#babes i am nearly 31!!!! even if i KNEW HOW to do that. i simply will not.

[captainimprobable]

Me: Oh boy, I can't wait to be a barista! Those guys are queer and quirky and I'm gonna fit right in! My coworkers, the most aggressively normal people I've ever met, IMMEDIATELY deciding they dislike me because I'm Too Much: lol

[theladyofdeath]

Kinky Cliché {Nessian}

31 Days of Halloween: Day 19.

All installments co-written with @snelbz​

Based on a prompt sent in by anon :  "”Is it too cliche to visit a cemetery on halloween?" For nessian pleaseeee“

Warning: language, sex.

Autumn/Halloween 2020 {Collection}

It was Halloween and Nesta sat on the couch, watching a scary movie for the tenth time that week. It wasn’t that it wasn’t a good movie or that she didn’t like Halloween.

She loved Halloween, and for that reason, she watched scary movies year round. So her favorites, as great as they were, had become predictable. And since they were the original great scary movies, all scary movies tried to be like them.

She sighed, just as Cassian walked into the living room from the hallway, freshly showered after a long day of patrol. “That was a big sigh,” he noted, heading into the kitchen and grabbing two beers. “What are you thinking about?”

“Is it too cliché to visit a cemetery on Halloween?” She asked, pausing her movie.

The movement in the kitchen paused. “No, but it is illegal.” She heard the fridge door reopen and closed and then he reappeared.

Nesta noted he didn’t have the beers in his hands anymore. She snorted. “No, it’s not.”

He sat down next to her. “Most cemeteries are on private property. That’s illegal to trespass on, no matter what day of the year it is.”

She pursed her lips and thought for a minute. “What about a community cemetery? That’s owned by the city? The parks owned by the city are ‘open’ all night.”

He opened his mouth to reply, but paused. His brow furrowed. “I guess you’re right.”

“So I ask again,” she said, turning towards him, her eyes bright, “Is it too cliché to go to a cemetery on Halloween?”

Cassian shot her an amused look. “Is this your coy way of asking me to get dressed so we can go to a cemetery?” 

“I’m tired of watching movies,” was her reply.

Cassian gasped. “Did those words really just come out of your mouth?” 

She rolled her eyes. “Come on. I’m getting my boots, putting on my coat, taking a shot of whiskey, then we’re going.”

Cassian watched her as she stood up and got to work on that list. 

With a sigh, he followed her lead. If it involved Nesta Archeron and a shot of whiskey, he couldn’t say no.

Before leaving, he decided to take one as well, after looking up the closest cemetery not on private property.

Nesta had just pulled a knitted beanie with a big black pom pom on her head when Cassian walked out of their bathroom and snorted. “Real spooky, babe.”

She glared at him in the dresser mirror.

He held up his hands in surrender and said, “So there’s an old cemetery from the Great War about half a mile away from town, it’s behind that great big church on 4th Avenue.”

She turned, her eyes lit up. “So it’s super old?”

“That thought should not excite you,” he said, shaking his head. “Yes, at least five hundred years. And the people buried there died horrible, violent deaths.”

Nesta actually squealed. “Let’s go.”

She grabbed his hand and was dragging him through their apartment.

Cassian didn’t even bother to try and protest. Before he knew it, they were in his Jeep, driving quickly to the outskirts of town. 

Nesta was excited enough for both of them, and even though Cassian tried to match that excitement, he couldn’t stop himself from yawning as they drove through the dark night.

“I think it’s up there,” Nesta said, pointing to the iron gate coming up on their right. Cassian turned, and illuminated in the headlights were countless headstones. 

Before the Jeep was even put in park, Nesta was opening her door and jumping out. Cassian couldn’t help but chuckle at her excitement. Nesta rarely became excited about such things, but every Halloween, especially when it came to the creepy and spooky, it was like she was a kid on Christmas morning. She had endless joy thrumming through her bones.

He grabbed the couple of flashlights and spare batteries he’d thought to toss in his pocket on the way out the door and followed her. Sure enough, the gate was unlocked and Nesta was attempting to get it open when Cassian came up behind her. He flicked on one of the flashlights, helping her see the ancient patching mechanism and she turned around and blew him a kiss. With a heavy thunk!, the iron gate creaked open and Cass handed Nesta a flashlight.

It was like watching a kid with free rein in a candy store.

The headstones were in good shape, considering their age. They found quite a few where time and the elements had worn away the details of the person laid to rest there, but most were at least legible.

“Baby, look this guy died on Elain’s birthday!” She said, pointing her beam of light at the headstone. 

He did the mental math in his head and said, “Yeah, just five hundred and sixty four years before.”

She shoved him. “It’s a fun coincidence, hush.”

“Fun?” He asked, chuckling. “I love you, but you have a fucked up interpretation of fun.”

“Yeah, well-.”

They both froze as they heard a noise from deeper in the cemetery. Cassian couldn’t decide if it was a moan, weak scream, or growl. Honestly, he didn’t like the prospect of any of the three.

“What was that?” Nesta whispered, angling herself behind Cassian.

Cassian had stilled. “I...don’t know.”

He took a step forward but Nesta was grabbing him by the back of his shirt. “What are you doing?”

Cassian blinked. “What do you mean? I’m going to look at what’s making the big, scary noise.”

“Seriously?” Nesta hissed. “Have you never watched a horror movie?”

“Yes, many,” Cassian grumbled. “Thanks to you.” 

