#buying petit fours for his wife

[arlathen]

waking up two hours before my alarm struck with divine inspiration about post-veilguard amadea visiting a very aged thom rainier.

[nigrit]

Coda to The War of the Districts, or the Flight of Marat, Heroi-comical poem in three cantos (Paris: n.p., July? 1790)

Part 5 (of 5)

A few words on the aftermath of Lafayette’s failed military expedition, as ‘celebrated’ in this poem. The attempt to arrest Marat completely backfire by helping to transform Marat into a renegade ‘celebrity’, and by boosting sales of his Denunciation. Marat’s escape – recounted with numerous variations – disguised as a soldier, as a woman, even taking off in a balloon! – marked a turning point in his revolutionary career. It also helped to crystallize the reputation of the lawyer Georges Danton, de facto leader of the Cordeliers district, who would be prosecuted (unsuccessfully) in March for threatening to resist Lafayette’s men if they tried to encroach on his territory without the correct legal authorization.[1] After a couple of weeks in hiding, he finally left for exile in London, where he stayed for four months from February to May. His final gesture before leaving was to refund all his paper’s subscriptions.[2]

Marat’s celebrity was further fuelled by the slew of Necker-sponsored anti-Marat (and pro-Necker) pamphlets that appeared over the next few months and the production of at least a dozen separate, counterfeit versions of his Ami du peuple. It was not just Necker loyalists who reacted strongly to this affair. Royalist writers also picked up on the disproportionate reaction, and its humiliating failure, with a mixture of admiration and mocking disdain. Perhaps the most sarcastic response came in the form of this mock-epic poem, which greeted Marat about a month after his return from a four-month exile in England.[3]

Regarding the identity of the “young lady” who helped him escape, there appear to be several candidates. Since these events predate Marat’s known liaison with Simonne Evrard (after June 1790), who would first shelter then ‘marry’ him, this may be a salacious reference to his young assistant, Victoire Nayait. At the time, Nayait was managing his journal’s business affairs, acting as liaison with his publisher, printer and subscribers, when he was in hiding. After Marat’s return from London in May 1790, she disappears without trace.

Another possibility is that he escaped with the help of Comédie-française actress Mademoiselle Fleury [Marie-Anne-Florence Bernady-Nones], whose assistance is also cited in Marat’s earliest biographies by Alfred Bougeart and François Chèvremont. There must be a grain of truth in this, for on 14 February 1794, the former comte de Ferrières, agent for the Committee of General Security, was accused of having released, without authorisation, certain prisoners, including the actresses, Mlle Fleury and Mlle Méscray [Joséphine Mezeray]. In his defence, he cited the fact that Fleury “had once saved Marat”. [4] Further investigation reveals that Mlle Fleury, who had been the mistress of Charles-Armand Tuffin, marquis de La Rouerie, in 1788, married a Doctor Valentin Chevetel, member of the future Cordeliers Club, who lived in the same building as Marat. Chevetel was also a friend of Tuffin, having cared for his sick wife. He would later betray Tuffin’s counter-revolutionary plot, known as ‘La Conjuration Brétonne’, to Danton in October 1792.[5] This reference to Marat’s ‘mistress’enjoyed a suitably salacious, and venal, afterlife, when it was ‘reported’ in a royalist journal, Fouet National (23 Feb) that his silence had been bought by Necker, Bailly and Lafayette for 10,000 livres, and he was now ensconced in the town of M***, in Picardy, with “his little maid” (“petite bonne”).[6] In April 1793, Marat would indeed claim that Necker had tried to buy his silence for a million livres in gold.[7]

After Marat’s great escape, the Révolutions de Paris highlighted Marat’s new status as a revolutionary scapegoat, characterizing these events as a calculated attempt to intimidate all patriot writers, “Souvenez-vous que, parmi les écrivains patriotes, celui sur la tête duquel il fallait frapper pour les effrayer tous, était le sieur Marat, parce que son courage allait jusqu’à la rage, et que sa conviction se changeait quelquefois en délire” (30 Jan). The following issue carried a letter from a National Guardsman, accusing it of being in the pay of mysterious forces, and warning it that they would all repent if they carried on.[8] “Je crois que vous voulez faire le petit Marat. Croyez-moi, ne continuez pas; Marat n’écrit plus; vous pourriez faire de même” (6 Feb). During the Revolution, few figures earned their own eponym, even fewer so early on.[9] Marat’s absence was also noted by readers outside the metropole, with a curé from the Ardèche asking the Révolutions de France, “Vous ne dites plus rien de l’ami du peuple: n’est-il pas encore remonté dans sa guérite [guardhouse/sentry box]? Tout le monde demande ici de ses nouvelles; je vous en demande à vous, au nom de 300 mille Vivarais” (March).

Six months later, Marat would produce his own version of events. He had witnessed the whole affair from the window of a neighbouring house. He put on a round hat and went out with a friend to see what was happening, while awaiting delivery of the next day’s proofs (for his paper). In the middle of the night, he heard a cavalry squadron stop beneath his window but they did not enter. Spotting some spies (“mouchards”) outside the house the next morning, he donned a disguise and left arm-in-arm (“marchant à pas comptés”) with a young lady. He then met some friends in the Jardin de Luxembourg who had arranged another hiding place, but after finding no one there, he returned to an old one, chez Boucher de Saint-Sauveur, stopping his carriage at the Hotel de Ville to see what was happening there (AdP, 23 July).[10] His narrative was intended to demonstrate that he could blow a raspberry at the authorities while risking his personal safety for the patrie.[11]

[1] Danton told the expedition commander that his warrant was invalid without the countersignatures of five Cordeliers commissioners, which they would only provide once it was correctly made out. He threatened to summon a further 20,000 men from the neighbouring faubourg St-Marcel if the National Guard attempted to enforce it without the new warrant.

[2] Jean Massin, Marat (1960), pp.116-117. From London, Marat would publish two further pamphlets: a letter on the legal aspects of his case including a proposal for an independent tribunal (April) and a sequel to his Denunciation (April).

[3] Marat was back in Paris by mid-May. Many of these pamphlets were sponsored by Necker who also had at least one journal (Journal de Paris), and a team of writers working for him, including Jean-Baptiste-Antoine Suard, Dominique-Joseph Garat and Pierre-Louis de Lacretelle.

[4] They were imprisoned in September 1793, along with eleven other members of the Comédie-française, and the novel’s adapter, Francois de Neufchateau, for a ‘suspect’ production of Samuel Richardson’s Pamela. See Alphonse Aulard, Receuil de documents pour l’histoire du club des Jacobins de Paris: Jan 1793 à Mars 1794 (1895), v:652.

[5] See Ghislaine Juramie, La Rouërie, la Bretagne en Révolution (1991), p.8; and Elizabeth Kite, ‘Charles-Armand Tuffin, marquis de la Rouerie etc.’, in Records of the American Catholic Historical Society of Philadelphia, vol.59, no.1 (1948).

[6] Cited in Jacques de Cock, Marat avant 1789 (online), p.1649 & Jean Massin, Marat (1966), p.117. The Fouet started as a patriot paper before completely changing editorial direction in February 1790.

[7] Le Publiciste de la République française #177 (24 April 1793).

[8] A reference to its criticisms of Lafayette.

[9] Napoleon, Lafayette, Robespierre, Danton, Brissot, Roland, Hébert and Babeuf were the others.

[10] It appeared just after Malouet’s denunciation in the National Assembly of Marat and Desmoulins for the crime of lèse-nation in their journalism. In the same account, Marat boasted of provoking the authorities with awkward questions and contrasting this against Desmoulins’ cowardly proposal to renounce his offending “écrits”.

[11] As well as providing Marat with a safe house, Boucher de Saint-Sauveur also lent him 1000 livres.

[lindsaywesker]

Good morning! I hope you slept well and feel rested? Currently sitting at my desk, in my study, attired only in my blue towelling robe, enjoying my first cuppa of the day. Welcome to Too Much Information Tuesday.

Mastrophobia is a fear of boobs. (Go figure!)

Nicolas Cage was once stalked by a mime.

Brits send over 64 million pointless emails a day.

Wiz Khalifa spends about $10,000 on weed every month.

A female ‘cock block’ is called a ‘clam jam’.

The Musée du Louvre has its own dedicated fire brigade.

Average penis size has increased over the last 30 years.

The awards for excellence in obituary writing are called the Grimmys.

The Candy Crush app makes about $850,000 per day.

‘Baby Got Back’ by Six Mix-a-Lot has made over $100,000,000 since its release.

The inventor of the bra, Caresse Crosby, had a pet whippet called Clytoris.

‘Misspell’ is one of the most commonly misspelled words in the English language.

In 2007, Scotland spent £125,000 devising a new national slogan. The winning entry was: ‘Welcome to Scotland’.

Everyone has at least 50,000 thoughts a day but 95% of them are the same as the day before.

When a male honey bee climaxes during sex, his testicles explode and he dies.

In 2007, a woman from New Zealand was fired for using caps lock too often in work emails.

The Institute for the Future predicts that 85% of jobs which will exist in 2030 haven’t yet been invented.

On average, people who get out of bed by 7.00 a.m. perform better at work, tend to be happier, less stressed and thinner.

The traffic is so bad in Moscow that some wealthy residents have bought Ambulances to speed up their journeys.

In the late 19th century, you could buy heroin through the Sears department store catalogue.

In 2002, the average user spent 46 minutes on the Internet a day. In 2012, the average user spent four hours on the Internet every day.

The penis of the blue whale is known as a dork. Blue whales have an average penis length of 98 inches.

The world's poorest president is of the country of Uruguay because he donates 90% of his salary to charity.

In 1970, a woman in Arizona filed a lawsuit against God after a lightning bolt struck her home. She won the case by default after the defendant failed to turn up in court.

Shackleton’s Antarctic expedition found a stowaway onboard who was allowed to stay on condition he’d be the first to be eaten in an emergency.

A ‘verbal vampire’ is someone whose incessant, boring talk is so stultifying that it drains the life out of anyone who is forced to listen to them.

In 1674, the ‘Women’s Petition Against Coffee’ called for a ban on coffee, suggesting that it made men too talkative and rendered them “unfruitful” in the bedroom.

Limping was briefly fashionable in 18th century England. The Prince of Wales' wife, Alexandra of Denmark had a limp and other ladies imitated her. Shopkeepers sold pairs of shoes with one high and one low heel.

Perissology is the unnecessary use of rather more words than are necessary to get the meaning of the words across to the majority of people in a meaningful manner or way to make sure they really understand what you mean to make sure they don't misunderstand what you are saying.

In 1978, a woman in Prague decided to end her life after finding out her husband was cheating. She walked to the balcony of her apartment and jumped but she didn't hit the ground. She landed on and crushed her husband who was returning home. He died from the impact, she survived.

In 2017, a North Korean man decided he'd had enough and attempted to escape. After driving at speed into the border, he ran for his life. He was shot five times but reached South Korean soil and collapsed on the ground. Despite his injuries, he made a full recovery and lives happily in South Korea.

Okay, that’s enough information for one day. Have a tremendous and tumultuous Tuesday! I love you all.

[if-you-fan-a-fire]

“MORLEY PETTIT SENTENCED TO FIVE YEARS IMPRISONMENT,” Brantford Expositor. June 30, 1930. Page 1 & 5. ---- Convicted of Buying Cattle by Fraud and Butchering Them ---- (From Our Own Correspondent) SIMCOE, June, 30 - The long drawn-out action against Morley Petit, La Salette, originating from complaints to and investigations by the attorney-general’s department, which resulted in the laying against him of six charges of fraud under sections 402, 404 and 405 of the criminal code, on May 31 and following day, was, after adjustments from time to time, concluded Saturday so far as two of the charges were concerned and Petit was found guilty and sentenced to five years in the Portsmouth penitentiary. At the at the Crown the other four charges were stayed for the present. Petit elected tp be tried summarily on two charges a fortnight previously, and had decline to elect on the four additional charges, which still stand. He represented himself as without funds and the court appointed A. A Water, KC. to look after his interests. Petit’s technical insolvency was amply proved by documentary evidence and otherwise and there was plenty of evidence to show that and there was plenty of evidence to how that represented himself to be a progressive dairy,, stock and tobacco farmer, in letters to various stock breeders whom he beguiled to ship him pedigreed bulls or heifers for the purpose of improving his own grade herd. These bulls and heifers were take to the slaughter from be railway car by truck, as a rule by stealth at night. They were slaughtered and sold to nearly butchers at ridiculously low prices and even though the shipper got a note promising of one, Petit evaded final payment by devious excuses and representations. Some splendid thoroughbred stock went to the slaughter though his operations. SInce the action began victims from all over Ontario and beyond, have sent a deluge of inquiries, as to the possibility of obtaining redress, but Petit’s division court judgements, which total over $13,000 are between them and any hope of reimbursement. His wife holds title to the farm, 175 acres and presumably the chattels also. The farm is a good one with splendid buildings.

In September, 1926, he was found guilty of receiving credit from J. W. Church, Simcoe, by foul means. The charge was withdrawn at the request of the crown attorney, Petit having made restitution in the amount of $25, and agreeing to pay $13.75 costs.

Petit was again in the limelight here in May, 1927, when he was charged with fraudulently concealing a tractor valued at $963, with intent to deprive the International Harvester Co. of the property. Evidence in the case went to establish that Petit purchased the tractor and failing to pay for it and fearing that the company would send a search warrant, he hid it in the woods and re-painted it. He was found guilty and on paying $100 damages and $68.80 costs was placed on two year’s probation.

The Conditions One thousand dollars bond under the ollowing conditions; 1. that he shall not be found guilty of any offense in any court within this period; 2. that he shall maintain and sipport his family in a proper Christian manner during the said period: 3 that he shall abstain from intoxicating liqyorr during the said period: 4. that he shall not be found off his farm in the Township of Windham  between 9 p.m. and 3 am at night, on any business other than reaally business in connection with his farming operation or sickness; 5. that he shall pay his lawful debts from time to time and shall not wilfully incur debts that he does not intend to pay, during the said period; 6. that he shall discontinue all sharp pratices in connection with his farming operations, and in all contracts or purchases in future during said period.

The exactions of the bond were not observed and not enforced. He was up once for violating his bond, but was allowed to go at the representations of his wife and the crown attorney.

In Division Court While Petit managed to dodge the criminal court he was perennially monopolizing the division courts at Windham Centre, Delhi and to a lesser extent at Simcoe. He was generally able, however, by outstanding  craft and intellectual seamanship to steer his craft clear of the legal technicalities of the court, and time and again baffled his victims. But his failures as an intriguing navigator despite his more numerous repeated close calls, are on record by scores and the evidence submitted by Provincial Constable Oliver in court on Saturday, went to show that judgments stand against him as follows:

At Windham court, 26 judgments totalling $4541.56, at Delhi court. 13 Judgments totalling $2272.60; at Simcoe court, 13 Judgments totalling $6321.26, making a combined total of $12.137.51.

The Sentence. In passing sentence on Pettit his worship said. "Yours has been a peculiar career. You were born, I understand of estimable parents in a good God-fearing law-abiding community; a community which has sent out some splendid men, acme of the best jurists of the Dominion, from one of the primary, most enterprising counties of Ontario. You were brought up by Godly parents and educated in an ideal environment You have lived in an otherwise law-abiding community. Your family. name, except for you, so far as I can understand, is untarnished in this county and I am reliably informed that at least one of your victims became a victim because he made inquiry and heard that the name Pettit was good in Norfolk. 

"You probably played on that name to your undoing. You have been clever, you have been smart, you have been astute, you have turned the corner so often that you have become bold to the extent of carrying on from behind the bars. I regret very much that I have to give some severe sentence in your case, that will be a warning to yourself and others like you.

“The sentence of this court is that you be transferred to the Portsmouth pententiary for the term of five years."

MUCH EVIDENCE. The batch of evidence forwarded here by the department of the attorney-general was supplemented by stocks collected by Provincial Constables Oliver and Shipley stationed at Simcoe, assisted by R. Edmonds. also a provincial officer, under the direction of W. E Kelly, KC, crown attorney Perhaps the most damaging evidence was that of a Haldimand breeder who sold Pettit two females. On the stand this victim stated that as Petit's farm was in the adjoining county he had been pleased to make the sale for he had hoped that in a few years he could take prospective purchasers over to the Pettit farm to show them what rare quality of Shorthorn he was producing. The heifers had gone to the slaughter.

