#Politician Appreciation Gifts

[noisycowboyglitter]

The Vice President Kamala Harris Is My Sorority Sister: A Legacy of Empowerment

The phrase "The Vice President Kamala Harris Is My Sorority Sister" refers to the shared bond between Vice President Kamala Harris and members of Alpha Kappa Alpha Sorority, Incorporated (AKA). This connection has been a source of pride and inspiration for many AKA members and supporters.

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Alpha Kappa Alpha, founded in 1908 at Howard University, is the oldest Greek-letter organization established by African American college women. Kamala Harris joined the sorority's Alpha Chapter while attending Howard University in the 1980s.

When Harris was elected Vice President in 2020, it marked a significant milestone not only for the nation but also for AKA. Her achievement resonated deeply with sorority members, who often refer to each other as "sorors" or sisters.

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The sorority's principles of scholarship, leadership, and service align closely with Harris's career in public service. Throughout her political journey, from District Attorney to U.S. Senator and now Vice President, Harris has often acknowledged the impact of her AKA experience on her life and career.

For many AKA members, Harris's vice presidency represents the culmination of the sorority's long-standing commitment to civic engagement and women's empowerment. It serves as an inspiration for young women, particularly women of color, showing that they too can aspire to the highest offices in the land.

The phrase also highlights the significance of historically Black Greek-letter organizations in fostering networks, leadership skills, and community service among their members, which can translate into professional and political success.

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When considering the best gift for a politician, it's important to choose something thoughtful, appropriate, and in line with ethical guidelines. Here are some ideas that could be suitable:

Books: A carefully selected book on leadership, history, or policy can be both informative and inspiring.

Personalized stationery: High-quality, customized notepads or letterheads can be practical and elegant.

Charitable donation: Making a donation in their name to a cause they support shows thoughtfulness and social responsibility.

Local artisan crafts: Gifts that represent their constituency or state can be meaningful and support local businesses.

Commemorative items: A framed copy of a significant bill they sponsored or a historic photograph related to their career can be memorable.

Professional accessories: A quality pen, briefcase, or portfolio can be useful for their daily work.

Patriotic items: Tasteful flag pins, cufflinks, or desk accessories with national symbols can be appropriate.

Time-management tools: A nice planner or digital organizer can help with their busy schedule.

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Remember to check specific ethics rules and gift limits that may apply to the politician in question to ensure compliance with regulations.

[ancientgoddessofegypt]

JUPITERS THRONE : ASTRO OBSERVATIONS ON JUPITER PLACEMENTS

Jupiter square ascendant - Difficulty in spaces where their idealistic views and beliefs can piss off certain people. It is because they are more open to the universes astral possibilities and sometimes can be around others who will try to make them 'tone down' there optimism. Sometimes they will have to spend time alone to understand the path they are embarking. It is not until they leave that environment, that inspiring mark they leave on others transforms other people around them.

Venus Sag - Talented in music, arts, spirituality but they have their own twist to it. The seekers they are, they find new ways to bringing out their interest in a light that makes you ponder on it a little. Very intriguing love lives, eventually they let go of all the standards they have over their relationships and make new ones. Trying anything new in their relationships give them the wisdom they need to move forward on their journey.

Don't get your feelings hurt, tho... they are always in charge. Whether you like it or not.

Jupiter Conjunct Moon - The power they have. Whew. They are good orchestras of emotion. They have the ability to cast a spell on you with their large auras. Its hidden in plain sight. It's not until they express their emotions in a way that has people trembling at their feet. Could be amazing performers or people of intellect. They have a lot of knowledge hidden inside them. You just have to be on the other side of their overflowing emotions ;)

9th House Saturns - A long time journey with changing their beliefs through time to time. These people should go on frequent trips to the cabin, and enjoy the mountains for time to time. This will ground them and help them change their perspective a little. A little more outside time will do the trick.

Neptune/ Jupiter aspects - Your subconscious beliefs need to be above the roof. If you have a lack mentality jupiter will extend on it ten times more. Having more faith within your belief system will help you enjoy the fruits of your labor. It's all in the mind, and your luck comes from the infinite consciousness that is your imagination.

Sag Rising - These individuals possess a star light on their appearance that awakens enlightenment in other people. A dream come true in a way. Can have a persona that is of the likeness of a celebrity and have a very powerful energy to them. Something about them screams 'force'. They just got it. The mystery has yet to be solved.

Mercury Trine Jupiter - They could have an audience who just adores their opinions if they just spoke! These people are fascinating to listen to and get their point of view on things. They have a likeable aura when it comes to their speech. The ideas these peeps have within them can be used to change the minds and perspectives of others helping them expand. Can receive divine insight on what needs to be shared, learned or even be expressed in their thought waves. Deep thinkers, but in a way that philosophies whatever it is they put their mind too.

Pluto Trine Jupiter - A POWER HOUSE PLACEMENT!! These are the people who end up wealthy, famous or politicians. Naturally come into positions of power with ease. They know exactly how to get there and what they gotta do to keep it.

Sun Conjunct Jupiter - Popular. Well known. Attractive. Lucky. Lucky lucky lucky. Their faith gets them exactly what they need to fly. Even when the world throws them obstacles they wake up and keep trying. Very inspiring and influential. You can't take that away from them.

Neptune in the 9th - Believe in yourself. The world may not understand you and your own ideas but it isn't for everyone to appreciate, just simply to absorb and allow the consciousness to unfold its gifts into new horizons. Your vision is inspired by the ethereal realms around you and your environment. And you find new ways to gift others a new sense of enlightenment on each persons journey.

[lex-the-flex]

Sneaking Away with Marcus Acacius

A/N: I just watched Gladiator for the first time and I'm so excited for the sequel! Feedback is appreciated and enjoy!

Stroking the soft skin of your exposed upper thigh with a calm demeanor, you can tell Marcus is ready to go. Despite being one of the greatest Generals in all of Rome, the multiple Senators continue on and on, and they are starting to leave an invisible sour taste in his mouth. Shifting uncomfortably in his seat, you place your hand over his own.

Leaning closer towards you, Marcus playfully places his lips to your earlobe.

"If he doesn't stop talking, I swear I shall smite him where he stands." Marcus declares.

"You'll do no such thing. You know we have to stay, I know this is tedious." You reply.

Squeezing his hand a little tighter, his dark brown orbs gaze into yours, providing you some comfort. Tapping the top of Marcus' hand, the two of you scoot closer to each other, hoping to shut out the world around you.

Sensing a fight brewing within the Senator's inner circle, they propose a break with an abundance of food and goblets of wine. Downing two cups of the dark wine within gulps, Marcus joins you at the food table, scanning over the various pieces of fruit and cuts of meat and cheese, he places his hand on the small of your back.

"Come with me, love." He whispers behind your neck.

"Is something wrong?" You ask, taking his hand.

"No, does there have to be something wrong to talk to my wife?" He replies, providing a cover story to another Politician that was standing next to you.

Following Marcus through the temple halls, you guides you to small antechamber hidden within the marble walls. Backing you against the cold white and gold wall, Marcus plants a deep, yet passionate kiss on your lips. His pink lips work quick against your own, whilst his bread tickles the soft skin of your neck and collarbones.

"Marcus, what are you doing? What about the meeting?" You ask through multiple pants.

"Enjoying my gift from the Gods. Not even the Senators can take you away from me." Marcus teases, descending down your body.

Lowering himself to his knees, Marcus moves your chiton away from your waist, exposing yourself to him.

Giving you a series of kisses around the sensitive skin of your inner thighs, earning him miniscule sighs from your mouth. Connecting his lips to your core, you hastily grip your husband's head, accidentally covering his ears.

Tuning out reality, Marcus flicks his tongue against your throbbing clit, eager to continue. Placing your leg over his shoulder, Marcus pushes himself past your entrance, and a sensual moan escapes your lips.

Going further, Marcus grips your hips to keep you in place, expertly finding your soft spot, enjoying you untangle before him. Biting your lip to silence your ecstasy, you run your fingers through Marcus' hair just as his beard scratches your inner thighs, making you reach your end faster.

A flurry of butterflies fills your core just as Marcus carefully pushes you against the wall one last time. Fully letting go, Marcus savors your taste on his tongue, and stands before you. Fixing the straps around your shoulders, the sound of soldier's footsteps echo through the halls.

Covering you with his frame, Marcus places a kiss to your lips before sharing a much needed laugh with you.

[zeebreezin]

A major cultural belief amongst Antheri people is that gifts of the Mountain shouldn’t be used frivolously, or otherwise taken for granted. This is partially a religious belief, and partially something that emerged due to the kingdom’s floating nature. As such, Anther uses very little metal in construction or technology, instead relying on heavily cultivated, Stone-soaked plants and the correspondence for their modern amenities. Door hinges can be created with specially grown vines, clocks can be made with the correspondence and blooming flowers, and so on.

While stone buildings are seen as culturally acceptable (typically temples, government buildings, or the homes of the ultra rich), metal & gemstone based jewelry is seen as incredibly gaudy even in small quantities, if not outright distasteful. The only person you’ll see wearing gems in Anther on the average day is the ruling monarch, the Blossoming Actinoregent - and even then, their diamonds are typically only worn during religious ceremonies or important public addresses.

Instead of metal jewelry, worn wealth is shown primarily with fabrics in Anther. Bioluminescent dyes, complex embroidery, correspondence trimmed skirts that leave trails of light when they swish - Anther’s fabrics are renowned for their beauty across the Elder Continent, and are one of the nation’s primary exports, along with their crops.

Fittingly, flowers are also a massive part of Antheri fashion. Gardening, Botany, and floral arrangements are seen as a major form of self expression in Anther, a way of both cultivating the self, and of showing appreciation to the life that the Mountain provides. There’s an incredibly in-depth floral language that goes along with wearing your arrangement, from where it’s worn (most commonly being braided through hair, tied around the waist as a belt, worn over the shoulder, or woven into a glove/up the arm), the selection of plants, the prominence of each plant, and the state of growth the cutting is in. These garlands can speak volumes about the person wearing them and the image that they wish to present to the world. A politician choosing a base of Tagada vines for their garland (the dark red vines that grow underneath the Drifting Kingdom, linking the many floating pieces of land together) speaks to their commitment to the city’s lower classes, as well as their dependability. A young womanizer may choose budding flowers that symbolize love to suggest that they’re looking for something tonight, as opposed to implying that they’ve already found it. It’s perfectly acceptable to wear only a few simple blooms, especially outside of the upper classes of society, but wearing no garland at all is akin to wearing a black hoodie and shifty eyes all day. It’s a little suspicious, in its anonymity.