“Then you know not to go toward what’s making the noise,” she snapped.

Said noise sounded again, and Cassian and Nesta were back to going perfectly still. 

“Does it…is someone fucking in the graveyard?” Cassian whispered.

“What?” Nesta asked, quietly. She hadn’t even considered having sex in a cemetery and that was saying something. “Why would-?”

Again, they heard the noise and it seemed to be getting louder.

“That was definitely a moan, and it didn’t sound ghostly to me,” Cass said, forging ahead.

They followed the sound, passing another entrance to the graveyard, where they found a black car, with a crescent moon hanging from the rear view mirror. Cass shined his flashlight towards it. “Does that car look familiar?”

“It just looks like a black car, come on,” she said, looking around and tugging on his hand.

He paused and she turned to look at him. The smirk on his face was positively wicked.

“Are you scared, Nesta Archeron?”

“No,” she said, far too quickly.

“They’re fucking in a public space, I’m a cop, it’s my duty to do some ass-kicking,” he said, simply.

“And if they’re not having sex?” Nesta asked, a brow raised.

Cassian shrugged. “Then we die.” 

With that, he took another few steps along, dragging Nesta with him. They made it closer to the car, but no one was inside. 

The moaning came again and Cassian turned around, dragging a nervous Nesta toward the edge of the cemetery, toward a line of trees.

Where they saw two figures, one pressed up against the trunk of a tree, in quite the compromising position.

“Hey!” Cassian yelled. “Feet on the ground, hands up where I can see them!”

The man backed off the woman and looked over his shoulder.

Cassian froze.

“Cass?”

“Rhys?”

“Nesta?”

Nesta’s hands flew over her eyes, “Feyre, my gods!”

Cassian began to howl, while Nesta turned around and the other two resituated their clothing.

“What are you doing out here?” Feyre asked, her cheeks still tinged with pink, from what they were caught doing or out of embarrassment from what they were caught doing, she didn’t know.

“This one wanted to visit a cemetery on Halloween,” Cassian hooked a thumb over at Nesta, who looked like she wished she’d never made the suggestion.

“It’s Halloween?” Rhys asked, and Feyre elbowed him in the ribs.

“Yep, us too,” she said, quickly.

“You didn’t know it was Halloween?” Nesta asked, looking at the two of them. Rhys shrugged. “Then why were you have sex in a cemetery?”

“She was giving me road head on the way home from dinner and I didn’t want to wait fifteen more minutes to be inside of her,” Rhys explained.

“Rhys!” Feyre said, covering her face.

Nesta gagged. “I could have lived my entire life without knowing that fact.”

Cassian laughed even louder, his hands on his knees, unable to keep himself upright. 

“How funny would it be,” Cassian began, between bursts of laughter, “if I arrested you two, and hauled you in?” He was nearly crying. “I mean, that would be a damn good holiday.” 

Nesta rolled her eyes. “You can’t arrest my sister and her husband for being weird and kinky on a creepy holiday…no matter how horrified I am.”

“On that note, we’re gonna go,” Rhys smirked, wrapping an arm around Feyre. “We were kind of in the middle of something before we were so rudely interrupted-.”

“You’re in a public cemetery,” Cassian said, still laughing.

“We’ll see you at Az and Elain’s tomorrow night for dinner!” He hollered back, heading for the car.

“I’m texting him about this right now,” Cassian yelled, pulling out his phone.

Rhys just held up his middle finger as he closed Feyre’s door and rounded the car to his side.

By the time Cassian finished his text message, their taillights were nearly out of sight and he said, “Well, that was fun. Ready to head home?”

Nesta smirked and said, “Not yet.” She took his hand and led him back into the cemetery, walking just a little farther than they had when they finally figured out the noises.

“Would you really arrest someone for having sex in a public cemetery?” Nesta asked, sitting on a stone bench they’d stumbled upon.

“Of course, I would,” he said, turning to look around himself with the flashlight. “It’s illegal, Nes. Public indecency and all that.” This place was huge. The headstones went as far as he could see.

“Would you arrest me?” She asked from behind him.

“Of course not, baby,” he turned back around to face her. “But you’d never-.”

His mouth dried out as he found Nesta sitting topless on the bench. He hadn’t even heard her unzip her jacket, but there it was, piled up on the bench with her sweater and bra.

He groaned, his eyes lingering. “You’re going to make me break the law, aren’t you?” 

“I’m not asking you to do anything,” she crooned, flipping her hair over her shoulder so that her breasts were on full display. “I’m just sitting here, in the cemetery, with my husband...” 

“Is it possible to be completely freaked out while being equally turned on?” Cassian asked, taking slow steps toward her.

“On Halloween? Absolutely,” she said, her grin making his toes curl.

Cassian turned the flashlight off before plopping down next to Nesta and pulling her onto his lap. 

Unlike her sister and brother-in-law, no one interrupted them.

[gossamie]

I’ll Call You

— summary: Long distance relationships suck- you and Jungkook know this firsthand. When you tell Jungkook how much you miss him over a video call, he tries to ease your pain with a song.

— pairing: jeon jungkook x reader

— genre: hella fluff

— word count: 1,421

— warnings: none!

— notes: i was inspired by this video and i thought it was so cute i wanted to make a whole drabble about it! the translated lyrics seen later in the story are taken from this video. i hope you enjoy~

“How lucky I am to have something that makes saying goodbye so hard.” - A.A. Milne, Winnie the Pooh

7:57.

7:58.

7:59.