Evidence was produced on Saturday to prove that Petit owned nothing. His wife held title to the farm and chattels. The correspondence with the Deacon firm, showed besides through the presumptive evidence of the first letter, statements in subsequent letters in which Pettit represented himself as having grade cattle equal in production to purebreds; considerable tobacco land and kilns and a $3000 program of extension already under way. He paid this firm by note at two weeks in the amount of $200 and falling to meet the note launched out on his skillfully planned program of evasion.

There was very slight change in his method of approach to different firms and the breed did not seem to matter. Pettit, according to evidence, sold the animals before or on arrival at attractive prices from the standpoint of the butchers who bought them. He seemed to have no trouble in disposing of them. As a rule they were unloaded and trucked direct to the slaughter by night. Although but six or eight charges were laid, and some of these double-barrelled, officers continue to receive inquiries from victims all over the county. Swine and sheep were also in his dealings. 

One breeder when queried by the court on Saturday stated that it had been his custom to ship pure bred stock without question for twenty, years, whether on cash or credit terms and that Pettit was the first and only man who had victimized him. He believed other breeders had similar policies with similar experience.

STAY ORDER GRANTED The Crown's request, for a stay order with respect to the additional charges was granted by the court. The application followed the announcement of the finding. It is probable that the crown. attorney will seek advice from headquarters before proceeding with the other cases.

Pettit, it is reported, has intimated that he will appeal. He has a month in which to do so. If he waives his right, and accepts the decision of the court he may be transferred to Portsmouth soon or should the department order the investigation of the other charges, or any of them, he may be held here.

Pettit, who was on former transits to and from the court allowed to walk free, scowled when after sentence Constable Shipley manacled him for the return trip to the castle. 

Pettit was a clever boy at school. He was educated as a veterinary surgeon and is reported to have had he essentials of a successful pracitioner. 

A. A. Winter, K.C., who at the request of the court defended Pettit made out the best defense ible for his client offer by way of istance. He watched procedure closely and registered objections at very point that might redound for the benefit of his client.

[badass-at-fandoming]

Who is "The Girl" from Dazai's Route?

[TW discussions of suicide]

When I read Dazai Osamu's route in Ikemen Vampire, I knew I was in for a very sad story. The historical figure didn't have an easy life. Lo and behold, Dazai tells MC about an incredibly tragic incident from his past.

Because the incident is so heartrending (and because he's Dazai and this is What He Does), Dazai reveals his past in the form of a story. Though the story's protagonist is obviously him, complete with sprite, he refers to the protagonist as "The Man." The other character in the story is called "The Girl." Her name is never revealed. After a troubled childhood, the Man becomes an author. The Girl is a big fan of his work. When she spots the Man drinking at the bar she works at, she's delighted. She approaches her idol and praises his work for how it manages to capture the torture and travails of her own inner life. The Man accepts her praise, and the pair become best friends.

However, company isn't enough for their misery. Being poor and disabled fucking sucks. After her father hits her one night, the Girl proposes a lovers' suicide to the Man, and the Man pretends to go along with it. Instead of buying poison, he buys sleeping pills, and on purpose doesn't give her a lethal dose. The pair fall asleep. The Man wakes up, but the Girl doesn't—she figured out his deception and ate the remainder of the pills. The Man is riddled with guilt, even though her actions aren't his fault.

During my initial read, I assumed "The Girl," like "The Man," was a real historical person. Dazai is based on Dazai-san, so she must be based off someone too, right? Nope! I read a whole biography of Dazai-san's life, and it turns out she's an amalgamation of several people.

As we know, Dazai-san had extremely poor mental health. He attempted suicide four times—the second and fourth time with others. The fifth time he and his lover died.

1929 - attempted sleeping pill overdose

1930 - attempted suicide with Tanabe Shimeko by throwing themselves into the sea at Kamakura. Tanabe-dono died.

1933 - attempted to hang himself in Kamakura

1936 - attempted sleeping pill overdose with his ex-wife Oyama Hatsuyo. Both survived.

1948 - committed lovers' suicide with Yamazaki Tomie by throwing themselves into the Tamagawa Canal

Let's go over the double suicides one-by-one. 1930 was not a good year for Dazai-san. In spring, he'd moved to Tokyo to study French Literature at the Imperial University and learned upon arrival that, due to his family's status, his degree would be handed to him regardless of his own efforts. A budding Communist, Dazai-san found this state of affairs deeply offensive and discouraging. While he had his own apartment, Dazai-san lived in walking distance to his brother. Previously, the brothers had a distant relationship, but being neighbors encouraged them to steadily become closer—until his brother abruptly sickened and died.

The loneliness of a new place, meaninglessness of his studies, his brother's death, and his fragile mental health already did not make for a good situation. By his second university semester, Dazai-san gave up attending classes. He met up with an old high school friend, Oyama Hatsuyo, and they fell in love. Dazai-san petitioned his family for permission to marry Oyama-dono, but they instead forcibly separated the couple. Dazai-san was left alone in Tokyo, and promptly imploded.

By "imploded," I mean like, performed a bunch of risk-taking behaviors like excessive drinking, drugs, and unprotected sex. During this period, he met Tanabe Shimeko. Because the biographer was a little shitty, I don't know a lot about her besides that she was a hostess at a bar that Dazai-san and other writers frequented. And she was miserable. When Dazai-san received the news that the University was to expel him, he agreed to Tanabe-dono's proposal to commit suicide together. The couple traveled to Kamakura and threw themselves off a cliff.

"The Girl" from Ikemen and Tanabe-dono both work at bars, and both befriend Dazai-san during a period of poor mental health. While Dazai-san hadn't yet written the works he's most famous for, it's conceivable that Tanabe-dono had read his few short stories. Her fan status is unclear.

The next joint suicide was with Oyama-dono, and it contains the same sleeping pill scenario as in the Ikemen flashback story. Unsurprisingly, 1936 was another terrible year. Like, almost cinematically bad. After publishing an essay about how much he loved his friends, said friends trapped Dazai-san in a mental institution. Like, they told him "hey, let's have a writer retreat at this resort," and he didn't realize what has happening until he heard the key turn in the lock. Granted, Dazai-san had a terrible morphine addiction which needed to be treated, but. My God. He spent a month locked in a room, dealing with the withdrawal.

Dazai-san could further not catch a break when his wife Oyama-dono cheated on him with one of his friends, Kodate-san. Literally right after he got out of the mental institution, she informed Dazai-san of the affair, and asked his blessing to marry Kodate-san. He said okay because what else ya gonna do at that point. Unfortunately for literally everyone, Kodate-san and Oyama-dono's marriage didn't last. Kodate-san dumped her, and she ran back to Dazai-san, begging him to help her die. Dazai-san agreed.

The biographer argued here that Dazai-san didn't want Oyama-dono to die. He loved her deeply, and for years, remember. The biographer argued that Dazai-san bungled the sleeping pill dose on purpose. Later, Dazai-san wrote a short story (which I sadly don't remember the title of) which is heavily based on this incident with Oyama-dono. In that story the husband purposefully lets the wife live. The Ikemen scenario borrows this plot beat too, but "The Girl" is totally different from Oyama-dono.

The last relevant incident is the one that ended Dazai-san's life, so, as one might guess, it doesn't share a lot with the Ikemen story. Honestly one of the scariest aspects of Dazai-san's life, for me, is how he was able to hold it together through all of World War II. He survived all the bombing and trauma by telling his daughter fairy tales in their bomb shelter. It's when the war ended he fell apart.

At the time of his death, Dazai-san had a wife Michiko Ishihara, two mistresses, and four children—two of whom were a year old. One mistress was Ōta Shizuko. Similar to "The Girl" in Ikemen, she was a Dazai-san super fan who specifically sought the author out. She offered him her diary to use as writing material, which Dazai-san transmogrified into The Setting Sun, arguably his most famous novel.

It's with the second mistress, Yamazaki Tomie, that Dazai decided to die with. Yamazaki-dono was beautician and war widow. Abandoning Michiko-dono and Ōta-dono, he moved into with Yamazaki-dono. Besides the fact that Dazai-san wrote like he was possessed, I don't know a ton about their time together. They died.

Taking in the facts of Dazai-san's life, "The Girl" shares DNA with several real people. She has Tanabe-dono's occupation, and the fake-out suicide method Dazai-san chose for Oyama-dono. Ōta's fanaticism of Dazai-san and his work lend to her character. It's not as easy to discern who gave The Girl her poor mental health and bad family life—mostly because multiple of these women had those. One doesn't think about self-annihilation when one's feeling great.

I went into Dazai's flashback sequence thinking we were getting a real historical event, but what I got was possibly more in tune with the Dazai Osamu experience. Many, many of Dazai-san's works are semi-autobiographical—and that "semi-" has haunted fans and scholars for decades. Deciding what's truth and what's fiction is part of the fun. In the introduction to his English translation of Ningen Shikkaku, Mark Gibeau notes that the novel tantalizes readers with how it plays with the myths surrounding Dazai-san's life. In true Dazai-san tradition, Ikemen Vampire does the same.

[pollyna]

au: they fly black ops only, Carole lives, non linear narrative [WIP?]

Monday morning starts with coffee, chocolate cereal and the realisation that's already been two years and Mav can't remember how to sleep alone. It's '89, they're on a carrier in the middle of a ocean (he forgot which), the Berlin Wall is just a step from collapsing and Ice is napping against his shoulder. They are part of a squadron of a squadron and the patch is made with terrible colors and Mav hates it with all his heart. He said that so many times Slider has to draw him a new one just to shut him up.

By the end of the year Merlin will send a card wishing them the best, which should be?, and Ron is going to be on is way to Miramar with a leg so broken the doctors couldn't count the pieces. But for now is still Monday, still May, still drinking shitty coffee, still in the middle of a random fucking ocean Mav can't remember the name of and Ice is still napping against his shoulder. One saving grace in the middle of it all.

(They started flying this kind of mission, the one no report wants to really talk about, in the middle of the winter of the '87, between two different assignments and the worst case of flu Bradley ever registered in the history of I'm not sick Uncle Mav!. It had been fun, fast and full of adrenaline and Mav had love every moment of it. Ice had too, probably.)

1991 opens with new jets and new specs on their structure, strength and weakens all packed in a week long seminary where they have to wear black suit and tie, no alcohol allowed and they can't even use their callsign. It's where they both met Mr. Coleman and his petite wife. They are shipped out at the end of the seven days, flying on single sitter jets in a squadron with a nice patch that will come back, come back to me, with half of the men and women it was deployed with. The funerals are going to be silent promises and tears of never ever letting something like that happening again and empty casket will be send back to America to grieving families. Iceman packs their bags when the leave comes up and they're back to Bradley and Carole for a months and then some. Ron is okay now, legs under his desk and mouthing order around TOP GUN like he was born for it. Nobody can complain much, all things considered.

It's a new decade and there's hope because it's the last one before the beginning of a new century and Mav kisses Ice just a day their leave and Ice kiss him back, on a balcony that gives on a beach full of people.

(Tom is kissing Pete every morning, day and night, since 1987. It's been four years and it still makes his stomach hurt in the best of ways.)

The two years that follow are a constant moving from a carrier to a base to a carrier to a base and all of it again every other week. After the second time that happens they stopped taking their stuff out of their bags and quartermasters stopped giving them a room with other two people in. A room big enough for two, a single bed not big enough for one and Mav sleeping half on Ice and half on the materass. Sharing shirts and learning how to sew because the laundry is for military stuff not your stupid shirts Mitchell! They have to take away patches from their uniform and Pete buys them jackets, a jeans and a leather one, to not loose them. Jakie, from the last squadron of '93, makes a personalised hoodie for Iceman's birthday and Mav procedures to wear it every day until they don't touch the ground in December. It makes Pete angry and jealous in a way he never felt before. But they talk about it, they are pretty good to this day when they need to fix stuff, and Ice let him have the hoodie because it looks better on you, love. They're too far from home to be back in the USA to celebrate the holidays with the Bradshaw or even with Ron but they find a little hotel in the middle of Warsaw and Pete has the opportunity, and the privilege, to see, and hear, Tom speaking in his native tongue while being feed with delicious food.

'94 is a strange year that starts with Ron announcing his engagement, continuing with their current base position going up in flame (quiet literally), a new squadron based in the desert and then relocated by the sea, homemade cookies the commander buys in a shop that's more a hole in a wall than anything else, and the rumor of a promotion that never arrives.

(It won't the last time. If '94 should have been a promotion for both of them, '97, '00 and '02 should have been just for Ice. Between '98 and '99 Ice is going to look Admiral Cain in the eyes and almost punch him in the face. He won't punch the man but the desk will need to be replaced. I'm not American enough, in their eyes, my speaking an easter Europe language scares the hell out of them, I'm Jewish and gay Mav, they only reason they don't kick me out of the Navy is because we do things up there nobody is capable off.

At 46, when they'll retrire from active duty, Hondo will put on a ceremony to give them their medals. A four and a two stars Admirals who are going to celebrate with their family empty titles with little meaning for them.)

'94 ends with both of them in the hospital because the enemy hit both of them, a long year of therapy to be dealt with, Ron who announced he isn't going to get married anymore and a twelve years old Bradley that spends hours playing the piano and reading out loud weird science facts.

[aliassinvestigations]

ZERO HOUR

24 HOURS TILL ZERO HOUR

Child investigations were the worst for her. The depravity and secrets under the veil of a loving family always revealed themselves to her. You didn't have to dig deeply to find them either, you only needed to know where to look to find it.

Jessica sat in her apartment reading over hospital records she gathered. Broken wrist, concussion, cracked rib. It was a telltale sign of domestic violence, at least the doctor wasn't stupid enough to brush it over as "kids being kids." Child Protective Services did little to help the situation, their involvement seemed to escalate the dangerous homelife.

Now the mother was in the wind and the dad was a drunken mess trying to find the bitch that killed their son. Here she was, doing just that. She'd find the woman and turn her in. Jessica went to pour another drink, not even a buzz and she was half way through her Jack. They were either watering down their product or her tolerance was getting stronger, either way it sucked.

Picking up another a list of bank records, she looked between two notes made on a strange transaction. Her brows furrowed and she reached in her pocket for her phone. It didn't make sense, why buy three plane tickets for only one person? The dad said he went out on a business trip...

"Hello, this is Sarah Jane with Think Tech's accounting department," She forced a cheery tone, with just a hint of pep. "I'm going over Mr. Smith's books here, and I want to confirm a couple of transactions. It shows here on his statement last month he purchased three plane tickets for five hundred and sixty four dollars, were those tickets for wife and child?" Just as she thought. She thanked the airline receptionist and hung up. So, the bastard still had contact with them after all. She got up from her desk and finished her glass in one swig. Time to go have a little chat with the alleged "grieving father."

She found him at his home but made no move to engage. Instead she sat on a wall across the street, binoculars in hand, watching his behavior through the window. He was laughing at some shit on TV, a petite redhead snuggled up with him having the time of his life. Had the mother been beating the kid as he proclaimed? Doubt it. Watching the couple on the couch painted a different narrative to Jessica.

She had to find the mother, the sooner she did the faster she'd know what happened to the boy. Should she confront him now or tomorrow, the thought rattled in her head. Jessica hopped off the wall and walked down the street; now wasn't the time. She didn't have enough to corner his ass with. If she was going to nail him for child abuse, she wanted it to hurt like hell. She took a couple of shots of him and the redhead kissing, then, left for home.

Her walk home was peaceful, the night air wreaked of smog and filth, in a way it was tranquil. Jessica popped into a liquor store as she turned right at one of the intersections. Might as well try something other than Jack, it wasn't giving her the same warmth and haze as it did six months ago.

She walked up to the counter and placed a twenty down. "Give me the cheapest 100 proof shit you got." Time to up the anti. The guy gave her a dirty look but turned and grabbed her some vodka. Jessica scrunched her nose, practically tasting the astringent bitter taste. She could clean her tub with that paint thinner. She paid for it no less, it got the job done right so what did she care?

A scream ripped from an alleyway across the street, Jessica rolled her eyes and cursed. So much for going straight home, she turned on her heel and ran across the street. A mugger shoved a young girl to the ground, she clung to her purse screaming.

Jessica came up behind him and grabbed the back of his head slamming him face first into the wall, his nose popped and he cried in pain. She looked down at the terrified blonde who sat there wide eyed, "Go! Run!" She bolted leaving the asshole for her to deal with.