[jiejie-eonni-onee-sama]

Sunday Mornings...

For the sweet @stephy-le-clubeur and adorable @miraismywife💝(I'm so glad to know you)

When he was a child, Gabriel didn't like Sundays. For him, it was the end of the weekend and back to school.

Of course, he was a good pupil, but like all children, he preferred to play with others rather than sit in class.

As he grew older, the Sundays he spent became more and more like breathing spaces, moments of happiness to decompress and breathe before jumping back into the deep end of his studies and then his professional life in politics.

This appreciation of Sundays had a bitter taste since his father passed away.

Yves Attal made it a point of honour to have all his children with him every Sunday for lunch, even after divorcing their mother. He missed these moments.

However, Sundays enabled him to spend time with his mother, sisters and younger brother despite an increasingly tight schedule.

But he began to love Sundays again when Stéphane came into his life.

All it took was one look at him during a work meeting in 2015 for everything to change, and Gabriel was able to discover the joy of waking up with a loved one in his bed.

On Sunday mornings, when daylight awoke him from his slumber, he could admire Stéphane, who was still asleep. His fingers itched not to be able to stroke his dark hair or touch the face he knew by heart.

But he had to be patient, waiting for Stéphane's eyes, those marvellous black orbs that looked at him with love, to open and for his face to light up with that smile that made his heart melt.

Sundays spent together were an enchanted interlude that was just for them.

As Stéphane said when Gabriel felt the urge to look at his phone:

"Disconnect your brain, Gabi: preserve your neurons!"

To which the young politician replied:

"All my attention is devoted to you, Stéph. You, and only you."

And he was right: what better way to clear your head than to spend time with your lover?

The least we could say was that the couple had no shortage of ideas to keep them occupied: romantic meals, walks, film evenings and sex, of course!

After all, there's nothing like uniting their two bodies and achieving the ultimate pleasure to help them find each other again and strengthen their bond.

Sunday mornings, those little moments of paradise all their own, were precious to the politician. As precious as the two angels sleeping peacefully between him and Stéphane.

Watching his children sleep, Gabriel whispered:

"Should we wake them up?

"No, let them sleep a little longer. They look like they're having a lovely dream..." replied Stéphane gently, stroking the toddlers' sleeping faces.

Nathan and Elise. Undoubtedly, it was the best thing that could have happened to them.

He had thought that this life he was leading would deprive him of the happiness of having his own family.

And yet, it worked: now, someone called him Dad. And it was priceless for him and Stéphane to see Nathan - calm and curious - and Elise - joyful and adventurous - grow up.

Now Gabriel could say it: he loved Sunday mornings because they were the best time of the week to enjoy the best gifts life had given him. And he couldn't wait for this new Sunday to begin.

Thanks for reading this little text I wrote for two people I have the luck to meet recently!

N.B: I precise that Nathan and Elise are fictional characters.

Hope you'll like it!

Important: this text is only for pleasure and imagination, not for propaganda. Keep your hate out of my blog!

[deadpresidents]

If I recall correctly, weren’t you a pretty big fan of Bill Clinton for some time? I recall a lot of posts from you about him that were fairly favorable. When did you finally accept that he was a creep? Do you think there’s finally a chance of accountability? I am truly asking from a place of empathy as I know what it’s like to have someone you looked up turn out to be not so great.

No, you're 100% correct. I was a fan of Bill Clinton for a long time. He was President from the time I was 13 until I was 21, and for a kid who was into Presidential history and Democratic politics, he was a major presence in my life. I still think that he is probably the most naturally-gifted politician of my lifetime. Nobody that I've watched has been able to explain public policy or instantly breeze through complicated press conference questions like Bill Clinton. For years after he left office, I said that he should just be the guy who explains how things work to America; he's remarkably smart.

One of the craziest examples of Clinton's intelligence is that he had to figure out ways to make it look like he doesn't have the answer to everything immediately. Clinton's political advisers thought he came across at times like a know-it-all and that it wasn't a good look on the campaign trail. You know how one of the famous mannerisms of Clinton is how he'll pause while he's speaking and bite his lip, like this?

Well, that was done on purpose. Clinton's advisers thought that his quick, completely formed answers to complicated questions was unnatural and that he needed to make himself seem more thoughtful, so he'd pause and bite his lip almost as an intellectual speed bump. Paul Begala, one of the most important architects of Clinton's 1992 campaign explained:

"He was so smart about so many things but also could connect. The whole thing about his biting his lip -- that was coached. Because he would answer so fast. We'd say, 'Take a beat. Pretend you're thinking about it. Pretend you haven't already got an answer.' It was a studied thing to give himself a second to force himself to slow down."

So, things like that were why I was always so impressed and appreciative of Clinton's skills and political gifts.

But, obviously, as I've gotten older and come to understand his personal actions a lot better, it's really hard not to consider him a creep. I mean, the Epstein thing is obviously impossible to reconcile. Even if it there hasn't been any suggestion of Clinton actually abusing any of the girls in the way that Epstein did, he spent a lot of time around Epstein and it's gross. I think one of Epstein's victims said that Clinton was a "total gentleman" and didn't do anything wrong to her, but that photo of a very young girl giving him a neck message in what looks like an airport terminal is a really bad look. That was clearly after he left office, so that was post-Monica Lewinsky and Clinton should have had the awareness to not even put himself near that type of situation with a girl that young (or any woman who was not his wife) -- even if it was just a neck massage that lasted a short amount of time. Even if the girl offered to do it willingly and had no issues with it, that's not a situation that Clinton -- who was impeached and could have been removed from office because he had an affair with a young woman -- should have have felt comfortable with.

But beyond that, as I've gotten older and as we've all gotten better about recognizing these things, his relationship with Monica Lewinsky is what bothers me because of the position that he put Monica in. She was in her early 20s -- barely older than Clinton's own daughter at the time -- and he was President of the United States. Listen, I don't have any room to criticize someone for dating younger women (seriously), but it's the power dynamic and the manner in which he treated Monica when things started to get difficult for him. That poor girl was in such an unimaginably nightmarish place because of what Clinton did and how he -- the incumbent President of the United States -- spoke about her publicly and treated her privately. When you think about it in terms of a relationship, it's just a crazy situation. And the poise that Monica Lewinsky had then and now speaks volumes about the person she is and has become, so it just makes Clinton look that much more terrible in comparison.

It is disappointing because I was a fan of President Clinton for most of my life. And, like Richard Nixon, he was so gifted when it came to his intellectual powers and, in Clinton's case, his political skills, that his flaws and his actions were overlooked for too long. I don't know what kind of accountability there might be for Clinton now that he's been out of office for nearly 25 years and is a few years away from his 80th birthday. But I can say that I feel like I know who he is now and "creep" seems like a pretty fitting description.

[sepublic]

So I've seen some people criticize lately the deconstruction of the child hero trope, arguing that it originally existed as a way of empowering kids who feel ineffective and powerless. And yeah, kids DO have a notable lack of agency that as an adult, you really begin to understand more and appreciate, at least on my end. These are all fair arguments, the deconstruction of the deconstruction, and I don't think they're necessarily wrong. It's just...

Some stories are meant for other people? The thing about this generation is that it's got a LOT on its shoulders. This generation is the one that's tired and burnt out, it has to deal with the burden of a world that's imploding in on itself, and the expectation that they have to fix it. It feels like corporations and politicians are casually destroying the world, knowing future generations will be the ones to have to clean it up, so why should they care?

There's a lot of anxiety and angst about the sociopolitical sphere. We've got the rise of Linkin Park, we've got people becoming jaded with late-stage capitalism and wondering how they can even survive in this economy. The fantasy has shifted from large and grand stuff to simply being able to survive and make a humble yet satisfying living. Kids are becoming burnt out, and being gifted is more apparently not worth the hype.

So I imagine THAT's the appeal behind the deconstruction of the kid protagonist for modern audiences, the one that's like "Hey isn't this fucked up? Isn't this messed up? The fate of the world is on this kid's shoulders, they're just a child soldier?" Because I think it reflects a lot of people's frustration with the adults around them, that it feels like the adults have become useless and are just forcing them to do things on their own, and often for them.

For a lot of young people, it feels like they're being forced to do all of the emotional labor while parents and guardians who tend to fail them, especially for being queer, ultimately slack on their duties by guilt-tripping them; Saying they've already done so much providing shelter and food, so you should be grateful, how dare you expect emotional support and the like!!!

It's all a way to vent frustration over the ineffectivity, and even abuse, of parents and guardians. It's catharsis for angst, because it feels like there's so much wrong with the world; The internet and modern communication has led to this phenomenon of "infowhelming" where kids are constantly bombarded by news of all the world's ills. It's sensory overload, it's a Greta Thunberg situation where it's inherently ridiculous that a kid has to step up and fix things, and instead of acknowledging how much help they need, the adults have the audacity to congratulate this child and put them on a pedestal as the chosen one who will fix things for them. Instead of just taking responsibility themselves.

The "Kid Protagonist is a Child Soldier" deconstruction is an outlet for kids to explore darker emotions, to admit their angst is valid, that this is a really shitty situation and this is how they can deal with it. Growing up, I already had Lemony Snicket's A Series of Unfortunate Events, which DID play into the idea of kids cast into too much responsibility because of useless adults around them. It felt like a way for kids to cope with the fact that the world can be a very unfair place, it was cathartic in its acknowledgement of the frustration and its validity.

Plus, it's not as if all these deconstruction stories are saying that kids CAN'T have fun, that they can't do things, because kids DO want to do things!!! They want agency, they want to feel like they're making a difference! It's just that a lot of them also want the reassurance that the adults are still there for them as a support network, that they have people more experienced to fall back and rely on when it's too much; They can do their part but it's not ALL down to them, is that too much to ask for? The nuance of being able to do things, but not having to be the only one?

Sometimes kids like it both ways where they can be an adventurer but also recognize when some things messed them up, so they can have space to breathe before moving onwards. Sometimes they need a break because it IS taxing, but they’ll still go back to it. Sometimes they'll still do the work knowing how necessary it is, while wanting acknowledgement for how hard it was. People write about the traumatic effects of 'bad things' for a reason; They still want to see those bad things in media, for the catharsis of the coping and emotional fallout afterwards.