8:00.

Incoming call from JUSTIN SEAGULL.

You rushed to your laptop so quickly it nearly topped off of your desk. Even after three months of late-night calls, your excitement at the thought of seeing him never seemed to falter.

When you accepted the call, you were met with a handsome face wrapped in a black hoodie.  

“Hey, babe,” Jungkook said, a bunny-like smile adorning his features. “I like your shirt.”

“Thanks,” you chuckled, looking down at the oversized white shirt that Jungkook mailed to you a few weeks ago. Since receiving it, you refused to wear any other shirt around the house. Every time you wore it, you smelled like his cologne and it felt as if he was right next to you.

You pointed to the stuffed lion perched on the pillows behind Jungkook. “I see you like my gift, too.”

“I don’t just like Mr. Dandy, I love him!” he exclaimed, picking up the toy from the bed and embracing it tightly.

“What kind of a name is Mr. Dandy?” you questioned, one eyebrow raised.

“Well, he is a dandy lion.”

“Stop yourself before you turn into Seokjin.”

“You loved that joke and you know it.”

Hours passed soon afterwards in comfortable silence interrupted by pockets of simple conversation, the rain tapping on your window filling the atmosphere with a soft hum. This was how many of these late night calls were spent. Some calls were completely silent, some calls were filled with endless dialogue, but neither of you felt obligated to speak in each other’s presence. In the span of the three months spent apart, you quickly came to realize that any time you were together was the happiest either of you could be.

Three months ago, you took for granted being able to kiss Jungkook, to hold his hand, to go on dates with him, to be near him whenever you wanted to. Three months later, one half of your heart now at the opposite end of the globe, every little thing gave you a small happiness: hearing his voice at the other end of the phone line, waking up to a “Good morning!” text, receiving a Facetime call from Jungkook at eight o’clock every night― the latter, most especially. What you and Jungkook dreamed of the most were very mundane things; what gave you the most happiness were things that most couples could do on a daily basis.

Being in a long-distance relationship meant that everything turned into numbers. 5,775 miles apart. 48,600 seconds to fly from Los Angeles to Seoul. 105 Facetime calls. 2,323 “I love you’s”. 3,021 “I miss you’s”. 741 days since you first started dating, 92 days since you last saw each other, 31 days until you would see each other again, until you could be a normal couple again.

Both of you knew that studying at the same university was unrealistic, that you were determined to make the relationship work no matter what the cost. But sometimes, when your nights became a little too lonely and your heart ached a little too much, you wondered if you would take the risk of a long-distance relationship again if you had the chance.

“Long distance sucks,” you said suddenly, breaking the silence.

“I know.”

You looked up from your textbook, gazing at the man who was so close to you yet so far away. “I wish you here.”

“If I could go to you now, I would.”

The silence that followed was not filled with uncomfort, but longing.

Jungkook’s eyes suddenly lit up and he began to type excitedly on his laptop. “I almost forgot― I wanted to show you something that I’ve been working on.”

Placing your pencil down, you began to look curiously at the computer screen. “What for?”

“Well, for my music composition class, we were assigned to produce an excerpt of a song, but I liked it so much that I finished producing it.”

“What made you want to finish it?”

“You,” Jungkook replied, a blush blossoming on his cheeks and a shy smile growing on his lips. “I miss you more than anything, but I missed you a lot more than usual while I was making this, so I’m hoping that the song will help to bridge the distance between us.”

Your heart pulled towards Jungkook, trying to cross the ocean that separated you and him. It was telling you that it would follow him anywhere.

“That’s… no has ever done anything like that for me before.” You were close to being speechless. “Thank you.”

“If you’re amazed now, just wait until you hear it,” he responded jokingly, a cocky smile crinkling his eyes as the song started to play. “I’m pretty sure you’ll like it.”

When you heard the song’s introductory notes, the first thought that popped into your mind was that it sounded like eager footsteps, as if summer was awaiting you with bated breath. Already your chest began to fill with inklings of elation.

And then he began to sing.

“You are the sun that rose again in my life, the second coming of my youthful dreams / I don’t know what this feeling is, whether this is all a dream…”

It had been so long since you heard Jungkook’s voice that your muscles began to burn with yearning. All at once, you remembered why you loved hearing Jungkook sing; his voice was like honey, like drifting amongst fields of stars. You loved to watch his eyelids flutter closed and his body gently sway back and forth as he let the melody overtake him. If there was any other person in this world who was more passionate about his creations than Jungkook, you had not found them; it was hard to find someone other than Jungkook who looked more beautiful, more peaceful when they sang.

“The dream is a green oasis in a desert, the ‘a priori’ deep inside me / I’m so happy I can’t breathe, my surroundings become more transparent…”

Unconsciously, your body swayed with Jungkook just as he swayed with the music. You felt your toes tapping to the beat of the song, as if your feet, too, were itching to walk whatever distance necessary if it meant being closer to the man you loved.

“I hear the far-away ocean across a dream, over the horizon / Going to that place that becomes clearer / Take my hands now / You are the cause of my euphoria…”

The song burst into a collage of notes and resonances that, together, sounded like immense happiness― or, as Jungkook put it simply, euphoria. To think that someone poured so much love and effort into a creation, that someone condensed their feelings into a single melody, that someone even thought of you was enough to send you into a state of bliss.

“Did you wander looking for that erased rainbow-like dream? / Only one thing is different from fate / Your hurt gaze looking at the same place as me / Will you please stay in dreams?”