She spun him to face her, his nose gushing down his face. Jessica wanted to give him some quip about praying on kids, instead she reared back and with the totality of her strength smashed a fist-sized hole in the concrete next to his ear. Her look deadly as she sneered, "next time, I won't miss." She dropped him, watching him scurry off into the depths of the alley. Jessica growled and looked down at her torn up hand, he wasn't worth her bloodied knuckles yet she was still pissed. Sick of taking teen and child cases, yet they were pouring in and paying her bills. It made her sick some nights, thinking her income came from those cases. She was helping people, that's what she told herself as she downed herself in the liquor. But it making a difference? No, not really. Those families would still be haunted by their tragedies, they'd never be the same no matter how hard she worked to close those cases and make things better.

The moment Jessica's door closed, she pulled the bottle from the brown paper bag and twisted off the cap. She tossed in the trash with the tower of empty liquor and beer bottles. Instead of grabbing a glass, she drank from the bottle, a glass would slow her down. She paced her apartment and went to the bathroom to tend to her scrapped knuckles.

The next night was like the last. Working day and night with one thought in mind, where was the boy's body if he was dead.

[chatonne-rousse]

Turtle-y Awesome

@sketchy-panda sent me the following ask last week:

...and this is the story that sprang from that ask. You never know what you're going to get when you share a headcanon with me! 😉

Read it on Ao3 here.

"...et puit, quand il fut bien certain que personne ne pouvait le voir, Benjamin alluma sa veilleuse."

Adrien turns the last worn page and sets the book beside his knee on Hugo's bed.

"What do you think, kitten? Benjamin was turtle-y being a scaredy-cat, wasn't he?"

Hugo giggles, eyes bright. "He's not a cat, Papa, he's a turtle!"

Adrien nods sagely at his son. "Right you are," he says, patting the book's cover. "If this book tortoise anything, it's that Benjamin is definitely a turtle."

The number of turtle puns in the world is finite, and Hugo has heard his dad tell them all repeatedly, but he still laughs every time. The sound is music to Adrien's ears. He grins as he leans down to tuck the duvet around Hugo's shoulders and lifts his son's dark fringe to place a kiss on his forehead.

"Can we read another story, Papa? I'm not even tired."

Hugo's big green eyes scrunch shut as he yawns widely.

"Mmhmm. I can tell. You know what?" Adrien grabs another stuffed turtle from the bookcase and tucks it in beside the Carapace plushie already cradled in Hugo's arms. "Monsieur Vert looks very tired. He was almost sleeping over there! Maybe if you hold him really, really gently, that will help him fall asleep. I'm sure Carapace is tuckered out after a long day of superheroing, too."

"He is," Hugo says, nodding. He strokes his little hand up and over Monsieur Vert's soft shell. "I'll help them, Papa."

Adrien smiles even as his chest squeezes with emotion. "I know you will, my kind-hearted kitten." He can't resist pressing another kiss to Hugo's forehead and delights in receiving a loud, smacking kiss to his own cheek in return.

The turtle lamp on the nightstand is switched off and the Carapace nightlight beside the bookshelf activates, dim light glowing green through the plastic.

"Bonne nuit, ma petite tortue."

He watches his son cuddle his turtle and Carapace close as the closing door slowly eclipses the bed in shadow from the hallway light. Leaving the door open a crack, Adrien listens for a moment as Hugo gets comfortable in his bed.

He smiles as he pads down the hall toward Emma's room to join his wife for another round of goodnight kisses for their precious kittens.

*****

"Kitty, this is getting ridiculous. How is that the only thing he wants for his birthday?" Marinette shakes her head, but her grin betrays her lack of any real annoyance.

Adrien rubs his face and groans. "I know. Believe me, I know. Can you imagine if Nino knew?"

That surprises her. "You haven't told him? I told Alya ages ago when he said Carapace was his favorite." She thinks for a moment. "I don't think I've shared the, um...depth of the obsession, though."

He stares at her, deadpan, before they both laugh.

"Turtles I could handle, Mari. They're cute. They're green." He bats his eyes at her and she swats his arm playfully. "But Carapace? Carapace? When Chat Noir is right there? I don't get it."

"Awww, Chaton. Is my kitty jealous?"

"Of course not," he says, pouting, though he can't keep up the ruse and his smile breaks through. "Okay, maybe a little."

"Nino made a wonderful hero, and is the perfect holder for Wayzz, and you know it."

She scooches closer to him on the sofa and rubs his back gently. His eyes close for just a moment before opening them to find his wife gazing at him with what might just be his favorite look in her eyes - a teasing glint, a touch of heat, and an endless well of love. Everything goes fuzzy momentarily, but he catches her next words clearly.

"Besides, my favorite hero will always be Chat Noir. Always."

"Yeah?" he breathes.

She nods.

Her eyes go wide when he hauls her petite frame from the sofa beside him and settles her across his lap. She laughs as she wraps her arms around his neck and presses a kiss to his lips.

"What a coincidence, My Lady," he murmurs into the whisper of space between them, "because my favorite hero--" He pauses, kissing her again, "is also Chat Noir."

There's a beat of silence and then she's laughing, pressing her face into the crook of his neck to muffle her giggles. His arms tighten around her shaking shoulders as he laughs along with her, swept away by the sweet sound he will always love. There's no joy in the world quite like making his wife laugh.

"You know I'm kidding, Bug," he finally whispers into her hair when their laughter subsides. "Emma and I share a favorite hero. The greatest of all. Prettiest, too. Oh, wow, is she ever beautiful. And strong. And smart."

"Rena Rouge?" Marinette asks cheekily, her nose still pressed to his neck.

"Nooooo," he croons, tickling her sides until she laughs again. "It's Ladybug, jumping above, Lady magique et lady chance!"

"Kitty, no!" she begs through her giggles, "Don't get that in my head!"

"Too late!"

He silences the last of her laughter when he captures her lips with his, twin sighs mingling in the late-night quiet of the living room.

With forever in his arms and their shared future asleep down the hall, Adrien simply loses himself in this blissful moment, forgetting that their baby will turn five next weekend, that the passage of time is as inevitable as the dichotomy of creation and destruction. Wrapped up in his wife, time seems to stop altogether. Marinette - her love, her care, their unshakeable bond - is eternal.

But of course, the clock still ticks. And when they part a few minutes later, after one last kiss and a nuzzle of her nose against his, he still has to ask.

"So we're really throwing Hugo a Carapace-themed birthday party?"

She nods. "Yep."

"And we're buying him the new Shell-ter Secret Hideout Super Bunker, complete with Carapace action figure, power-ups, costume changes, a Turtle-mobile sports car that Nino never had, and four different colored shields that he also never had?"

"There's a jet, too, for some reason. But...yep."

Adrien nods slowly, a smile spreading across his face. "He's going to love it."

"Oh, he is," she affirms, her grin matching her husband's. "And so is Uncle Nino."

He snorts a laugh and pulls her close once more, breathing in the familiar scent of her shampoo.

"This'll be hilarious."

Marinette smiles against his shoulder.

"Yep."

*****

Everything is green.

Their normally colorful apartment seems to have transformed into an emerald dreamscape that doubles as a turtle sanctuary.

Everything is green, and there are turtles everywhere.

Sea turtles, tortoises, turtles of all kinds - including a certain turtle-themed superhero - adorn every surface. Adrien had been surprised by the amount of Carapace party merchandise he was able to find online. He's used to the numerous Carapace items in Hugo's bedroom, pieces he's added to his collection one by one over the past year or so. But this, his best friend's face dangling from streamers, emblazoned on little party hats, is just a little weird.

He's proud, though. A little jealous, a lot amused, and very, very proud. No desperately sad, pitifully lonely teenage boy has ever found a better friend than Nino Lahiffe. He's the brother of his heart, the mellow to his anxious, the staunch protector of their little group of best friends and hero teammates. Adrien has to admit that Hugo has great taste in favorite superheroes.

Someday he'll discover that his idol is also his Uncle Nino, but today is not that day. Today, the magic and wonder still shines in his son's eyes, and it's a beautiful thing.

Adrien putters around the kitchen making last-minute preparations to the food and drink selection, making sure there are plenty of cups and plates (all printed with a Carapace action scene, of course) stacked on the island. Oddly, he couldn't find Carapace napkins to go along with the other paper goods, but Marinette had saved the day by snagging a pack of sea turtle patterned napkins that coordinated perfectly in a pinch.

He smiles at the thought of his resourceful bug, his grin widening as he hears her welcome guests at the door. This is followed by a squeal of glee when Hugo and two of his classmates run off to his bedroom to play. Adrien shakes his head, still smiling. He'll have to lure them out in a bit with snacks and the promise of gifts and cake.

It's not like he doesn't already know from several years of experience that children's birthday parties are mostly adults mingling and intermittently making sure the kids don't get into too much mischief as they play together.

He takes the spinach quiche from the oven where it was warming up and sets it on the table with the other food, rebelliously placing a black potholder with a neon green pawprint pattern under the hot ceramic dish.

A towering, tiered tray of green macarons has pride of place on the dining room table, the top half of each cookie painted to look like a turtle's shell in edible glittering gold. They look almost too pretty to eat, and the same goes for the expertly-decorated turtle cake nearby, made by Hugo's grandparents and brought straight from the bakery for his big day.

The vegetable plate is an array of green, from broccoli to peppers to celery. The party has barely begun, but the celery is already running low, thanks to Emma's clandestine snacking in the hours beforehand.

Everything is green, and Hugo loves it. And that's what it's all about, really.

*****

Adrien is on his way back from checking in on the now half dozen kids playing in Hugo's room when he hears Alya's laughter from the entryway. Clearly she's spotted the party decor. He rounds the corner to find Marinette hugging her best friend, Alya's pregnant belly only getting in the way a bit and not stopping her from throwing her arms around Marinette's shoulders.

"Sorry we're late, Mari," she says, then pitches her voice to a stage whisper. "I had to pee. Twice." She leans back from the hug and cradles her bump. "Actually, I'm just going to..." She points down the hall, and Marinette laughs.

"Go for it, Als. We've all been there."

Nino is still crouched by the door, helping his daughter out of her jacket and shoes. He just shakes his head and laughs. She races off to find her "cousins" and Nino stands, kissing Marinette on each cheek and wrapping Adrien in a hug.

Surveying the apartment over Adrien's shoulder, he claps him on the back and says, "I love what you've done with the place. Very inspired design choice."

Adrien rolls his eyes and all three of them laugh.

"Hugo is obsessed with turtles. You have no idea."

"Oh, I think he has some idea, Minou." Marinette smiles at her husband over her shoulder, linking arms with Alya when she joins them again and ushering her into the green-bedecked living room.

He glances sidelong at Nino with a sheepish grin. "This isn't too weird for you, is it? It was all Hugo's idea. He hasn't stopped talking about his 'Carapace Turtle Party' for weeks," Adrien says, air quotes included.

"Nah, mec, it's cool. Kind of flattering." Nino raises an eyebrow and laughs. "What do you think he'll say when you tell him someday?"

Adrien just shakes his head. "Probably ask if you can adopt him and be his dad instead." His smile is teasing but just a touch rueful.

Nino laughs again. "No way, man. Number one, I've already got enough kids. Number two, you're the best dad. They love you like crazy, bro. Seriously."

His chest fills with warmth. Nino is such an incredible friend. And he's right (about the last bit, at least).

"They're incredible, Nino. Being a dad is..." He trails off, unable to find the words.

"I know, dude." He claps Adrien on the shoulder. "They're a pain in the ass, but they make up for it by being totally awesome."

Nino glances around, finally spotting the table full of green food and turtle-themed treats.

"Wait. Bro. Is that a turtle cake?"

*****

"You know," Nino says a few minutes later, washing down a matcha macaron with a swig of turtle punch, "I could get used to this. It would mess with my head, but after a while--" he looks at the cup with his face on it and shrugs, "it's not so strange. Better than having my face plastered on a billboard outside the Galeries Lafayette."

Adrien groans. "Et tu, Brute? Why would you remind me of that?"

"Because I can." Nino takes another bite of macaron and nudges his best friend's shoulder, laughing.

*****

As the kids snack and carry on, Adrien finally decides it's time to let his best friend see the Carapace shrine that is his son's bedroom.

Nino takes in Hugo's completely green, turtle-filled bedroom as Adrien waits with bated breath beside him for his reaction.

It is, as usual, relatively chill.

"Little dude has good taste!"

"Indeed." Wayzz peeks from Nino's collar with a pleased smile on his face. "The turtle has always symbolized wisdom, strength, and longevity." His tiny smile widens. "I'm also partial to the color green."

Nino steps farther into Hugo's room to examine the bookcase. "I...did not know they made this much Carapace merch."

"Believe me, there's more. We have to draw the line somewhere." Adrien closes his eyes and sighs. "Although he does brush his teeth with a Carapace toothbrush."

Nino's laugh starts as a snort and builds when he spots the Carapace wastebasket beside Hugo's bed and the Carapace plushie propped against his pillow. It turns positively raucous when he sees his best friend's face.

"Holy crap, dude," he wheezes. "This is hilarious. You must be so jealous."

"I am not!"

"You totally are."

"Well--" Adrien sputters, "Marinette is, too!"

"Not as much as you are, Kitty!" she calls from the living room.

Adrien throws his hands in the air. Nino doubles over.

"Chat Noir is cool, too," he mutters, petulant.

A still-laughing Nino pats his arm consolingly. "If it makes you feel any better, Chat Noir is my favorite hero...after Rena Rouge."

That actually does make him feel better, but he's not telling Nino that. Instead, he just grins a sly half-smile at his best friend. "Good save, man."

"Hey, I know which side my bread is buttered on, mec. Don't act like you don't."

Adrien is helpless to the smile that spreads across his face.

Nino groans. "You've been married for seven years, dude. Are you ever not going to go all gooey just thinking about Marinette?"

Adrien quirks an eyebrow and glances sidelong at him. Nino nods once and pats Adrien's shoulder.

"That was a dumb question, wasn't it?"

"Yep," Marinette says from the hallway behind them.

Adrien's heart beats faster at the twinkle in her eye. He wonders how much she heard. Probably all of it - she always did have sonic hearing, but motherhood seemed to ramp it up to eleven. Not much escapes his wife.

"Time for cake and presents," she announces. "Nino, you can revel in Hugo's Carapace shrine later."

"And I will, don't you worry," Nino says with a laugh as he turns to head back to the party.

Adrien throws an arm over his best friend's shoulder and smiles brightly at Marinette.

Hugo has merch, but Adrien has a real, live Ladybug who promised eternity to her Chat Noir. He holds his own favorite superhero in his arms every night, and nothing, nothing compares to that.

*****

Surrounded by wrapping paper and bows, the birthday boy sits on the floor with one last gift in front of him. The box is taller than he is when seated, and he has to stand up on his knees to tear the paper off the top. As soon as he can see what's inside, he shouts with glee and jumps to his feet. Overjoyed, he scampers around the coffee table to his parents, first thanking Marinette with a hug and kiss, then getting swept up in Adrien's arms for a bear hug.

The fact that Hugo doesn't push away from him to return to his barely-unwrapped gift is not lost on him, nor is the fact that he abandoned it and thought to thank them first in his excitement.

Sometimes Adrien feels like he's been given so much more than he deserves. Marinette alone is a blessing beyond his imagination, but Emma and Hugo, too? It's too much and he knows it, so he holds them close and relishes every single moment like this one with his little boy hugging him tight and murmuring thanks into his neck.

A few minutes later finds Hugo examining every detail of his new treasure (after Adrien wrangled all the parts out of their plastic-encased prison).

He claps his hands when he sees that this set comes with a bonus Chat Noir action figure in addition to Carapace and his shields of many colors.

"Maman!" he cries, jubilant, holding Chat Noir above his head so she can see. "Look! It has Chat Noir! You love Chat Noir!"

Blushing, Marinette pointedly avoids looking in the direction of the two moms of Hugo's school friends who've stayed for the party but smiles widely at her son. "I do. He's my favorite superhero of all time."

Hugo nods, turning to his dad where he sits beside him on the floor, struggling to snip the tiny plastic anchors holding each piece to the cardboard backing.

"See, Papa? He's Carapace's sidekick."

"Hey!" Adrien says indignantly. He looks up from the mess of cardboard and plastic in his lap as Marinette, Alya, and Nino laugh.

Nino, best bro that he is, chimes in. "Nah, little man, Chat Noir is no one's sidekick. He's way too brave and cool for that." He grins at Hugo and points first to the Carapace action figure on the coffee table and then to Chat Noir in his hand. "They're a team. Best friends and superheroes at the same time. That's why they're so awesome."