These defenses of the Kid Protagonist trope and how it resonated with kids from, say, the early 20th century is fair. It's true. But these deconstruction stories of today also apply, in that they're a power fantasy in a different way for different kids of a different generation, with different struggles. So I find it disingenuous to simply dismiss these deconstruction-type stories as just CinemaSins bathos, even if I understand that a lot of people are understandably tired of the MCU's "That just happened" attempts at self-awareness.

And I don't think kids of today are completely decrying straightforward depictions, it's just nice to have those, AND the deconstruction, to flip back and forth between as their mood needs. These types of stories where the protagonists realize they're child soldiers, like Animorphs -which itself was written for teenagers in all their angst- might simply... not be for some people. And that's okay, that's fine! Different stories resonate, different stories serve different purposes because they're by different people.

[starqueensthings]

Dork Love: Part One (of probably three because I can’t be tamed)

AO3 | Next Chapter

Summary: A scowling stranger brings a damaged riflescope into your store for repair and, always willing to defer responsibility for the sake of charity, you take on the challenge. When you return it to him, he brings along another… obstacle. An adorably goggled, bad-postured obstacle who seems as infatuated with your intelligence, as you are with his twinkly (magnified) eyes.

Pairing: GN!Reader x Tech (can also be read as ND!GN!Reader x ND!Tech if you squint)

POV/Rating/WC: 2nd, all readers welcome, 6355 Words.

A/N: This masquerades as a Crosshair fic at first, but I was insistent on writing something other than Medic!Reader for this one, and Tech is not the kind of man that develops intimacy quickly so it’s structured as a slow burn with a little more backstory. Extra thanks to @staycalmandhugaclone for beta reading this one… twice. She catches all my made up words (slajacked? embarriered? LOL) and makes my disjointed writing readable. LYSM ❤️

A heavy sigh, laden with guilt and culpability, left your lips at the sight of the impending workload behind your cash register. The teetering stack of acrylic trays, each holding the paid invoice of an order in need of processing, sat benignly on the counter, awaiting the moment that you would finally succumb to the gnaw of responsibility and turn your wandering attention to them. The smattering of plastic containers that you’d locked the door on without even a breath of anxiety, your overstimulated mind full of assurances that you’d gift them your undivided attention the following morning, had somehow mutated into a looming tower of things to do and the desperate desire to defer them again now consumed you.

The impeccant ring of the bell that hung above the door had thankfully silenced, and the void of its tinkling alarm saw a peaceful moment of respite and a fresh mug of caf wreathed by hands covered in dried lens polish and seemingly permanently stained with the ink of your trusty red lens pen.

In spite of the lingering exhaustion and the continuous ache in your feet, every complaint that threatened to spill from your tongue was swallowed and substituted with a quiet murmur of appreciation. Since you’d purchased the optical store from your uncle, you’d been blessed with an expanding clientele and an increasing revenue, though despite the economic growth, the inception of your ownership had been fraught with challenges. Your uncle was, and always had been, a kooky and eccentric old chap, and one that had stubbornly deferred his retirement from the industry for decades too long. His later, wizened years had seen him develop a peculiar and surreptitious habit of concealing his deteriorating mind with impugnable, makeshift repairs on his already ancient optical equipment. More troublesome than his DIY endeavours, however, was the recurrent burying of evidence, ensuring that his mounting financial hardship was conveniently camouflaged and ‘misplaced’ with the several hundred overdue invoices. Three consecutive years later, and thousands of credits funnelled regrettably yet optimistically into the pocket of an accountant, the metaphorical dumpster-fire that you purchased from your father’s zany older brother had finally turned profitable.

The storefront was auspiciously located on the uppermost level of Coruscant’s nefarious ‘Underworld’, meaning the demographics of your clientele was as diverse as the galaxy was. Politicians, concealing their bulging wallets beneath expertly-sewn and ornate robes, were some of your favourite customers to interact with, as years of experience in medical sales had seen you master the tactful art of disengaging lowball negotiations. Paradoxically, it was the impoverished customers making their way up from the callous clutches of the lower levels that posed your biggest challenge; their often heartbreaking stories of systemic neglect fueled the philanthropic flame that flickered deep in your gut. The inception of the war had enchained many in the shackles of financial hardship and desperation, and while pleading ignorance and naivety was the route that many Coruscanti citizens opted to take, the desire to temporarily close your shop and traverse the galaxy doing missionary work was becoming difficult to stifle.

Yet you were as logical as you were benevolent, and despite the constant pull towards a life of nomadic altruism, the fact remained that you had invested too many days and even more credits resurrecting this business to simply abandon it in its infancy.

The squeak of the rolling desk chair echoed around the quiescent room as you sat yourself down behind the computer, determined to use the hot caf in your hands as a catalyst to ignite the engines of motivation into life. The chrono on the wall ticked on, unaffected by the looming task list that you continued to abscond from; moments stretched to minutes, your hands poised and motionless over the keyboard, and the resolve to work kept simply evaporating, wafting into the air and vanishing faster than the steam from your mug.

‘Damnit, I forgot to water my plants this morning…’ Your eyes were affixed on a the pair of prescription swimming goggles nestled in the tray that you’d perched in front of you nearly twenty minutes ago, yet the mental image of your limp fig tree, neglected the decency of water for the second straight week, was all your unfocussed eyes could see. ‘But I should probably prune it before I water it… and if I’m going through the hassle of pruning it, I should probably repot it fi—’

The sudden jangling of the bell broke you from your listless stupor, sending a startled jerk through your shoulders and pulling your gaze upward to the figure stepping into your space. The detail of his appearance remained momentarily obscured, shrouded in the shadows cast by the bright sunlight pouring in the door behind him, though it was immediately apparent by the rigid armour that enveloped his tall frame that he was a soldier or mercenary of sorts.

“Hello,” you called to him, alerting him of your presence behind the counter, but his response to the greeting and the small smile you’d hitched onto your face, was nothing more than a nod of acknowledgement, his eyes narrowing slightly as they darted around the walls of your shop.

Curiosity tipped your head to one side, and you watched him with reserved intrigue as he neared the counter, his big, metallic boots thunking heavily on the wood floors with every step. The armament that adorned his figure was dark, and unlike anything you’d seen before. The clone troopers on Coruscant typically wore protective suits of white plastoid, and were conversationally quite warm and friendly, but this man’s presence, complete with a frown and a crosshair tattoo, issued none of those vibes.

“What can I do for you?” you probed, ignoring the protest of your aching feet as you stood and met him across the counter. He hastened to fold his arms over his chest, throwing into sharp relief the sniper pole extending proudly from his left shoulder bell.

“What do you know about scopes?” he asked you, the smoke that bathed his words raising the small hairs on the back of your neck.

“What kind of scopes?” you quizzed back to him, wrenching your eyes from the intimidating tool on his shoulder. “Oculars? Speculars?”

“Rifle.” In stark contrast to the way he carried himself— slithering and softly, as if he funneled every effort into not preventing his movements from making a sound, his reply was direct, curt, and impatient, and despite your best efforts to repress it, the contradiction pulled a small smirk onto your face.

“I should have known,” you answered apologetically, gesturing with a flick of your eyes towards the pole on his pauldron, and for the second time in as many minutes, he forewent a spoken response, instead flicking his eyebrows and letting the ghost of a laugh huff from his nose.

“I studied a decent amount,” you continued, bewilderment budding inside of you as the peculiar stranger reached around to a pouch on his belt and retracted a toothpick. “But we don’t sell them. We’re mainly a spectacle sho—”

“I’m not buying,” he interrupted with another impatient little shake of his head. “There’s something… off… with mine.”

The intentionally vague nature of his complaint prompted the arch of your left eyebrow to raise, and it was with genuine perplexity that you replied. “Off? In what way?”

The rhythmic dance of toothpick across scowling lips filled the silent space of his hesitation, and the shadow of scepticism flitted behind his eyes as he peered down his nose at you.

“It sounds idiotic,” he muttered through teeth clenched around his wooden pacifier, “But the visuals are being distorted… and it seems to be at random.”

Your brows furrowed against the continued ambiguity of his complaints, and though you would never voice it aloud, his grievance did sound somewhat idiotic and nonsensical. Intermittent distortion through a set of lenses was not a concept you had ever come across, as typically someone’s vision was either clear, or it wasn’t. His hesitation to provide the description now seemed warranted, and it was your turn to entertain a scowled moment of hesitancy as you fought to digest his undetailed explanation.

“I’m not following you,” you sighed, both coming up short on an explanation and growing increasingly wary of his man-of-few-words attitude. “Do you have it with you?”

He unfolded his arms from their knot across his chest, exposing a thin, black plastoid case previously invisible by the tight ensconce of his gloved hand. The rigid container looked vaguely familiar to you, though your mind barely had a moment to dawdle in potential recognition before he was deftly unlatching the closure on the lid and pulling the scope from its velvet bedding.

Eyes widening with wonder, you collected the tool from him, your outstretched hand instantly sagging under the unexpected weight of the equipment. Your exposure to military grade weapon accessories, and knowledge of the various optical tools available for combat was limited, but one did not have to be an expert in the field to know this was a highly sophisticated, and highly coveted tool.

“Sometimes I’ll line up a shot with no issue,” he divulged, his sharp eyes dissecting your movements as you rotated the scope delicately in your fingers. “Other times, the image of the target seems warped. But I haven’t been able to establish a pattern, and none of my brothers see anything wrong.”

“Hmm,” you acknowledged, concentration pulling your lips tightly to one side. “That’s definitely… odd… and it seems random? Intermittent?”

He offered nothing but a small grunt of confirmation, supervising your twiddling of the tool with unwarranted intensity as if poised to pounce should you dare to mishandle his prized possession, but curiosity had entirely banished your unease of his demeanour, and it was eagerly that you returned the ocular to your eye.

The Snellen chart, hung at eye level across the room and inscribed letters of varying sizes, became the recipient of your attention; while designed to measure how effectively one could see at a specific distance without their glasses on, it acted appropriately well as a makeshift visual barometer for your diagnostics. Though despite alternating eyes, rotating the scope both clockwise and counterclockwise, and shifting your position behind the counter to create a variance in lighting, you failed to see anything that was overtly distorted or warped. The notion that you may not be able to solve the stranger’s problem simply because you couldn’t see it to diagnose it, pulled a disappointed frown onto your lips, usurping the confident determination you’d felt only minutes previously.