The last three months have undoubtedly been the hardest three months of your life. You lost count of the nights spent crying, of the wistful goodbyes said at the gates of the airport, of the times when you were unsure when you would see each other again. Nothing about this relationship would ever be easy and, contrary to what you once believed, falling in love was not just a mere path filled with cherry blossoms.

“Even if the desert becomes cracked, even if someone shakes the world / Don’t let go of the hand you’re holding, don’t let go of this dream…”

But all these hardships that you and Jungkook faced only made you a stronger couple. You took pride in the fact that, in the year you had been in a long-distance relationship, your trust in each other never faltered; you were happy to tell your friends that you and Jungkook were better than ever. Time and time again, when you were tempted to question the situation you were in, you thought of him and how lucky you were that it was him and in an instant, your faith in your relationship was restored.

You would take this risk again and again and again.

Jungkook blinked and returned his gaze to you. It looked as if he had just returned from being lost within himself. “Did you like it? Do you think I need to change anything about it?”

You smiled. “I wouldn’t change it for the world.”

[ashtheshortstack]

ML Fluff Month Day 30 - Unmasked

Unmasked

Rated: G

Pairing: Adrinette.

For: @miraculousfluffmonth

ao3

Day 1 / Day 31

Marinette and Alya sat together on a schoolyard bench as the former doodled in her sketch pad while her best friend watched over her shoulder.

Adrien and Nino strode towards the two girls, the blond waving as they approached. “Hey, Marinette. Hey Alya,” he chimed as politely as ever. Marinette immediately felt herself tense and let out a small wave as an anxious smile plastered itself on her face.

Nino pranced over to his girlfriend and pecked her on the head. “Hey, babe.”  

“Hey, what brings you two around here?” Alya teased.

Adrien slid onto the bench next to Marinette, and she felt herself nearly combust. He was sitting next to her. Right next to her. Their legs were almost touching. They were breathing the same air. Oh, my God! She quickly looked down, a blush rousing on her face as she tried to go back to sketching, trying her best to ignore the fact that Adrien was following her movements.

As Nino sat down next to Alya, he gestured over to his friend. “Well, actually, Adrien wanted to come ask you guys something.”

Marinette felt him jolt beside her, he seemed to be yanked out of whatever trance watching her draw had put him in. He smiled. “Oh, yeah. I wanted to know if you guys were going to the Ladybug and Chat Noir ball at Le Grand Paris tonight.”

Alya hummed hesitantly. “We aren’t exactly sure. Marinette had some outfits started for us, but Chloe kind of implied that we weren’t invited.”

Nino cocked a brow. “How can you not be invited to a public event?”

“Because Chloe hates our guts,” Marinette mumbled.

Adrien shook his head. “That’s not fair. This isn’t Chloe’s party. It’s being put on by the mayor in celebration of Chat Noir and Ladybug,” he began to push himself off the bench. “I’ll go talk to her.”

Marinette grabbed his arm, and he spun his head back to face her. Freezing, she realized her impulsive action and quickly released him. “I-It’s okay, Adrien. You really don’t have to.”

His shoulders slumped, brow furrowing. “But it’s really not, Marinette. I was looking forward to spending the evening with you guys. That’s why I hoped you were going.”

Placing a hand on her heart, Alya cooed. “Aw, Adrien, I didn’t realize you thought so highly of mine and Marinette’s company,” she teased with a wink at Marinette.

“Of course!” He insisted. “Ever since you and Nino have started dating, I’ve gotten to spend so much time with the two of you, especially you, Marinette,” he wrapped an arm around her shoulder. “You and I make great third and fourth wheels together.”

Trying her best not to tense, Marinette forced herself to breathe. He’s touching me! She spoke after a moment of gathering her wits. “Y-Yeah, we are, aren’t we?” she joked with a nervous chuckle.

Adrien laughed before squeezing her shoulder and releasing her. Marinette almost whined at the loss. No, please. Keep your arm around me!

Nino gave a knowing chuckle before nudging Alya. “I think you two should come anyway, no matter what Chloe says. Without you two the night would be uncool, am I right? I mean, the owner of the Ladyblog not at the Ladybug and Chat Noir ball? Crazy!”

“That’s criminal,” Adrien added. He turned to Marinette with a grin. “I agree. You two should come anyway. You can just hang with me; I’ll make sure Chloe won’t bother either of you.”

“How noble of you, Monsieur Agreste,” Alya chimed with a grin.

“It’s nothing! I just want to spend an evening with my best friends!” he beamed. “So, what are the outfits you were working on, Marinette? I’m sure you’d make a great Ladybug. You even have a similar hair color to hers.”

She froze, hunching over her drawing with wide eyes, before playing it off with a laugh that was far too loud for normal social standards. You have no idea, Adrien.

“Me? Ladybug? No! I don’t even compare!” Trying to cover the uneasiness in her voice was proving to be difficult.

He scoffed. “Don’t sell yourself short. You’re a lot like Lady…bug…” Adrien’s voice trailed off a second as he stared at her, the gears seemed to be grinding in his head. Why was he looking at her like that?

Time to change the subject. She dodged his compliment by adverting their conversation back to the dresses. “Me? Ladybug? Nah. Anyway, Alya actually has the Ladybug dress. My dress is Chat Noir themed.”

Dragging him out of whatever thoughts he was in, Adrien seemed to light up at her words. “Really? I figured most people would do something Ladybug themed. She is the more popular of the two.”