Hugo looks at the Chat Noir figure for a long moment. "Wow," he breathes. "Chat Noir is as cool as Carapace." He says it like a revelation that's rocked his entire worldview.

Alya sniffles and Marinette hands her a tissue.

"Okay, but Ladybug is still the coolest," Emma pipes up from Hugo's other side.

All the adults besides Marinette nod. Adrien reaches around Hugo to pat Emma's back.

"You're absolutely correct, kitten."

Marinette blushes again and Alya blows her nose.

Hugo tucks Carapace into the driver's seat of the Turtle-mobile with Chat Noir beside him as his passenger, racing the sports car across the rug toward his friends so they can play with his new toys, too.

Adrien looks from his son to his own best friend, and Nino gives him a thumbs up and a grin.

*****

Later, when the dishes are washed and their living room looks slightly less like a turtle habitat, Adrien sits on the sofa with a cup of tea and watches Hugo play with his new, treasured birthday gifts. The Shell-ter Secret Hideout Super Bunker is open, its many accessories strewn around Hugo where he sits cross-legged, Carapace in his left hand and Chat Noir in his right.

"I'll protect you!" "Carapace" cries, Hugo's voice pitched to sound brave and true but still carrying his sweet child's tone.

"Thank you for keeping My Lady safe, Carapace!"

Adrien snorts a surprised laugh into his tea. "Chat Noir" speaks in a husky growl, though Hugo gives him a note of cheery confidence, as though he truly appreciates Carapace's brave deeds, as though Chat Noir can take the decisive cataclysmic swing knowing his beloved partner is safe from harm.

And honestly, Hugo has the right of it. Adrien wonders how his son could possibly know that this exact scene - with slightly different dialogue, of course - played out many times over, years before he was born.

Hugo mimics the sound of an explosion, then an "oof!" as Chat Noir falls to his back but springs up again quickly. Just as Carapace returns to Chat's side with a confident, "What can I do to help save the day, Chat Noir?", Marinette's hands snake around Adrien's shoulders from behind, surprising him.

He sets his mug on a coaster on the end table and wraps his hands around her forearms, pulling her in closer. Leaned over the back of the sofa, she nuzzles his cheek with hers before pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth.

"I think we pulled off the dream turtle party pretty well, don't you, Chaton?"

"Oh, we turtle-y did."

Adrien delights in the huff of laughter she exhales against his cheek. That might be the most overused pun in the house, but sometimes it still lands just right. They watch Hugo play, matching grins making their cheeks press closer together.

"Looks like that was one shell of a gift, eh?"

He swoons dramatically, his head falling to the back cushion of the sofa so he looks at Marinette upside-down. "My Lady, you know what it does to me when you pun."

"Oh, I do," she says, completely unapologetic, and boops his nose.

He just has to lean up to kiss her because, well, she's so beautiful and he loves her so much and she's right there.

They break apart a moment later when they hear Emma call for Marinette from her bedroom. She plants one last upside-down kiss on his forehead and lets her hands drift slowly across his chest and shoulders as she stands.

She gives him a wry smile. "Duty calls."

"Hmmm," he hums thoughtfully, picking up his tea and taking another sip. "And here I thought her name was Emma."

Marinette groans at him as she walks away, and the sound catches Hugo's attention.

"Papa? Will you play superheroes with me?"

Of course. Always. I will never, ever be too busy for my kittens, he thinks.

"Sure, buddy," he says instead.

Finishing his tea in one big gulp, he slides from the sofa and scampers on hands and knees like a giant cat to where his son is playing. Hugo giggles at his dad's ridiculousness.

Adrien takes stock of the many accessories scattered around the play set and asks, "What are Chat Noir and Carapace up to today?"

Hugo explains the situation, the bad guy's motives, and what the heroes need to do to save Paris from disaster. Adrien listens carefully. Looking up at him with green eyes that match his own, big and wide and crinkled at the corners with his happy smile, Hugo offers the Chat Noir action figure to his dad.

"Will you be Chat Noir, Papa? He's Carapace's best friend in the world and they need to work together to save the day."

Adrien cradles the action figure in one hand and gently pats the pocket where Plagg hides with the other. His kwami presses a paw against his chest in return. Overwhelmed, all he can do is grin at Hugo and try not to cry.

"It would be my greatest honor," he vows grandly, holding up a hand in oath. "I purr-omise to be the best hero I can be. Cat's honor."

Hugo laughs. "You said honor twice."

"So I did. That's because it's very important."

His son nods solemnly, then reaches for Carapace's super jet. He places the hero in the cockpit and flies the jet around his head, making zooming noises.

"Are you ready, Chat Noir? I'm coming to pick you up!"

The jet has only one seat, but that doesn't seem to bother Hugo. Adrien readies the tiny plastic baton in Chat Noir's hand and uses it to vault from his own knee into the imaginary sky over Paris.

"Meow-velous!" he crows, delighted. "This cat is ready to be whiskered away in your very realistic jet! Allons-y, my turtle friend!"

Hugo giggles, Adrien's heart melts, and they set off on a grand adventure together.

[txemrn]

Happy (belated) Mother's Day! Book: TNA Warning: THIS IS PURE SELF-INDULGENCE! I decided to take some time and a) make Sam Dalton lovely and b) not kill off a certain handsome king; but fair warning, this is filled with fluffity-fluff-fluff with smidges of angst; discussion of infertility and maternal loss Song Inspiration: "We Thought You'd Be Here" by Wes King A/N: This is part of the Schuyler-Dalton Chronicles (Check out "Once... Always..." the mini-series that started it all); the characters belong to Pixelberry; I stole a quote from one of the greatest Christmas movies of all time 🎄; I am not perfect: I take full responsibility for all of my spelling and grammatical mistakes; I'm hoping you can ignore them and enjoy the story! 💗

Before the brilliant rays of the Sunday morning sun could greet the New York City skyline, Brynn stares aimlessly at the vaulted ceiling of the master suite. Although she physically craves rest, the clattering commotion of her congested thoughts keep her restless and exhausted.

Frustrated with her inability to calm her nerves, she quietly crawls out of bed, being careful not to disturb her peacefully sleeping husband. She retrieves his discarded pinstripe button-up shirt from the floor, and wraps it around her exposed body. After snatching her phone from the nightstand, she tip-toes cautiously across the wooden floor to the ensuite bathroom.

Staring at her abdomen in the mirror, the all-too-familiar excitement laced with sheer dread latches heavily onto her heart. Her breathing labors, loudly thundering in her ears; a sour uneasiness pours through her nerves, settling on her queasy stomach. She tenderly cradles her belly. Her fingers brush across the flattened contours of her healthy physique until they rest curiously on two tiny, flesh-colored scars: the remnants of a pregnancy that simply wasn't meant to be.

"Are you there, little one?" She whispers hopefully. She endearingly hugs her tummy once more fighting back tears from the painful emptiness she has felt many times before.

But, maybe this time was different.

Brynn turns to her digital calendar to ensure that this wasn't in vain, that there was a reason she was doing this today of all days.

She clicks her tongue on the side of her mouth. "The first day… that was the third," she mumbles to herself, "which makes today... one, two, three, ah! Four days late."

She fills a crystal tumbler with water before locking herself into their opulent water closet. Taking one last massive swallow of the room temperature fluid, she tears into the bright pink box. Without giving it another thought, she tosses the printed directions and plastic wrappers into the wastebasket as she places the apparatus between her legs. She knows the routine; this is far from her first pregnancy test.

Before Sam and Brynn married four years ago, the discussion of having more children created much discord between the couple. Entering his forties, Sam was satisfied with having just his twin boys, Mickey and Mason. They were growing older with flourishing social and academic schedules; keeping up with them alone was challenging. Sam's line of work wasn't slowing down anytime soon, especially with the couple's meditated decision to buy out their shares from Dalton Enterprises to start their own company projected during their first year of marriage.

Brynn was still youthful, ending her twenties by becoming a Dalton with her childhood dreams still intact: getting married and starting a family. She adored Sam's boys, quickly and naturally claiming them as her own; but, a large part of her desire was to become a mom biologically, to carry a child created by her and her beloved.

After experiencing a tragic ectopic pregnancy early in their relationship that almost cost Brynn's life, Sam's heart softened to the idea of having another child. He saw the depth of Brynn's broken heart; he felt the depth of his own humanity, facing the possibility of losing the love of his life. Again.

Somehow having the last word about the size of their family didn't matter to Sam anymore. Conceiving would be difficult, but they agreed to cherish the journey together, whether the family expanded or not.

The shattering of crystal startles Sam awake. With one eye peeking open, he inspects the empty disheveled sheets on Brynn's side of the bed.

"Brynn?" he gruffly calls out as he reaches for his eyeglasses on his nightstand. Listening fervently into the silence, he hears a muffled whimper. Throwing on a pair of heather-gray sweatpants, he investigates the tinkering of something sharp being scraped on the floor from the bathroom.

"Babe?"

'"I'm fine--" her voice is dampened by the door. And her tears.

"Brynn baby," he softly knocks. Opening the door to the small area, he reveals his kneeling wife with shards of glass splayed all over the floor. On closer inspection, she's attempting to clean up the mess with her bare hands. "Oh my God--"

"I'm sorry. I'm such a klutz. I-I-I know it was your favorite--" she stutters through her sniffles.

"Baby!" he grabs her wrists, forcing her to drop the broken pieces. "Stop-stop-stop. You're bleeding."

"I'm fine--"

"Come here." Sam grips his wife's arm snuggly, pulling her into a stand before tucking her petite body into an embrace. Pressing his lips against her hairline, he reaches down with his arm, lifting her body into a cradle-hold against his chest.

Sitting her on the sink, he quickly inspects her feet, ensuring no glass had blindly infiltrated her skin.

"I'm sorry--" she silently offers, wiping away the wetness in her eyes.

'Stop," he brushes a wisp of her hair behind her ear. He leans closely towards her, desperately wanting to dive into her stormy blues; but, her eyes stay trained on her hands.

Sam takes her injured hands in his palms, and gingerly rinses them in the sink. After allowing the water to run clear, he finally breaks the pained silenced.

"Was it negative?"

"I-I just needed a sip of water to take some Tylenol, and-and--"

"Baby," he coddles her face, making her look at him. "Did you--did you think that you--? That we were--?"

Brynn drops her head as rivers from her eyes roll down her cheeks. Sam delicately wraps her in a tight hold, peppering her sweetly with kisses.

"I thought for certain," she sniffles. "I was so shocked when nothing popped up on the test that I dropped the tumbler." She sarcastically chuckles through the sadness to herself. "And I thought it would be so sweet to find out today--today of all days. It sounded like a fairy tale, but it's now turning out more like a nightmare." She buries her face into Sam's shoulder as he tightens his arms around her body.

"I think it’s time that we--” Sam lets out a sigh, “--make an appointment--"

"No." She breaks from his hold, turning to leave the room.

"Brynn."

She angrily twirls around to face her husband. "And what, Sam? We've made appointments. What could they possibly tell me that we don't already know?"

"Okay-okay-okay--" Sam stifles the budding fire. “Forget that I mentioned it.” He reaches for his wife, pulling her back assuredly against his chest. "Please don’t cry,” he whispers into her ear, his hands rubbing her back intimately. “I am your husband, your confident. I am in your corner. Always will be." He looks down, lifting her chin attentively to his eyes, a subtle smirk growing across his face. "You want the moon?"

Brynn chuckles through her sobs resting her hands on his bare chest.

Sam presses his lips to her forehead. "Just say the word," he quietly teases. He nibbles across her cheek, his voice becoming lower, huskier, "and I'll throw a lasso around it and pull it down--"

Brynn meets Sam's lips in a tender kiss. She slips her arms around his neck, tugging him in closely as their mouths entwine as one.

Pulling back to dance in his sultry chocolate eyes, Brynn casually twirls the wavy locks in the back of Sam's head.

"You are my moon, Samuel."

Sam presses his forehead to hers. "I love you. We'll work through this." Looking back into each other's eyes, he begins to trace small circles on her back.

"We always do," Brynn playfully kisses his nose. "I love you, too."

"Let's head back to bed," he suggests, holding Brynn tightly, escorting her backwards to the bed. "I have a feeling that two eleven-year-old stars in our galaxy have a special surprise for you later this morning."

*****

"Happy Mother's Day, Mom!"

Brynn pops one eye open to a brightly sunlit room, only to be met with two pairs of doting brown eyes crowding her weary face. She lets out a guttural yawn.

"Mmm… thank you, boys." Brynn turns over, pulling the down comforter over her head.

"The subject is still sleeping, but moving, Dr. Dalton!" Mason playfully speaks into his watch. "I think we have a heartbeat!"

"Can't be too sure, Mr. President," Mickey dramatically grabs Mason's arm, keeping in character. "I'm afraid we're going to have to shock her. Or amputate."

Brynn squeezes her eyes closed, pretending to still be asleep as she hides her snickers. She loves listening to the boys play, using their vivid and clever imaginations. Even though they were getting older and 'too cool' for some things, she's pleased to see their dreaming hasn't stopped.

"Charge to fourteen zillion. And-- clear!"

All of a sudden, the boys ambush Brynn, tickling her feet and pinching at her sides.

"No-no-no! Ah!" She yelps, her words caught up into her laughter. "You turkeys!" She breathes heavily as she inadvertently kicks her feet wildly.

"Stop--ohmygod--Sam! Please!" she beckons between snickers, "I can't breathe--"

"Very fine work, doctor!" Mason cackles.

"Thank you, Mr. President!" Mickey mimics his brother, continuing to jovially attack their stepmother with tickles.

"ENOUGH!" Brynn screams. She grabs Mickey by the arm, pulling him into her lap, and starts plastering sloppy kisses all over his face.

"Gross! Mom! No!" he screams in agony, all the while Brynn giggles with each goofy kiss.

"Eww!" sputters Mason as he starts to crawl off the bed.

"Oh, no you don't, mister!" Brynn grabs him by the ankle, gathering him in an embrace as she plants tender kisses on his cheeks.

After a few more minutes of laughter and slathering of kisses, Brynn feels the struggle dissipate in her arms, the boys now cuddling tightly to her body. She rests her cheeks on the tops of their heads, eliciting a gentle, satisfactory moan. Soaking in the moment, Brynn realizes the truth: she is a mom. She already has everything she has ever wanted wrapped up in two beautiful bouncing balls of energy.

As the boys share the plot of the game they were playing, she secretly savors the scent of their warm brandy curls, cherishing the soft texture of their waves against her skin.

My boys. The thought of a life without them terrifies her; though her heart longs to create and deliver a baby with Sam, she would never trade this unexpected, ready-made motherhood she inherited by becoming a Dalton. In her eyes, her family is already perfectly whole. She hopes that with time, her desire for a baby will be silenced.

"Boys?" Sam calls from the kitchen. "Where are my sous chefs? This fruit isn't going cut itself."

"Uh-oh," Mason lowers his voice, "we better go, Dr. Dalton."

"Roger that, Mr. President!" salutes Mickey before turning his attention to Brynn. "Stay right here, Mom. Mother's day is just getting started!"

"I hope it's fluffy with maple syrup on top!" Brynn singsongs as the boys bounce off of the bed. She gleefully tucks herself back under the weighted comforter, glowing from the beautiful moment she shared with her sons.

Moments later, the boys barrel around the corner, this time with Sam in tow, balancing a lap desk with an immaculate breakfast spread; but keeping with tradition, the spread is for everyone. Brynn refuses to eat in bed alone.

The delightful aroma of the feast teases their stepmom's senses, and she quickly steals a strawberry slice. She instantly starts dividing up the pancakes, the grilled sausage and scrambled eggs as all the Daltons climb into bed.

"Mickey, do you want some of this--" she stops mid-sentence, her attention being stolen. Her eyes focus on a white satin jewelry box, tied with a pale pink bow.

"What is this?" She curiously lifts up the box while Mickey and Mason beam with excitement.

"It's a new kind of tradition," Mason coyly answers.

Brynn, clearly touched by the gesture, turns to her husband who's relaxing on his elbow. "Did you know about this?" she whispers. "No gifts--"

Sam raises his hands in defense. "They really wanted to do this. They did this all on their own. Saved up their allowances--"

"Uncle Robin took us to the mall and helped us pick everything out," explains a humbled Mickey. "Can she open it now, Dad?"

"She's the mama," he chuckles, swiping a kiss against the back of her hand.