Still, he watched you mercilessly, impatience and expectation etched into the every superficial crease on his forehead. It was only as you moved to the lower the scope, prepared to sadly explain that he’d have to try elsewhere, did your departing gaze finally catch a micro glimpse of the issue. The distortion was there… but barely, and his brothers’ failure to corroborate the issue became instantly validated.

“Interesting,” you mused under your breath, locking your gaze on the minutely warped quadrant of the chart and turning the scope slowly in your fingers. “I think I see what you’re talking about,” you continued quietly, your refusal to lose sight of the issue subconsciously keeping the tone of your voice hushed. “It… it doesn’t seem like an issue of direct clarity, so the integrity of the lens coating must be intact… and the reticle itself is orientated at the correct rotation, so that rules out the first focal plane…”

Your hushed diagnostic rambling trailed away to silence as a theory emerged to the forefront of your mind. Before his frowning lips could wrap themselves around a sardonic response, you lowered the equipment from your eye, gripped it tightly in your hand, and flung your arm aggressively downwards, a motion reminiscent of trying to force a small amount of ketchup through the opening of a large bottle. His posture straightened hastily, and his horrified expression on his lithe face combined with the sharp gasp that slapped his throat, had you momentarily fearful he might pluck the toothpick from its clamp between his teeth and toss it at you like a javelin.

“Kriff, be careful.” It was not a request but a demand, leaving his lips in a hiss that suited his demeanor much more than that curt impatience he’d emanated earlier. “That’s my favourite scope.”

His warning went ignored, a prideful self-satisfaction smothering the duress of his mistrust as you peered through the scope again and found the resolution you had expected. “Ha,” you cheered in a whisper, orienting yourself towards him again. “Look now. Tell me if it’s any different.” You held the weighty scope out to him and gestured to the chart across the room. Still tinged with the horror brought on by your seemingly impulsive disregard for his property, his scowl intensified, exacerbated by a budding sense of scrutiny, but despite his dubious disbelief, he took the tool from your extended palm and brought it to his tattooed eye.

The speed in which he ran the scope through his own set of visual diagnostics was nothing short of remarkable, and it was this behavior, not the hissed warnings of care that reinforced his attachment to the tool. “Hmm,” he eventually grunted, his expression now impassive. “Seems normal actually.”

Eager to share your theory, you shifted your weight to your elbows. “I’m thinking the second focal plane might have dislodged in the chamber somehow,” you advised him. “Is there quite a bit of recoil from your rifle?”

A smirk tugged at the corners of his lips, almost entirely banishing the tension in his brow and softening his expression to a nearly unidentifiable degree, and it was only barely that you contained the smile threatening to engulf your own features. “She’s got a bit of a kick,” he admitted slyly, flicking the toothpick noisily with the tip of his tongue. “But that’s not going to change. So what now?”

You sighed through your nose, gaze affixed on the piece of equipment clutched in his long fingers as a merciless tug-of-war erupted in your mind. It had been years since the opportunity to tinker with something as niche and unique as a long-range rifle scope had fallen into your hands, but the mountain of work already awaiting your attention was formidable, and could not be ethically delayed any longer.

“I’ll see what I can do,” you offered, sheer curiosity sending a right hook in the direction of your better judgement. “But I won’t be able to identify the root of the problem, or the solution, until I take it apart and run diagnostics on the individual pieces.”

His softened expression receded entirely, the soggy strip of wood in his teeth continuing to dance across now scowling lips as he cocked a dark eyebrow and glowered at you, but you matched the reemergence of mistrust with a neutral stare, drumming your nails lightly on the desk between you and watching the cogs of indecision turn behind his eyes. His top lip flattened slightly, tense with threats and warnings of caution that he longed to voice aloud, but he was as aware as he was cranky; his desperation for a solution seemingly outweighing his skepticism, and he restrained every admonishment lingering on his tongue.

“Like I said,” he snarled, refusing to soften the glare he was sending your way. “It’s my favourite scope.”

You swallowed against a mixture of disappointment and offense, embittered that this unnecessarily stern man had actively sought your help with his problem, but was too suspicious and wary to grant you the permission to fix it, despite having seemingly identified the root of the issue before his eyes. You hitched an ingenuine smile to your face and shrugged, perching yourself back on the seat of your squeaky desk chair and pulling the swimming goggles towards you. “It’s your choice,” you reminded him, rousing your slumbering monitor to life with the prod of your finger. “You can leave it and be no worse off… or I can take it apart and have a go at fixing it.”

Silence ensued in the following moment, a quiet broken only by the occasional click of wood against molar and the rhythmic tapping of your fingers on the keyboard, but despite his seemingly steadfast refusal to accept your offer, he didn’t move from his perch against the counter.

“Fine,” he grumbled, taking you by surprise and immediately stealing your attention back. “But I fly out at sunset, so I’ll need it back before then.”

“I can do that.” Thrilled by the valid excuse to delay ordering it (and its neglected comrades) for another few hours, you happily pushed the acrylic tray housing the goggles away from you and stood from your chair. “I close up shop before then anyways. Actually, there’s a shooting range about a block west of here. I can meet you there in a couple hours, and you can fire off a couple shots to see if my handiwork holds up.”

“Deal.” He stood up straight and plucked the strip of wood from his lips, flicking it to the floor at his feet without a second thought. “Name’s Crosshair.”

“Crosshair,” you repeated after offering your name in return, and with a gesture towards the tattoo around his eye you said: “Should have known.”

***

The sun that had so refreshingly bathed the planet that afternoon was readying itself for another night of slumber, sinking ever lower toward the horizon with each passing minute, and its void in the musty industrial building sent a shiver down your back.

A small alcove set into the wall, adorned with a smattering safety notices, acted as a landing zone for those entering and exiting the active firing lanes. An obnoxiously heavy, rolling durasteel door separated the two areas, and it was with an almost comical level of exertion that you managed to roll the door ajar just wide enough to squeeze through the gap. The audible rumble of the long-ago seized wheels was lost amongst the echoing din that bathed your ears in the room beyond; each of the two dozen lanes occupied by a duo of armed beings, jeering at each other over missed shots and poor grips.

If the sniper pole protruding menacingly from his shoulder wasn’t enough to make him easily distinguishable in the shadows opposite, then the stunning contrast of his silver hair and his dark armour certainly was, and it was with haste that you crossed the room toward his pacing position. The separation from his prized possession seemed to have rendered him, shockingly, more impatient than hours previously, the soggy toothpick between his frowning lips dancing ceaselessly while the thumb on each of his hands aggressively cracked the knuckles of its neighbouring fingers. But while his appearance and obvious restlessness had initially captured your attention, it did not hold it. Something else caught your eye… someone else.

A second man stood in close proximity to the sniper, almost identical in height though the stoop in his posture, brought on by the intent downwards gaze toward the device clutched in his hands, ensured a less imposing presence than his broad shouldered, glaring neighbour. He seemed at first glance, to be an extraordinary dichotomy to his companion, the perfect ying to Crosshair’s yang; where one’s hair shone brightly in the light of the buzzing fluorescent bulbs overhead, the other’s reflected the dark of shadowed corners, where one’s cuirass was deliberately painted dark, the other’s remained white, adorned with colour only minimally, and where Crosshair’s impatience was evident, with his sharp eyes darting mercilessly around the room, his companion seemed content to remain still, gaze affixed to the screen only inches from his nose.

‘Must be one of his brothers,’ you concluded as you approached the loitering duo.

Crosshair detected your arrival almost immediately; the intensity of his unrelenting gaze as you crossed the room to his position rendered your friendly “hello,” completely redundant. A double-take interrupted the greeting poised on your tongue for his companion, the unexpected allure of his features, thrown into relief by close proximity and the fleeting shift of his attention from the device in his hands to you, rendered you briefly inarticulate.

He continued to look remarkably different from his brother at second glance, with a squarer jaw, fuller lips, a more substantial frame (disguised by poor posture, a slight bow in his legs, and significantly less armour), and a set of dark goggles framing a pair of stunningly warm, brown eyes.

“Any luck?” Crosshair probed impatiently, opting to forgo niceties for the second time that day.

“Yeah, some,” you assuaged with a nod, tearing your gaze away from his brother. “My first assumptions were largely correct. The second focal plane must have dislodged in the scope’s housing at some point. Unless you knocked it pretty forcefully against something, a theory I can rule-out based on the otherwise pristine condition of the equipment, it was likely the extended period of repeated recoil that caused the dislocation.”

The large, goggled eyes had directed themselves to you again, this time almost urgently and paired with an abrupt jerk of his head in your direction. The jarring motion stole your attention mid-sentence, the recited explanation rolling off your tongue turning laggy and discombobulated under the intensity of his wide-eyed, astonished stare. Your eyebrows lifted slightly as you turned to face the slack jawed stranger, but no sooner did your gaze fall onto his blushing face, did he avert his focus from you again.

“Okay, and?” Crosshair asked, his probe prompting you to frantically try and find the lost train of thought from the previous second.

“Honestly,” you continued, redirecting your attention to the sniper, “With how minutely displaced the lens was, I’m impressed you even noticed.”

“Impressed?” Crosshair repeated, cocking an eyebrow in apparent disbelief. “Why?”

“Well… mathematically, any change in the relative vertex distance between focal planes will cause a deviation in the refracted ray, thus distorting the perceived real image…” The goggled man’s head snapped violently upwards again, his eyes widening to the size of dinner plates as his attention darted back and forth between you and his silver haired brother. “...but the second focal plane was only dislodged by about a millimetre. You must have pretty fantastic eyesight to pick up on such a small visual misalignment.” A fleeting glance to your right confirmed that the goggled man’s twinkly brown eyes were affixed on you, and it was with a foreign sense of budding shyness, that you extended the plastoid box out to Crosshair.

“Did you fix it?” he queried, collecting the offering and promptly unlatching the lid.

“Only temporarily, unfortunately.” A disappointed grimace weighed down your response. “It likely happened during the initial dislodging, but the bevel that holds the lens in place is significantly chipped. I’ve re-embedded it into its grooved housing, but I wouldn’t rely on it being a permanent solution.”

