#best cigarette manufacturer

[tobaccomarket]

Premier Tobacco and Cigarettes Manufacturing in India

Godfrey Phillips India Limited is one of the largest supplier & exporters of variety of tobacco & cigarette in India. For Premier tobacco manufacturing contract please visit GPI website now.

[nanoclean]

Revolutionary Cigarette Filters are one of the best ways to quit smoking and have fun while doing so. What you need to do is place these best cigarette filters in your cigarette and smoke them like you usually would anyway. After all that, you will feel light and healthier than you used to be without the tobacco content.

[nirdoshherbalcigarette]

Nirdosh Herbal Cigarette is a leading manufacturer and exporter of herbal cigarettes in India. Our products are made from natural ingredients and offer a tobacco-free alternative to traditional cigarettes. Visit our website to learn more about our range of herbal cigarettes and place an order.

[mostlysignssomeportents]

American education has all the downsides of standardization, none of the upsides

Catch me in Miami! I'll be at Books and Books in Coral Gables on Jan 22 at 8PM.

We moved to America in 2015, in time for my kid to start third grade. Now she's a year away from graduating high school (!) and I've had a front-row seat for the US K-12 system in a district rated as one of the best in the country. There were ups and downs, but high school has been a monster.

We're a decade and a half into the "common core" experiment in educational standardization. The majority of the country has now signed up to a standardized and rigid curriculum that treats overworked teachers as untrustworthy slackers who need to be disciplined by measuring their output through standard lessons and evaluations:

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Common_Core

This system is rigid enough, but it gets even worse at the secondary level, especially when combined with the Advanced Placement (AP) courses, which adds another layer of inflexible benchmarks to the highest-stakes, most anxiety-provoking classes in the system:

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Advanced_Placement

It is a system singularly lacking in grace. Ironically, this unforgiving system was sold as a way of correcting the injustice at the heart of the US public education system, which funds schools based on local taxation. That means that rich neighborhoods have better funded schools. Rather than equalizing public educational funding, the standardizers promised to ensure the quality of instruction at the worst-funded schools by measuring the educational outcomes with standard tools.

But the joke's on the middle-class families who backed standardized instruction over standardized funding. Their own kids need slack as much as anyone's, and a system that promises to put the nation's kids through the same benchmarks on the same timetable is bad for everyone:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/11/28/give-me-slack-2/

Undoing this is above my pay-grade. I've already got more causes to crusade on than I have time for. But there is a piece of tantalyzingly low-hanging fruit that is dangling right there, and even though I'm not gonna pick it, I can't get it out of my head, so I figured I'd write about it and hope I can lazyweb it into existence.

The thing is, there's a reason that standardization takes hold in so many domains. Agreeing on a common standard enables collaboration by many entities without any need for explicit agreements or coordination. The existence of the ANSI/SAE J563 standard automobile auxiliary power outlet (AKA "car cigarette lighter") didn't just allow many manufacturers to make replacement lighter plugs. The existence of a standardized receptacle delivering standardized voltage to standardized contacts let all kinds of gadgets be designed to fit in that socket.

Standards crystallize the space of all possible ways of solving a problem into a range of solutions. This inevitably has a downside, because the standardized range might not be optimal for all applications. Think of the EU's requirement for USB-C charger tips on all devices. There's a lot of reasons that manufacturers prefer different charger tips for different gadgets. Some of those reasons are bad (gouging you on replacement chargers), but some are good (unique form-factor, specific smart-charging needs). USB-C is a very flexible standard (indeed, it's so flexible that some people complain that it's not a standard at all!) but there are some applications where the optimal solution is outside its parameters.

And still, I think that the standardization on USB-C is a force for good. I have drawers full of gadgets that need proprietary charger tips, and other drawers full of chargers with proprietary tips, and damned if I can make half of them match up. We've continued our pandemic lockdown tradition of my wife cutting my hair in the back yard, and just tracking the three different charger tips for the three clippers she uses is an ongoing source of frustration. I'd happily trade slightly sub-optimal charging for just being able to plug any of those clippers into the same cable I charge my headphones, phone, tablet and laptop on.

The standardization of American education has produced all the downsides of standardization – a rigid, often suboptimal, one-size-fits-all system – without the benefits. With teachers across America teaching in lockstep, often from the same set texts (especially in the AP courses), there's a massive opportunity for a commons to go with the common core.

For example, the AP English and History classes my kid takes use standard texts that are often centuries old and hard to puzzle out. I watched my kid struggle with texts for learning about "persuasive rhetoric" like 17th century pamphlets that inspired anti-indigenous pogroms with fictional accounts of "Indian atrocities."

It's good for American schoolkids to learn about the use of these blood libels to excuse genocide, but these pamphlets are a slog. Even with glossaries in the textbooks, it's a slow, word-by-word matter to parse these out. I can't imagine anyone learning a single thing about how speech persuades people just by reading that text.

But there's nothing in the standardized curriculum that prevents teachers from adding more texts to the unit. We live in an unfortunate golden age for persuasive texts that inspire terrible deeds – for example, kids could also read core Pizzagate texts and connect the guy who shot up the pizza parlor to the racists who formed a 17th century lynchmob.

But teachers are incredibly time-constrained. For one thing, at least a third of the AP classroom time seems to be taken up with detailed instructions for writing stilted, stylized "essays" for the AP tests (these are terrible writing, but they're easy to grade in a standardized way).

That's where standardization could actually deliver some benefits. If just one teacher could produce some supplemental materials and accompanying curriculum, the existence of standards means that every other teacher could use it. What's more, any adaptations that teachers make to that unit to make them suited to their kids would also work for the other teachers in the USA. And because the instruction is so rigidly standardized, all of these materials could be keyed to metadata that precisely identified the units they belonged to.

The closest thing we have to this are "marketplaces" where teachers can sell each other their supplementary materials. As far as I can tell, the only people making real money from these marketplaces are the grifters who built them and convinced teachers to paywall the instructional materials that could otherwise form a commons.

Like I said, I've got a completely overfull plate, but if I found myself at loose ends, trying to find a project to devote the rest of my life to, I'd be pitching funders on building a national, open access portal to build an educational commons.

It may be a lot to expect teachers to master the intricacies of peer-based co-production tools like Git, but there's already a system like this that K-8 teachers across the country have mastered: Scratch. Scratch is a graphic programming environment for kids, and starting with 2019's Scratch 3.0, the primary way to access it is via an in-browser version that's hosted at scratch.mit.edu.

Scratch's online version is basically a kid- (and teacher-)friendly version of Github. Find a project you like, make a copy in your own workspace, and then mod it to suit your own needs. The system keeps track of the lineage of different projects and makes it easy for Scratch users to find, adapt, and share their own projects. The wild popularity of this system tells us that this model for a managed digital commons for an educational audience is eminently achievable.

So when students are being asked to study the rhythm of text by counting the numbers of words in the sentences of important speeches, they could supplement that very boring exercise by listening to and analyzing contemporary election speeches, or rap lyrics, or viral influencer videos. Different teachers could fork these units to swap in locally appropriate comparitors – and so could students!

Students could be given extra credit for identifying additional materials that slot into existing curricular projects – Tiktok videos, new chart-topping songs, passages from hot YA novels. These, too, could go into the commons.

This would enlist students in developing and thinking critically about their curriculum, whereas today, these activities are often off-limits to students. For example, my kid's math teachers don't hand back their quizzes after they're graded. The teachers only have one set of quizzes per unit, and letting the kids hold onto them would leak an answer-key for the next batch of test-takers.

I can't imagine learning math this way. "You got three questions wrong but I won't let you see them" is no way to help a student focus on the right areas to improve their understanding.

But there's no reason that math teachers in a commons built around the (unfortunately) rigid procession of concepts and testing couldn't generate procedural quizzes, specified with a simple programming language. These tests could even be automatically graded, and produce classroom stats on which concepts the whole class is struggling with. Each quiz would be different, but cover the same ground.

When I help my kid with her homework, we often find disorganized and scattered elements of this system – a teacher might post extensive notes on teaching a specific unit. A publisher might produce a classroom guide that connects a book to specific parts of the common core. But these are scattered across the web, and they aren't keyed to the specific, standard components of common core and AP.

This is a standardized system that is all costs, no benefits. It has no "architecture of participation" that lets teachers, students, parents, practitioners and even commercial publishers collaborate to produce a commons that all may share and improve upon.

In an ideal world, we'd get rid of standardization in education, pay teachers well, give them the additional time they needed to prepare exciting and relevant curriculum, and fund all our schools based on need, not parents' income.

But in the meanwhile, we could be making lemonade of out lemons. If we're going to have standardization, we should at least have the collaboration standards enable.

I'm Kickstarting the audiobook for The Bezzle, the sequel to Red Team Blues, narrated by @wilwheaton! You can pre-order the audiobook and ebook, DRM free, as well as the hardcover, signed or unsigned. There's also bundles with Red Team Blues in ebook, audio or paperback.

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/01/16/flexibility-in-the-margins/#a-commons

[anonymouspuzzler]

blacked out and finally made my first decent environment design in like. probably literally years. please enjoy Buck and Davey's shitass room

misc design notes slash thoughts if they're of any interest:

All the furniture's a combination of stuff Buck already had when Davey moved in, and stuff Davey brought over from his place when they decided to partner up. All of that in turn is either gotten cheap from thrift shops, rescued from the dump, or for a few of the smaller/nicer items Stolen Outright. As is probably obvious, they also repair and re-repair this stuff as much as possible rather than fuss over replacements.

The vast majority of the cosmetics are Davey's. Buck just kinda combs his hair and hopes for the best.