Marinette couldn’t help the small giggle she let out. “I don’t think so. Chat Noir is just as much of a hero as Ladybug. They’re partners, you know. If you take Ladybug on, you take Chat Noir on too. I admire that about them.”

There it was. He was looking at her funny again. What was that? She couldn’t pinpoint what emotion he was feeling, and why he was aiming such a serious look her way. It almost seemed like he was in the middle of having an epiphany of some sort.

“Yeah, girl, Chat Noir and Ladybug are both hella cool. I do have to say that I’m more of a Ladybug fan, but that’s just because she’s spoiled me with so much attention for the Ladyblog.”

Marinette smiled. “I’m sure if you asked Chat Noir he’d be willing to participate. He liked to show off a lot—f-from what I’ve gathered, you know.”

“Yeah…” Adrien drawled. “I’m sure he would.”

Sensing an awkward atmosphere starting to gather, Marinette popped up from her seat on the bench. “Anyway, if we’re going to be going to the ball now, I’m going to have to get home and finish up some touches on the dresses. I’ll see you guys tonight,” she called as she started to run off.

“That was so weird, Tikki. I can’t figure out why Adrien kept looking at me like that,” Marinette mused as she stuck some pins in her dress.

Her kwami flittered from the top of the dress. “I don’t know, Marinette. Maybe, he was seeing how beautiful you are up close,” she giggled.

“Har, har. As if. Adrien only sees me as a best friend. He said so today.”

Humming, her kwami considered this. “Sure, but maybe that’s just because he doesn’t want to make things awkward between the two of you. He could like you too for all you know. Remember the poem? That was definitely meant for you.”

As she sewed another paw print onto the black fabric, she scrunched her nose at the thought. “Yeah, but Adrien never actually gave it to me.”

“Even famous model boys get nervous, Marinette.”

Her chosen giggled in response. “Okay, maybe, he chickened out, but I really doubt it.”

“Sureee~” Tikki teased, causing Marinette to glare teasingly at her kwami.

Marinette walked into the hotel, arm interlocked with Alya’s. Their dresses shared a similar Fifties’ theme, both frilled out at the bottom. The pair both wore their respected hero’s mask to mask the ensemble. Alya had her hair in two pigtails, while Marinette’s was down and curled with a green ribbon tied in the back. The girls joked that they had basically switched hair styles for the evening. Marinette’s outfit was completed by the tiny choker with a bell she had sewn onto it.

Alya turned to her with a smile. “Nino said that he and Adrien are already here. He told me to go wait for them at the drinks after we got here.”

Allowing her friend to drag her, Marinette went with the flow. “Alright.”

Not even a moment after they arrived, the girls saw Chloe was eyeing them. Well, she knew they were here now. It was up to fate how long it’d take her to cause a scene. Marinette was so distracted by her staring contest with her arch enemy that she didn’t even notice the boys approach until there was a hand plopping down on her shoulder.

“Marinette! You came!”

She squeaked and whirled around to see Adrien smiling brightly at her. He looked adorable in a Ladybug vest and mask. So, so cute! But, suddenly, as soon as their eyes met, he froze. A blush crept up his cheeks as he gaped slightly at her. Blinking, it seemed as if something had clicked in his mind. “You’re…”

“You’re not supposed to be here, Marinette Dupain-Cheng.” Chloe spat as she approached.

Snapping into her defense mode, Marinette lost focus on her crush, and instead slammed her fists to her hips. “You can’t tell me I’m not allowed to come to a public event, Chloe.”

Chloe let out a harsh laugh. “As if. This is my father’s hotel. I can do whatever I want. Now, I suggest you leave or else I’ll have the guards carry you out.”

As Marinette opened her mouth to argue, Adrien stepped in front of her and blocked her view. “Actually, Chlo, I’m the one who asked Marinette to come here tonight. She and Alya had planned on not attending, but I begged her to. If there’s anyone you should be mad at, then it’s me.”

Chloe stepped back, a bit stunned. “Why? Why would you want to hang out with someone like her?”

Adrien glanced back at her sympathetically, before taking her hand into his. Marinette felt her face flush. OhmygodohmygodOHMYGOD!!

“Because I like Marinette—a lot, and I really wanted to spend tonight with her. So, if you don’t mind. We’re going to go hang out for a bit,” Adrien bowed and gestured towards the elevator. “May we?”

Heart pound and head spinning, Marinette gave a tiny nod. She glanced back at Alya, who motioned for her to go on and shoo with a grin. Nino simply beamed as he wrapped an arm around Alya’s shoulder, looking on them with pride. The two gave each other a knowing glance as Marinette turned towards the elevator. Adrien placed a hand on her back protectively as they walked.

It was a quiet ride up the elevator as Marinette fiddled with the Chat Noir ring she had made on her hand. Her shoes must have seemed like the most interesting things in the universe since she kept staring at them. Not knowing what to say. Not knowing what to do. It made her so nervous.

When they reached the roof, they walked over towards the railing of the balcony. Both leaned forward on it, as if it were the most natural thing for both of them. Not having the courage to look at him, she gazed over the city lights as she spoke. “You didn’t have to do that you know.”

From the corner of her eye, she saw him look at her. “What do you mean?”

“Telling Chloe you liked me. Holding my hand. You didn’t have to do all of that to get her to leave me alone.”

“I didn’t say it because I didn’t mean it.”