The disappointment that saturated your explanation did not seem to be mutual as the sniper wasted no time dropping to a knee beside you and pulling the pack from his shoulders. He retrieved the scope from its enclosement first, abandoning its container to the stone floor at your feet, before collecting and clicking together the deconstructed rifle parts that he wore on his back. Eager to avoid being accidentally knocked by the intimidatingly long rifle barrel being mounted into place, you turned and took a small step sideways.

The toe of your boot, however, didn’t descend as gracefully as you’d intended, instead snagging itself upon something domed and rigid, simultaneously sending your right ankle tipping sideways, and your arms outwards in a frantic motion to stabilize yourself. It wasn’t until you’d steadied the breath in your lungs that your eyes located the tripping hazard, ready to kick it away lest you step on it again. Embarrassment flooded your veins. It was a boot…

“Oh kriff, I’m sorry!” you cried, immediately relieving your fingers of their iron grip around the goggled man’s forearm. “I should have looked before I moved. Did I hurt you?”

Fuelled by the pounding of your heart in your chest, a heat rose quickly and earnestly to your cheeks as dazzling brown eyes widened behind those goggles again. An awkward silence expanded in the air between you as he failed to answer, and you hastily shifted your attention to Crosshair’s retreating figure, reconstructed rifle pointed upwards to the ceiling as he headed towards the nearby shooting lane.

“You did not. Our footwear is impregnated with a multilayered durasteel core that is able to withstand over 150kg of pressure, and you do not appear to have a mass equivalent to or exceeding that. However, the unanticipated need to anchor yourself with my arm nearly caused me to drop my datapad.”

It may have been the curt, matter-of-fact tone in which he spoke, another complete inverse to the slithery smoke of his brothers voice; it may have been the awkward and inelegant cadence of his reply; it may have been the adorable shift of his goggles on the bridge of his nose as he averted his gaze from you again that triggered a flutter in your gut, but for the second time, you found yourself momentarily tongue-tied.

“That would have been bad,” you somehow managed to force out under the duress of the giddy smile fighting to adorn your lips.

“Indeed,” he breathed.

His attention returned bashfully to the illuminated screen in his hands, the tops of his ears reddening slightly against the brush of his dark hairline, and you took the deviation of his gaze as an opportunity to survey his goggles. It was not the untraditional choice of eyewear that warranted your curiousity, as a strapped goggle was an entirely appropriate choice for a soldier who was likely constantly active, nor was it the recording device, mounted expertly along his right temple and aglow in the dim lighting of the corner either. It was his lenses: tragically thick, horribly smudged, and inducing a degree of magnification that you saw only rarely in the industry.

‘Poor hyperopes,’ you thought to yourself, the inherent squint of his eyes as they fought to focus through a series of ungodly fingerprints pulling an adoring smile onto your lips.

“Sorry if this is a little strange but… can I clean your lenses?” You spoke deliberately lightly and aloofly, intent on ensuring that he took no offense to your offer, and it was with a subdued tentativeness that you watched the adam’s apple bob in his throat.

“Clean my lenses?” he repeated, returning his gaze to you with dark brows knitted slightly in befuddlement.

“Yes,” you confirmed, blindly reaching into your bag for your trusted, green microfiber cloth. “They are filthy, and I don’t know how you can see anything.”

An unexplained affection welled inside of you as his thin fingers nimbly shifted his goggles again, exposing the repeated gesture as a soothing motion; the smallest of irrelevant movements acting as a pacifier against situations where discomfort threatened to provoke him.

“I did not realize the poor nature of their condition,” he admitted, indefinitely suspending the back and forth of his attention by stowing his datapad away into one of many pouches around his waist.

“You wouldn’t,” you answered with a small shrug and a smile, watching his features tense momentarily under the duress of pulling his goggles off. “Hyperopic, or ‘far-sighted’ people, by nature, struggle to see anything in the immediate vicinity of their gaze. That’s why they can never tell if their glasses are dirty or their lenses are scratched. So… you can’t help it.”

“You… are correct.” He answered slowly, his tone still dripping in what sounded like pleasant astonishment as he extended his goggles out to you. “A mutation in my genetic structure caused an innocent yet bothersome bilateral malformation of my corneas, resulting in a significant degree of hyperopia.”

“That’s probably putting it lightly.” A small chuckle left your mouth as you swaddled the left lens with your cloth and began to deftly wipe away the sea of fingerprints. Much like Crosshair had while his precious scope was being tended to in the foreign clutches of a stranger, this man watched your practiced hands intently and possessively as you worked to polish away any signs of a smudge.

The fluorescent bulbs suspended two-dozen feet above you were nowhere near as effective as the optical-grade backlit yellow panel that sat in the corner of your workshop, but were just luminescent enough to affirm you’d removed the last of the oily smears before you pocketed your cloth. A knowing smirk peeled its way across your lips as you shifted the lenses to-and-fro in front of your mildly squinted eyes, observing how the biconcavity on the front surface bent the reflection of the overhead light. “What’s the nature of your prescription?” you questioned as your left eye closed and your fingers rotated his goggles. “I’m assuming just based on the Against-Motion principle, that you’re probably around a +8.00? Maybe a +9.00?”

He blinked rapidly and repeatedly, seemingly trying to rid his vision of the anatomical blur that would forever plague him in the void of his goggles before answering.“I… am not certain of the exact dioptric correction,” he divulged, now grinding his knuckles into his eyes. “But I believe your estimation to be accurate. I am impressed that you could make such a determination based loosely on the principles of magnification alone.”

“It’s my job.” While you were able to modestly shrug away the giddiness of his inferred praise, your composure was no match for the accentuation of his sharp jawline, thrown into relief as the first hint of a smile tugged his cheek toward his ear. “I handle dozens of lenses every day,” you continued, averting your eyes to the goggles you held out to him. “I’m well practiced.”

“That is obvious.”

The affable response waiting just behind your smirking lips was halted in place by the return of the sniper as he reappeared at his brother’s side, his lithe face impassive and his rifle already snuggled into its cradle in his pack.

“Big improvement,” he uttered, the nod of appreciation that followed his words filling you with a mixture of relief and pride. “What do I owe you?”

“Not a thing,” you answered with a dismissing wave of the hand. The sight of notoriously scowling lips now taut behind a satisfied smile was enough to support that delaying your nefarious to-do list, while undeniably irresponsible, was the right decision. “It was actually nice to have a bit of a challenge for once. Like I said, it’ll hold for a while but it’s not a forever fix.”

“Disappointing.” Faster than it had come, the sly smile on his face disappeared, replaced in a breath by a glum grimace as he plucked the toothpick from the tight clamp of his teeth and flicked it to the floor at his feet. “Pretty sure that model is out of production now.”

“Sure is,” you confirmed, sympathetically matching his grimace with one of your own. “I did some research today—” (goggles snapped his head in your direction again) “—from the limited information that I could find, your model was the last that incorporated a biconcave first focal plane. But… I actually found an alternative tucked away in my workshop.” You reached a hand blindly into your bag, the keys to your speeder jingling as you roughly pushed them aside in search of the stiff plastoid box you’d shoved into the depths before leaving work. “The internal components are the same, but the barrel attachment clip differs from yours.”

Crosshair spared the offering only a microglance before the crease between his dark brows deepened, his top lip flattening at the thick layer of dust that blanketed the white plastoid case. You grinned apologetically at the sight of his disgusted expression, and an understanding began to click together like puzzle pieces in your mind. Crosshair’s man-of-few-words ethos was not one of implied supremacy as you had initially presumed, he simply communicated more effectively with his expressions and mannerisms than he did with words.

“The box looks like it hasn’t been touched in centuries,” you admitted, pushing the case into his chest, “but the scope itself is pristine. You’re welcome to keep it if you think it’s suitable.”

His gaze danced across your features skeptically as if dissecting it for any sign of an ulterior motive that hadn’t managed to previously identify, but the reassurance you offered by means of a small smile must have silenced his concerns, as he moved to unlatch the container and flip it open.

It was barely an hour after Crosshair had departed your establishment that you realized why the plastoid case that housed his scope had seemed vaguely familiar to you, and it was with a sense of excited urgency that you’d jogged to the back corner of your workshop and snatched the step stool from beside the broom. Tucked away on the top shelf of a precariously hung cupboard above the lens polisher and caked several decades worth of dust, the white box sat seemingly waiting for you. Countless times in the past had it been regarded as nothing but left over detritus from your uncle, unceremoniously pushed aside and ignored as you fervently looked for something else among the clutter, but today, as recognition had flared inside of you, it’s time in the spotlight had finally come.

The sniper’s abnormally long digits pulled the foreign scope from its foam mattress, hovering it in front of his tattooed eye while turning to orient himself toward the target sheets on the opposite wall.

“Hm… not bad actually,” he relented a moment later, turning back around and holding the scope out to his brother. “Tech, do you think you could modify the barrel attachment?”

So his name is Tech. The wordless introduction ensured another flush of your cheeks, and eager to repress the giddy smile that threatened to expose you, you sucked your bottom lip between your teeth and ignored the brown–eyed man still passively gaping in your direction.

Crosshair shook the scope impatiently in the space between them, seemingly hoping the motion would shatter the muted reverie in which his brother was currently enthralled. “Tech? …Tech.”

“Um… yes,” Tech confirmed to your surprise, having collected the tool from his brother and agreeing to the task without even sparing it a glance. “Yes… I am able to… attach… myself.”

The chuckle that threatened to spill from your lips forced your gaze to the floor. The weathered and worn painted concrete beneath your boots was nothing but the epitome of lusterless and drossy, but in this moment of featherbrained awkwardness, you’d never seen a more interesting floor.

“Maker, since when can you not talk?” Crosshair hissed through clenched teeth.

Hot in the face and growing increasingly embarrassed by both the awkwardness of the conversation and the rapid emergence of this schoolgirl crush, you turned your attention back to your bag, thrusting your hand into its depths once again and pretending to dig around for something. Your peripheral vision saw Tech shift his goggles on his nose again, and immediately retract the datapad from his waist pouch.

You cleared your throat quietly before adjusting your bag on your shoulder and swinging your keyring noisily around your finger. Tech was blushing furiously and had turned his gaze to the screen of his small device, fingers dancing across the multicoloured buttons as if he’d injected rocket fuel directly into his knuckles. Crosshair, on the tail end of an elaborate eye roll, shook his head impatiently and huffed.