Brynn meticulously unties the bow and unfastens the delicate pieces of wrapping paper, revealing a simple white box. She takes a moment to soak up her sons' excitement, who are intently watching her.

Biting her bottom lip, she opens the lid, revealing a stunning, white gold charm bracelet, already hosting several ornate charms. Brynn's mouth falls open in shock while her eyes well with tears. Taking it as their cue, the boys crawl into her lap.

"You said you always wanted one growing up--"

"Yeah," interrupts Mickey, "so we thought we could make you a mom charm bracelet."

Taking a few breaths to find the right words, Brynn distraughtly looks to a grinning, elated Sam. She looks back to the boys before fixing her eyes back onto the thoughtful piece of jewelry.

"Here, Mom," Mason takes the chain, and loops it around her wrists to clasp it. "We've been practicing,'' he smiles.

"You're doing it wrong, Mase," whispers a slightly irritated Mickey.

"I am not," Mason huskily rebuttals.

"You are, too."

"Am not!"

Brynn pulls her wrist away as the twins begin to stick their tongues out at each other.

"Guys! C'mon--" chastises Sam as he takes over,, clasping the bracelet to his wife’s arm. "Don't ruin the moment."

"Sorry, Mom," the boys simultaneously apologize, giving Brynn heartfelt looks of remorse.

After squeezing them tightly and thanking them for the very thoughtful gift, Brynn continues to admire the charms they picked. Two identical charms in the shape of a boy silhouette and a tourmaline birthstone catch her attention first.

"'Michael Aaron' and 'Mason Alexander'." A large smile plants securely on her mouth as her fingers trace over the etching of their names.

She tinkers through a few more charms, including a soccer ball, a microscope and a stand mixer. She stops at a simple silver heart with the inscription 'November 18.'

"I thought this was a mom charm bracelet," Brynn jests. "Why is our wedding anniversary on here?"

"Because that's when you officially became our mom."

Unable to control her tears, Brynn pulls them onto her lap, rubbing their backs before caressing their heads in her hands. Sam leans over, pressing a lingering kiss to her lips again and again.

This is all she ever wanted; this was her childhood dream. This is her family.

The four Daltons quickly ate breakfast in bed, laughing at the irregular shapes of the pancakes and the random eggshell in the midst of their scramble.

"Well," Brynn finishes first, "in the spirit of new traditions, I'd like to start a new one now, too. But we have to clean up and get dressed."

"Really?" squeals Mickey.

"Cool! What is it?" inquires Mason.

Brynn shakes her head. "It's a surprise." She hands the boys their empty plates, giving them a knowing wink. They both eagerly grab the dishes, and hurry to clean up the kitchen.

"Should I be worried?" Brynn flashes a sweet smile to an inquisitive Sam.

"Trust me, baby."

***

"Happy Mother's Day, Mrs. Brynn--"

"Oh, Mr. Carter!" Brynn collects a stunning bouquet of lavender tulips from Dalton's longtime driver. She takes a quick sniff of their sweet fragrance, wrapping an arm around endearingly around the older man's neck. "These are lovely! Thank you so much!"

He graciously nods, adjusting his hat with a sweet smile.

"So, the farmer's market?"

"Yes sir--"

"And I have the second address pulled up and ready to go."

"Perfect. Thank you for doing this."

***

Brynn and Sam walk hand-in-hand through the aisles of vendors, the boys remaining close. She has a destination in mind, but Brynn refuses to rush such a lovely sunny Spring day with her special guys.

They make a pit stop to try a few samples of freshly cut mango and dragon fruit. The twins sweetly plead a case for a smore with homemade marshmallows and tempered chocolate.

They finally stumble upon a florist with a delectable selection of gorgeous bulbs and gathered creations.

"We're here, boys," Brynn announces with a big smile.

"You wanted flowers?" Mickey wrinkled up his nose, sharing a confused look with his brother.

"Well," Brynn squats next to her sons, "sorta. I want you two to pick out the biggest, most beautiful bouquet."

"'Biggest'?" echoes Mason. "And 'most beautiful'?"

"Yes," Brynn giggles, "I want the biggest and the most beautiful. When you're finished," she holds up her crossbody purse, "my treat."

Sam gingerly grabs hold of Brynn's elbow, holding her back from the flower search.

"You're up to something," his eyes darken, staring into her stormy grays. A corner of his mouth curls waiting for an answer.

Brynn captures his bottom lip in a tender tug. "Trust me," she whispers, pulling his lips back into hers. His hands naturally find the curves of her rear, massaging her lovingly. "C'mon," Brynn grabs Sam's hand, her fingers intimately lacing with his.

The twins did not disappoint. With the help of the florist, Mickey, true to form, picked out a beautiful bouquet of red, white and blue wildflowers, homage to his favorite football team. Mason was charmed by the long-stemmed sunflowers. He has a stunning arrangement of orange and yellow flowers amongst a cloud of babies' breath.

"Guys, these are absolutely perfect!" A glimmer and sparkle grow in Brynn's eyes as she investigates the colors and smells. "You two did wonderful!"

"Happy Mother's Day!" Proud of their work, Mickey and Mason offer their bouquets to Brynn, but she quickly waves them away.

"Hold them for me, please. We have one more stop to make."

***

Carter picks up the Daltons, and quickly takes a detour, leaving the city. The car remains silent from conversation; the gallop of the wheels plodding against the rubber road lull the boys into a nap. Brynn rests her head against Sam's broad chest. His strong arm wraps tightly around her shoulders, his cheek basking amongst her vibrant almond waves.

"Excuse me? Mr. And Mrs. Dalton? We're here."

Carter kindly opens the door for the family to exit to their new endeavor in the country. There is a brisk chill in the air, but nothing the bold sunshine couldn't cure. Instead of the familiar sounds of people shouting and horns honking, they were surrounded by birds chirping, grass whistling, and leaves gently clapping.

"Where are we, Mom?" whispers a nervous Mickey, the first to file out of the car.

Brynn bends over, kissing his head. "You'll see, baby. You'll see. Did you grab your flowers?"

Mickey nods, handing the other bouquet to Mason.

Sam climbs out of the car, instantly aware of his surroundings. "Um, sweetie," he motions with his finger for her to come closer. "You think they're ready for this?"

"They've been ready for this. Trust me." She touches her hand to his downcast face, offering a tender smile. "How about the boys and I go on ahead?"

Sam soaks in the nature around him as a sweet breeze lingers on his face. Grabbing Brynn's hand, he kisses it delicately before letting go with a squeeze. "Okay."

"C'mon, boys," she reaches out, taking the boys by the hand, "we've got someone to talk to."

They enter the iron gates, walking respectfully on the stony pavement. They wind around on the path, trees gracefully blooming above their heads. They finally come to a fork in their venture.

"Okay, you two," Brynn walks in front of them only to kneel down to stop them. "Do you know where we are?"

"A cemetary?"

"That's right, Mase--"

"So, there are dead people buried underneath us?" Mickey cautiously asks. “Cool.”

"They are buried here," explains Brynn, "but we aren't walking on top of them. Their bodies are marked by those big rocks with writings on them--"

"Headstones!"

"That's right, Mase. They're called headstones."

"Why did you want to bring us to a cemetery for Mother's day?" questions Mickey. "That seems weird."

Brynn chuckles pulling him into a tight embrace. "Cemeteries are a beautiful place to communicate with those who have already passed. Sometimes on special days, like birthdays or anniversaries--”

“Or Christmas!” interjects Mickey.

“‘Or Christmas,’ that’s right.” Brynn stands. “Those days can be sad and lonely for those of us still alive on earth because we miss them so much.” She begins to draw closer to a plot with a large white granite headstone. “Spending time with them where they are buried is a way to remember them and to show them that we still love them.”

“Do they, um, talk back?” nervously asks Mason.

Brynn smiles sweetly at her stepson, hugging him tighter as they continue their saunter. “I’d like to think so, but not in the way we expect them to. Like sometimes, it might be a familiar fragrance, or a familiar song. Something to remind us that they are looking down, watching us, loving us.” Brynn nods in the direction of the breathtaking, large stone. “Go ahead.”

The boys cautiously step towards the monument, laying their flowers on top of the glistening stone.

“Caroline Austin Dalton--” Mason reads out loud, tracing the etching carefully with his fingers.

“That’s mama, right, Mase?”

“I think so, Mick.” The brothers endearingly hold each other’s hands as their eyes focus on her name. Mason’s eyes begin to well with tears first. “I can barely remember her--”

“Me, too.” Mickey quickly turns to Brynn, motioning for her to come closer. “What do we say to her? You’re our Mom--”

“--and she is your mom, just in a different way.”

“How do we talk to her?” shrugs Mickey.

“How do you talk to me?” Brynn smiles warmly, pushing a curl out of Mickey’s face. “Just talk. Talk about your day. Your favorite food. Your soccer game on Thursday.”

The boys raise their eyebrows at each other before returning their gaze back to Brynn.

“Here. Let me show you.” Brynn crawls onto her knees, facing the memorial. She clears her throat. “Caroline? Your boys picked out the most beautiful flowers for you.” Brynn grabs Mason’s hand. “You’d be so proud of them. Mason here is a straight-A student. Loves science, and is quite the little baker.” Brynn wraps an arm around Mickey. “And your first born here loves to play sports, and has a very vivid imagination.”

Brynn clears her throat. “It’s now your turn,” she gently rubs their backs. “Don’t worry; if she is anything like me, she’s dying to have you talk to her. Go ahead.”

Mason steps forward, placing a sincere hand on the headstone. “That’s Brynn, Mama--”

“And she’s a really great Mom,” chimes in Mickey, “she was originally our nanny--”

Brynn slowly backs away, allowing the twins to talk. She casually glances to the side, and notices a man out of the corner of her eye, taking swig from a flask: her husband.

Brynn casually walks up to him, wrapping her arms around his waist. She kisses the exposed skin of his chest, her lips crawling up his neck to his stiff chin.

“Please don’t be mad at me for this.”

Sam chuckles, avoiding eye-contact. “Some warning would’ve been nice--”

“So you could stop me?”

“Touché.” Sam takes another sip of bourbon, drifting back into a silent watch over the boys.

Brynn tightens her embrace around her husband. Breathing a sigh of satisfaction, she listens to the sweet bursts of giggles amongst the conversation being held by the twins in the distance.

Sam grips tightly to Brynn’s body, his mouth attempting to form words. “They haven’t been here since--” he swallows thickly, “since that day. I always wanted to keep her memory alive and bring them here, I just...” his voice begins to wander.

“Sam?”

“Hrmm?” he glances back down into Brynn’s sparkly blue eyes.

“You’re allowed to miss her, too--”

“Brynn... I--”

“It’s okay, baby--”

Sam caresses Brynn’s cheek with the back of his hand. “I love you--”

“That’s not what this is about,” she kisses his hand away from her face.

Sam clings tightly to his wife, rubbing his hands up and down her back. Painful tears that he had been holding back for over nine years spill down his cheeks as the floodgates of emotions wash over his body. “You truly are the best thing that has happened to this family,” he purrs in between sniffles.

After a few minutes of holding each other tenderly, Sam joins the boys at the graveside. Sharing sweet memories amongst each other, Mickey and Mason find solace in their father’s lap.

Brynn discovers a nearby bench to watch and wait. Humbled and satisfied by the day that had started so terribly, she smiles brightly as her beautiful family spends time, savoring the precious stories of the past.

A sudden gust of wind barrels across Brynn's face. Drying the rushing rivers from her cheeks, her hair dances carefree in the tumbling breeze. Her eyes flutter close as she lays her hands on her abdomen.

"It's okay, little one," she sweetly hums, "but if you like laughing, and if you like living... and if you like dancing and dreaming," Brynn cradles her abdomen tightly, "we'll be waiting."

The afternoon sun seeks refuge into darkness; the street begins to illuminate with the buzzing of lamps and lightning bugs. The laughter dies down and the conversation quietly stops. Sam slowly rounds up the boys, guiding them back to Brynn.

“I think we’re ready to head back,” Sam suggests, wrapping his arm around his wife’s shoulders. “Anymore surprises?” he chuckles, pecking his lips to hers.

The corners of her mouth curve. “You three go on ahead,” she playfully pats Sam’s rear. “I’ll be right behind you guys.”

Sam raises an eyebrow before nodding his head. Placing his hands on each boy's shoulder, they walk towards the car where Carter is dutifully waiting for them.

Brynn approaches Caroline’s tombstone, graciously sitting next to it. She casually traces over her name, imagining how excited she must’ve been the first time she signed her name 'Mrs. Dalton'--just like her. Brynn finally rests her hand on the cold stone, tears of joy recollecting in her eyes.

”You gave me everything I could’ve possibly wanted,” a sob hitches in her throat. “Thank you for making me a mom. It was never supposed to be like this,” she chuckles to herself. She looks over her shoulder, watching Sam load up their sons into the car. “God, it’s so much better than I could’ve ever imagined. I promise I'll take care of them--"

“Brynn?” Sam calls out from the distance. “Ready, baby?”

“--all three of them.”

***

"Goodnight, boys. We love you," Sam whispers to the boys as he closes their bedroom door.

Brynn's eyes twinkle at her handsome husband, his gaze falling deeply on hers. She effortlessly takes his hand, draping it around her shoulders, pressing her tired cheek against his chest. Kissing the top of her head, he escorts her to their room, switching off lamps along the way.

"I've got one more surprise for you," Sam growls as he shuts their door.

"Mmm…" Brynn begins to tug at his waistband. "I love these kind of surprises," her mouth gently presses into the side of his neck, her teeth gingerly nipping at his pulse point.

"Baby," Sam chuckles, his wandering fingers combing through her golden waves. "I, um--" he clears his throat, "I actually do have something I want to talk with you about."

"Oh?" Brynn suddenly cups her hand over her mouth. "Oh!" she sighs, "I know, I know. I probably should've at least told you about my plan of going out to Caroline's grave--"

"Baby, I--"

"It just made sense in my mind at the time," she interrupts. "I don't want our boys forgetting they have two mothers that love them very much--"

Sam raises an eyebrow, a mischievous grin growing.

"What? Is it about the tumbler? I swear, I'll replace--"

"Brynn baby?" Sam takes ahold of both of her hands. "I love you," he places a sweet peck on her lips, "but shut up--" they start laughing at his words before he continues. "--now, come with me."

She follows him into the bathroom where he hands her a bottle of water.

"Wh--what's this about?" she furrows her brow.

"I was taking out the trash this morning after breakfast, and noticed your test--"

"Sam--"

"Your test, baby," he steps closer to her, holding it in his hands. "The box says it expired two years ago. I know you stockpile these things and keep them hidden." Brynn crosses her arms as her neck flushed with embarrassment. "Isn't there supposed to be some kind of line on it to show that the test is still okay to take?"

"A control line, yes. What's your point?"

"Brynn," his eyes pierce into hers, "yours doesn't have one." A playful grin crawls across his face. "And-and-and according to Google, you need one for the test to be even considered valid."

Brynn looks at the test, and realizes it's completely blank from any and all lines. She appreciates her husband's passion and agrees this is peculiar, but the point he is trying to make sounds way too good to be true. This isn't a movie or a fairy tale. And those lines fade after a test has been performed. Or do they?

"Brynn? Did you hear me?"

Brynn nods her head, biting her lip in deep thought. She wants to feel his excitement, but she can't be let down, not even just one more time. It had been the absolute perfect day with the absolute perfect family to where she is mom. Can she just end Mother's day feeling, well, like a mom?

"C'mon," he steals her water, popping the cap. "I bought a new test today while we were at the market--one that wasn't expired. Let's try again."

"Sam, no," she refuses to take the water back. "Besides, it's best to take it first thing in the morning--"

"So, what you're saying is that you want me to wake you up in a few hours to pee--"

"No, I'm saying let's drop it." Growing irritated, Brynn brushes past her husband and back into the bedroom.

Sam drags his fingers down his face. He follows suit, chasing after her. He reaches for her shoulder, but she dodges his touch.

"Brynn baby--"

"No--"

"Answer me this then," he bites back, "why did you take a test in the first place?"

Brynn freezes for a moment, staring at the ground. She doesn't want to argue, and she knows that her husband's questions come from a good place. They had always been open with one another; why not now?

"I thought I was." Brynn crosses her arms, blinking away tears.

Sam sits on the bed in front of her, looking tenderly at his bride. He grazes his finger tips up and down her hips until she finally looks down at him, drying her eyes.