Instantly, her head popped up to look at him. He was just smiling at her. “Do you… Do you actually like me, Adrien?” She didn’t know where all of this Ladybug confidence was coming from. Maybe it was because she felt safe whenever she was in a mask. As if it was more natural to be brave when identities were hidden. Although, Adrien did know she was Marinette this time.

Letting out a small chuckle, he looked down at the Paris streets. “I do, actually. I really do. But, I have to admit something.”

She cocked her head. “And what’s that?”

“I know you’re Ladybug.”

Marinette stopped breathing. Her eyes blew wide as her mouth fell open. “Y-You can’t tell anyone, Adrien! You can’t! At all! Ever! You could be in so much danger if you—“ He hushed her with a finger to her lips.

Adrien’s lips twitched into a small smile as he took her hand that had her fake Miraculous on it. Running a thumb across it, he gazed at her. “I shouldn’t expect anything less than perfect detail from you.” Holding up his own hand with a silver ring, he spoke gently. “Your ring almost looks like the real thing, doesn’t it?”

Taking in a breath, Marinette sucked her bottom lip between her teeth as she gazed down at the ring. Gliding her fingers across it, she instantly knew. She bit tighter, trying to prevent her lip from wobbling. Eyes watering, she simply threw herself at him, wounding her arms around his neck. “Chat!”

Nuzzling his nose into her hair, he wrapped his arms around her back, squeezing her tightly to him. “My lady, it’s you,” he whispered into her hair like a prayer. “It’s you.”

“It’s me,” she confirmed as she leaned back in his arms. Marinette couldn’t believe it. The two boys she had grown to love are one in the same. Luck had nothing to do with this. Fate was more like it.

Wiping her tears from her cheeks, he laughed. “All this time, it’s been you. How could I be so blind? All I had to do was see you in a different colored mask and it clicked.”

She let out a small snort. “I still didn’t know! But, okay, in my defense, your eyes literally change completely. Your hair too! You can’t blame me!”

Humming, he pretended to contemplate her excuse. He gave a curt shrug before leaning down to her with a smile. “I guess, I can let it slide, just this once,” he teased as he nuzzled her cheek, earning him a giggle from Marinette.

Then, they just grew quiet. Holding each other tightly, the pair just basked in the afterglow of such a revelation. Adrien kept his cheek rested on her head, while hers rested on his chest. He swayed them to the faint music from below. Marinette never wanted to leave this moment. Safe and comfortable in his arms, knowing who he was, that they were actually closer than two people could be. She hadn’t wanted to know who Chat was, but now that she did, she couldn’t be happier.

She felt his voice rumble in his chest as he spoke up. “Hey, Marinette?”

“Yes?”

“I love you. I really, truly love you.”

Marinette couldn’t help the gasp that left her lips as she turned to gaze at him. With a smile, she saw the adoration that filled his eyes to the brim. “I love you too, Adrien. I really do.”

“My lady, can I… Can I kiss you?”

Her smile turned shy as she glanced away for a moment. “Of course…” She started to pull herself up to him when he stopped her.

Rubbing a thumb across her cheek, he shook his head. “Without the masks?”

Marinette let out a laugh. “Sure thing, Kitty.” Adrien grinned in response before unhooking her waist, and pushing the black mask away from her eyes and past her bangs to rest on the top of her head. She reached up and pushed the ladybug themed mask away from his own eyes to the top of his head. “There,” she chimed.

Pulling her back towards him, he leaned in to brush his nose against hers. Slowly, he briefly pressed his lips to hers before retreating quickly. Her kitty was shy. So cute! Gripping him by the vest, she yanked him back down, smashing her lips to his clumsily. So, it was a messy kiss, but she had waited so long for this moment that they deserved every moment of it. They were pressed together, her hands cupping his cheeks as their lips danced together. Every minute of pinning, every emotion led up to this instance.

Marinette didn’t regret a single second of any of it.

[michrob87]

Lefties have it right

http://blog.timesunion.com/hoffmanfiles/lefties-have-it-right/40932/

Lefties have it right.By

Rob Hoffman

on January 8, 2018 at 5:31 AM

0Let’s face it, there’s nothing in our physiological makeup that has fascinated us, or mystified us more than the functioning of the human brain.  It is by far our most important organ, and yet, it remains the one that we know the least about.  While we continue to try to ascertain its workings, there is still so much about this magnificent biological structure we have yet to fully comprehend.  (I suppose that is why it is so hard to truly know ourselves.)  I believe we are living in a time where we hunger to understand the brain, and we can all thank the president for that.  After all, he himself has discussed the importance of the brain, and has told us on numerous occasions that he in fact has, “A really good brain.”

(“I have a very good brain.”  They say that’s exactly what Sir Issac Newton used to say after the apple fell on his head.  All smart people have really good brains, and feel the need to tell us about it all of the time…right?  In fact, remember the time Albert Einstein stated that he was a really mentally stable genius?  You Tube)

It is our brains that explain everything about us.  Many psychologists prescribe to the notion that our behaviors, likes, and habits are predetermined, and that our brains are simply hardwired to be as they are.  Sure our environment shapes us to some to degree, but let’s face it, people can tell you from now until the judgement day that you should like seafood, or appreciate art, or poetry, but if it’s not something that you would naturally gravitate towards, no amount of coaxing in the world is going to get you to a place where you are going to sit there and enjoy a “poetry slam,” when the idea of poetry literally causes you to break into hives.