“You sure about this?” he asked you, tapping the lid of the plastoid box in his hands.

“Absolutely,” you answered without even the thought of hesitation. “It was just taking up very limited cupboard space so, if you want it, it’s yours.”

He nodded once, surveying your expression fleetingly once more before tucking the parcel under his arm. “Thanks again,” he mumbled, tossing you a casual three-fingered salute of acknowledgement before turning on his heel and heading the opposite way to the heavy, sliding door.

The sudden abandonment at the hands of his brother seemed to have roused Tech from his vigorous tango of typing, and his magnified eyes flickered to yours only briefly before darting towards the door. Mild amusement pulled another smile to your lips as discomfort erupted across his features; his jaw tensed, his posture straightened, and despite having spent the previous dozen minutes intermittently gawking at you, he now avoided your gaze.

“You better go,” you smirked, gesturing towards the disappearing head of silver hair. “It was nice to meet you. Good luck going… wherever it is that you’re going.”

“The ideology of ‘luck’ is illogical,” he intoned, raising a know-it-all finger into the air, the gesture somehow only intensifying your affection for him though he continued to evade eye contact, “but the sentiments are appreciated. And it was a pleasure gaining your acquaintance as well.”

His stooped frame made it barely three long paces before an urgent idea erupted in your mind. “Tech, wait!”

He turned his slumped shoulders back around to face you, mild curiosity etched into the small furrow in his brow as he lowered his datapad and held it limply at his side. “Keep this,” you offered, extending out the green microfiber cloth to him. “You need it more than I do.”

He stared, adorably flummoxed, at the fabric in your hand. “Keep it in one of your six hundred pockets,” you added with a goofy smirk and small gesture down to the series of cargo belts that seemingly adorned every inch of his tall frame. A mildly affronted expression ghosted across his face, but it was succeeded almost instantly by the same small smile that had sent your heart aflutter earlier. He took the cloth from you with a small nod, tucking it into the pouch perched just above a dangling spanner wrench on his hip, before muttering a quiet “goodbye” and continuing toward the door.

[whoyoucallinpinheaddirtydan]

Solace

Gift For @angelltheninth

This is a thank you for being awesome person and writer.

Fanfic One Shot

Crossover Hazbin Hotel and Hunger Games

Basic description: Angel returns from working at the studio on a bad day thanks to Valentino. Y/N (a sinner who was a tribute/victor of the Hunger Games) sings a song to calm him. A song that plays an important role to show the people of Panem solidarity between different districts. Now it’s a song to show solidarity from one person who was exploited for entertainment and cruelty to another.

Content Warning: vague mention of Valentino, drugs, and drinking.

Relationship between Y/N and Angel, Y/N’s gender and what district they are from is left ambiguous.

The feeling of silence after a hard day of work would feel peaceful for most; but for Angel Dust it's left with dread. 

Returning home to see Fat Nuggets and his favorite pet sitter/helper are the few things he looks forward to. Y/N is a sinner from the 2100s, they died at some point during the Hunger Games. They were reaped from at a young age and were forced to do terrible deeds for the Capitol politicians. At some point they died during the 75th Hunger Games. 

Y/N was cleaning up after Nuggets when you see Angel entering the bedroom, the blank expression and the dark eye circles from exhaustion. It's clear Valentino gave him a bad day. You and Nuggets exchanged a look, silently agreeing he needs help.

After Angel gets dressed for bed, Y/N enters the room with a laundry basket to put away his clothes for him. Angel didn’t mind it much and appreciated the extra help as he had no energy to do it himself. 

Nuggets jumps on the bed and licks his face with adoring affection making Angel smile somewhat. 

The first thing he looked forward to, the next thing is a song that Y/N knew for as long as they can remember. As Y/N sings it gives him an image that he wishes was real right now.

In a deep meadow, a soft bed of grass with a green pillow under a willow tree.

He lays on his bed, afraid of closing his eyes as his dreams were anything but sweet, and tomorrow reveals their truth. In the morning he’ll face another day, where he is tormented.

Angel knew he took for granted simple things such as seeing the daisies in the sun rising in the morning sky from Earth. If only they could guard him from every harm. To feel safe and warm is a distant memory now.

He wished he could run away and remain hidden far away, a place where he can be safe and feel warmth every day. 

For now a hellish moonbeam ray shining through a clove of leaves of the dark plants outside of his window will do. He holds Fat Nuggets to his chest as he looks over the horizon thinking about…well everything especially a certain someone cleaning up his makeup table.

He wonders how Y/N do it. How does a sinner manage to keep fighting in death just like in life? Y/N’s life was very different from his yet similar. They were used for entertaining those who didn’t deserve it. Forced to do things and become the very people they didn’t want to be. Hell is not safe nor warm but for Y/N there were worse games to play.

Drugs and drinking can only do so much to forget his woes. The only comfort is letting his troubles of everyday life lay in small moments like this with his companions. 

Maybe he can find a meadow hidden far away and lay under a willow in Heaven so he can be happy for once and truly heal. Being surrounded by daisies, guarding him from every harm. Despite his doubts, sweet dreams of redemption and promises of tomorrow in Heaven’s rising sun is his only hope. He finally closes his sleepy eyes, and allows himself to sleep, his nightmares can’t be washed away. He will face the truth of reality if he wants to see another day.

The first step now is knowing he is loved, even when it's hard to find it. He is starting to understand that now. Years under Valentino, made him think that people only love him for his work in the studio, not as Anthony the man behind the facade of Angel Dust. 

Being a pornstar or a tribute/victor is to go through act after act without a say. But if Y/N can fight back despite the odds, even in death, maybe he can? He looks forward to going back to the hotel Charlie built as it washes away his troubles and forgets his daily woes. 

There is a place where the last line of the song Y/N sings, where he is truly loved.

[noisycowboyglitter]

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The logo likely features Harris's name prominently, with "Kamala" or "Harris" taking center stage in a bold, easily readable font. The term "All Star" could be incorporated either as a subtitle or integrated into the main design, possibly arching over or under the primary text. This sports-inspired element adds a sense of excellence and popular appeal to the traditional political logo.

Color choices for the All Star Logo would be crucial in conveying the right message. While maintaining a patriotic theme, the logo might incorporate colors associated with Harris's personal brand or the Democratic Party. Deep blues, vibrant purples (a color often associated with Harris), and touches of red and white could create a visually striking and memorable design. The use of a star motif, reminiscent of the classic All-Star sports logos, could be incorporated to reinforce the "all-star" concept visually.

The overall shape of the logo might mimic that of a sports team emblem or badge, giving it a distinct and recognizable silhouette. This approach would help the logo stand out in various contexts, from social media profiles to campaign merchandise.

Typography would play a significant role in the logo's effectiveness. A mix of strong, authoritative fonts for Harris's name, combined with more dynamic, sporty lettering for the "All Star" element, could create an interesting visual contrast. This blend would symbolize Harris's serious credentials and her ability to energize and inspire voters.

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Incorporating subtle visual elements that represent Harris's background and achievements could add depth to the logo. For instance, small icons or shapes could symbolize her roles as Senator, Attorney General, and Vice President, reinforcing her extensive experience and qualifications.

The All Star Logo concept for Kamala Harris serves multiple strategic purposes. It positions her as a top-tier political figure, drawing parallels with the best in sports. This association can help create a sense of excitement and team spirit among supporters, potentially broadening her appeal beyond traditional political boundaries.

Moreover, the sports-inspired design can help humanize Harris, making her more relatable to a wider audience. It suggests dynamism, teamwork, and excellence – qualities that resonate with many Americans regardless of their political affiliations.

From a marketing perspective, the All Star Logo would be highly adaptable for various campaign materials. It could easily translate to merchandise like t-shirts, caps, and badges, appealing to supporters who enjoy displaying their political allegiances in a more casual, sports-fan-like manner.

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However, the use of such a logo would need to be balanced carefully with more traditional campaign imagery. While it could be effective in certain contexts, particularly in reaching younger voters or in more casual campaign settings, it would need to coexist with more formal branding for official events and communications.

In conclusion, the Kamala Harris All Star Logo represents an innovative approach to political branding, blending the worlds of politics and popular culture. It aims to present Harris as a dynamic, relatable, and high-achieving leader, capable of uniting and inspiring a diverse coalition of supporters in her political endeavors.

The best gift for a politician should be thoughtful, appropriate, and respectful of their position and ethical guidelines. Given the scrutiny public figures face, it's crucial to choose gifts that don't raise questions about impropriety or attempts to influence.

A meaningful book related to political history, leadership, or a topic aligned with their interests can be both personal and professional. High-quality writing instruments, such as a fountain pen or a leather-bound journal, are practical for their daily work and convey a sense of prestige.

Patriotic items like a tasteful flag pin or a decorative piece representing their state or district can appeal to their sense of civic duty. Locally-made products from their constituency show an appreciation for their community and support local businesses.

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For a more personal touch, consider a custom-framed photograph of a significant moment in their career or a piece of art depicting a landmark from their district. A donation made in their name to a non-partisan charity they support can be a thoughtful gesture that aligns with their values.

Technology accessories, such as a high-quality power bank or a sleek laptop case, can be useful for their busy lifestyle. For those who appreciate humor, a witty political cartoon or a collection of political jokes (keeping it respectful and bipartisan) might be appreciated.

Ultimately, the best gift demonstrates an understanding of the politician's role, interests, and the importance of maintaining ethical standards in public service.

[disneydarlin]

Tim Burton's the Nightmare Before Christmas: Mayor —Aesthetic

The Mayor of Halloween Town's Character & Personality

The Mayor is literally a two-faced politician who's possibly based off of Jackal and Hyde. His two-faced head flips itself depending on his mood. When he's happy, the Mayor's face is normal. However, the opposite of his head is neurotic and paranoid when he is anxious. The Mayor is a benevolent, harmless, comedic and passionate individual. He has a keen appreciation of Halloween, especially in how it's celebrated by the residents each year. Since he loves spooky themes, the Mayor insists on planning ahead for halloween occasions. Unfortunately, he's only an elected official and can't make decisions by himself. Thus, the Mayor heavily relies on the king, which leads to him to being uncertain in his own decisions. Though he's quick to support the monarchy's plans, he'll reveal his true feelings after everything falls apart. Despite this, the Mayor is capable of showing authority. He'll lead search parties, check up on everyone and gather citizens for tasks or town meetings without any hassle. Beyond this, the Mayor seems to have a soft spot for children, though he was originally fearful of Boogie's Boys. Finally, he's musically gifted as he can sing and can conduct a band.