The rug is crooked because it's been there since before Davey moved in - Buck sleeps on the right side of the bed, so it made sense to have more rug (and more space in the room in general) on that side. Davey didn't care enough to insist on rearranging much when he moved in.

Prior to Buck and Davey taking it over as their hideout, the building used to be an illegal chop shop hidden under a manufacturing plant; their "apartment" is in turn a former break/storage area downstairs from the chop shop. The "bedroom" used to be a storage room, hence the exposed pipes, shitty concrete walls & floor, and marks from where big industrial shelves used to be fastened to the walls.

Because it's an old storage room, it tends to get the worst of extreme temperature changes (hot in the summer, cold in the winter). Also, undecided if they have an actual door or if they've just put a curtain up in the doorway. (Either way, it's also not particularly private or soundproofed - not a huge deal when it was just the two of them, but a bit of an annoyance once Minnie starts living with them.)

The drying rack used to be more out of the way in the living room, but they moved it when Minnie started sleeping there so they wouldn't have to bug as much when they do laundry.

Davey "no no I quit years ago seriously (actually sneaks a smoke or two whenever he gets super stressed)" Lastname definitely has a pack or two of cigarettes hidden in his stuff and thinks he's slick about it. (Buck 100% knows and figures so long as he doesn't smoke in the house and he's mostly trying to quit, it's not worth raising a big fuss about.)

Technically the tools and stuff aren't supposed to be in there, but Buck's always forgetting stuff places when he does repairs or tinkers with shit.

[afeelgoodblog]

🦜 - Why did the parrot learn to video call? Because he wanted to see his tweetheart!

The Best News of Last Week - May 2, 2023

1. Engineers develop water filtration system that permanently removes 'forever chemicals'

Engineers at the University of British Columbia have developed a filtration system that would permanently remove "forever chemicals" from drinking water. This news comes after a recent study revealed nearly 200 million Americans have been exposed to PFAS in their tap water. Dr. Madjid Mohseni, a professor at British Columbia, shares his research.

2. Berkeley diner provides free meals to anyone who's hungry, no questions asked

The Homemade Cafe in Berkeley, California, is giving away free breakfasts to anyone who is hungry, no questions asked. Owner Collin Doran's Everybody Eats Program started when he saw people panhandling outside his diner. Customers can add $5 to their bill to help the program or grab a coupon for a free meal. Doran's act of kindness has resulted in a 15% increase in business, and he hopes that more businesses will follow his lead in making the world a better place.

3. Pope Francis gives women right to vote in bishops’ meeting for first time

Pope Francis has decided to give women the right to vote at an upcoming meeting of bishops, an unprecedented change that reflects his hopes to give women greater decision-making responsibilities.

Francis approved changes to the norms governing the Synod of Bishops, a Vatican body that gathers the world’s bishops together for periodic meetings, following decades of demands by women to have the right to vote.

4. US adult cigarette smoking rate hits new all-time low

U.S. cigarette smoking dropped to another all-time low last year, with 1 in 9 adults saying they were current smokers, according to government survey data released Thursday. Cigarette smoking is a risk factor for lung cancer, heart disease and stroke, and it’s long been considered the leading cause of preventable death. In the mid-1960s, 42% of U.S. adults were smokers. The rate has been gradually dropping for decades, due to cigarette taxes, tobacco product price hikes, smoking bans and changes in the social acceptability of lighting up in public.

Last year, the percentage of adult smokers dropped to about 11%, down from about 12.5% in 2020 and 2021.

5. Scientists taught pet parrots to video call each other - and the birds loved it

When humans are feeling lonely, we can call or video chat with friends and family who live far away. The idea for this study was not random: In the wild, parrots tend to live in large flocks. But when kept in captivity, such as in people’s homes as pets, these social birds are often on their own. Feeling bored and isolated, they may develop psychological issues and can even resort to self-harming tendencies like plucking out their feathers. New research suggests that these chatty creatures may also benefit from virtually connecting with their peers.

Domesticated parrots that learned to initiate video chats with other pet parrots had a variety of positive experiences, such as learning new skills. The parrots that learned to initiate video chats with other pet parrots had a variety of positive experiences, such as learning new skills including flying, foraging and how to make new sounds. Some parrots showed their toys to each other.

I wanted to see this experiment so bad, so here’s a video from the paywalled study. I uploaded it on my youtube channel.

6. World’s First Carbon Import Tax Approved by EU Lawmakers

The European Union’s parliament approved legislation to tax imports based on the greenhouse gases emitted to make them, clearing the final hurdle before the plan becomes law and enshrines climate regulation in the rules of global trade for the first time.

Tuesday’s vote caps nearly two years of negotiations on the import tax, which aims to push economies around the world to put a price on carbon-dioxide emissions while shielding the EU’s manufacturers from countries that aren’t regulating emissions as strictly, or at all. The tax gives credit to countries that put a price on carbon, allowing importers of goods from those countries to deduct payments made for overseas emissions from the amount owed at the EU’s borders.

7. Genetic Driver of Anxiety Discovered

An international team of scientists has identified a gene in the brain responsible for anxiety symptoms and found that modifying the gene can reduce anxiety levels, offering a novel drug target for anxiety disorders. The discovery highlights a new pathway that regulates the brain’s response to stress and provides a potential therapeutic approach for anxiety disorders.

Critically, modification of the gene is shown to reduce anxiety levels, offering an exciting novel drug target for anxiety disorders.

That's a driver I'd like to uninstall.

----

That's it for this week :)

This newsletter will always be free. If you liked this post you can support me with a small kofi donation:

Buy me a coffee ❤️

Also don’t forget to reblog

[kaiasky]

ok so here is my best understanding of weed from someone who has never smoked it, except for that one time i smoked it.

weed is apparently a flower not a leaf. the other bits have thc but people are wusses and don't smonk them. EXTREMELY silly since the cannabis leaf shape is so iconic. (the only parallel that even comes close is that the aminita muscaria is the icon of psychedelics despite not being a psyllocybin mushroom.)

i think like only one sex of plant has flowers that are worth smonking and it's a big thing to ensure all your seeds are female.

for some reason chewing it raw doesn't get you high you need to heat it up? (which i learned because i was worried that if i could smell unburnt weed in storage i was getting a contact high)

in general i feel that weed fans are maybe a bit of pussies like idk, simply smoke 3x the weed if it has 3x lower concentration, idgi? skissue.

People have strong opinions on how to get their weed but it seems like generally: in illegal places you talk to the most annoying person you know, and in legal places you go into an app store and place an order on an iPad and if you go to the front desk they say they can't help you, place an order on the ipad. or you order it online with various promises about how fast it'll get there and how little you need to interact with another human being.

there is an item known as a grinder which seems terribly designed and intended to spill as much cannabis on the ground as possible. why does this item look like a petri dish and not have an inbuilt funnel or something? i do not know.

the grinders job is to turn weed, which started life as loose ground up buds and was compacted into brussel sprouts of slightly more compressed ground up buds, into loose ground up buds, so it can be recompacted into slightly more compressed ground up buds in a weed cigarette bunt

the airflow of a joint is a mystery to me because my mental model of it is just you take the rolling paper and roll it up, lick it to seal it shut, and then twist the ends shut like a tootsie roll. which would block you from being able to suck the air in, no? my best guess is it's not entirely airtight and you just draw breath through the paper.

similarly, once you light it i don't understand what prevents the weed from spilling out the open end. if you blew on a joint would it spray everyone with smouldering weed?

i think most joints are unfiltered because idk. in general ig my perception is that cigarette users prize the aesthetics of a manufactured and standardized product while weed users prize the aesthetics of handrolling as a craft.

theres some substance called resin that makes it more thc-y. presumably it's just you blend up the rest of the plant and distill it?

blunts are either cigars with weed in them (do they still have a tobacco leaf as the wrap??) or just a big joint I'm not sure.

you can also, if you're normal, use a pipe or a bubbler or bong. this is very sensible and i understand how these work.

i don't understand why the weed pipe is that particular form and not like a tobacco pipe. or like why are the tobacco pipe, crack pipe, and weed pipe all different??

If you're a wuss, you can eat a gummy, either the thc kind that does something or the cbd kind that does nothing. you eat this and "nothing happens" and you have 4 more and then you explode, and apparently this happens to everybody. skissue.

the primary effect of weed is that you feel uncomfortable and want to eat food except ur mouth feels bad when it eats food. secondarily time goes slower (which, by the time-flies principle, implies you're not having fun?)

theres sativa which is if you want to have a fun joyous intriguing time, and indica which is boring. People make a lot of this difference and it's always like "there's two types of cowstuff, prime rib and literal cowpies"

if you smoke weed you get a tolerance and if you stop smoking you get less tolerance. so theres a ritual of taking a break to reset the tolerance. i find this oddly charming.

[darling-answers]

It’s for your fluff month

But maybe a nervous partner on their first mission with Cassidy? :))

Day 2

First Mission

“ Cole Cassidy and — you both will be taking over the mission of stacking out a Talon Shipping facility. We have gotten some news that there would be major product there for Talon use. From our insource tonight the products if talon gets there hand on it there new weapons there manufacturing will become even more powerful. We need to stop them from getting it and stop the production of more dangerous weapons.”

Sojourn explains what the mission was, all Overwatch agents stood around a table that showed a big explained digital picture of the manufactured weapon and the parts the product needs to be fully complete, another side of the map showed the full shipping container layout. Details on how to get inside had been littered all over the screen as sojourn made sure to point at the valid checkpoints.

Standing there was awakes everyone looked so excited for the mission so happy to be there and worked for there dream job of being in Overwatch. There situation and your situation was on polar opposite while most joined to help the community and also to prove Overwatch could still be in it glory days helping people as much as possible the circumstances was different.