I can say with great confidence that I would not have been one of these wide-eyed gadflies who sat around on college campuses listening to the “Bard of Haight-Ashbury,” Allen Ginsberg.  I suppose that my brain simply isn’t wired as such that I can enjoy an art-form such as free-verse poetry.  Of course, if Ginsberg were to show up sporting let’s say Yodels, I suppose I could be coerced to listen to a little good old-fashioned “Hippie Poetry.”  What is it about Yodels that make the prattle of poetry just go down a little bit smoother? (Getty Images)

Considering how differently we are wired, it shouldn’t be any wonder that we are a divided people here in the United States.  However, I believe the media has it wrong regarding what divides us.  There’s a lot of talk about the concept of tribalism, and how we are loyal to our own “tribe” or group.  While I don’t disagree with this description of how our society is broken down, I do believe that the way most so-called experts have attempted to explain the causes of our tribalism are way off the mark.

It is my estimable opinion that it is not race, nor religion, nor region, nor the football teams that we root for that divide us as much as it is the conflagration that is “left vs. right.”  I don’t mean the political left vs. the political right.  I mean left-handed people vs. right-handed people.  Think about it.  Sure there’s racism in the world.  African-Americans and whites don’t see the world the same way here in the United States, this much we know to be true.  However, even amongst whites or African-Americans, there is division over the concept of being right-handed vs. being left-handed.  How did we get here, and can we bridge this gap, or are right-handed people simply doomed to be inferior to left-handed people?  (Spoiler alert…I’m a lefty!)

This division over left-handedness vs. right-handedness lies squarely on the doorstep of the brain.  It is our brains that determine whether we lean towards left-handed vs. right-handed dominance.  How typical is it to be left-handed?  Not very.  Somewhere between 88-92% of the world’s population is right-handed.  How soon in our human development do we choose a dominant hand?  Apparently pretty early.  According to researchers who studied hand dominance in utero, they found that hand dominance in the womb was an accurate predictor of handedness after birth.  Heredity also plays a role as well.  Nearly 24% of handedness is inherited. As a lefty with two right-handed parents, all I can say is, I wish I knew which hand the milk-man delivered with.

Like all things of value in our society, lefty’s are rare.  We’re like leprechauns, but taller.  (Hoffman Collection)

There was a time in our society that being a lefty was considered a negative.  People would criticize your handwriting, or the way you held a fork, or cut your meat, or your ability to handle scissors, or your throwing.  Look at baseball.  Most of the positions on the field are made specifically and exclusively for right-handers.  Forget Jackie Robinson, the real hero who integrated baseball was the first player to stand to the first-base side of home-plate, or throw from the mound from the first-base side of the rubber with that slinging motion, tossing another unhittable slider.

My Aunt Sylvia, who has since passed away, was not known for her cheerful, optimistic nature.  In fact you could argue that she only had two moods; fed-up and surly.  How did she acquire a disposition that was so chock-filled with sourness?  Most likely it was because she was born a lefty, but was forced in school to write and eat with her right-hand.  This is worse than making a child renounce their religion.  Religion is a choice.  Nobody chooses to be left-handed, and yet our education system has historically denied 12-14% of our population that most basic of rights, to favor your lefts.

The “Immortal Babe.”  The “Sultan of Swat.”  The “Bambino.”  The “Hefty-Lefty.”  (I kind of embellished on that one.)  Babe Ruth was an inspiration to every chubby left-hander who has ever picked up a baseball, especially when you learn that he used to play with his glove on backwards since they didn’t even have a left-handed mitt at the orphanage where he learned the game.  (Getty Images)

The sad truth is, left-handed people have been discriminated against by an uptight, and right-leaning society that has sought to crush those free-spirited “port-siders” who just want to be free….man.  Historically, left-handed people were routinely accused of consorting with the devil, and during the 15th and 16th centuries, any woman who was left-handed could be branded a witch.  (If you listen to The Eagles’ classic “Witchy Woman,” backwards, you can clearly hear Don Henley say, “Bitch is lefty.”)  Even during the supposedly more enlightened 19th century, left-handedness was sometimes brutally suppressed.  In school, students who preferred using their left-hand to write with would often find their left hand tied to the back of their chair.

Even in modern times, the lefty is forced to exist in a world where the scissors, most sports, the left-to-right style of how we write, and many attempts at manual labor are all catered towards the prissy and spoiled right-handed majority.  This group of left-brained, right-siders, are an oppressive bunch that are so insecure about their dull sameness, they use the word for “correct” to describe their handedness.  What’s so “right” about being right?  Why are we lefties left behind?  Why are we so put upon?  I’ll tell you why.  Left-handed people are rebels.  We are non-conformists.  We don’t go with the flow.  We are the fly in the ointment.  The proverbial turd in the punchbowl.  We are the antagonists, and we won’t be denied, as long as you have those special left-handed scissors that make it so much easier for us to cut stuff up.

A rallying cry for those who refuse to conform.  This is the true “rebel yell!”  (The Hoffman Collection)

Even in politics, being on the left is seen as a negative.  Right-wing politics is ascendant.  The “Alt-right” is the hottest political movement in America as we speak.  In Europe in the early part of the 20th century, people willingly supported the Fascists in Italy, and the Nazis in Germany rather than support the left-wing policies of the Socialists or Communists.  (Granted, the Communists were and are pretty horrible, but the Nazis if possible were worse.)  If you wanted to destroy a politician’s career in America between 1920, and, well today, all you have to do is refer to them as a “lefty.”  The only way it would seem to survive as a left-wing politician in the United States, is to be at least 74 years old, look disheveled, and yell a lot about the rich in a very thick Brooklyn accent, even if you’ve lived in Vermont for over 40 years.  (By the way my little left-wing millennials, it didn’t work for Bernie either, he lost, remember?)