[crownmemes]

Politician Sentences, Vol. 8

(Sentences from various sources for politicians and/or muses in political spaces. Adjust phrasing where needed)

"There's not much integrity left in the world."

"Things change. New ideas, new directions. We can't afford to keep still, any of us."

"You really have no decency, do you?"

"That's exactly the type of humiliation I'm trying to avoid!"

"Will the people really be seduced by that?"

"I have limited tolerance for being ambushed."

"You need to stop reading the news. It's bad for you."

"I don't care to be a man of the people, but I do try to be a man for the people."

"I like you. You see everything and say nothing."

"Don't you ever dispute me in public, do you understand?"

"I know he's supposed to be running the country, but as far as I can see, you're doing it all for him."

"I believe in you. Well, until it's no longer in my best interest, and then..."

"You know, I never really thought you had it in you."

"Your appreciation is neither expected nor required. Your commitment is all that I ask."

"I've made some changes to your speech."

"Were you born heartless, or did the job make you like this?"

"You're a politician; make something up."

"You can't put a tick in the 'no publicity' box, you know."

"As always, your support is undercut at the end by a vague threat."

"I may have done some things in the past that I'm not proud of, but upon reflection, I realise I had good reasons and the best intentions for all of them."

"The situation is under control. Don't worry about it."

"You always had the gift of a silver tongue."

"Anyone can betray anyone. You should know that."

"In society, one must learn to conform."

"Why would I want to spy on him for you?"

"You have no respect for tradition."

"People will put up with an unlikable leader as long as long as they don't feel like they're being sold down the river."

"I got you so wrong."

"If you ever need a favour, stay in touch."

"It's not my first choice, but it's my only choice."

"I have no intention of stepping down."

"Is this a wedding or a political fundraiser?"

"We need people like you, who care about the one life as much as they care about the millions. That way, I never have to."

"What are we talking about now? Politics?"

[royaletiquette]

FILL IN WITH DETAILS ABOUT YOUR MUSE AS IF THEY WERE A CHARACTER IN A DATING SIM.

NAME — King Hibiya Subarashi

PROFESSION — King, politician. Father and husband.

WHERE THEY CAN BE FOUND — In his office, strictly unavailable during work hours except for lunch, where he may be caught if lucky at a quiet cafe or hole-in-the-wall restaurant. Can be found late at night with politicians at exclusive bars and places of entertainment, if you're able to get in.

FAVORITE FOOD TYPE — Nearly all kinds of seafood. Could eat some kind of udon dish every day for the rest of his life and be content.

FAVORITE ALCOHOIC DRINK — Sake (no real preference on the grade - he can easily appreciate all sides of the craft) because it's generally light, aromatic, aaannd can be sipped to get an easy buzz.

WHERE THEY WOULD GO ON A DATE — Casual and public. Nothing is happening if they aren't behind closed doors. Walk in the park, lunch at a cafe, museum visit. Anything that can be brushed off as friends for the general public.

IDEAL GIFT — Doesn't really care for gifts, can easily feel too formal. Something that doesn't last like foods or drinks, or isn't tangible like an experience.

HOW MANY DATES UNTIL THEY KISS — How many dates until they're alone? Maybe not on the first, but second, easily. Hibiya claims to like being a tease and the time in between, but he's also an incredibly impatient person and can crumble like a leaf the second he's teased in return.

tagged by @distopea ;*

[imkento]

　　　 𐙚 __nanami kento__ ﹒42 yo ❀

　　　　　 　⪩ he﹐him﹒istj ⪨ `🏛️`

　 　`( • ᴗ - ) ✧ ` ⸝⸝ political figure/politician!

　　　 　 𓎢𓎟𓎟﹒♡﹒𓎟𓎟𓎟

what’s he like? ┊; kento is widely known as the country’s most ambitious politician. from his ideals, his efforts to better the nation, to his looks he’s very widely regarded. really, he feels more like a celebrity than a politician— it’s ironic because you don’t quite put those two words in the same context. but kento is rather humble. he views himself as a public servant before anything else. kento is currently the youngest politician on the chair.

what about romance? ┊; namami has always been a one woman kind of man. he’d been with his wife for 25 years before their divorce. he’s only just now exploring his options and he’s having fun. namami does have the natural mindset of “date to marry” so he often treats his flings as though he were planning on marrying them tomorrow. namami isn’t controlling but he wants to know what you’re wearing before you go out with your girlfriends. he’s still adjusting. nanami tries to date women his age but younger women always seen to find themselves in his bed..

his kinks?┊; pet play, branding, impact play, dirty talk will send him into a coma, voyeurism, cnc, innocence, corruption, angel enthusiast— (not at all interested in brats. no offense at all but he’s an older man and doesn’t have the time or energy), dumbification, breeding, praise (giving), choking, sugaring, affairs.

alignment ┊; 100% dom — daddy/sir/owner dom.

his love language┊; quality time + gifts.

misc┊; top 1%, secret service, long nights at the office, ex military— general of airforce, golfing, private jet, exclusive memberships at country clubs, expensive suits, just learned about tiktok, strangers to lovers, sugar daddy lifestyle, appreciates discretion.

[laferocia]

Mike Patton at JazzIn Festival Milano, 2010: Mike talks about trees, his wife, and says lots of "WOW".

Alright, here we go! Santa is coming, and Lilia from Italy wants to make a gift for her international Mike fan friends.

Let me give you a bit of context: the event is called JazzMi Festival. The individuals you see at the beginning of the video are Letizia Moratti, who was the mayor of Milan at that time; Red Ronnie (the guy with red hair and round glasses), a famous italian DJ in the 70s and 80s and for years the host of a TV show where he featured excellent artists who could perform live, the "Roxy Bar"; Nick The Nightfly (the guy with white hair), a Scotsman who has been in Italy for years, at that time he was the artistic director of the event and also a DJ.

Letizia Moratti shakes hands with Nick and they exchange greetings.

Red Ronnie: sei il direttore del festival! // You are the festival director!

Nick: Sì! Benvenuto Red, benvenuto Red! Adesso andiamo a trovare anche Mike, magari lo salutiamo. Vediamo se... facciamo un viaggio da queste parti. // Yes! Welcome Red, welcome Red! Now let's go and find Mike, perhaps we can say hello to him too. Let's see if... we take a tour around these parts.

Letizia Moratti: sono molto felice di essere riuscita a venire // I am pleased to have succeeded in coming.

They have a brief exchange about a previous event in Milan. Nick mentions that it was a beautiful evening and compliments the mayor not only for the event but also for the speech, which he describes as touching and non-institutional. She thanks him and replies that she is not good at speaking in an institutional manner. Nick remarks that he has the same issue with Italian, sometimes saying things he shouldn't (Moratti, however, praises his Italian, which is indeed excellent, featuring a slight and charming Anglophone accent).

At 1:10, finally they met Mike.

Mike: Ciao, salve, tutto bene? Sono Mike. Questo è Daniele // Hi, hello, how are you? I'm Mike. This is Daniele.

Daniele: Piacere // Nice to meet you.

Moratti speaks to Mike in English and he responds in Italian "Parlo abbastanza bene, non perfetto" (= I speak Italian quite well, though not perfectly").

Moratti: grazie per essere qua // Thanks for being here.

Mike: oh, grazie per... it's great to be here.

A note of appreciation for Letizia Moratti: she is one of the few Italian politicians who speaks a decent English.

2:02, Mike: è un bel lavoro! // It's quite a job!

Red Ronnie: ha lavorato tanto! // She worked a lot!

Moratti: Sì, ho fatto tante volte il giro del mondo per riuscire, votano 157 paesi, bisogna avere il voto della maggioranza, eravamo in competizione con la Turchia, non è stato facile. Comunque adesso l'abbiamo, io vado a Shanghai per fare la handover cerimony. // Yes, I've traveled the world many times to succeed. There are 157 countries voting, and you need the majority vote. We were in competition with Turkey, and it wasn't easy. Anyway, we have it now. I'm going to Shanghai for the handover ceremony.

Mike shakes hand with Nick and with a guy that is a city councillor, Giovanni Terzi. Moratti explains to Mike that the municipal councillor organized the festival.

Nick: Mike io ti devo portare i saluti di Norah Jones // Mike, I've got greetings for you from Norah Jones.

Mike: ah! Stavo parlando con lei anche ieri sera che stava a Venezia. // Oh! I was talking to her just last night, she was in Venice.

Nick: Perché ha suonato l'altra sera, lei ha guardato e mi fa "oh my friend Mike Patton," // Because she performed the other night, she looked at *(a poster or something about the event, I guess)* and said "oh my friend Mike Patton".

3:26, Red Ronnie: fai tutto Mondo Cane? // Are you playing the whole 'Mondo Cane' project?

Mike: sì sì sì! 22 canzoni // Yes, 22 songs.

3:43, Mike: un'orchestra piccolina, 12 violini, però funziona! // A small orchestra, 12 violins, but it works!

*A brief interlude of idle chatter, LOL*

3:46, Red Ronnie: la cosa incredibile, come hai visto nel disco ha messo, sì, "Il cielo in una stanza", che son dei classici... Letizia Moratti: è una delle mie canzoni preferite! Mike: ah allora è la prima canzone! È un pochino diversa ma è riconoscibile insomma; Letizia Moratti: posso avere un autografo? Mike: certo! Dovrei chiederlo io a lei! (Mike is is using the formal "lei" instead of "tu" as a form of courtesy and respect for Moratti's role and age) //

ENG: Red Ronnie: The incredible thing, as you saw on the record, is that he included, yes, "Il cielo in una stanza," which are classics... Letizia Moratti: It's one of my favorite songs! Mike: Ah, it's the first song then! It's a little different but still recognizable, in short. Letizia Moratti: Can I have an autograph? Mike: Of course! I should be the one asking you for it!

4:09, Mike pointing to the CD: "ahi ahi ahi, hai ascoltato?" Letizia Moratti: no! Red Ronnie: no no ma lei ascolta, diciamo che lei ha scelto di venire... Letizia Moratti: io ho scelto di venire al tuo concerto! Eh sì! Ho guardato tutto il programma e poi... Mike: ah sì? E quello di Norah Jones non l'hai visto?