Living in a small town the Omnic crisis hit hard for you and your family. Food market prices went up with the house, bills were higher than ever and barely living could be expected. It was to much for your family so for the sake of your family you had joined Overwatch a small international group to help defeat the bull sectors but also the on growing assault of talon. Because just living isn’t enough to survive you had to you myst fight for your family.

When sojourn looked at you for confirmation on wanting to do the mission it was not just an ask it was more of a request from her, do the mission to help out more people. Sojourn had put you with one of her most trusted and best agents. With the connection of her friendship with The old Gabriel Reyes she had buried a lot on the cowboy and his ideals. When she saw you nodded your head she gave a relief sigh satisfied that you had agreed to do the mission.

After each mission from small missions to big missions each and everyone had there own part that they had expected to get completed wanting a successful but also understanding if the mission didn’t come out well was assign you were left in the mission brief room, staring at what you were asked to do. Your brain nagged on you.

‘why did you even accept this mission, what were you even doing in Overwatch, there were many things that could go wrong many people who could be such more better.’

You let out a small huff rolling your eyes as someone who hadn’t walked out and watched you silently gave a slight cough. He had a cigarette in the left side of his mouth taking a few deep breath before blowing out the smoke from his lip. He gently push the bud into an ash tray as he slowly walked over to you. Bowing his hat he gave you a cowboy curtsy.

“ You must be the new Agent, My name is Cole, you can just call me Cassidy whatever fits your role.”

How could you not know the infamous cowboy not only was he a severe problem and vigilante back when he formed a deadlock gang with one of the most wanted criminal in the west. But he was also in Blackwatch a side group of Overwatch that worked in secret that Did stuff that Overwatch couldn’t do publicly. It played by it own rules. He seemed to have a genuine kindness unlike how he was portrayed among Media and his dark persona. 

He grins as he saw you reach your hand out for a shake. Grabbing your hand in a firm grip he shook it, he felt the small trembles in your arm as his head tilt as he looks at the mission brief.

“ don’t worry, these missions are more simple even if they seem more severe, it important but easy so don’t worry.”

He gave another small cheeky smiled as his eyebrow raised a little. He had notice the anxious expression you had even if you tried to hide it, your body language proved his point in every other way, his hat came over his forehead as he followed your body language. Placing a hand on the hilt of his belt he tried to sooth the worries.

“ if your that worry about it sugar, stay by my side and i will make sure not a finger is touch on you’re head take your time. I have heard from Vivian your skills are almost unmatched so let me see those to use when your on the battlefield. While I protect you from any actual harm”

He gave a firm pat on your shoulders warm hands instantly engulfing your shoulder as he soothed all your worries. His smile was that of a morning sunshine. A promise was one he knew he couldn’t break not after the anxious smile you had shown. He intended to keep that small promise he had made to you.

“ Thanks.. I appreciate your comfort and I will try to do my best.”

He nodded at the more postive aspects of your words. What was there to worry about when you had such a good looking cowboy in your team and one that was so kind to remind you why you were decided to join Overwatch and how you contribute to the team. Your skill was something to look forward to, he was excited to see your skills on the battlefield.

How could anything go wrong?

As you were sent off to bed to get a goodnight rest for the mission tomorrow thoughts scrambled in your brain, of not only failing among the mission but not being good enough or making high expectations for Overwatch. Your heart tighten and the hours rolled by either faster or slower, it was all such a blur.

Stumbling among the aircraft. The aircraft was one used by many agents but this time as most agents were going on this mission it left you and Cassidy in your assigned spots. Pictures on eachother seats of either family and friends you made along the way. setting your stuff down on the seat next to you, it almost seemed to be you caught up in a daze on why you even accepted this mission again. You didn’t know what to say or do or how to act. How could you truly get through nightmare that you put yourself in.

But when the cowboy who sits across from you flashes you an infamous grin and gives you a look of such confidence of your ability.

A relax expression came upon your face. Your brain instantly flooded with words of affirmation.

‘You got this, you have worked to hard to quit now, there nothing to stop you so push yourself forward.’

[cherrycolored-punk]

for softember could you do argyle with the prompt “You look really good in my clothes.” and have it be smut? thank u!!

fight the feeling - argyle x fem!reader

author’s note: thank you for requesting this, it was so much fun writing for Argyle for the first time and to get my first ever request 😭 I hope this is what you were looking for and that you love it as much as I loved writing it xx

also big thanks to @trashmouth-richie and @rebelfell for helping me brainstorm this lil�� blurb 🥹🧡 I would still be staring at a blank doc if it weren’t for their big brains

w/c: 4.5k

warnings: smut (protected p in v), oral (Argyle receiving), fingering. Please let me know if I forgot anything 🍂

‼️ THIS IS AN 18+ BLOG, MINORS DNI ‼️

In the midst of fall, you wouldn’t be able to tell the season has changed in Lenora Hills. Palm trees stand tall amongst the evergreens and push into the cloudless night sky. The only indication that autumn has arrived is the chill in the breeze, the weather dipping to cooler temperatures each night. 

Tonight is the coldest so far. 

The breeze chases your fleeing frames as you and Argyle race up the stairs to his apartment. His butterscotch skin bitten red along the expanse of his exposed arms, turning a bright cherry as he rubs his wide palms over them. Impatiently waiting for you to open the door with the keys he’d given you at the start of the night, the dress he wore didn’t have pockets.

“Hurry up,” he grumbles, nudging you gently.

You look at him over your lashes, the breeze blowing the long black wig squeezing your skull into your face.

“No one told you to wear that dress,” you tease, giving him a once-over. 

He’s outfitted in a baby blue, daisy-printed dress with white reeboks. His long, dark brown hair is braided in two pigtails on either side. His impression of you this Halloween…or so he said. You don’t dare argue how accurate you think it is.

“I just chose something I thought you’d wear,” he quips.

“That’s a summer dress,” you tease and open the door. 

“Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize dresses had seasons,” he scoffs as he follows you and closes the door behind him. 

His apartment smells distinctly of him. The scent his clothes always have when he pulls you in for a hug. Bergamot, with a hint of jasmine and sandalwood. In the warm, manufactured air, the soft scent of the pumpkin and vanilla candle you’d gifted him mingles. It makes the place feel cozier, like a warm blanket being wrapped around your shoulders.

“Pretty sure it’s common sense that spaghetti straps are for the summer,” you continue, making yourself at home as you rifle through his cabinets in an attempt to find something to satiate your hunger.

He falls silent, his eyes tracing over your face and down the clothes you wear. 

It’s an outfit you thrifted to match his aesthetic, his clothes. A pair of light wash jeans, a wildly patterned top over a plain white shirt, and Adidas to match. You went over the top with the wig and snatched his favorite hat to top it off.

It’s like looking in a mirror. Trippy and throws him a little off balance. 

He can’t help the butterflies that take flight in his abdomen.

There’s something about seeing you in such similar garb that makes his mind wander, imagining what you’d look like in other things he owned. A white t-shirt, no bra or a pair of his boxers, no top. His thoughts quickly spiraling to how your skin would feel beneath his fingertips. Soft as he traced lines up your legs and beneath the fabric of the boxers he’d lend you. Skin smelling sweet like cinnamon. 

“Earth to Argy,” you wave a hand in the air, and only then does he realize he’s been staring.

“Yeah,” he clears his throat and averts his gaze, but you don’t miss how his cheeks blossom red.

“I said that I think we should order pizza, and I know someone who can still get us a pretty sweet discount at the best place in town,” your words are laced with a plea, and he shakes his head. 

“Y-yeah, I can call them,” he nods.

“Don’t forget,” you stop in front of him, resting your hands on his shoulders as though your next words hold the weight of the world, “pepperoni, pineapple, and jalapeños.”

He nods, a grin slotting into place as he looks at you. The only reason you even like that combination is because he introduced it to you. 

“How could I forget? That’s my order, dude,” he teases, reaching for the landline on the counter behind you. 

His body presses into yours briefly, the heat radiating from him and zipping to your core. You can’t help but stare at the length of his neck, hooded eyes watching how his Adam’s apple bobs when he swallows and imagining the sounds he’d make if you planted your lips on the sensitive spot near his ear.

“Did you want anything else?” He questions, already dialing the number. Oblivious to the longing shining in your eyes or how you swallow harshly as you straighten your shirt. 

“Uh, no. Get whatever,” you shrug and point a thumb over your shoulder. “I’m just going to take a shower.” 

A cold shower. 

You press an absent hand on his forearm as you scoot past him.

“Coolio,” he nods, ”Just don’t use all of my soap like before,” he tries to joke, but his voice is strained, affected by the slight touch, and god, how can you not know what you do to him?

You stick your tongue out at him as you walk backward and to his bathroom. 

A total brat, he thinks, but even that is shrouded in some rose-colored haze. Affection clouding his thoughts.

He waves you off with an absent hand, purposefully averting his attention so he isn’t caught staring again.

You manage to appear casual, like you’re not still thinking about his body pressed against yours, until the bathroom door is closed and your back is pushed against it. You turn your head, a caricature of Argyle stares back at you in the mirror, questioning what the fuck you’re doing. 

He’s your best friend. 

Panic sets in, and you slam your eyes shut, chin tilting to the ceiling.

Over the years, you’d managed to push down any thoughts of your crush, but the feelings you’d long ignored were now rearing their ugly head. 

Vivid images of tangling your fingers in his hair, the plush of his lips pressed to yours, or how his hands would feel venturing over the curves of your body, gripping and kneading.

White hot need zips through you, and you let out a frustrated sigh. He’s just a friend, your best friend, and best friends don’t think about kissing or groping or how they’d feel inside you. 