"You might be, baby," he whispers, smiling into her gaze. "That was one test, one test that I'm pretty sure was bad."

Brynn casually combs Sam's waves back with her fingers, curling around his ear. Sam presses his nose to forearm, inhaling deeply the remnants of her floral perfume.

"For me?" Sam grazes his lips up her arm, finally resting them on her bare abdomen.

Touching his chin, Brynn tenderly nods.

***

Sam sits on the side of the garden tub, his elbows resting on his nervously bouncing knees.

After what seems like an eternity, Brynn emerges from the closet bathroom. Uncontrollable tears drench her red, blotchy face.

"Sam--?" her voice panics, her body shaking as she reaches for Sam.

Without missing a beat, he lovingly captures her in his arms. His hands intimately stroke her back as she sobs into his chest.

"Shh... baby. It's okay." Sam presses his lips into her hair, holding her close. "It’s going to be okay--"

"Sam--?" Brynn pulls away from Sam's chest, offering him the test as she cups her mouth.

Sam inquisitively takes the test from Brynn. And his eyes widen, shaking his head in disbelief. And he smiles.

“Happy Mother’s day, baby.”

*****

TNA Tag List (please let me know if you would like to be added/removed): @ao719 @charlotteg234 @chemist-ana @kat-tia801 @khoicesbyk @lovelyladyk88 @lucy-268 @neotericthemis @pixie88 @sfb123 @shannonwrote @shewillreadyou @secretaryunpaid @thefrenchiemama

[wonderofwillows2]

The Training Part 1

There were no young men who came to the resort without a sponsor. Be it a wife, a girlfriend, a sister, mother, or aunt. No young man was allowed there without a sponsor and none were allowed without meeting certain very strict criterion. Some were specific and fit into neat categories that were known as the “basic minima of entry”. For the first basic minimum no more than one man could be there for every eight women which meant there was almost always a waiting list of sponsored young men up to a month. The second was that the young man be between the ages of eighteen and twenty-one, though those over twenty were rarely taken. The third was aforementioned sponsorship and generally at least two sponsors known to the group were required though some more respected members of the group could bring another. The fourth was that the young man must be circumcised prior to getting to resort with enough time to heal and be ready for intercourse.

There were also the three more abstract criterion. The first of these was that a young man must be physically attractive both in the body and face and have hygiene befitting his qualities. He was to be judged by a panel and if they found his physical features attractive enough he could join, if he was deemed near enough, he would be given three months to correct whatever issue as best he could. Allowances were made for small things like acne that a young man might not perfectly control. Most often it was simply that a young man was expected to become more fit or to simply improves his grooming. There were generally few who fell into this category.

The second was that the young man should be of some intelligence, he had be able to understand instructions given and, he had to understand the deeper relevance of them. He would have to be able to understand the lessons and mantras repeated on a daily basis. There would be plenty to learn for those impressionable young men who were taken there and it was important to know the lessons would become ingrained though the indoctrination those young men would receive. Few young men who left would have said that it did not leave an impression on them.

The third was personality and more broadly speaking social skills. The young men had to posses those requisite social skills to at least avoid being boring to the women of the resort and to be able to pick up some minimum of the women’s emotions and desires. Of course this was not a hard thresh hold as young men were to be further educated in these skills. Indeed most of the women there were eager to teach the men who came there how to further anticipate a woman’s needs. Some even took it to the point of being like a sport or challenge. To see how much they could spur a young man to further development in this category. They would show off to one another how well their charges and students could read their body language and the inflections of their voices and how thoroughly and eagerly they responded.

The brings us to to Victor, a handsome young man of Russian-Canadian origin who lived Toronto where his father and mother had settled and become firmly middle class. He was tall, about 6’1” but perhaps just a bit more with a lithe frame and with some musculature though he was by no means one gifted to be a true athlete. His features were fine and sharp with a pale complexion and fine blond hair. He had a well sculpted face and though not at all feminine he was not what one would call overly masculine. He turned eighteen early in his senior year and this had bought him some initial popularity as he could buy alcohol but that soon waned. He had always been shy and so it surprised him one day when hi sister called him in the first week of October from university to tell him she had helped to arrange a surprise and that a friend of his, Priya, had set up the very idea. He was to travel with them in one week, to see small resort several hours north.

Priya and he had been friends since they met eight years prior when she came to his elementary school. She was outspoken and intelligent and the two had bonded immediately though they contrasted in many ways. Physically she was petite and feminine in every way with no androgyny to speak of. Her complexion a fine color like that of cinnamon. She was outspoken and vigorous about stating her opinions and able to talk to anyone with ease I contrast to Victor who was sometimes shy. Yet they were able to form a bond in terms of being older than their respective classmates, though not by much, as well as being from immigrant families and speaking different languages.

The idea came as a shock to Victor but he was certainly open to it. His sister, Any, had always been supportive of her younger brother and despite an age difference of four years he always felt that he could come to her for advice in comfort and ease. One would be hard pressed not to assume they were related by looking at them as they shared some physical features though Anna was the more practical and wished to be a researcher while victor pursued softer studies. He hoped one day to be a human rights lawyer and Anna was the only one in full support of this. His father and mother thought he ought to go for the highest paid position and not pursue lofty ambitions. After all this is how they had overcome their initial poverty.

The week passed an Victor was excited to see his older sister once more. He had asked Priya about the details of the trip though she had been reluctant to share too much. She had told he conservative parents she was going with a girlfriend and suggested that he find a suitable person to use as an alibi as well. It would be fun she was sure but she did not want to arouse suspicions in their school nor to raise alarms about the seemingly odd group going. Since unattached straight men are usually not invited on trips with women whom they are not seeing intimately. Nor was it at all usual that his older sister was going. However none of them were bothered by this, all of them knew each other too well for that. Sometimes the assumptions of others are off base. In this case though expectations would indeed conflict with reality.

When Friday night of the next weekend came Victor hugged his parents goodbye before descending the steps of the house to the waiting car below. Priya and his friend Paul were in front and Victor got in the back with his small backpack. His parents warned him to be aware of bears and be careful one last time and then they waved the small group off. It was not three blocks before they dropped off Paul and changed the GPS to the coordinates of his sister’s school. It would be an hour before they even got there and then another three to the cabin. It would be a remote place for certain and cold this time of year, there would likely be frost. Eventually they reached the apartment near his sister’s campus. The sun was beginning to set and the sky had turned a variety of beautiful and fiery colors. They would soon be in wild lands. They called and waited and in a few minutes Anna appeared closing the door with grace and nearly bounding down the steps with a smile on her pale face. She dropped her bag into the trunk and then took her place in the back seat. Pleasantries were exchanged and short laughs were had.

The group set off in the now near darkness. Victor was having one of the most pleasant times that he could remember as they chatted in the car and share old memories. Priya and Anna having many to share themselves with Anna being like an older sister to Priya as well in many ways. Priya was the oldest in her house too and of course was often in need of advice when she was younger, about boys, makeup, or the life in Canada her parents were reticent to teach her off. They knew each other well and their friendship had grown from a the role of mentor and student to a more genuine and equal footing.

It was past nine when they arrived at side road leading down a path which terminated in a large packed earth parking lot and a small set of beautiful and carefully made wooden buildings with a set of four small cabins. Priya steered the care to the left into the parking lot and then up to the main building. Stopping the car she turns the keys and stops the engine.

“I’ll just be a few minutes, I need to check us in and get the keys before we can go the cabin” Priya anounced with a small smile before opening the door and departing into the cold night.

“So in all seriousness, Anna, what prompted this trip?” Asked victor.

“In all seriousness I just felt the need to get away. We just had a round of exams and I wanted to let off some stress and see people I knew well. We all need comfort.

“That is true. I actually came along partly to see you, we haven’t talked in a while and I am sorry for that.”

“It’s ok, I am sure you are busy at school. Have you met any girls?”

“I know them all at this point I think. I really only talk to Priya.”

“Do you still mostly hang out with Paul, Kendrick, and Mit?”

“For the most part yes.”

“How are things with you and Vanessa, are you still fighting?”

“No, we patched...”

The car door opens interrupting and Priya returns with the keys.

“I’m back it’s cabin number four.” She presents the cabin key before starting the car and then engaging it. She backs out of the parking space and drive parallel to large main building before making a left and then a right and parking in front of raised wooden cabin with small windows and a propane tank beside it.

“We’re here she announces and turns off the car. The group exits, each stretching upon their immediate exit. Priya and Victor walk around to the trunk while Anna grabs her articles from the seat beside her in the rear of the car. Finished with unloading the group climbs the stairs and approaches a beautifully finished door made of thick planks of wood.

“I can’t believe we got this for such a price” Victor muses.

Priya unlocks the door and they enter the cabin. It is a cozy space but more than suitable for four and lightly decorated with the beauty and finish of the construction materials playing the main role in the aesthetic. There is a small wood stove on one side and s small gas stove next to it giving choice to the renters. On each side of the main room are two sets of beds with bunk pressed against the wall on the right where the wood stove allows more room. Past the gas stove on the left is a small bathroom with a toilet sink and shower. The general amenities of civilization all seem present in the small retreat. It’s warm inside as the heat was left on for them. They pick their beds and with the ample choice there is no difficulty, the women choose the beds on the left and Victor picks the right. They each take their turns bathing and changing into night clothes and Priya turns up the heat to allow for the light bedclothes she packed.

A bottle of wine is opened and shared among them while they talk of old times and laugh while reminiscing. They talk about the time Priya developed a deep crush on her math teacher. They talk about Victor’s infatuation with skateboarding when he was younger and his broken ankle. They finish with more pleasant stories as they finish the bottle and then brush their teeth and turn in to sleep. They all sleep soundly after being thoroughly exhausted by the day and the enjoyment of each other’s company. They awake in the morning and Priya announced that there is a free breakfast the first day. So they dress in the bathroom and depart to the main building, walking down the bumpy earthen path and ascend the flight of stairs opening the main door. A young woman in her twenties with a plump frame attends the desk. Priya talks to her and hands her some papers and the young woman directs them to the left hand hallways. They walk up a short amount of stair and see two rooms. Priya indicated that they should head to the send and they do. She claims they should be seated and make small talk while they wait. Suddenly they are interrupted by three women.

“Is this the one one?” A tall and strongly featured woman asks them.

“Yes it’s him. Victor my little brother.” Anna answers smiling from ear to ear. One of the women makes a note on a small clipboard.

“What is this?” asked the poor, confused victor.

“It’s just something we arranged for you.” said Priya with a smile.

“I don’t understand, is this like an intervention? You both know I never do anything.”

“We know Vic. But this isn’t about that, imagine it as a different kind of intervention. You see we both know the lessons you got from mom and dad growing up and we think that a bit of modernity might help you. It might help you loose your virginity too.”

“You tokd her?” Victor turns to Priya with a hurt expression.

“I knew Victor.” Anna assures him

“pleasure just trust us.”Priya assures him and places her hand on his shoulder.

“Is this a brothel did you hire a prostitute for me.” Victor asks.

Priya laughs and shakes her head at him and Anna smiles knowingly. The other women seem to be amused as well and one lets out a small giggle.

“No it’s not that.” Priya assures him.

“Just trust us. It’s more of a workshop on social skills” Anna assures him.

“Alright I’ll trust you for now.” Victor says, still nervous.

“Don’t worry your sister is mostly right.” The lead woman in the group assures him.

“Besides we have the car keys until tomorrow evening so why don’t you follow us?” She adds and turns to leave the room. Priya and Anna stand immediately to follow. Victor is reticent at first but Anna and Priya pull reassuringly on his arms and soon he stands and begins to follow.

The end of part one.

[myhusbandsasemni]

Coffee Shop Meetings  - The Adventurers

The Adventurers 

WC: 1139

No warnings apply except for my mention of a past death

...........................................

Aaron wrung his hands together, pacing outside the coffee shop. He knew Jessica was inside, and that was why he was outside. She was with two of her friends, the athletic blue haired woman by the name of Rizu, and the other a petite yata’anu, otherwise known as a werecat, who was the most house cat looking yata’anu Aaron had ever seen.

He lamented the fact that girls always seem to travel in packs as he finally walked into the cafe. He’d been trying for a month to talk to her, walking into the cafe, buying something, and then sitting in the back corner, trying and failing to work up the courage to talk to her. She’d seen him a couple of times, but never seemed to recognize him which made this so much harder. He knew Jessica from high school and they’d become close friends, perhaps even more, after finding out they usually played together in their online RPG game.

Aaron quickly found Jessica, sitting with her stylish sweater and her shiny black hair up in a messy bun. She was laughing at something the yata’anu said. He swallowed, watching her as he walked to get coffee. He bumped into someone sitting at one of the tables, tripping on her large wings. He straightened up as she stood to shake out her wings, hissing in pain. He flushed. “I’m so so sorry!” he exclaimed, “I really don’t mean to trip into you.”

The short scaleon looked up at him. This was Anisha, a student in the Teliar program. A student who, after only 6 months of a 4 year program, was already going on missions with her team that only the professional Teliar could handle. There was a hint of amusement, rather than anger, in her purple eyes.

“This is, what, the third time you’ve done that this week?” she asked, her tail flicking lazily, the armored tip clicking on one of the chairs.

Aaron flushed and tried to stutter out another apology.

“Sit down here,” Laurance, Anisha’s husband, said, pulling out a chair for the awkward college student.

Aaron hesitantly nodded and did.

“I’ll get your coffee,” Kiera said with a smile. She stood up from the table the team of four usually sat at and said, “You were going to get your usual, right?”

Aaron, despite never having talked with these people, didn’t doubt she knew what it was. Werewolves, or lupus’luk as they preferred to be called, had a profound memory when it comes to their noses.

Aaron nodded. Kiera left to grab his coffee as her husband, Rin, leaned forward. “So,” he said, his striped orange ears directed full attention forward, “What has you tripping into Anisha everyday?”

“Too forward, Rin,” Laurance said, smacking his best friend’s arm. “Besides, we have to wait for Kiera to get back so she can know too.”

Aaron groaned and buried his head in his arms on the table. Kiera came back and set his coffee in front of him.

“Alright,” Laurance said warmly, “I think I recognize you from outside here. We have assorted history together, don’t we?”

“Yeah,” Aaron said with a sigh, looking up.

“Don’t remember your name,” Laurance said regretfully. “I’m Laurance, that’s my wife, Anisha, Rin’s the forward one and his wife, Kiera.”

“I know,” he sighed. “You’re The Adventurers. Everyone knows you.”

“Oh!” Anisha exclaimed, surprised. “We’re that well known?”

“You’re practically famous.” Aaron replied.

“What’s your name, then?” Rin asked.

Aaron grew a bit antsy. He wasn’t supposed to interact with people. He’d get people hurt…. But these were the Adventurers. They could probably deal with whatever danger he could pose.

“I’m Aaron.”

“Nice to meet you,” Anisha said with a smile, though it was kind of a sad smile. Laurance and the others seemed kind of distant as well.

“What?” he asked nervously.

“Oh,” Anisha said, startled and a bit apologetic. “You just remind us of a friend we used to have. He died about a year ago. You look a bit like him, and you have the same name as him. Sorry if we get a bit sappy.”

“Why are you sad, Laurance?” Rin said, elbowing his best friend. “You hated the guy.”

“That’s what makes me sad. I was only angry because he was so close to Aphmau and cause I was so new to being a Semni. Wish I’d figured myself out before he…”

Anisha nodded.

“But why are you always tripping?” Kiera asked, “We can tell you’re staring at something… or someone.”

Aaron sighed. “There’s a girl. I knew her in high school-”

“How well?” Rin asked, tasting a good story coming.

Aaron flushed deeply and Rin received another smack.

“Go on,” Laurance said.

“Well, we weren’t friends and then we found out we knew each other online and I thought we were really good friends but…… I’m a year older than her so I had to go to college and this is Jessica’s first year here and I don’t think she recognizes me. I had to sell my gaming equipment so I could pay for college so I haven't… really…. Talked to her.”

“That’s a big oof,” Anisha said with a nod. “Then go talk to her maybe?”

“What do I say?” he asked, flailing his arms a little, a bit in shock that he’d said all of this to these four.

“Just say, Hi, Jessica. It’s been a while. I’m Aaron from high school. And if she doesn’t remember from that, just introduce yourself and start again.” Anisha shrugged.

Aaron closed his eyes, nerves rising in his stomach.

“Hey,” Laurance said warmly. “I’ll help.”

