped up and down and hugged each other and we waved and thanked her again as she drove away one last time. In disbelief, we pulled ourselves together after a few moments of celebration decided that were gonna go print up the pictures from the camera right then at a CVS down the street. We walked down the Tahoe streets as group, passing drunk people yelling “LADY GAGA” to us in our outfits while we were checking her instagram every second just hoping that maybe she’d post it but kinda knowing in our hearts that it could be lost in drunky gaga selfie land forever. When we finally reached the store, we talked about how amazing that was and lost track of time waiting for the prints. After 30 minutes go by and we are busy looking at the pictures, Maddy yells “SHE UPLOADED IT!” and in the middle of a CVS filled with drunk people, we all start screaming and jumping around and hugging and yelling in celebration with only causes the crowds drunk people outside to start celebrating with us yelling “SHE UPLOADED IT! Who is she?” and we just yelled “LADY GAGA PUT US ON HER INSTAGRAM” back and they celebrated with us. Some of us fell down in emotional overwhelmingness while others just cried.. I did both of course as we were in disbelief that it actually happened and the CVS workers looked horrified at us but kindly didn’t kick us out. We hugged and cried and hung out for a few more hours until finally our monster family went our separate ways home or onto other ArtRaves, knowing that our moment would have meant far less if we weren’t together to make it happen.

In the end, the shows it took catching her attention from the crowd, the hours spent waiting for her, energy used to find her/hotels, and the time we each separately spent gaining the trust of her team and drivers in our past adventures meeting Gaga mixed with a lot of respect and treating Gaga like a human, all payed off entirely like no other show we had been too. I’m truly blessed and grateful for the time I had with her and my friends as this will be a memory forever.

Monsters 4 Life. 

- Courtney