You push off the door as the thoughts begin to spiral and reach a hand into the shower, ensuring the water is ice cold.

Quickly, you strip down and step into the frigid water—all thoughts of Argyle circling the drain along with the globs of soap you use. 

——

Twenty minutes later, you emerge from the shower, body still buzzing with need but not as loud as before. 

Argyle sits on the couch, hair hanging in waves from his undone braids, and his dress is exchanged for his usual garb: a pair of checkered parachute pants and an oversized Jimi Hendrix t-shirt.

Two boxes of pizza sit unopened on the coffee table, their aroma filling the living room. Basil, garlic, and the subtle sweetness of the pineapple.

“It’s already here?” You question, stomach grumbling and laser-focused on getting a slice.

He glances up, tracing his eyes over your now-exposed legs. Unable to fight the way his jaw goes slack when he sees you wearing a pair of boxers and the white shirt from before.

When he doesn’t respond, you look up at him with a face twisted in confusion. 

“What? It’s all I had,” you shrug, suddenly self-conscious, and play with the hem of the boxers you’d bought for the costume.

He’s still quiet, gawking as you settle beside him on the lumpy green couch he’d gotten from Salvation Army. 

“Stop staring. I know I look dumb,” you grumble, and it’s as if he’s just realized you’ve been speaking. 

“Not at all,” he shakes his head and turns to face you, “I think you look really good in my clothes,” he teases.

Though the words might be a joke, your heart still slams against your ribcage, and all you can do is roll your eyes to hide the effect they have on you.

“They’re not even your clothes,” you say weakly.

“Doesn’t matter, you look good,” he responds without missing a beat, the words fumbling from his mouth before he can think better of it. His hands itch to reach out and touch you, still wondering if you’re just as soft as he’s always imagined.

A moment passes, a charged silence filling the room as you try to process what he said because there’s no way he meant it the way you want him to.

“Shut up,” you nudge his head.

As you pull away, his hand reaches out. Gentle fingers circling your wrist.

Heat rises to your cheeks as you look back at him, slightly flustered. 

“What are you doing?” You all but whisper, and it feels like you’re running a fever under his gaze. His molten honey eyes filled with sweetness and an emotion you’d never seen. At least not directed at you. 

“I just,” he starts, but he’s distracted, unable to finish a sentence. His gaze flicks to your lips, and he licks his own

His eyes drift back to meet yours, measuring your response and making sure you want this, too. 

Even though you shouldn’t. 

God, you know you shouldn’t.

He’s your friend, he’s your friend, he’s your friend.

The two of you lean in, resembling two magnets unable to resist the pull. The rest of the world begins to fade, all coherent thought silenced by the overwhelming need to kiss him, and you can tell he feels it, too.

He reaches a hand forward and cups your jaw, a thumb resting on your chin as he pulls you closer. 

You tilt your head, breath catching in your throat as you anticipate the kiss. His mouth hovers above yours, the seconds ticking slower, and your eyes flutter shut. You’re sure you’ve forgotten how to breathe.

Goosebumps sprout along your arms when lips finally press to yours, soft and sweet. Argyle takes his time, memorizing how your bottom lip curls into a smile beneath the kiss and dedicating the sound of your eager sighs to memory.

His other hand reaches out and holds your hip, fingers spread wide. The warmth of his palm felt through the thin fabric of your t-shirt.

Electricity courses through your veins as the kiss intensifies, and you wrap a hand around the back of his neck. Fingertips curling in his hair as the other pulls him closer by the front of his shirt. Hesitant lips now hungry for more. 

Your tongue slides along his bottom lip, begging for entrance. Needing to taste him. 

The soft flesh of his tongue slides against yours, a small groan escaping his lips at the sensation. His grip on your hip tightens as he leans back against the couch's cushion, pulling you along. You willingly climb into his lap. Lips still latched to his in a frenzied kiss. It’s no longer sweet. It’s teeth and tongue—an untamed need. 

Your fingers knot into the long locks as you give a tentative roll of your hips, pulling softly. Sighing into his mouth when you feel the evidence of his growing arousal push against your clothed center. 

Argyle groans louder than before. Losing himself in your touch and the warmth coming from your aching cunt.

His hands cup your ass, fingers digging into the fat of it as he guides your hips against his hardening dick.

There’s nothing but primal need coursing through your veins, and you lose yourself in it.

You pull away, already reaching for the hem of his shirt and pushing it up with a silent question in your eyes.

Is this okay?

He nods, helping you lift it.

The shirt gets tangled in his limbs as you try to lift it over his head, and you can’t help but chuckle at his display.

“So graceful,” you tease, lifting it over and off. 

His hair is in disarray, strands standing on end and tangled. He smiles at you as you rub your palms up his torso, electricity shooting from the skin of his abdomen into your hands.

You don’t hide how you admire him, tracing his familiar frame with new eyes. A gaze that can openly appreciate the softness of his abdomen and the hair lining his chest. His skin dotted with tiny freckles.

“Shut up,” he tries to admonish, voice filled with affection. His hands grip either side of your hips as you lean closer. Looking for a hint of doubt.

Was it a one-time kiss? 

A lapse in judgment?

The way his fingers grip your hips as your lips ghost over his says otherwise. 

You gently swipe the tip of your tongue along his bottom lip, teasing. Taking your time. A soft nip of your teeth and a slight tug until it’s too much. 

He raises his hand, holding your face close, and his mouth is on yours again. Kiss less hesitant than the first, more confident with every push and pull. You get lost in it. Hands pressed against his bare skin as your hips roll of their own accord. Seeking friction and finding his hardened arousal once again. He moans into your mouth, a delicious sound that makes your core ache with need. You test the waters, grinding against him with a little more purpose. Sliding up the length of his clothed erection, humming as it catches your bundle of nerves just right. But you need more, and you pull away. Lust-filled eyes taking him in.

“Do you have a condom?” 

Argyle’s eyes widen, and he stills, his thoughts trying to catch up with your question but his silence feels like uncertainty.

“I-if you want to, I mean,” you say weakly, and he’s already nodding.

“I want to,” he says with conviction, already pushing you off his lap and reaching into one of the drawers of the coffee table.

“Oh my god, you keep condoms in your living room?” You tease him to conceal the way your stomach flips, how your nerves are starting to creep in.

“You don’t?” 

Your mouth opens to respond, words cut off when he fishes a Trojan out and looks at you with his cinnamon eyes. Cheeks blushed and lips bruised—the sight of him making your stomach do somersaults.

Tiny sparks of electricity bubble in the air as the tension grows, and you grab the condom from him. One hand grips the foil, and the other traces a line down his abdomen, holding his gaze as they inch lower until they stop at the tops of his pants. 

You push an eyebrow up in a question, already knowing the answer. A satisfied smile playing on your lips as he shifts to help take the fabric off. 

Anticipation stirs in your stomach, your mouth watering to see what he looks like after feeling him through his pants, and you can’t help the small moan that escapes when his cock jumps free. 

He’s bigger, thicker, than you’d imagined on those nights when you were knuckle deep, one hand on your tit and his name on your lips.

His tip shines with precum, the sight making your mouth water and you lean closer. Argyle watches you with hooded eyes, one hand gripping the couch and the other creating a path down your back until he’s gripping your ass.

You stick out your tongue, tracing over the angry vein lining the underside of his shaft. Taking your time as you inch up and to his tip. Tongue swirling along the mushroom head and collecting the pearly liquid, savoring the taste of his tangy arousal as it sticks to your tongue. 

A satisfied hum catches in your throat as you wrap your lips around his head, inching down his length and bobbing back off. Building up his need, enjoying the way his hips buck and chase your mouth. You slap his cock against your tongue, allowing saliva to collect and dribble down until his hardened arousal is coated. Drool dripping into his balls. You look up, a satisfied smirk slotting into place when you see the look in his eyes. How his gaze is darkened with need. Slowly, you begin to stroke him, starting up and going down. Watching him as you wrap your lips back around his tip and gently suck, tongue swirling as you do.

His head falls back with a loud groan, no longer able to conceal his mounting pleasure. You inch him further into your mouth until he sits in the back of your throat. 

Your movements are slow and deliberate. Lifting your head up and down with your hand following. With each bob of your head, you increase your pace. Enjoying how his hand grips your hair, holding you to him but not pushing you down. Watching with eager eyes as you gag around his cock, lines of saliva coating your knuckles with every dip of your head.

He releases the grip on your ass, and you all but whine until you feel the tips of his fingers push under the boxers you wear. Your movements still, attention focused on the way his fingers trace up the cheek of your ass and parts your center.

You moan around his cock, cunt clenching at the thought of him stretching you with one of his digits. 

Argyle swipes his middle finger along your folds, groaning when he feels how wet you are. 

“Fuck,” he breathes, collecting your nectar.

His finger presses against your sensitive nub, a soft swirl that has you keening. Hips pushing against his hand and chasing the slowly mounting pressure. 

You start sucking him more sloppily, gagging as you take him deeper. Ass pressing into his hand in a silent plea. His finger traces back up, nudging your entrance.

Argyle sucks in a breath as your pussy pulls him in, walls wrapping around his digit.

“Holy fu-” he sighs as you moan around his cock, stilling for a moment. Attention focused as his finger slides in and out of you, teasing you as you teased him. 

You wiggle your hips, needing more, and he obliges. Adding another finger, the sweet stretch makes you groan. The pace of his fingers grows until the sound of your squelching pussy fills the room. 

Your mouth matches the pace he sets, sucking his dick with a new intensity as he curls his fingers and fucks them into you. 

“Oh my god,” you mewl, mouth still wrapped around his dick.

He pulls them from you suddenly, pulling you up from his cock before you can whine from the loss and onto his lap. His mouth is on yours in a fierce kiss, hands pushing your shirt up and pulling apart to take it off. 