The man stood and put a hand on Aaron’s shoulder. “Come on.”

Aaron stood up and followed him. It took him a moment to realize they were walking over to Jessica’s table.

“What are we-”

“Trust me.”

Laurance stopped by the table and smiled at the girls. “Hey Jessica, Kimiko, Rizu. Sorry for the intrusion.”

“That’s alright, Laurance,” Jessica smiled up at him.

Laurance reached back and pulled Aaron forward. “Jessica, do you remember Aaron?”

Jessica looked up at the man’s face before her eyes widened with surprise. “Aaron!? You look so much older! And, wow. You’re not wearing that bandanna anymore! I feel stupid now for not recognizing you sooner.”

Aaron laughed uncomfortably. “Yeah. It’s my fault. I’ve kept trying to come and talk to you but kept chickening out.”

Jessica laughed and made room for Aaron to sit down. Laurance patted the man’s shoulder and went back to his table.

“Go well?” Anisha asked, craning to see what was going on at the table.

“Yeah,” Laurance smiled, sitting down and putting one arm around her. “We’ll have to keep an eye on him.”

“Agreed.”

“I still wanna know how well they knew each othe- OW! Stop hitting me!!”

The Adventurers tag list: @dowings @writeblrfantasy @artrayasnow93 @doubi-ixi @extraisthmus @thethistlegirlwrites @thepotatowriter

[tcm]

Edward G. Robinson, the Art Collector By Raquel Stecher

“I was hooked on art—an addict. The only thing real in the world seemed to be catalogs from dealers, galleries and museums.” - Edward G. Robinson

Edward G. Robinson, the cigar chomping star of such crime dramas as LITTLE CAESAR (’31), BULLETS OR BALLOTS (’36), KID GALAHAD (’37) and KEY LARGO (’48), was a gangster on screen but a refined art collector off screen. What began as a childhood fascination eventually blossomed into a full blown obsession. Robinson often joked that, “you don’t collect paintings, they collect you.” Over the years, Robinson collected over 70 works of art, mostly impressionist and post-impressionist paintings. Art was a lifelong passion of his, one he couldn’t just keep to himself but would share with anyone who would listen.

As a child, Robinson would cut pictures of paintings from magazines and add them to his scrapbooks. According to Robinson biographer Alan L. Gansberg, “he would find his way to museums and art galleries, look around, then head back to the Astor Library to discover, in books, what he had seen and why it was renowned.” Robinson’s love extended beyond just collecting, and he developed a pure love of curation. He wasn’t interested in status. And art dealers soon discovered that he couldn’t be swayed by suggestion or opinion. Robinson’s method of selecting his next acquisition was from pure instinct. If the piece spoke to him, he bought it. If it came with an intriguing backstory, even better.

In his autobiography All My Yesterdays, Robinson shares with readers his many art collecting adventures. He started off by purchasing reproductions which he would lovingly frame and hang on the wall or give to friends. His first real purchase was an oil painting entitled “Cow in the Meadow” which he bought for $2 at auction. Since he earned more money working in theatre and in Hollywood, Robinson caught the art buying bug. He’d visit public galleries and private collections in New York City, London and Paris. Robinson became known among art dealers, who would let him take home a painting for a month before purchasing.

Robinson celebrated big milestones in his life with new art. In his memoir he wrote, “to mark suitably the birth of my son, I bought a good-sized Degas of two dancers and a lovely Pissarro — oh, such a lovely Pissarro — for $2,500 and a Monet painting of some willows for another $2,500.” Robinson fell in love with the work of Georges Rouault, Pablo Picasso, Titian, Francisco Goya, Vincent van Gogh, Paul Gaugin and others. He thought Rembrandt was overrated.

Notable pieces in Robinson’s collection included:

“Daughters of Revolution” by Grant Wood

“The Black Marble Clock” by Paul Cezanne

“Portrait of Père Tanguy” by Vincent van Gogh

“Young Girl with a Hat” by Pierre-Auguste Renoir

“The Artist’s Mother” by Edouard Vuillard

“L’Italienne” by Jean-Baptiste-Camille Corot

“Figure of a Woman (Before the Theater)” by Berthe Morisot

“Jane Avril Dancing”” by Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec

“View of Le Crotoy, from Upstream” by Georges Seurat

“The Vase of Flowers” by Georges Rouault

Over the years, Robinson worked directly with artists. In 1939, he commissioned a painting of himself, his wife Gladys and his son Eddie by Edouard Vuillard. After filming CONFESSIONS OF A NAZI SPY (’39), he took Gladys on a trip to Mexico where he met with Diego Rivera and bought several pieces. It was there that he met Frida Kahlo, who was not yet known in the states, and purchased four of her paintings for $200 each. According to artsy.net, “Robinson’s purchases were Kahlo’s first major sales, her first to an American, and gave her some financial independence.”

It wasn’t enough for Robinson to keep these pieces to himself. He felt that others should enjoy them too. When he bought a house in Beverly Hills, he petitioned the City Council for permission to build an adjoining gallery on the property. Once complete, he filled it with his prized possessions and opened the gallery to the public by hosting guided tours. Whenever a tour guide failed to show up, Robinson, his wife and even his butler would fill in. Robinson also exhibited his pieces elsewhere including collaborating with friend and fellow art collector Vincent Price on a museum show. In 1953, he loaned out 40 of his paintings for an exhibition at MoMA. The proceeds went to the museum’s New York City School Fund.

Robinson’s collection would diminish drastically when he had to sell 60 paintings as part of a divorce settlement. An auction was planned until Stavros Niarchos, a wealthy Greek shipping magnate, stepped in and bought the whole kit and caboodle privately for $3.5 million. It pained Robinson to lose so many of his darlings all at once. He eventually bought 14 of those pieces back from Niarchos and from other private collectors who purchased them after the original sale. Robinson was able to buy back some of his favorites from Cezanne, Renoir, Seurat, van Gogh and Gaugin. When Robinson remarried in 1958, he and his new bride Jane Robinson (nee Bodenheimer), a fashion designer who went by the name Jane Arden professionally, set out to build the collection back up again. A couple of years after Robinson passed away, Jane published a coffee table book called Edward G. Robinson’s World of Art as a way to pay tribute to Robinson’s lifelong passion.

[grandhotelabyss]

Combining audiovisual Monday with our literary and cultural trend forecasting interests here at Grand Hotel Abyss, let’s have a podcast. This one, Our Struggle, got written up in Vanity Fair as “wildly unpopular,” which, to those wise to the ways of the world, is code for “very exclusive” and “you know you want to be a part of it.” So let’s pursue the hype. The pod-concept is a slow buddy-read of the Knausgaardian opus, even though it’s no longer quite on trend; though, with the fashion cycle spinning faster and faster, it may also be old enough by now to serve as an object of nostalgia, hence, perhaps, the design choice to give our Norwegian Narcissus a #millennialpink tint. Our hosts, Lauren Teixeira and Drew Ohringer, as described in VF: 

The conversation never really ended. Last winter, after five years spent living in China and working as a freelance writer, Teixeira returned to the Washington, D.C. area, where she grew up. Feeling aimless and depressed, she texted her old friend, who was living in Iowa City, where he’d recently earned his MFA in fiction writing and was also unemployed, and suggested they start a podcast about Knausgaard’s books. They had next to zero literary connections, Knausgaard’s popularity had peaked about a decade ago, and neither of them was obsessed with him to the point of calling him their favorite writer—but why let any of that stop them?

I like that earning an MFA in Iowa City—that’s code for the Langley frontier outpost known as the Iowa Writer’s Workshop—counts as “zero literary connections” in Vanity Fair, not to mention the prestigious private liberal arts college! But, this petit-bourgeois would-be parvenu’s class resentments aside, and as antithetical to my tastes as it all sounds, I listened to a few episodes and did find much of interest. 

For one thing, their most recent guest was Dean Kissick, who is highly networked in the emergent literature-and-art subculture we sometimes check in on here, the so-far-nameless vanguard I take to manifest the pendular energies I first predicted in this 2019 post. More recently, as in yesterday, I described them on Goodreads, where I wrote a little about Tao Lin, speaking of trends, as “feral Zoomer youth reared on an exclusive media diet of Nick Land, anime, Internet porn, and conspiracy theories, a vanguard of vaguely anarcho-reactionary fashions now shocking but, given the pedigree of those busily adopting them, shortly to be mainstream”—though a lot of the thought leaders are not Zoomers, and I think Dean’s around my age. Note the part of his episode where he recommends the doyenne of the transgressive Zoomer scribes, whom we’ve discussed here before, though never by name.

But even more compelling is the episode linked above, which our Vanity Fair writer describes thusly:

So far, the only guest to outmaneuver the duo has been British literary critic Leo Robson, who stunned them into near silence with an hour-long tour de force that became the show’s most-downloaded episode, according to the hosts. He started with a “big data” presentation he’d compiled of every mention of Knausgaard in his 11 years of Google Chats, emails, and WhatsApp conversations. He then branched out into a breathless and hour-plus-long expiation on the Norwegian author’s singular gestalt, invoking the careers, philosophies, or names of writers David Shields, Ben Lerner, Sheila Heti, Harold Brodkey, J. G. Ballard, and Geoff Dyer (it always comes back to Dyer).

I don’t know what the fashionistas at VF think “expiation” means, not to be a pedantic dick, but even if they’d more comprehensibly said “expatiation,” it would still undersell Robson’s extraordinary speech, pretty much a complete history of the modern European and American novel organized around its generational transitions from form to formlessness and back again, with starring and heroic roles for Henry James and Iris Murdoch. 

(I was doubly impressed in that, as my loyal readers know, I wrote a doctoral dissertation on this very subject, even if my thesis might be read as an Oulipo-like contrivance to tell the first part of the story Robson tells without mentioning Henry James, which I justify with the contention that James’s influence, while eventually massive, wasn’t immediate—that Wilde really was more important to Joyce and Pater to Woolf. Also, I didn’t read any Iris Murdoch until after graduate school, but I wish I’d started sooner.) 

This command performance sent me to Robson’s back catalogue of criticism at The New Statesman, which as a sad non-subscriber I was only able to read with academic database access that I surprisingly still enjoy even though I’m not quite sure I’m currently employed (have I mentioned that you might please buy my books—the novels, not the erotic vampire comics?). His centenary essay on Murdoch condenses much of the history narrated orally above, complete with an extended comparison between Murdoch and Saul Bellow:

And Murdoch, though I doubt that either knew it, possessed a close mid-century companion, Saul Bellow, who was four years her senior and began publishing fiction a decade earlier. In a 1951 talk, he announced that the “great issue in fiction is the stature of characters”. Where Murdoch in 1961 called for “a renewed sense of the difficulty and complexity of the moral life and the opacity of persons”, Bellow the following year, in “Where Do We Go From Here? The Future of Fiction”, said that the novel “requires new ideas about humankind”.

We here at Grand Hotel Abyss, temporary home of The True Mainstream in Exile, are #murdochpilled and #bellowcore (sorry, is this too #cheugy?) and endorse the energetic and endlessly inventive realist novel against fashionable fantasy and autobiography.

Anyway, listen to Robson’s speech and listen to the pod to see what’s hip and hot in the literary world. It even inspired me to give Knausgaard another go (“Did you get Kool-Aided by that podcast you said you hated into reading that book?” my wife asked when she saw me reading A Death in the Family), about which more on the main site later this week, probably.

[joanofnavarre]

“The story of Queen Joan’s reputed sorcery has often been told before; but it may be well to recall the main facts. Joan, or Joanna, of Navarre, Duchess of Brittany from 1386 to 1399, became in 1403 the second wife, and the Queen of Henry IV, King of England.

The new Queen was received with great pomp and a dowry of 10,000 marks (%6,666 13s. 4d.) per annum was bestowed on her. The royal favour thus shown to her continued throughout the reign of Henry IV; and not only was she on good terms with the King, but her relations with all her step-sons and step-daughters appear to have been friendly throughout her husband’s lifetime.

After his death she seems to have continued for several years on very amicable terms with King Henry V; but in 1419 there came a sudden change. On the 27th September, 1419, the royal council a made an order depriving her of her dowry and all her other revenues and posessions; and four days later she was arrested and taken from her own manor-house of Havering-atte-Bower in Essex to the royal manor-house of Rotherhithe, in Surrey.

The reason, so it was stated in parliament, was that her confessor, John Randolf, a Franciscan friar of Shrewsbury, had accused her “of compassing the death and destruction of our lord the king in the most treasonable and horrible manner that could be devised ”.

Contemporary chroniclers said more bluntly that she had tried “by sorcery and necromancy for to have destroyed the king.(…)”

His royal mistress enjoyed a happier fate. She was, it is true, kept a prisoner for nearly three years, and all her servants and property were taken away from her. But during his last illness, Henry V regretted his treatment of his step-mother, and ordered the restoration of her freedom and her property.

Moreover, her imprisonment was not by any means a burden some one. Other attendants were appointed to replace those who had been removed and for the first few months of her captivity she was given the variety of a certain amount of travel; during that period she was lodged at Rotherhithe, Dartford, Rochester, and possibly other places besides!

This frequent change of residence was, however, probably made to suit the convenience of the government; for during the last two years of her imprisonment she appears to have been at Leeds Castle, in Kent, the whole of the time.(…)

The leniency with which she was treated is even more apparent from an inspection of the list of gifts and rewards, and the expenses for wardrobe and chamber. To allow the Queen at least nineteen grooms and seven pages to wait on her would have been a curious policy if it had been really believed and proved that she had been practising witchcraft in a dangerous manner.

Still more remarkable would it have been to permit her so many clothes for herself and her servants, especially as these clothes were not inexpensive garments of homespun. The materials for them included minever and other choice furs, tartarin (a rich silk stuff), silk laces, cords, and thread, sindon and Flanders linen (both fine linen fabrics), and cloth of various kinds which were all of such a price that they must have been of very good quality.

And it was not only in the matter of clothes that Queen Joan was suffered to gratify her desires. Other purchases for her included chains, rosary, and girdle, all of gold; an ewer, a buckle and pendant, and table-knives, of silver-gilt; l and a candlestick of silver. She bought a wide variety of medicines, often of an expensive kind, doubtless prescribed by the Portuguese physician of Henry IV, (…), who had been appointed to attend her.

(..)  A fragment of a Great Wardrobe book, now in the Public Record Office (Exch. Accts. 40714, f. 12a), (…), shows that Queen Joan was still treated in such a generous - manner that she was able to bestow gifts liberally on her numerous servants, both men and women.

The absence of any allowances for the stable does not necessarily mean that she was no longer permitted to ride out at all; she may have been allowed to use the horses and the carriage (if any) of her governor. She was able to buy considerable quantities of wine, of various kinds-Gscon, Rochelle, and Rhenish; and her menu was good enough for her to entertain from time to time some distinguished visitors, whose standards in gastronomy were high.

The Archbishop of Canterbury came once to dinner, on the 1st April, and the Duke of Gloucester twice to supper, on the 14th April, 1420, and the 10th February, 1421. The Bishop of Winchester, one of the richest Englishmen of his day, spent a short week-end at Leeds Castle in August, 1420, from Friday, the 9th, until Sunday, the 11th. (…)

The impression one gets from these household accounts is that a degree of consideration unusual in the case of a person charged with treason by means of witchcraft was shown towards Joan throughout her imprisonment; and this is in harmony with the other facts known of her captivity.

There is no suggestion anyivhere that she was ever tried for her reputed witchcraft, or even that any further investigations were made after the first alarm in September and October, 1419; and from the letter which Henry V issued during his last illness, ordering the restoration of her freedom and her dowry, it is plain that he regretted by that time the action taken against her in 1419.

(…) She had a little difficulty in recovering her dower, in spite of Henry V’s command; but that was merely because so much of it had been granted away to other persons, and she was eventually compensated fully by other royal grants for these unobtainable revenues formerlv part of her dowry.a Henceforward, she led a very easy and peaceful existence.

Her grandson, Gilles de Bretagne, became a great friend of Henry VI during his stay in England from 1432 to 1434; it is likely that in consequence Joan was viewed with favour by the young King, who certainly treated her with respect and consideration.

He gave her, for example, a valuable New Year’s gift in 1437, consisting of a tablet of gold, garnished with four balas-rubies, eight pearls, and in the midst a great sapphire.

When she died in the July of the same year at Havering-atte-Bower, he saw to it that she was buried with all honour by the side of her second husband, in St. Thomas Becket’s chapel behind the high altar of Canterbury Cathedral.