ENG: Mike *pointing to the CD*: "Ouch ouch ouch, have you listened?" Letizia Moratti: No! Red Ronnie: No no, but she listens, let's say she chose to come... Letizia Moratti: I chose to come to your concert! Oh yes! I watched the entire program and then... Mike: Oh yeah? And you didn't see Norah Jones' concert? (Mike laughs, you can understand the rest of the conversation because they speak in English.)

4:40, Red Ronnie: è interessante perché questo è un progetto internazionale ma è molto italiano e questo pur con una ricerca... Letizia Moratti: è questo che mi è piaciuto! Mike: sì è bello! Red Ronnie: perché ad esempio "Urlo negro" dei Blackmen che è un disco (che da) piccolino ascoltavo... Mike: conosci? Hai sentito? Red: io ho il disco! Mike: quarantacinque (45) giri? Red: il juke box, il 45! Mike: mamma mia, questo è raro! Red: e quando lo mettevo nel juke box... e vedere tu *(it should be "vedere te", LOL)* che fai "Mondo cane"... Letizia Moratti: ma Red ha una collezione che è una meraviglia! Mike: eh si vede che è un intenditore! Moratti: sì, sì, ha pezzi abbastanza unici, ha piatti di John Lennon con le ghiande della pace... adesso abbiamo in programma di fare il giardino di John Lennon per l'8 ottobre... Red: beh ormai... Moratti: tanto è stato già detto! Eh sì, per i 30 anni... L'idea è quella di avere un albero da ogni Paese del mondo, tutti i Paesi che verranno qui per l'Expo, dove ognuno pianti un albero... Red: bel gesto! Potresti portarne uno dall'America, dalla tua zona... Mike: sì, c'ho magari qualche seme, non so... Moratti: bello! Mike: Io sono di quelle parti, California del nord, Redwood. Nick: San Francisco, Redwood. Mike: sì sì però io sono proprio... vengo da anche di più, capito? Più a nord. Moratti: il primo ce lo hanno regalato dal Congo. Mike: Wow! E com'è? Moratti: è un eucalipto. È uno degli alberi loro tipici, sì. Mike: una sequoia a Milano? Moratti: una sequoia sarebbe bellissimo! Mike: però (it should be "il clima") la clima mi sa che... Moratti: esatto, bisognerà cercare degli alberi che non muoiano... Mike: sì deve essere bagnatissimo, capito? Deve avere tanta tanta pioggia e non troppo sole, perciò... magari cresce un po' così ma... Moratti: un po' mini! Mike: sì sì un bonsai-sequoia! Moratti: ti lascio, vorrai stare un attimo... Mike: no! Dai, abbiamo fatto già... *voice: vogliamo fare una foto?* //

ENG: Red Ronnie: It's interesting because this is an international project, but it's very Italian, and this is despite thorough research... Letizia Moratti: That's what I liked about it! Mike: Yes, it's beautiful! Red Ronnie: For example, "Urlo negro" by the Blackmen, which is a record I used to listen to when I was little... Mike: Do you know it? Have you heard it? Red: I have the record! Mike: 45 RPM? Red: The jukebox, the 45! Mike: Oh my, that's rare! Red: And when I put it on the jukebox... and see you doing "Mondo cane"... Letizia Moratti: But Red has a collection that is wonderful! Mike: You can tell he's a connoisseur! Moratti: Yes, yes, he has quite unique pieces, turntable platters from John Lennon with the acorns of peace... now we're planning to create the John Lennon garden for October 8th... Red: Well, by now... Moratti: It's already been said! Yes, for the 30th anniversary... The idea is to have a tree from every country in the world, all the countries that will come here for the Expo (in 2015, Milan hosted the Expo), where each one plants a tree... Red: Nice gesture! Could you bring one from America, from your area... Mike: Yes, I might have some seeds, I don't know... Moratti: Nice! Mike: I'm from those parts, Northern California, Redwood. Nick: San Francisco, Redwood. Mike: Yes, yes, but I'm even further north. Moratti: The first one they gave us was from Congo. Mike: Wow! How is it? Moratti: It's a eucalyptus. It's one of their typical trees, yes. Mike: A sequoia in Milan? Moratti: A sequoia would be beautiful! Mike: But the climate, I think... Moratti: Exactly, we'll need to look for trees that won't die... Mike: Yes, it has to be very wet, you know? It needs a lot of rain and not too much sun, so... maybe it grows a bit like this but... Moratti: A mini one! Mike: Yes, yes, a bonsai-sequoia! Moratti: I'll leave you, you might want to stay a moment... Mike: No! Come on, we're already done... *Voice: Do you want to take a photo?*

7:00, Moratti: ma in casa parli italiano con tua moglie o... Mike: tutto! tre parole in italiano, una in inglese. Red: ma poi è una bolognese! Moratti: infatti! Lo so! Mike: lo senti? Un po'? Red: le "s" un pochino. Mike: un po' esce. Red: ma hai vissuto a Bologna? Mike: sì, 6 anni, più o meno. Red: ah, in che anni? Mike: sarebbe primi anni 90. Red: allora quando facevo il Roxy Bar. Mike: ah, infatti! Ho riconosciuto 'sta faccia! Guardavo, sì sì guardavo! Una volta, con un altro gruppo, non ricordo quale che ne avevo un paio, mi han detto eravamo chiesto (eravamo chiesto: it is not correct in italian but we can understand that he was saying "ci avevano chiesto") di andare lì però non potevamo fare. Red: tu hai collaborato con i Melvins, i Melvins han suonato dal vivo. Mike: sì sì sì mi ricordo! Red: il gruppo più rumoroso che abbia mai avuto! Mike: eh già! Red: hanno fatto... guarda... non puoi capire! Perché lui (Mike) ti sembra un bravo ragazzo... *a female voice, prolly his wife: ok, basta grazie, andiamo!* Red: lui fa degli esperimenti con la voce molto interessanti, con delle scatole, esperimenti. Un po' quello che faceva anche Demetrio Stratos, solo che faceva solo vocalizzi. Mike: sì ma per me Demetrio Stratos per me è proprio un idolo, è un grande, sono un grande fan, e c'ho molto rispetto per lui, ma veramente! Red: buon concerto Mike! Mike: grazie! È stato un piacere. *The other guy: quando sentirai urlare saremo noi!" //

ENG: Moratti: But do you speak Italian at home with your wife or... Mike: Everything! Three words in Italian, one in English. Red: But then she's from Bologna! Moratti: Indeed! I know! Mike: Can you hear it (he meant the typical Bologna accent)? A bit? Red: The "s", a little bit. Mike: It comes out a bit. Red: But did you live in Bologna? Mike: Yes, for 6 years, more or less. Red: Ah, in which years? Mike: It would be the early '90s. Red: So when I was doing the Roxy Bar (Roxy Bar was a music show created and hosted by Red Ronnie, broadcast in Italy from 1992 to 2001). Mike: Ah, indeed! I recognized that face! I watched it, yes, I watched it! Once, with another band, I don't remember which one because I had a couple, they had asked us to go there, but we couldn't make it. Red: You collaborated with the Melvins, and the Melvins played live. Mike: Yes, yes, I remember! Red: The loudest band I've ever had there! Mike: Oh, indeed! Red: They made... look... you can't understand! *Talking to Moratti* Because he (Mike) seems like a nice guy... *a female voice, probably his wife: okay, enough, thank you, let's go!* Red: He experiments with the voice in very interesting ways, with boxes, experiments. A bit like what Demetrio Stratos used to do, only he did vocalizations. Mike: Yes, but for me, Demetrio Stratos is truly an idol, he's great, I'm a big fan, and I have a lot of respect for him, really! Red: Good concert, Mike! Mike: Thank you! It's been a pleasure. *The other guy: When you hear shouting, it'll be us!"

[thedrarrylibrarian]

Several people have been kind enough to let me publish their thoughts on fandom, community, and queerness to celebrate Pride in the Library. Today's piece comes from @candybarrnerd.

When @thedrarrylibrarian reached out to me with the proposal to discuss queerdom and fandom I was delighted. 

The reason they did so was because a friend suggested me. A friend I had made through the HP fandom.

And I want to explain how emblematic that is of exactly what thedrarrylibrarian was asking me to do. 

I'm friends with this person because of Drarry and Harry Potter fandom. Because of a fics we've written, because of a conversations we've had, because of mutual friends we share. We've had chats about children, about pets, about health issues, about gender, and many many more things I can't even think to list here. I've met this friend in person and heard about their offline life. I'm so privileged to know them and to call them a friend. 

And they're not the only one! I've met friends in fandom who I've talked to about relationship issues, who I've met in person and shared meals with, who I've stayed with in their house! I've met friends who sent me flowers when a loved one died, who offered me money when I was broke, who gave me advice and who I've given advice, who saw something and not only bought it but spent the money to send it to me halfway around the world. 

I am queer. And while I've always known that, but being in fandom helped me find my true queer self. In the fandom space I've found my true name, I've found my pronouns, I've found my gender. I've found other queer people to discuss queer life, from things we share, to things we don't! 

Fandom is like a queer community. It'll support you when you need it, that you can find your people, that you might have differences, be separated by so many other things (and miles) but still find community. 

Because of this community I have been gifted so much. I feel so lucky. I can't imagine who I would be without it. I don't want to. 

And also fuck JKR. We are so much more than her. 

I want to take this moment to encourage people to get involved in their community in and outside of fandom and to that end I just want to say the following:

Trans lives matter. Queer lives matter. We belong here and where we exist - which is everywhere! Remember it is us who will protect us. Also remember that your activism should start at the ballot box but shouldn't end there. Push your politicians to do better, and tell them when you're disappointed in their actions. I recommend writing letters if you have the time and are worried about other methods of showing up for the community. 

And if you're feeling lonely, I believe you can always find community. Fandom is one place to start 💜

Thank you, Le, for joining me in the Library. It is an joy to hear your invitation to community and your rallying cry. I appreciate that you took the time to come and celebrate Pride in the Library with me.

If you want more @candybarrnerd, be sure to check out their work on AO3! I especially loved their the potential of broken things, which features newly bi Harry and content with life Draco. It's soft, it's hot, it's hopeful.

🏳️‍🌈 Lots of Love and Happy Pride! 🏳️‍🌈