Argyle pauses, breaths coming in quick succession as he stares at you. Ogling the curve of your breasts. He glances up, holding your gaze as he reaches a hand out to trace over them. Enjoying the way you shiver under his touch, nipples pebbling in response to his warm hands as they cup your heavy flesh. 

“You’re so beautiful,” he praises, looking back down and pressing a kiss to your sternum, “like a fucking angel.” 

The compliment makes heat spread to your cheeks, and you curl his hair around your finger.

“You’re pretty cute,” you shrug, in an effort to be nonchalant. Teasing him as you always had, but even to your ears, the words sound different. Loaded with the affection you’d always had for him and could no longer hide.

He smiles up at you, a wide and goofy grin that takes up his whole face. The kind you only saw when he was really happy. 

“Pretty cute, huh?” He questions from between your breasts. He reaches up and teases your nipple between his fingers, tugging gently and watching the way your eyebrows marry in the middle. 

You nod, using his chest to hold your weight up above his cock, and you curse that you are still wearing bottoms.

As though he can hear your mind, he traces his hands down your back and to the elastic of your boxers. He inches them off of you, and you maneuver them off until you’re bare in front of him. 

There’s a charged silence between you as the seconds tick by. The weight of your need almost suffocating, and you reach out a nervous hand for the condom. Argyle grabs it from you and tears it open with his teeth, pulling the rubber from the foil to quickly roll it onto his length.

“Coolio,” he chuckles, but it sounds strangled, and grabs your waist with nervous hands. 

You rest one hand on his shoulder and reach the other between your bodies, lining his length up with your entrance. 

His grip on your waist tightens as you begin to sink onto him, a loud moan escaping your lips as you begin taking him inch by inch. Argyle’s thick cock stretches you, a delicious burn that makes your teeth sink into your bottom as he bottoms out inside you. 

“Feel so fucking good,” he groans, leaning you back so he can really look at you. His brown eyes trace your face and down your frame before stopping where the two of you are connected. You can feel his dick bounce inside of you at the sight and gasp. 

You raise your hips, lifting off of him and back down in slow motions as you continue to adjust to his size. His hands remain on your hips, guiding you up and down. Only picking up pace once he realizes you’re ready. 

Your hips swirl as you sink back down, enjoying how his face contorts in pleasure and the moan that vibrates in his chest. You continue to ride him, leaning into his chest as you bounce up and down his shaft. The lewd sound of your ass slapping against his thighs spurring your movements. 

“Fuck, that’s it,” he encourages, fingertips squeezing your ass. “Ride ‘em, cowboy,” he jokes, and you swat his chest playfully with a roll of your eyes.

“Shut up,” you gasp between heavy breaths, a smile on your lips.

Argyle lifts his hips to meet yours and grips your ass tight as his cock drills into you at a brutal pace. He watches the way your tits bounce, how you throw your head back and moan.

His name is on your lips like a mantra as pleasure courses through your body. You reach a hand down to your clit, rubbing circles against the bud that has you bucking forward as you chase your release. 

Before you have time to process, he has you on your back and legs spread wide. Cock still plunged deep into your pussy. His lips are on yours, hungry and needy as he thrusts into you. His pelvic bone jutting just right against your clit with every thrust. 

He groans into your mouth, hips stuttering but not slowing as he continues to fuck into you. Reveling in the way your pebbled breasts feel bouncing against his chest.

“Argyle,” you moan, nails digging into his back. 

“Are you close, beautiful?” he gasps, his hair falling around you like a curtain.

The pressure in your center builds, toes curling as you get closer and closer to the edge. He pushes away, rolling his hips into you and reaching between your bodies. Argyle rubs a thumb against your clit, mean circles that make your back arch and eyes slam shut as the pleasure begins to course through you.

It’s like a tidal wave, pleasure dragging you down until nothing else exists except the pulsing in your center. His pace doesn’t slow, hips pushing into yours. Thumb still circling your bundle of nerves until your legs begin to shake. 

“Oh my god,” you whine, pulling him back against you. The weight of his body on yours adding to your pleasure.

Argyle groans, and you feel his body still. Bucking into you once more as the orgasm washes over him. 

Your name is on his tongue in soft whispers, and you trace the goosebumps sprouting along his arms.

Seconds pass, the only sound of your heavy breaths as each of you tries to come down to earth.

“What was that?” you laugh, a soft rumble he feels with his chest pressed against yours. He chuckles along with you, face pushed into the crook of your neck. Warm breath fanning your sweat-slick skin.

“You, like, mauled me,” he teases, and you nudge his arm—no strength to argue.

He kisses your shoulder, your collarbone, and up to your lips. He plants a few against your mouth before lifting off you. Argyle looks down, watching as he pulls his length from your center. A sharp hiss that matches yours escapes his lips at the loss of you wrapped around him. He leans back down and kisses your stomach before pushing off you entirely.

He reaches for your shirt, motioning with his hands for you to lift your arms so he can push it over your head. You smooth your hair out and grab his shirt to repeat the action, each of you taking time to dress each other. A kiss shared between each layer of clothes that is put back on until you both sit fully clothed.

Cold pizzas on the comfy table, a candle burned down to the wick, and an apartment that smells like pumpkin, and vanilla. The aroma of your sex. 

You run your hands over your arms, unsure of what to say.

“Should we talk about it?” You question, half-hiding your face and afraid of his response.

He leans over and reaches for a blunt on his coffee table, lighting its end. Argyle inhales deeply, letting the smoke fill his lungs before exhaling and looking back at you.

“If you want to,” he shrugs because he already knows he’s sunk.

“You don’t?” Your words are tinged with surprise, and your eyebrows push together when he shakes his head.

“I don’t need to,” he offers you the blunt, but you shake your head. Mind still hazy from the feel of his lips and the push of his hips.

 “No?” you ask, puzzled.

Argyle pulls you close, your face nuzzling in his chest as he rubs an absent hand along your spine. 

“Took you long enough to see what a catch I am,” he jokes, “but I’ve always known about you.”

“Known what?” you grin, twisting your body to get a better look at him.

“That I’m cute, smart…funnier than you?” you poke his stomach, looking at him over your lashes. Eyes shining fondly.

He laughs, throwing his head back and blowing out a puff of smoke before looking back at you.

“I’ve always known how I feel about you.”

The response makes your next joke get lodged in your throat, and you swallow it down, grinning to yourself. 

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he nods, and you don’t need him to say more. To say the three little words aloud for you to know what he means.

“But you’ll never be funnier than me.”

“Such a butthead,” you nudge him playfully and lean forward to press a kiss to his lips. Already making it a habit.

[multiplicationdivision]

Abott Inc.

The manufacturing plant was abuzz with Tony Abott

Two of him handled a repair on the bottom floor, replacing a slipped wheel in record time. Another watched, ready to jump into motion at any evidence of a problem. Six others manned the quality checks, spouting off curses and shooting the shit as their muscle memory handled all the heavy lifting of searching for faults. Two were out to get lunch, carrying in tow the same burger order for a factory’s worth of the same exact man.

Only the forewoman was unique, a beautiful buff woman who acted to make sure that their unified state of mind never got them in trouble. She kept them out of trouble just as a single Tony kept the factory full of identical copies of her safe in turn.

It was good being Tony.

Years of education in all manners of factory positions, skill in any task that this facility could need. A physique built by an equal time training practically, nothing gained from the gym. Each muscle was built for practicality and each of him could handle a world of weight just on his own.  

This body had once been a man named Braedon. He’d been college educated in computer sciences, a prodigy of his field. He could code anything given a couple hours alone, so long as he had coffee and some good junk food. He was set for a comfy corporate throne after a few years on the bottom, rising high and fast.

It had been boring.

Years of brutal education gave way to months spent in bureaucracy, unable to complete a task that would’ve taken minutes without weeks of back and forth with incompetent bosses. Emails that took longer to write than the quick line of code that would fix the issue.

Braedon loved the feeling of a job well done. Reclining back as the circuits ran perfectly and the tasks played out like a line of dominos falling one after one.

Corporate was like watching every step of his Rube Goldberg machine get interrupted by a whiney man in a suit named Todd or Larry. Made Braedon want to scream and tear down his perfectly built systems just so he could be the one to fuck it up.

The factory had been his life line.

It had been a simple invoice. A practical job that promised everything he could ask for. No boss criticizing his work at every step, chipping away at his confidence. No choking atmosphere to his work, watched by a hundred people in the building that thought their business degrees gave them insight on system design. Way more money than he ever thought possible for a blue-collar job. More than he was making at the moment in his bland yet expensive cubical.

There was a catch.

Braedon had no experience in anything outside of the digital world. He’d traded his body and health in exchange for his degrees. One couldn’t become as specialized as him without sacrificing the self-care that was so important in the labor required of a factory worker.

The factory knew that, but they had an easy fix.

Tony Abott had interviewed him. The singular original Tony Abott.

He was a prodigy in his own right. The industry wet dream. Ruggedly attractive and overly competent. Charismatic and eager to please.

He’d been honest with Braedon from the start. They had their hands in some strange technology and they needed even stranger candidates. Each selected for their unique physiologies and mental states that would make them perfect for their shared role.

Tony said that he’d been selected for his flexible sense of self and pathological loneliness. He’d been like Braedon, giving up his social life so he could be the best of the best. Was left hollow when he reached that height and started depersonalizing without staring himself in a mirror to remember that he existed.