(…) the commons had resented in parliament in 1415 a petition, which the King had accepted, prayins for the a pulsion of all Bretons, both within the Queen’s household and without, from the realm, as a statute of 7 Henry IV had ordered, on the grounds that these Bretons made it their aim to find out the secrets of the realm, and reveal them to their compatriots, “qe sount les greindres enemyes de vostre Roialme”, and also to carry money and jewels out of the country, to the prejudice of the King and the damage of the whole land.  

There was a long-standing enmity between the seamen of Ensland and Brittany and this was liable to kindle periodical outbursts of national resentment against Queen Joan and her Breton children, servants, and connexions, from 1404 (only a year after her marriage to Henry IV), until at least 1426.

There are firm grounds for supposing that the compelling motive for keeping her a prisoner two years more was a financial one, a motive which may, indeed, have weighed with the government in making her arrest.

From the renewal of the war with France in 1415, parliaments had voted suppIies with unusual generosity; but by 1420 the drain on the exchequer was becoming formidable, and the government may have feared the outbreak of popular murmurings, of which Adam of Usk speaks in 1421, if the burden of taxation were increased any further at that moment.

To deprive Queen Joan of her dowry of 10,000 marks a year would be an important addition to the resources of a badly insolvent government, whose regular income amounted at this time to only just under 256,000 a year. Joan’s dowry had always been a heavy burden on the royal finances, which in the Lancastrian period were in a state of chronic deficiency. (…)”.

Source: MYERS, A.R. “The Captivity of a Royal Witch: The Household Accounts of Queen Joan Of Navarre. 1419-1421.”

Fancast: Naomi Watts/Charlize Theron as Queen Joan, gifs credits to @catherineofbraganza.

[allegra-writes]

Happy birthday, Peter

Peter Parker x Reader

General audiences

Warnings: None

Ok, this isn't a request but today is August the tenth, MCU Peter Parker's canon birthday, so let's have a little birthday Fluff to celebrate! 💜

MY MASTERLIST

“Tony, Fury's here about that new guy he wants you to meet for the new team, Quentin Beck” Pepper's voice interrupted Tony’s obvious staring.

“No-uh, forget it, not happening. I just got out of the hospital a couple weeks ago, after I almost died saving the world from that giant purple raisin. Again. Now this? This is a party. Peter’s party, I refuse to work today” Tony was not having any of that tonight of all nights. He had five years worth of birthdays and holidays to catch up on with his kids, kids he thought he wouldn’t have the opportunity to ever hug or talk or plan parties for, he might add. So Fury could get lost for all he cared.

Besides, he had his own ideas for his super secret boy band 2.0, and he was looking straight at them.

“Now, Miss Potts, if you would be so kind as to come right here and tell me what you think about this” He stepped closer to his wife and gestured at the group of teenagers laughing and chatting on the other side of the room. If he was honest with himself, he had been so nervous about the four of them meeting: What if they didn’t like each other? That would not make his plans impossible but it would certainly put a damper on them. The truth was he should have been nervous about you guys getting along a little too well …

Pepper took a look and immediately paled.

“Oh no, no no no! Tony, no!”

Unbeknownst of the argument ensuing about you, Harley Keener, Cassie Lang, Peter Parker and you continued to laugh at Ned Leeds retelling of the time Spider-Man stole his “arch nemesis”, Flash Thompson's car.

“… Of course now Mister Stark gave you a car of your own, I guess Spider-Man won’t need to ask Flash for his car again”

Peter shook his head,

“I still say I can’t accept it, I’m sorry, y/n, it’s just too much”

“What are you talking about? It’s not even a new car, Happy’s been driving it for years” You said, “Besides, I’m going to need someone to drive me around, you know I hate to do it myself…”

“Is that your way of saying you failed your driving test again?” Harley quipped, casually resting his arm around Cassie’s shoulders. The look the petit brunette gave him had him quickly remove it, however.

“Shut up Keener!” You huffed, “Who needs to drive when you can fly, anyway”

“What else did you get, Peter?” Cassie asked, genuinely interested.

“You mean besides the car and the scholarship?”

“Ooh, my present! You haven’t opened my present yet!” you exclaimed excitedly, placing a closed envelope on Peter’s hands.

“Y/n, you really shouldn’t…” He tried to protest.

“Come on, just open it!”

“Open it! Open it! Open it!” Cassie, Ned and Harley started chanting. Peter tore the paper apart to revel the single, golden ticket inside that simply read in big black letters “Valid for one birthday wish”

“It’ a…”

“It’s a birthday wish coupon” You explained, “Limited time offer, for tonight only. Whatever you want, no consequences, no questions asked. Anything money can buy, and then some. Want to steal a plane and fly to Europe, Have a body you need to hide? I’m your man… well, girl, but you know what I-“

“YOU WANT OUR KIDS TO WHAT?” Scott Lang's voice Echoed through the lake house living room, where the intimate party was taking place, interrupting you.

“I know it seems insane, but so did time travel…” Your dad was trying to explain, with apparently little success, if Scott’s face increasingly redder color was anything to go by. The vein visible on his neck wasn’t looking like a good omen either.

“Think we should go break them apart?” Cassie asked calmly, with the same air of infinite patience laced with resignation that you usually wore around your father yourself.

“Lets go before they break something” You sighed and followed her to the other side of the room, without noticing you were leaving a stunned Peter behind.

“You know what you should use that coupon for, right?” Harley’s voice broke through his daze.

“Whu- what?”

Harley rolled his eyes.

“Come on, dude! No consequences? No questions asked? You should ask her for a kiss!”

“What? No! We’re not… I’m not- we are not like that!”

Harley and Ned exchanged a look.

“I never thought I would agree with this guy, but Harley’s right. Peter, this is your chance!”

“Peter, look” The blond grabbed Peter’s shoulders, “She said it herself, no consequences, she promised. So even if she’s not into you like that, and trust me, she is, you know she’ll still be your friend.”

“Come on, dude, you were thinking the exact same thing! Besides,” Ned finished, “I’m your guy in the chair, I wouldn’t tell you to do it if it was a bad idea”

Peter could feel his cheeks burning with embarrassment, and his eyes with unshed tears of frustration.

“You guys have no idea what you are talking about” He mumbled bitterly, and left.

He just needed to get away, he just needed some air to help him get himself under control again. His friends meant well, he knew it wasn’t their fault. He was the one that never told them, after all. That you guys had already kissed once, right under the illuminated Eiffel tower, the night of the airport fight, a lifetime ago, or at least that’s what it felt like.

And it had been so. Fucking. Perfect. He could still almost taste you on his lips. He had obsessed over that kiss. He had lost sleep, and hunger over that kiss. For weeks. But as soon as you guys had return to New York, it was radio silence. For almost three months he hadn’t heard from you. And when you guys finally started talking again… nothing. Not a single word about it.

Until now, because you had just mentioned it. Indirectly, but you did. That little comment about stealing a plane hadn’t been random: That’s how you guys had gotten to France from Germany that time. You had stolen your father’s self flown jet and took it for a ride with Peter, and that’s where you had ended up, insisting that the real crime would be to take Peter to Europe and not showing him Paris.

It had been a full moon night, just like this one. There hadn’t been that many stars in the sky, because of the city lights, of course. But this, right then, standing at that secluded lake shore, with billions of stars lighting up the night sky, it almost felt like being underneath the tower lights again.

The soft sound of your bare feet on the grass pulled him out of his thoughts. He knew it was you, he always knew. He could tell your heartbeat apart from a crowded room. Hell, from a crowded city. He totally got your father’s favorite nickname for you.

“Hey! Everyone's looking for you,” You said, coming to a stop beside him, toes barely touching the warm water, a welcomed relief on that hot summer night. “It’s almost time to cut the cake”

“If I did wanted to steal a plane tonight, would you really do it?” He asked ignoring your comment. You simply shrugged,

“Where would we go?”

“Paris”, He replied without missing a beat. And you prayed he and his super senses couldn’t hear the way your heart picked up it’s pace with that single word. But of course he did.

He turned around to face you, his mind made up between one of your heartbeats and the next.

“What you said back inside, about no consequences, no questions asked” He inquired, “Did you mean it?”

He took a step towards you, so close now that your chests were almost touching. You wondered if he knew what it did to you having him so close, how you couldn’t think, couldn’t breath. How every inch of your skin stood to attention, ready to be electrified by the slightest touch with his.

You looked up into his eyes, taking a detour at his lips, so close to your own.

“Yes” the breathless whisper was barely audible for your normal human ears, but of course he heard you clearly. He took a final step closer.

“Close your eyes” He repeated your own words from that night at the tower back at you. You didn’t even try to resist his order. You felt him place a finger under your chin, softy tilting your head up for better access, and then the most delicate, exquisite pressure of his lips on yours.

It was too much. It was not enough. You nibbled on his bottom lip, trying to get him to deepen the kiss, and he complied, the little growl that escaped his throat at the first taste of your tongue was by far the sexiest thing you had ever heard in your life. He quickly took control of the kiss, carefully cupping your face with one hand, the other fisting the silk of your dress at your waist, pulling you closer. He almost lost all semblance of self-restraint at the way your body melted into his. You couldn’t do more than submit to his assault on your lips, than submit to him.

“Wow. Is anyone timing this? I'd swear they should've had to come out for air by now” One of the three figures watching the scene unfold from behind the glass windows of the lake house asked, confused. "They'll pass out from lack of oxygen!"

“Peter won’t pass out,” decided Harley, “superhuman and all that…”

“She can pass out”

Cassie snorted,

“I’m sure he can give her some mouth to mouth”

“You mean more than he’s already giving her?” it was Harley’s turn to snort.

Ned turned away from the window.

“So,” He began, a little dumb struck, “that happened.”

“Is still happening” corrected Harley, cheekily. Ned ignored him,

“You think they’ll finally get together now?” he asked.

“No way,” Harley scoffed.

“Yeah, those two have been pining for each other for so long, I don’t think they know how to function without it” Cassie sentenced, eyes still on the lake outside.

Ned sighed,

“You’re probably right. Tomorrow they’ll most likely be back to their stumbling, blushing selves. I swear, they are going to be getting married and still be like “Do you think she likes me? Like, like like me?”” He pitched his voice higher in a remarkably good impression of his best friend that had his new ones cracking with laughter.

“Hey, kids!” Tony Stark came up to them, frowning “Have you seen Peter and my daughter? It’s almost time for the cake… What are you looking at?”

The three teens jumped away from the window at once,

“NOTHING!!”

The End.

[ihknkm]

As is typical with scoring, high score wins

The dismissal exposed India's lower order to nike air max thea atomic pink a ball that was only three overs old. The Pentagon considers hypersonic flight the new stealth. bottines cloutees femme But the good moment did not last long. Her activism started young. He is charged with assault with a weapon that weapon being a car. As is typical with scoring, high score wins. You don screw with history. Neighbors get a little closer to the earth. Abraham, Jr., they will find sale, at the highest cash prices, for one hundred and fifty to two hundred slaves. Pope Adrian I. But he has fallen into debt, and he sells to relieve himself from debt, and also from an excess of mouths. In all matches same practice is followed that the Captain / Team always decides the best they think for themselves. 1510: BBC1 coverage comes to an end. There was even the appearance of some prosperity, at the same time an extreme slovenliness. Attendees snapped up bags bulging with enough promotional material to line every bird cage on the eastern seaboard. Stannis oneil mellény would not have me lie.. Meyer lemons are a peculiarly American thing; despite their name, they are more like the lovechild of a lemon and a mandarin, with a round, sweet acidity. The flakes of his flesh are joined together.. “‘As to your friendship, Mr. A Northern man not prominently interested in the political and social weal of the South may live for years in it, and pass from town to town in his every-day pursuits, and yet see but the polished side of slavery. They fit well with your feet since they come with an adjustable velcro strap across their front side. When, therefore, cases have arisen where the choice lay between sacrificing what they considered the interests of a good object, or giving up their right of protest, they have generally preferred the latter. Bruce Iverson will officiate. From its sheeted flame and wreaths of sulphurous smoke glares out upon thee the eye of that ENEMY who was a murderer from the beginning. The book comprises the usually quoted facts associated with the history of slavery as recorded in the Scriptures, accompanied by the opinions and arguments of another man in relation thereto. You have to be able to understand how to operate that machinery, read the instructions (or) read someone work order of what needs to be done. The relatively high amount of sodium, considering the small serving size, might come as a surprise given how sweet Diet Coke tastes. The Blue Graces say that only his size and freakish strength have saved him, but it was a near thing. Yes, ideally a ESD mat and your ground strap would go to earth ground. The second tasted better. A name fit for a lord, a name for songs, a mighty name, and fearsome. Stanley was a member of a group called Austin Citizens for Economic Energy, which petitioned against the proposed nuke. Ser Barristan was waiting by the steps with the Dornish prince. You can guess how the bad days looked.. Lady Alannys sat beside a window, staring out across the sea. A thousand eyes, a hundred skins, wisdom deep as the roots of ancient trees. A Twenty20 World Cup another ICC property in the making will be held in South Africa later this year. Two of the complaints, a police statement said, came through Interpol, contending that Charlton was involved in a scheme to defraud elderly Australians zattini promoção de botas through a Singapore based phone scam operation.. His next proceeding was to tell Marie that the Procurator Revel wished to speak to her, and to propose bokacsizma bakancs that she should accompany him to the presence of that gentleman forthwith. Week long residential camp for youth with Pulmonary Disorders. Due to door designs and stairwells of the vessel, flat shoes are suggested. Everybody in here has biciclete rusesti vechi some money in their pocket.". The Wise Masters know. Warren Buffet, who adidas mariposas wife sat with the First Lady and who has been the talk of the town with the new capital gains tax proposals (named after Mr. He had been sitting quietly in the armchair in his study in his dressing-gown, drinking his coffee, when she ran in and threw herself on his neck before he had time to realize it. Theon did not know whether he ought to find that ominous or reassuring. Now smile.”. Streaks of rust remained to show where it had been. Mary’s, and had, when he ran away, a wife there, or near there, belonging to a Mr. Departure, Maliki ordered the arrest of the Sunni vice president. Une image de bande dessine interdite est celle qui concerne un mineur dans des situations qui sont caractre pornographique et 'injurieux, dgotant ou non d'un caractre obscne.' Censure et charge le prix rgulier pour le contenu manquant = OKNike Air Max Pas Cher Lancement d'un jeu que l'entreprise a peur de = OK versions de produits inutiles. Caggo was the one who finally cut him down, fighting through the king’s protectors on evro kalkulator his monstrous warhorse and opening Cleon the Great from shoulder to hip with one blow of his curved Valyrian arakh. Rhett designed rooms to feature existing beams, with the dining room having a high vaulted ceiling that takes in the full spaciousness of the barn's peaked roof.. If you're going to buy heels, avoid the ones with pointy tips and opt for a pair with a wide toe box, she says. adidas mariposas You need to see which subjects interest you and what you are good at. The Yunkai’i don’t want them near their Yellow City. We've built up social media and basically revamped all of our digital touch points, whether it's the marathon website or our own site or the Facebook page. And as I was imagining zattini promoção de botas that, the thought suddenly came to me: why, I shall pray to God for one minute of you, and meanwhile you have been with me six months, and during those six months how many times we’ve quarrelled, how many days we wouldn’t speak to one another. He came into my clinic but we couldn't save him. Though she didn't appear in the Season 4 trailer, there's still hope. At the age of eight she began to realize that god had given her a talent to sing and perform. They called and they are influenced, heavily, by the jazz organ groups of the 50s and 60s. On days like this the Wall shimmered bright as a septon’s crystal, every crack and crevasse limned by sunlight, as frozen rainbows danced and died behind translucent ripples. There Burch left them. Ef my husband 153was to slip away from me, Missis, dat ar way, it ud wake me right up. Outside the museum, Rosicrucian Park continues to work its magic through exotic stage sets and symbolically coded environments kind of mythic theming that extends even to the flora, which includes papyrus, lilies of the Nile, and scores of roses. Daenerys Targaryen was no stranger to the Dothraki sea, the great ocean of grass that stretched from the forest of Qohor to the Mother of Mountains and the Womb of the World. It was amazing how little things had changed. Instead Tyrion said, “Yezzan’s special slaves did not escape the pale mare. It's an honor to be enshrined regardless of how long it took or how many votes were cast, and to focus on the three or four outliers is to ignore the forest for a clod of dirt stuck to one particular tree..