In fact, anything that smacks of the “left,” is seen by the teeming masses as negative and undesirable.  Consider the following:

A bad idea is “out of left-field.”

A guy who sucks in baseball is told to play “left-out.”

When somebody is trying to insult you, but make it sound like they are saying something nice it’s called a “left-handed compliment.”

Food that’s not finished at dinner time, and is reheated the next day in a dried-out, crusty, and luke-warm version of its former self, is known non-affectionately as a “leftover.”

When Jesus comes back, and takes all of the good-hearted people who are the true believers, while the sinners who didn’t make the cut  must fend for themselves amidst the devil’s minions, it’s known as being “left-behind.”

Why couldn’t I have listened to my mother and teachers who begged me to be right-handed.  If only I hadn’t been such a rebel, I could be chilling with Kirk Cameron in whatever vanilla flavored version of heaven he’s squatting in.  (You Tube)

Outside of being a non-conformist, are there any advantages in going through life as “southpaw?”  Well….

You usually only have to hit against righties in baseball, which is good for a lefty since getting to face a righty is easier.

Nobody really ever borrows your baseball glove since there are very few lefties.

Your serve in racquetball, tennis, and perhaps squash, (I really don’t know anything about squash other than it tends to get played by swells named “Mitt,” or “Buzz,” or “Chip,” or “Clark,” or some “tool-like” moniker given to an individual I wouldn’t be caught dead “chilling” with.) is really hard to return.  I’ve won racquetball games without ever having to hit the ball a second time after I’ve served due to the fact that some people find it very frustrating to return a left-hander’s serve.

Lefties always get the end of the table since nobody wishes to buy an elbow from me or any other lefty while we’re eating with our unconventional left-hand.

Left-handed people tend to return quicker from strokes.  (Either that or nobody can tell the difference.)

Supposedly, left-handed college graduates tend to earn 26% more money than right-handed graduates.  (This stat may be a little bit skewed since both Bill Gates and Steve Jobs are and were both left-handed.  They more than make up for my teacher’s salary.)

They have a better chance of passing their drivers test.  Lefties pass 57% of the time, while righties only pass 47% of the time.  One therefore could make the assumption that we left-handers must be better drivers.  (Fun fact, I failed my road-test on the first try.  Sorry, other lefties.)

They are faster typists.  That’s why I’m able to write these blogs so quickly.  Look, I’m finished…not.

They spend less time standing in line.  Geez, it sure as hell doesn’t feel like it.

They are better at multi-tasking. (Or as my brother calls multi-tasking, doing a lot of things at once poorly.)

(Source: Left-handed people are great, righties suck.com)

Because we lefties have been so badly discriminated against over the centuries, we have needed to invest our time in developing cute little sayings, and putting them on coffee mugs.  The best part, while we’re drinking our coffee, those insufferable right-handers have to read what’s on our mugs every time we take a sip.  They can literally suck-it.  (The Hoffman Collection)

Probably the greatest attribute that lefties have going for them is their creativity.  How can I prove this?  Take a look at this list of famous lefties and you tell me if we’re not G_d’s most gifted children.

Barack Obama – No surprise here.  Is there anything this Kenyan, Muslim, Socialist isn’t to the left of?

Bill Gates – Let’s see, richest man in the world is a lefty.  Check!

Oprah Winfrey – “You get a left-handed glove, and you get a left-handed glove, and you get a left-handed glove,” is what I imagine her saying when I daydream about Oprah being a lefty.

Babe Ruth – A great pitcher and perhaps the greatest hitter in baseball history, and of course he’s a lefty.  You know, this is just getting boring pointing out our superiority.

Napoleon Bonaparte – Which hand was it that he stuck in his shirt for all of those portraits?

Leonardo DaVinci – Does that mean that the Ninja Turtles are left-handed as well?

Marie Curie – Lefties “radiate” greatness.

Aristotle – I think, therefore I believe I’ll be a left-hander, or something like that.

Jimi Hendrix – I hear the guy could play a little guitar.  By the way, I believe he shot heroin right-handed, of course.

Edward R. Murrow – Only the best journalist in history. I believe he could smoke with either hand however.

I would also mention famous lawyer Clarence Darrow, H.G. Wells, James Baldwin, Michelangelo, Charlie Chaplain, Robert De Niro, Bill Bradley, and Ned Flanders.  Guess who’s right-handed? Well, if you had guessed Tom Brady, Adolf Hitler, Bill Belichick, Joseph Stalin,and Judas, then you’d be correct…or should I say “right?”  Do you really need any more proof?

I’m sorry, could somebody remind me how many right-handed artists painted the most famous portrait in world history?  Oh that’s right, the man was a lefty.  Thank you Leonardo.   You are the Jimi Hendrix of the Renaissance.  (Getty Images)

I believe I have accurately explained the greatness of being left-handed.  However, what are we to make of those who are ambidextrous, the bi-sexuals of the hand-dominance world.  Are they more flexible?  Are they more open-minded?  Do they have some sort of genetic advantage?  Personally, I believe that they are descended from a tribe of magic pixies.  I’m not sure I trust these people.  Pick a handedness, and stick with it.  We don’t need you genetic supermen making the rest of us look bad.