Braedon had been selected after being profiled as similarly lost. Doctor’s notes demanding he eat anything that wasn’t processed. Caffeine and cigarettes letting him keep up with hundreds of email arguments over a simple fucking project. The gut twisting feeling of watching what that abuse did to his body, stealing away whatever youth was left and replacing it with something tired and boney. The hunger to be anything except for Braedon, who never wanted to be understood by another person as the gaping pit of rage and self-disgust that had taken root in his heart.

They were a match for each other and Braedon hadn’t cared for whatever physiological horror a happier person might see in this deal.

He’d quit his shitty corporate hell the next day and made his goodbyes to whatever people passed for tolerable in those minimalist nightmare hallways. Wished them good luck breathing recirculated air-conditioned smog as he got ready to breath real fucking air.

He’d arrived at his second “interview” a week later, having spent the last days wrapping up affairs and communicating with the labor board. The factory wasn’t doing anything shady and the government had needed to setup Braedon’s paperwork for his new life. Little benefits and tax write off as reward for joining the latest and greatest of industrial innovation. That alongside the mountain of appointments they’d needed to make for new identification as his old ID photos wouldn’t identify him for shit in the following day.

Tony had joined him for this “interview”. Dressed to his best in a soft dress shirt and new jeans. Boots barely broken into and a new watch. A professional shave and tussled hair atop a cap, branded with the company logo. A shining example compared to the loose clothes Braedon had been told to wear, making him look anything but a put together future coworker.

A second set of Tony’s exact outfit lay next to the door, atop a shoebox and a fancy new duplicate watch.

They’d made a toast to brotherhood, those two lonely men. Tony had supplied his favorite beer, cheap piss Budweiser. It went down watery and flat, nothing like the vodka tonics Braedon felt most suited to when he was in an alcoholic mood. The slight burn of it travelled down his throat, soothing yet peppery. It brought a head high like nothing else, feeling as if the golden liquid had flowed into his brain and body before it could even reach his stomach.

Alcohol didn’t feel like this, but this wasn’t exactly Alcohol.

Tony had tried to explain whatever biochemical cocktail was laced into the drink. It was all for the sake of complete transparency, they weren’t in the business of trickery. Something to do with forced recombination and stem cells. Braedon was a highly intelligent man, but there was a reason he’d never dipped into biology. Tony seemed the same, rattling off a scripted explanation that he had probably practiced time and time again to look like he understood what he was saying.

Braedon sipped his beer as Tony attempted small talk. They were very different people. Tony seemed awkward as if he felt judged by every little glance that Braedon gave him. Braedon was used to analyzing a person by now, searching for faults that he could use to his advantage. Braedon had been the kindest person at his old workplace but that had been a low bar and he had still become cruel. Braedon could see every way that Tony felt insecure around anyone but himself, as if he didn’t have every tool at his command to be a juggernaut.

The ichor in the drink flowed through Braedon’s neurons and there was a memory. A kid who wasn’t him being criticized at every turn for jobs he’d sworn he’d done correctly. Credit taken from a pre-teen for perfect machines that could cut production times by half. The same instances over and over, leaving a man desperately trying to prove himself to a system that would use him and give the patent to his boss. That despair and betrayal settled comfortably in the spaces of Braedon’s own memories.

Braedon grit his teeth in subtle rage. His jawline had broadened and his face itched and it felt good in some odd way. Matched that swelling feeling of righteous anger.

The ichor altered how Tony fit in his brain. The insecurity became more and more relatable with every swallow. A memory of the guy’s only partner calling him pathetic, using every shitty doubt Tony had confided to wicked abandon. The breakup replayed in the man’s mind like nothing else, a cacophony of how he was weak and annoying and awful in every way.

Braedon wanted to punch that piece of shit and laugh in their face. Braedon knew to heart what human garbage was and Tony was anything but. Braedon could feel the waves of Tony’s insecurity reach through his mind and falter in the wake of Braedon’s own memories. Braedon wished he could have someone like Tony, over eager to be romantic and prepare for anniversaries. Wished he could inject his own point of view on the guy’s memory of his part love and how jealous and narcissistic they actually were.

The Budweiser began to taste good. Braedon could remember the first time they’d drunk it. A trade school kid picking up the cheapest shit at the gas station on their twenty first, drinking as he carved away at a block of wood deep into the night. The carbonation had made the swill all the more comforting, a bitter spot against the peace of his work station. It tasted like shit, but the good type of shit. Fit him and his sweaty downtime, relaxing as he sculpted pine and oak into art.

At some point their conversation stopped being awkward. The words flowed better and better as Braedon felt understanding coating his mind. Nervous jokes became relatable and the nasty feeling that had sat at home in Braedon’s chest for so long felt like it was shrinking. He found himself chuckling at the stories Tony explained, remembering them in tandem with fresh eyes.

The times Tony had nearly burned down any number of mills and processing facilities. The rampant animals that added chaos to his life, including amongst their diversity a very confused bear and a unfortunately horny moose.

Braedon was crying with laughter as he and Tony pieced together how he’d pranked an old shitty supervisor. Braedon could practically hear that supervisor’s rage as his computer downloaded virus after virus, prompted by a helpful little auto-clicker that Tony had installed one late night after another unpaid bout of overtime.

Tony physically unwound as their conversation went on and the number of empty beer bottles increased. He no longer looked stiff in his new clothes, rather his relaxed muscles filled them out comfortably. His confidence changed him, his smile lighting up the room and his mood infectious.

Braedon hadn’t been gay before this, but a shift in his sexuality had been a part of the deal. Tony’s basic information had been open to him and a little pansexuality felt like a pretty good upgrade to Tony’s own deal.

Braedon could remember all the times Tony had felt wrong in the mirror melding into one. Picking apart himself for looking too old, too awkward and too fake. It was all insane of course, as Braedon could easily dissect. Braedon felt his own mind guide that fragment of Tony in his mind to see what he saw, forcing it to witness Braedon’s own perspective instead of that toxic mindset downloaded into the guy since his father had disowned him.

Braedon could feel all his own shit get digested into the well of personality inside his head. Not destroyed exactly, but reorganized. His own insecurities broken down by the logic of Tony Abott as the logic of Braedon Santoro did the same in turn. Fast tracking therapy with only a couple bottles of booze.

He could feel his own memories of coding alone slot next to Tony’s life of construction. The things that made Tony burned brighter in his mind compared to his own pieces, but they were never devoured. Braedon felt himself begin to lurk behind the soul of the man in front of him, but it wasn’t anything like a mask.

The deal hadn’t been to bury Braedon beneath Tony. Braeden would still be there but the man that Tony was would predominate. Tony would trade him his individuality in exchange for this new self. Braeden would give up his old life in exchange for an equal claim to this new identity.

Braeden became Tony, from inside out as the beer coated his tongue like cold nectar. Felt himself become saturated with the man, siphoning every bit of his personality into his soul, feeling the ichor in his blood tremble as it changed the body to fit the mind.

His scrawny body filled with density, calories from the beer being more than efficiently transformed into muscle fibers and sturdy bones. The tar in his lungs dwindled and he breathed clearly. Tony had never smoked a single day in his life and the man that was once Braeden savored the feeling. Savored the experience of having lived a life with more than microwaved meals, even if that life had its own many faults.

The loose clothing filled, his sweatshirt and sweatpants becoming oversized. He’d taken his shoes off prior to his first drink to Tony’s recommendation. Tony had larger feet than him as well as larger everything. Even his pants fit differently, filled much differently than they were before.

It was strange to no longer identify with a name, but he couldn’t think of himself anymore as Braeden. It didn’t fit anymore, supplanted by the name of the man in front of him. It wasn’t just that man’s name anymore, they shared it now.

They needed to share more than that.

Interviews should never go where they took it, but interviews rarely meddled with identity on such a scale. Tony had more understanding for the man in front of him than anyone else and the call to act on it was irresistible.

It happened when the man that was once Braeden began to strip his clothes off, forgoing the last thing that differentiated him from the other. They’d planned to don him in matching clothes and continue their conversation with the last of the prescripted beers. Head to the facility’s temporary doctor to confirm a success.

Tony had joked that he’d only felt this comfortable with another man once. The new Tony had replied that he knew and the part of Braeden permanently at his core flirted. Some charged comment that made them both blush, something about how it would be easier for them to match if Tony just took off his clothes.

They’d been awkward in it, because how couldn’t someone be awkward masturbating like that. A whole other body added to the scheme, even if that body was one you’d always known. They’d forgotten to remove the clothes of the first Tony entirely, so caught up in the feeling of that lockstep of their shared bodies working as one. Whatever was done would be mimicked in turn, a duet in symmetrical motion.

They’d finished together and the awkwardness dissolved. Both no longer held back by the fear of judgment from the other, when they functioned like two parts of the same being.

They’d gotten dressed together, tying their boots up and pulling their shirts on. An entirely new outfit that both Tonys reveled in without the presence of strangers making them second guess it. The one that was still Braeden in memory could feel the twist of amusement at their preening, his heart racing as he looked at his new twin. Braeden had never strongly cared for his appearance, but the sensation of feeling good in his new boots and new jeans was exhilarating compared to the apathy of before.

They’d headed to the doctor together, excitement in every step. With a clean bill of health and permission to continue on with the next man the following day, they were a force of nature.

One became two. Two prepared for three to become one. Three identical men lining up identification and licenses for a factory’s worth of them. Buying clothes in mass to handle a platoon of them.

The first Tony became lost in the crowd and it felt good. Most people weren’t cut out to spread their sense of self across so many. Tony seemed built for it, the pressure of being the best dulled to nothing as he became part of the best. Seeing numerous of himselves discover their identity as a group in their work and downtime. Using the memories of the men they once were to build upon what it meant to be Tony Abott.

They’d bring all kinds of folks home and show them what it was like to be with them. Give the few a taste of a whole world of confidence built through reinforcement. Strings became strong when wrapped into a rope and they were a realized person together.

Tony Abott, operating Abott Inc. Alone yet definitely not.

Pictures taken from Construction Bros series by GymDreams on Deviantart.

[bouncingbluebeast]

Dad bod Logan - yee or nay?

((Walks up to the microphone with a pile of flashcards. I straighten my cards and adjust my shirt collar before tapping the microphone and leaning in:

Yes.

You look at this 19th century Alberta-born bastard-son redneck-noble subsisting off beer, cigarettes, potatoes, syrup, pancakes, wild game and jerky - and Marvel has the audacity to give him a six-pack? That in our modern day of processed and manufactured foods that he wouldn't even be slightly affected??

(At best I can see a three-pack still visible in that image, ayyyyyy)

Marvel, you look at this caked-up manlet and tell me there is less than 10% body fat on his entire person?

You're telling me, with the bone density of ada-fucking-mantium, that this Calgary Stampede Shortstack has no additional bulk on his muscle from powerlifting his own skeleton every time he walks? That there are no stores of body fat habituated by his body to prepare for the metric ton of bodily harm he'll have to repair in the matter of a week? Not a single lovehandle or cellulite to be seen?

The only "shredded" I will accept as an adjective for Wolverine is a descriptor of his victims or his clothes (an oxymoron, but I digress).

Like, what is this...?

You're going to fight a bear built like THAT???

You're gonna have that dorito-chest snapped at that pencil waist after he bats away those noodle-ass arms.

And then on the other end...

PFFFFFTHAHAHA! What??? He could get his head knocked off like a teed-up golf ball that fell on a barbershop floor...

The artists I respect the most when they are drawing Wolverine are those that remember that this is a 5'3" frontier man from 1800s Canada who has to deal with the fact that everyone after the 1930s is taller than him.

This man has the complex to be the toughest and biggest guy in the room, even when he's always the shortest. He talks big, eats big, fights big as his show of that Wolverine scrappiness.

So to reiterate: yes, Wolverine has a dad bod - because I'm not a coward.))

[steviewashere]

If You Fall, I Will Catch You (I'll Be Waiting)

Rating: General CW: None for this one! Tags: Post-Canon, Fluff, Comfort No Hurt, Domestic Fluff, Established Steve Harrington/Eddie Munson, Eddie Munson Loves Steve Harrington, Steve Harrington Loves Eddie Munson, Love Confessions, Eddie Munson is a Sap, Soft Eddie Munson, Soft Steve Harrington, Cuddling & Snuggling, Dialogue Light

For @steddie-week | July 6th Prompt: Dizzy | WC: 799

Title from "Time After Time" by Cyndi Lauper.

💕—————💕 The forest behind Steve’s house seems so small, insignificant to the fire in Eddie’s chest. All those tree tops, painted green and pointed tall, a wildfire could consume them and that still wouldn’t compare. He didn’t think he could have this: sitting on Steve Harrington’s roof, his boyfriend’s roof, shooting shit over going stale cigarettes. Maybe it was worth it, in the end, to have been accused, to have lived that horror.

Because nothing compares to the setting sun orange-pink glow washing over Steve’s gorgeously summer tanned face. Nothing could ever come close to the lightness in his smile, wide and stretching, taking up half of his face. Or to the way his hands gesture with his story. The trill in his raspy, mid-evening, going tired laughter; that, somehow despite it all, continues to be this big, bright, beautiful thing.

No view makes up for Steve in his element. Charismatic and dorky and soft just because.

Sometimes, loving Steve is effortless. Other times, like tonight, Eddie is bleary with his love. Unable to look away in fear that the world would be a smear of colors and sounds, unnoticeable, unimportant. This love makes his stomach drop and thrash and rise to his throat; yet makes him full and slow and content. Makes him want to swim up into the stratosphere and harness clouds for them to drift upon, fall asleep over, hold each other close in.

He wants to plant flowers in the colors of Steve’s wardrobe. Wants to go back in time to collect all the Farrah Fawcett hairspray canisters he can before it stops being manufactured. Wants to rearrange the stars to look like the moles and freckles of Steve's back.

Knows he’d go back through that Spring hell just to get to this moment all over again.

Eddie would promise forever if forever was a promised thing.

But he'll savor this for however long he has it.

He brings his cigarette back up to his lips, takes a soft, short suckle and blows it out of the corner of his mouth. Just so it doesn’t blow back in Steve’s face. And he watches, gazes really, at the profile of Steve’s body hunched over his knees, talking excitedly at the pink horizon, hand waving as if conjuring the memories in front of him.

Steve’s halfway through a sentence—about a customer at Family Video, Eddie thinks (wishes he knew)—when Eddie sighs something.

“You make me dizzy,” Eddie murmurs aloud.

Turning to him, hands falling away, Steve hums questioningly.

Eddie leans across their space. Hand trembling, fingers curled gently. He sweeps away a soft strand of Steve’s hair, tucks it behind his ear, and follows the slope of his neck with the touch. Leaves his hand carefully resting on the side of Steve’s neck, carefully feels his slow, calm pulse.

“You make me dizzy,” he says again, louder.

“Yeah?” Steve softly implores, “Is that a good thing? You alright?”

His thumb traces the collar of Steve’s shirt. There’s a mole there, so Eddie dots that, too. Steve’s skin is warm, velvety, freshly washed. “It’s the best,” Eddie answers quietly. His voice betrays him, crackling like a campfire. He can’t bring himself to be louder. “Make me so dizzy with love, sweetheart. Think if I wasn’t holding on, I’d fall over.”

Steve’s right hand comes up then. Lands on Eddie’s outstretched wrist. His thumb swipes over the back of Eddie’s hand, digging into the soft give of his skin. “You’ve gone all sappy on me, Eds,” he whispers.

Eddie shrugs. “I love you, y’know that?” He swallows the rise of emotion that wells in him. They haven’t said it yet, but with the soft orange-pink light bright over Steve’s hair, his honey-brown eyes half-lidded and glowing, and his face gooey with something like adoration—well, Eddie believes it’s the best time to say it. He clears his throat softly, dislodging old fears that coat his insides. “I love you so much that I’d go through it all again. As long as I still got you in the end.”

The hand on his scrunches. Doesn’t let go. “I love you, too,” Steve murmurs.

He moves his hand to wrap to the back of Steve’s neck, to dangle between his shoulders, draws him in closer. “C’mere,” he mutters, “wanna watch the sunset with you.”

Steve scoots close, tucked into the warm heat of Eddie’s side, under his arm. Rests his unstyled head of hair on the offered shoulder. Sighs in contentment. Eddie flicks his cigarette over the edge of the roof, brings his empty hand to Steve’s left, and twines their fingers together.

“I’ll catch you if you fall,” Steve murmurs.

“I know,” Eddie says back just as softly, “but I’m holding on tight, so I think I’ll be okay.”

💕—————💕

[eternal--returned]

Alphonse Mucha ֍ JOB cigarette paper (1896)

This is perhaps one of Mucha’s best-known advertising posters, with numerous editions subsequently published in a variety of formats for international markets. This poster established the iconic image of the ‘Mucha woman’ with her swirls of exaggeratedly abundant hair. 'JOB' is a trademark for the Joseph Bardou Company, manufacturers of cigarette papers. In this poster, Mucha placed the prominent female figure against a background featuring Job monograms. Holding a lighted cigarette in her hand, the woman leans her head backward sensually, and the rising smoke forms an arabesque, intertwining with her hair and the company logo. Mucha introduced a Byzantine effect, as seen in the Gismonda poster, with the border decoration inspired by mosaic work which adds an air of dignity to a commercial poster. In 1898 Mucha produced another design for Job which is known as 'great Job'.

[nirdoshherbalcigarette]

Nirdosh Herbal Cigarette is a leading herbal cigarette manufacturer in India. Our herbal cigarettes are made from natural ingredients and offer a tobacco-free smoking experience. Visit our website to learn more about our range of herbal cigarettes and place an order for a healthier alternative to traditional cigarettes.

[daisiesonafield-blog]

Louis Tomlinson is sequestered in the executive boardroom of a swanky hotel in suburban London, and is treating it the way a pupil might a classroom when the teacher’s popped out. He’s leaning back on his chair, feet up on a radiator, hands clasped behind his head and a cigarette on the go. “All right?” he says, grinning impishly.

Despite huge global success with One Direction (70 million albums sold), which prompted a fanaticism that made Beatlemania look tame, he seems remarkably unaffected and far more normal than one might expect from someone with 35.8 million Twitter followers. He’s a 31-year-old so unassumingly bloke-next-door that the bloke next door wouldn’t look twice.

“I’ve always had a problem with ‘ego’,” he says, “and I’ve always been worried about being one of those people in the public eye who just loses all sense of reality, and becomes an arsehole.” As if by way of explanation, he adds: “I’m from Doncaster.”

And so while his former 1D bandmate Harry Styles, a superstar, floats through life like the fashion world’s favourite clothes horse, Tomlinson kits himself out in JD Sports: Kappa T-shirt, black sweatpants, Adidas socks, scuffed trainers. When he tells you he often frequents his local pub unmolested, you believe him.

“If someone does come up after an hour to ask for a selfie, I won’t say no and I won’t run away,” he says, “’specially if I’m three pints deep!”

Of the five members of 1D, Tomlinson has had the slowest start to a solo career. There are compelling reasons for this — family tragedy for one — but he’s also had to figure out who he is without the band around him. “With this job,” he says, “there’s so much room for overthinking, you know? Someone from the record label will tell you they like your stuff, but you find yourself thinking: yeah, but do they? It’s the fans that help you really believe in yourself.”

In the band, Zayn Malik had the best voice and Styles had the best everything else. While the other three — Tomlinson, Liam Payne and Niall Horan — were hardly driftwood, each has nevertheless had to dig deep to carve out a solo persona that would compel beyond the bubble.

“I do miss the boys,” he says, “and I do definitely miss being one of the five, but I like doing my own thing too. It was time.”

It’s a bright winter’s day, and the man in sports casual is enjoying special dispensation here in the hotel: permission to light up. Had this been denied, there might well have been a problem, for Tomlinson chain-smokes with the wild abandon of Mad Men’s Don Draper.

After the release of his second solo album, Faith in the Future, in November, he adds another necessary notch in the belt of any self-respecting pop star next month: the documentary. All of Those Voices is a routine behind-the-scenes look at 21st-century celebrity but stands out for the multiple crises of confidence Tomlinson feels any time he’s not on stage.

“This is a confidence game for anyone,” he says earnestly, “and there’s been plenty of moments of vulnerability throughout the entire process.” An overriding concern of the documentary is not just whether people would be interested in him, but whether they’d take him, someone discovered on a TV talent show, seriously.

When Styles won his Grammy awards this month — he collected two and won four Brits — he used his acceptance speech to say that “this doesn’t happen to people like me very often”. This was swiftly ridiculed across social media because of course white men tend to win quite a lot. But what he likely meant was that it doesn’t happen to the product of manufactured boy bands, many of whom have the use-by date of a pint of milk.

“Only Harry knows what he means there, it’s hard to speculate,” Tomlinson says, “but we all came from relatively humble beginnings, and now we are where we are.”

But while Styles is a once-in-a-generation talent and knows it, his erstwhile bandmates — and this one in particular — need convincing.

Louis Tomlinson comes from a big family — his mother, Johannah Deakin, married twice and had seven children — and was a hopeful child actor before in 2010 auditioning for The X Factor. This is where 1D were created, “masterminded” by Louis Walsh. Deakin, who had Tomlinson when she was 19, was his biggest fan and they’d always been close. When, for example, Tomlinson lost his virginity, it was she he told first, not his friends.

In 2016, a year after One Direction split, she died from leukaemia, aged 42. Two years later, his 18-year-old sister, Félicité, who’d been struggling to get over her mother’s death, accidentally overdosed on cocaine, painkillers and an anxiety drug. The combined loss hit him hard. Aside from the single he wrote about his mother’s passing, 2020’s Two of Us, his mourning has been largely private.

He squints through a veil of cigarette smoke. “Some of the things that have happened recently have been quite drastic, yeah, but then so much in my life seems to have been pretty extreme, one way or the other.” In 2016, at the age of 25, a brief relationship with a Californian stylist, Briana Jungwirth, resulted in a son. “There’ve been challenging times, definitely. It’s funny, but I couldn’t even tell you how many years ago my mum passed, I just blank it out. But for the first 18 months, I’d take any form of bad luck personally. I’d feel every tiny thing. But now I genuinely feel I’ve come out the other side. I feel more empathy for everything and everyone these days.”

After his 2020 debut album, Walls, failed to set the world alight, Tomlinson called time on his relationship with Simon Cowell. “It was mostly amicable,” he says, nodding. “Simon always had my best interests at heart, and I liked him. He had his faults of course, like all of us, but it was always inevitable I’d have to go off and do my own thing.”

His new record, then, was a leap into the unknown and he elected to write not with professional songwriters but rather fellow creative artists: Theo Hutchcraft from the band Hurts, Joe Cross from the Courteeners and the singer-songwriter James Vincent McMorrow. “And that was a big difference, huge. These are people who live and breathe music. It’s the first time I felt really comfortable doing my own stuff, you know?”

Previously he’d been encouraged to sing like a nice young pop star should, without regional inflection. “When I was in the band,” he says, “working with professional songwriters whose entire aim was to write the hit single, they’d tell me that singing in my natural accent wasn’t commercial. Sorry, but what a shit idea! Who wants to sound like everybody else? I dumbed down a little bit in the band, because you do, but I’ve learnt who I am now.”

The album, which has its inspiration firmly in early Noughties indie, sounds more Kaiser Chiefs than One Direction. A risk, then. But when it came out, it debuted at No 1. While this did wonders for his confidence, it’s clear from the documentary that he still needs people — a support group — around him. He actively courts the friendship of his touring band, not necessarily a given among solo pop stars, and he seems almost always sociable. It’s when he’s not up for group activity that people worry. There’s a revealing moment in the documentary of him having just appeared on James Corden’s US talk show. Backstage Corden, an old friend, pleads with him not to go quiet on him afterwards. “You vanish, you change your number, no one knows [where you are],” he says.

Until recently Tomlinson lived in London with his long-term girlfriend, the model Eleanor Calder, but recent reports suggest they’ve split up and he’s dating another model, Sofie Nyvang. Life, clearly, is complicated. Perhaps that’s why he smokes so much. He says, though, that he feels finally relieved of the myriad pressures that once clung to being a pop star whose fanbase was predominantly teenage. Such as?

“Well, being a role model for one. I never wanted that. I always had to worry whether it was OK if, say, I was seen here or if I could get away with smoking a joint there, before concluding: hmm, probably not. But I never wanted to be the perfect pop star, especially in the climate of Instagram. I don’t want to put an artificial world out there. I think it’s important that people see your scars, your flaws.”

It’s never easy growing up in public and Tomlinson had no choice. “When One Direction split up,” he says, “I was mortified, I was absolutely gutted. I was a bit bitter, I suppose because it just felt like another loss to me. But I’ve a better understanding of things now, and there’s not as much anger. It is what it is.

“Getting back together at some point is hard to imagine right now,” he continues, “but I’d be surprised if we lived out our lives and didn’t have a moment where we had a reunion, or whatever you want to call it. I’d be up for that.”

When I ask what it’s like watching Styles’s ascendance into the biggest star of his generation — something that might delay such a reunion — he blows out a long plume of smoke.

“Well, it’s not a surprise is it? We were always aware that Harry fit that mould, and it’s been an amazing thing to watch. Envy? At the start maybe, when I was trying to find my feet, but it’s never healthy to cross-reference your own success with others is it? These days I’m learning to elevate myself in those moments when I have to. I didn’t know how to do that before, but now? Now I know I f***ing can.” All of Those Voices is in cinemas from March 22,  allofthosevoices.com

-Full article. Feb 23 2023. Link here. Free link here.

[lost-technology]

A Century-Old Cookbook

Ace Trigun Week Prompt 5: Food as a Love-Language Vash's mind carried over a century of recipes. There was always a special one he'd make for anyone who had broken down his barriers.

A Century-Old Cookbook Milly took a deep sniff as she entered the rental-cabin, returning from a trip to the post office to mail off reports.  “Oh, is Mr. Vash cooking again?” she asked.  Meryl looked up from her hunched position over her portable typewriter on the main room table.  “He hasn’t stopped cooking since we unpacked.”  “He really likes to, doesn’t he?”  “Fine by me,” Wolfwood said, wandering in from the back bedroom, taking a drag on a cheap cigarette.  “Do you have to smoke in here?” Meryl complained, “Go outside.”  “What’s he making?” Milly asked.  “And yes, Mr. Priest, you really should go outside.  It’s not good for any of us.”  Wolfwood grumbled as he stubbed out his cigarette in an ashtray.  “At least Needle Noggin makes the best fried rice on the planet.” “Oh, is that what we’re having?”  “It’s ready!”  Vash came in from the kitchen with a heaping bowl of his signature dish in one hand and a stack of plates in the other.  The aromas of toma-egg, fermented sauce, Geoplant-grown green onion and salty canned meat (probably from leftover tins from the spacefaring age - they were the cheapest one could get) filled the air.  “All right! Let’s eat!” Milly chimed.  “Are you going to say grace, Mr. Priest?”  Wolfwood gave her a chuckle, sidling next to her at the table as Meryl put her typewriter away to make room for a plate.  “Good grub, good meat, good God, let’s eat!” he joked, dramatically penting his hands.   “This is good,” Meryl admitted between spoonfuls, looking up to Vash.  “How did you learn to make it this way?”  “A lot of…practice?”  Vash said sheepishly. A memory came to his mind of when he was small, his brother at his side, both staring in wonderment at a frying pan as Rem was behind them, praising Vash for how well he was tossing a mess of rice in it – the fluidity of his wrist, getting the toss just right. She praised Knives for his work with the soy sauce and a spoon.  She told them that this was a skill that would serve them their entire lives.  Teaching them to cook was a part of her inducting them into becoming grown-ups.  To this day, Vash remembered his meals on the SEEDS ships, the ones that Rem had prepared for him before she saw fit to induct him into the secret-adult-knowledge of the kitchen. He was surprised he wasn’t a chubby little kid.  Rem had been an excellent cook.  Vash had cooked many meals for himself and others over the years – most of them lonely out in the desert wilds.  Some were simple – nasty half-rotten meat scavenged from worm carcasses made marginally-edible over campfires kindled from the same worms’ chitin and skin that he ate for no reason other than staying alive in desperation. Some were complex, using Plant-manufactured raw materials and even, after a time, the grown crops some of the settlements had managed to wrestle out of the poor land. He’d worked in taverns as he traveled town to town, picking up whatever odd jobs he could, first under his own name and then under many assumed names when his bad luck caught up to him.  As a result, Vash knew many old recipes – some going way back to Old Earth while most were improvised for the times and the environment, either by the humans who were making their way here or self-invented.  Vash was a living example of a century-old cookbook.  He listened to the blissful sounds of his companions at the table as they ate.  He smiled.  That fried rice that Rem taught him to make was the favorite dish he knew to make for people he loved.  Inspired by this comic by @goathag